On the evening before Tom returned to Suffolk and Bess to London, Tom and James arranged to meet for a drink at The Crown in the village of Woodcote.
‘Are you coming with us, Sis? I’ll buy you a glass of Vimto if you promise to be a good girl,’ Tom teased.
The prospect of seeing James, spending time with him socially, thrilled Bess. ‘I might as well,’ she said as casually as her excited heart would allow. ‘I’ve nothing else planned.’
‘No she is not!’ her father interrupted. ‘A public house is no place for a woman.’
‘But you take Mam to the pub!’ Bess said.
‘That’s different. Your mother’s accompanied by her husband!’
‘And I shall be accompanied by my brother,’ Bess argued.
‘I said no, Bess! What on earth would Mr James think?’
Bess was crestfallen. James was a modern man. He wouldn’t think it improper if she went to the village pub. But she didn’t argue; locking horns with her father was futile.
The next morning, after waving Tom off, Bess walked up to the stables and took Sable out for what would be the last time for several months. ‘Another beautiful day,’ she said, leaning forward and patting Sable’s neck as she took in Foxden’s magnificent landscape. The meadows and pastures, no longer blanketed in snow, were lush and green. The River Swift, sparkling in the wintry sun, snaked its way south and the Rye Hills seemed to roll on forever. Bess sighed. She would miss mornings like this when she returned to London – she always did – until she got back into the swing of studying, then there’d be no time.
At Bonn’s Hole she dismounted and looked back. There was no one on the horizon. James wouldn’t catch her up today. Today she would ride alone.
Hoping to see him before she left for London, Bess spent longer than usual feeding and grooming Sable, but it wasn’t to be. So, after saying goodbye to the grooms and stable lads, she thanked Mr Porter and walked home.
While she was packing her college work, she realised that one of the books she had brought home to study, a novel by Mary Webb called Gone to Earth, was missing. She searched the cottage upstairs and down, unpacked and repacked her suitcase and satchel, but the book was nowhere to be found. She sat on her bed, exasperated. It had to be somewhere and if it wasn’t at home the only place it could be was the library at Foxden Hall. It was half-past twelve; she was cutting it fine if she wanted to catch the two o’clock train from Rugby, but she needed to find the book because it had to be returned to the Co-operative Lending Library in Kensington before the beginning of term. She already owed sixpence, because the book was three days overdue. She didn’t want to pay three shillings and sixpence to replace it. She had no choice but to go up to the library and look for it.
Bess set off along the drive. In the worst case, she wouldn’t find the book and she would have to take a later train. In the best case, she’d find the book and bump into James Foxden. Then to hell with the train, she laughed. As she neared the Hall, her heart began to beat faster.
To her relief she found the book almost immediately. It had slipped between the seat-cushion and the backrest of the window-seat on New Year’s Eve. She had finished reading it and put it down to look out of the window, as she was doing now, and – her stomach turned a somersault – there was James, in the courtyard, standing by his car.
She scrambled onto the seat and watched him walk from the car to the house. Within seconds he was back carrying an assortment of cases and bags, which he strapped on the back of his car. He returned to the house as a young maid came out with a tartan blanket over her arm. The maid went to the passenger door of the car, opened it and, leaning in, wrapped the blanket around someone’s legs. Bess wondered who it could be. It hadn’t occurred to her that James would take someone to London with him. She leaned closer to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of his passenger.
She didn’t have to wait long. After tucking in the blanket the maid stood up and, as she stepped away from the car, the passenger leant forward and spoke to her. Bess took a sharp involuntary breath. The fur collar on her coat was turned up and the brim of her red trilby hat was pulled down, but when she lifted her head to speak to the maid Bess could see clearly that James’s travelling companion was Annabel Hadleigh.
‘Caught you,’ James said, looking over her shoulder to see what it was that had captured her attention so fully.
Bess shrieked. So preoccupied was she with watching Annabel Hadleigh that she had neither seen nor heard James enter the library. ‘You’re going to have to stop creeping up on me, you know,’ she said, moving away from the window.
‘I’m sorry if I made you jump but I wanted to catch you before I left. I’m driving Annabel home to Kent but I’ll be in London tomorrow and I was thinking that, since we're both down there, perhaps we could meet up… I could telephone you and…?’
Bess opened her mouth, but couldn’t speak. There was no public telephone at her lodgings and Mrs McAllister, her landlady, didn’t allow her tenants to make or accept calls on her private telephone unless it was an emergency. Nor did she approve of them having gentlemen friends. Of all her rules – and there were many – no gentlemen callers was at the top of the list. Besides, although the house was clean and tidy, the furniture was old-fashioned and the décor was tired. While it was good enough for her, Bess didn’t want James Foxden to see where she was lodging. Nor did she want to subject him to tea and a grilling from Mrs McAllister.
‘But if you would rather I didn’t call,’ James said, sensing that Bess felt uncomfortable at the suggestion.
‘Oh no, it isn’t that-- It’s my landlady,’ she said feeling an utter innocent and a fool.
‘Then I’ll give you my card with my telephone number and if you have a free evening you can call me. We could meet in town, see a show and have a bite of supper. Or we could go to a dance at the Lyceum or the Trocadero.’
Bess accepted the small card. ‘I would like that.’
‘See you in London, then!’ Smiling, James offered Bess his hand.
‘Yes… London,’ she said, taking his hand in hers.
‘Goodbye.’
By the time she’d formulated the word ‘goodbye’, James had left. She heard his car start up in the courtyard and turned to look out of the window, but she was too late. She ran to the window overlooking the front drive in time to see the small green sports car, enveloped in a cloud of exhaust smoke, disappear down the drive and out of sight.
Unable to move, Bess stood in the empty library for some minutes. Did James Foxden invite her, Bess Dudley, to supper in London? Perhaps he was just being kind to the sister of his childhood friend. Did he, or did she imagine that he held her hand for a little longer than was necessary when he said goodbye? Well, maybe she did imagine that, but one thing she did not imagine was the small white business card with James’s name and telephone number embossed in black, which she was holding in her hand.
Before she burst with excitement, Bess put the card between the pages of her book and ran home.
The train to London was ready to depart as Bess and her father arrived at Rugby station. The station attendant, Bess could see, had closed the last door in the last carriage and was standing with his whistle poised.
‘Stop!’ Bess shouted, running across the platform – and as she reached the train the attendant opened the door. ‘Thank you,’ she gasped, throwing her luggage into the corridor and jumping in after it.
She could see several empty seats in the adjacent compartment, so she left her case and satchel where they’d fallen, pulled down the window in the top of the door and hung out. ‘Bye Dad, I’ll write.’
Her father’s farewell reply disappeared, drowned by the piercing sound of the steam whistle as the train began to move off, as did his image beneath smoke and gases from the train’s chimney. After closing the window, Bess picked up her bags and elbowed the half-open door of the compartment until it was wide enough for her to pass through.
‘Let me
help you,’ said a young man, jumping up from his seat and rushing to her aid as she stumbled in. Then, as if it were a feather, he lifted her suitcase and placed it on the overhead luggage rack.
‘Thank you.’ Breathless, Bess flopped down into the empty seat opposite, next to the window. And, after making a porthole in the condensation, she leaned forward and peered out.
A flock of sheep, fat in their winter coats, stood firm with their backs to the wind and a herd of cows huddled together by a sparse hedge which, without foliage, gave little shelter. It was a bleak picture.
A playful cry from the young woman sitting next to Bess brought her attention back to the train’s interior. Her male companion was teasing her with a small red box. Pretending it was an aeroplane, he flew the box towards her - taking care to keep it out of her reach - and then flew it away again. Eventually, after making a series of staccato droning sounds he brought it crashing down onto her lap. Squealing with excitement the young woman opened the box to discover a small solitaire diamond ring, which her companion placed on her engagement finger.
Bess smiled, remembering the token of affection that nestled between the pages of her book. She opened the book and tried to read, but she couldn’t concentrate. All she could think about was James. She closed her eyes and pictured his face, his strong jaw and high cheekbones, the outline of his mouth and his teeth – white and straight. His eyes were clear and blue and the skin around them wrinkled when he laughed… And she wondered when she’d see him again. She wondered too about Annabel Hadleigh. What was Annabel Hadleigh to James? What kind of a relationship did they have? And what kind of a relationship might she hope to have with James?
She took the small white card with its clear sharp lettering from her book and read the inscription: “The Honourable James Foxden, Barrister at Law.” The telephone number was in italics, a little smaller than his name, in the bottom right-hand corner beneath “Foxden, Foxden and Hadleigh.” She felt a tinge of unease as she nursed the book on her lap. Thinking how easy it would be to lose the card if it slipped from between the book’s pages, she took her wallet from her handbag and placed it securely between two ten-shilling notes.
‘Would you like a cigarette?’ the young man sitting opposite asked.
‘No, thank you, I don’t smoke.’ Bess couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something about the way he looked at her that made her feel uneasy. She knew that if she didn’t occupy herself in some way he would try to make conversation, so she looked out of the window again. She didn’t mean to be rude; she just didn’t want to talk to him, or to anyone else for that matter. She wanted to sit quietly and reflect on everything that had happened since New Year’s Eve. Once she was back in London, she would have little or no time to herself. With her final exams looming she’d be studying day and night, except for the evening James was taking her out. She wondered when and where that would be. Would they go to a show, or would they go to a dance, before they went to supper - or would they do both? Of one thing she was certain: wherever they decided to go, she would have nothing on her mind on that night except James.
With the card safely in her handbag Bess opened her book again and started to read. Within a few minutes her eyes grew heavy and she began to feel tired. The cha-cha-cha chum, cha-cha-cha-chum as the train sped south became hypnotic and she closed her eyes.
Rays of pale winter sunshine filtered through the train’s dusty windows and cast a warm dappled light across Bess’s face. She sensed the train slowing down each time it approached a station and knew when someone had boarded or left the train by a cutting draught that swept into the compartment each time the door opened. And when the train entered a tunnel the clear, sharp sound of metal on metal became dull and muffled and her eyes, although closed, sensed the daylight had been snuffed out. Once through the tunnel Bess felt again the mellow sunshine on her face. She dreamt of James standing by her side in Foxden’s library, tall and handsome and...
CH APTER TWO
‘Excuse me, Miss,’ Bess heard someone say. She opened her eyes and saw the ticket inspector. His face was level with hers and he was tapping her on the shoulder.
‘We’ve arrived at Euston. You’ll have to leave the train now or you’ll end up going back to where you came from and that wouldn’t do, would it?’
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ Bess said, looking round, trying to get her bearings. The compartment was empty. Her fellow passengers had left and she could see a long queue of disgruntled looking people waiting to board. Under pressure to vacate the train as quickly as possible, Bess stumbled to her feet while the ticket inspector lifted down her suitcase.
‘Is this everything, miss?’ Without waiting for a reply, he handed Bess her satchel and hauled her suitcase to the door.
Turning, she picked up her book and then looked for her handbag. ‘Wait!’ she shouted. A wave of nausea swept over her as the realisation struck. ‘My handbag has gone!’
‘Perhaps you put it in one of your other bags,’ he said, frowning.
‘No! I didn’t. I remember clearly, I was reading my book and I put my handbag on my lap for safekeeping. I put the book down, but not my handbag. I was holding it when I went to sleep. Someone has stolen it!’
In the station’s cramped and shabby lost property office a small birdlike man with a beaked nose and dark piercing eyes produced an official-looking document with the words “LOST PROPERTY” stencilled across the top in red lettering, and “Euston Square Police Station” at the bottom in small letters. The man placed the sheet of paper squarely in front of Bess and handed her a fountain pen that looked old enough to have been used to list the animals in Noah’s Ark.
‘This form says “Lost Property.” My handbag was stolen,’ Bess said, and pushed the form back to the man.
‘Head Office does not issue “Stolen Property” forms,’ the man said, pushing the form back to her.
Bess sighed loudly and pushed the form back to him. ‘If I fill out a form that says “Lost Property” how will the police know my handbag was stolen?’
‘Because I write “STOLEN” on the top before I take it to them,’ he said, and pushed the form firmly back to her.
Bess cleared her throat. ‘If you’d have told me that in the first place--’
‘I’m telling you now.’
‘That’s all right then!’ she said, smiling thinly. ‘Thank you!’
The man nodded half-heartedly that he’d acknowledged her thanks, which didn’t make Bess feel any better. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but there’s something in my handbag that’s very important to me, and--’ Seeing the man’s blank expression she stopped speaking. ‘I’ll just fill out the form, then.’
Under his watchful gaze Bess wrote a description of the brown leather handbag with its gold-coloured metal clasp shaped like a bow. She listed the bag’s contents: the brown leather wallet containing three pounds – two pound notes and two ten shilling notes; the matching leather purse, which contained five shillings in change; her powder compact, lipstick, and silver comb with mother-of-pearl fashioned along the spine. Last, but by no means least, she wrote a brief description of the small white business card that James had given her earlier in the day – and she wished with all her heart that she’d left it between the pages of her book. After reading the description she signed her name and added her London address and telephone number.
‘We report all lost property to the local police, so there’s every chance your bag will be found and returned to you in due course, Miss.’
Bess did not share the Birdman’s faith in human nature and wanted to scream, ‘My handbag is not lost; it was stolen!’ Instead she thanked him, picked up her suitcase and satchel, and left his stuffy office.
The sky, dark with the onset of dusk, looked as if it was ready to burst under the weight of ballooning storm clouds. Bess was cold and she was tired. ‘What next?’ she said aloud. Then she remembered she didn’t have an umbrella.
Dragging her suitcase ont
o the concourse, she edged her way into the slipstream of people heading for the buses. But she couldn’t take a bus. She didn’t have the fare. How was she going to get to her lodgings? Perhaps the bus conductor would let her send the money on. She’d heard of visitors to London leaving their names and addresses with bus conductors and posting the fare to the bus company when they returned home. If she explained what had happened perhaps she too could… She stopped. On the far side of the concourse, next to the sign for taxis, she saw a telephone box. She had money in her room. She would telephone her lodgings and ask her housemate Molly to bring it to her. She would have to reverse the charges, but because it was an emergency her landlady wouldn’t mind.
With renewed optimism, Bess sidestepped out of the bus queue, but before she had taken a step in the direction of the telephone box she was knocked off her feet.
‘Sorry,’ a city type in a bowler hat shouted without stopping.
‘No you’re not,’ Bess shouted back at him, ‘or you’d have looked where you were going.’ She struggled to her feet, but before she’d recovered her balance a giant of a man swept past. His suitcase caught her suitcase with such force that the handle of her suitcase snapped and the case crashed to the floor, discharging its contents onto the concourse.
‘Stop!’ Bess shouted, but the giant didn’t stop; no one stopped. Everyone was determined to get to a bus or taxi before the storm broke, and pushed their way to the exits, swerving to the left and right to avoid falling over her as she crawled around on the floor. When she had found and returned her clothes to the gaping suitcase she picked it up and held it in her arms as if it were a baby. Blind with anger and frustration – and with as much dogged determination as everyone else – she pushed her way through the crowd to the telephone box.
Foxden Acres (The Dudley Sisters Quartet Book 1) Page 3