by Annie Groves
‘I have known that all along, Agnes,’ Archie said with as much patience as he could muster, ‘but what I want to know is – if she didn’t buy such a valuable piece of jewellery in a jeweller’s shop, that could only mean one thing …’
‘Yes,’ said Agnes, ‘she bought it in the Red Cross shop!’ Agnes nodded, as if she had just solved the world’s biggest mystery. Archie looked at her and said nothing, as realisation dawned on him.
‘Olive didn’t want anybody, especially Tilly, to think she was being a skinflint.’ Agnes’s tone was matter-of-fact and Archie could feel his pulse racing in his throat when she continued, ‘The pendant looked so real, just the thing for a twenty-first birthday present, but,’ she lowered her voice even though they were in the middle of the countryside with nothing around for miles, ‘it cost her only a pound and Mrs Windle threw the box in for free. Wasn’t that nice, considering it looks just like a real sapphire?’
‘That’s because it is real, Agnes.’ Archie’s voice was grim. He had looked into the files and even though he had found no evidence that the pendant had been stolen, he remembered he had seen a picture of it somewhere and that the story was big news.
‘That’s it, Agnes!’ Archie thumped the steering wheel. ‘Big news!’ As if a light had just been switched on, he suddenly recalled where he had seen the pendant before.
‘I have been a first-class fool, Agnes,’ he said, as the colour seemed to drain from his features. ‘I remember now …’ Something he had read in a newspaper weeks ago suddenly became very clear in his mind.
‘A jilted husband …’ he said slowly, looking out of the side window, hardly able to face Agnes and knowing that he would have a lot of explaining to do to Olive.
‘A jilted husband, Archie?’
‘He was in the air force … a fighter pilot … living in Belgravia.’ The details of the article were flooding back to his mind now. ‘He came home on leave, after flying some very dangerous missions … caught his wife …’ Archie could not repeat what he had read in the Sunday paper, knowing such news was far too scandalous for Agnes’s innocent ears. Instead, he glossed over the details. ‘He was very rich … the jewels belonged to his wife; who had been given them by a friend.’
‘I read he threw her out and got rid of all her stuff in charity shops.’
‘I thought …’ Archie pushed back his cap. ‘Oh, my word, I remember now why it seemed so familiar … The woman – his wife – brought a photograph of her jewellery into the station …’ He remembered how he took her at her word that they had been stolen. ‘A team went all over London, visited all the pawnshops, asked the local Robin Hoods …’ Archie was turning over the information in his head.
‘It sounds like that woman wanted you to find her jewellery, when it wasn’t even stolen,’ Agnes said, making Archie feel even worse than he already did. ‘But wouldn’t that make her husband the thief?’
‘Not necessarily. She left them in his house; possession is nine-tenths of the law.’
‘Oh, dear, Olive is going to be so upset if Tilly ever finds out,’ Agnes said, as Archie expertly wound the car around the twisty narrow lanes.
‘Not half as upset as she will be when I tell her I suspected her of …’
‘Of what, Archie?’ Agnes asked. Surely he didn’t think Olive would stoop so low as to succumb to black market merchandise?
‘Don’t fret about it, Agnes. I will make things right with Olive.’ Archie’s face was flaming now. ‘It was what Dulcie said, in that knowing way she has …’ Archie looked very shame-faced indeed ‘… and tapping her nose like she was in the know … Oh, Agnes, I’ve been so stupid.’
‘I’m sure Olive will understand when you explain,’ Agnes said, knowing Archie was going to have a lot of explaining to do when he got back.
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come into the farm with you?’ Archie asked as he stopped the police car near a five-bar wooden gate a short distance from the farmhouse.
‘No, thanks, Archie, I’ll be fine here.’ Agnes smiled, her stomach jumping like a box of frogs. ‘I have to stand on my own two feet sometime.’ Her nerves were singing now and she wanted to get into the farmhouse and start her new life. Working on the land was just as important as working on the railway, she thought. They were all part of Britain’s fight for victory.
‘Well, you know where we are if you need us.’ Archie looked a little uncomfortable now. ‘Don’t hesitate to get in touch. You’ve got the telephone number of the police station – I can always pass a message to Olive for you,’ Archie said in a kind, gentle voice that brought a lump to Agnes’s throat and almost made her tell him to take her back to London. But Agnes only nodded as he leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek in the fatherly manner she had never known before.
‘Thank you, Archie. I will be in touch …’ Agnes could say no more as she pushed down the handle and opened the car door, gently refusing his offer to carry her suitcase to the farmhouse. She was still waving as the black police car rumbled down the lane and out of sight.
Looking around the wide expanse of fields that met a calm cerulean sky, echoing to the sound of chirping birds, Agnes soaked up in the breathtaking woody scent of golden, autumnal leaves that carpeted the winding country lane, knowing the determination that had fired her up in London had now dissolved into nothing.
What was she doing here? She had thought long and hard about coming here since Ted died, but she realised that she was alone, totally on her own now.
Standing in the middle of the lane wide enough to allow only one vehicle to pass through, Agnes clenched both hands around the handle of the cardboard suitcase and held it in front of her as if shielding herself from the uncertainty to come. Looking about her now at the vast spread of winter vegetable crops, she imagined her return might be sooner rather than later.
She wondered how long it would be before Sergeant Dawson came back this way. Last time he brought her out here, the day she met her father, he had been gone about two hours. She wasn’t sure if that was to give her time to get to know her father or because the village policemen, Sergeant Hannigan, and his wife made him so welcome; eager to know everything they could glean about the day-to-day living in the huge metropolis of London, according to Archie.
‘Are you lost?’
Agnes felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She didn’t dare turn round, knowing the deep, male voice was not English. If she was not mistaken it was most certainly Italian!
‘Excuse me, are you lost?’ The voice was inquisitive, not demanding or hysterical like the foreign accents she had heard on the wireless and on the Pathé News at the pictures. Slowly turning, Agnes expected to see an army of guns pointed in her direction – she had heard the rumours about foreign spies and soldiers hiding out in remote farms and attacking unsuspecting, defenceless women in country lanes. She imagined the stories were wildly untrue – but now she wasn’t so sure.
Her imagination ran amok until she saw, dressed in the dark brown corduroy trousers of a country workman, a solitary unarmed man. On the back of his dark, muddied jacket, which was slung over his arm, she caught sight of the orange circle that told her he was a prisoner of war.
‘Don’t be afraid. I will not hurt you.’
There was something so apologetically convincing in his voice that Agnes could not help but believe him, but she said nothing. At any other time, she might have found him handsome, and her common sense told her that if he was planning to take her prisoner now he would do it with a revolver and not the broom he was now carrying.
‘Are you looking for somebody in particular?’ His deep voice was almost musical as, wiping his mud-covered hand on this trousers, he held it out to her. ‘My name is Carlo. Please don’t be alarmed … I am … how you say … working here on the farm.’ His impeccable enunciation of the English language impressed Agnes, who was sure that many Englishmen in a foreign country would not have a clue about the native language.
; ‘Get back in the field, Eyetie!’ An aggressive, male voice split the quietude of the countryside and Agnes turned quickly to see a man a little older than herself hobbling towards the farm gate, a terrier at his heels. He was supported by a pair of crutches as his right foot was heavily bandaged. ‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage!’ It was an accusation, not a question, Agnes realised, watching the malicious distortion of his face. His eyes narrowed as he glared at her. ‘And you are … ?’ He asked Agnes, whose hand was on the wide wooden gate she had been about to open when his unexpected question stalled her.
‘My name is Agnes and—’
She didn’t get the chance to finish speaking when he interrupted in a low menacing voice. ‘You don’t look strong enough to pull strawberries, never mind work a plough.’
‘I haven’t come here to work a plough or pull strawberries.’ She felt aggrieved at the way this man had spoken to the Italian worker, and it enabled her to overcome her natural reserve. Her small chin jutted forward defiantly. ‘Then why are you trespassing on our land?’ The man surged forward from the dry, mud-covered pathway and slammed the gate shut, cutting off any access and leaving Agnes standing in the lane. ‘If you’re from the War Ag, you can buzz off!’ He waved his hand about as if swatting a fly and Agnes felt she was being dismissed. Turning away, he moved from the gate, but then stopped and added, ‘We’ve filled in the forms, crossed the Ts, dotted the Is – now just leave us be to get on with it … Ruddy pen-pushers!’ With that he leaned heavily on the crutches and swung himself back round. With the flick of his head he summoned the terrier, who had gone sniffing in the hedgerow. ‘Come ’ere, boy.’ The man was almost pleasant when he spoke to the dog, Agnes noticed. Wondering why he couldn’t be like that with humans, she drew herself up to her full height. She wasn’t going to let this obnoxious man see any sign of weakness.
‘I have come to see Darnley,’ she said in low, measured tones as he turned his back to her. Pen-pusher indeed! She had rescued people from underground shelters after bomb blasts. She had seen carnage and destruction first-hand – and she had nursed one of Olive’s egg-bound chickens! How dare this hobbling pip-squeak treat her in such a way!
He turned again slowly and said high-handedly, ‘It’s Mr Darnley to you.’ His equally measured tones matched Agnes’s and she made up her mind that a guard dog would be a waste of good meat with this oaf around. She had come a long way since her days in the orphanage and, in a heartbeat, she realised that those days were well behind her now. She had come to claim her inheritance, to take what was rightfully hers, but she was going to have some fun with this overbearing man who, by the arrogant look on his face, thought she was beneath him.
‘Mr Darnley it is then, if you would be so kind.’ She hadn’t realised that Darnley was the surname of her father’s old retainer; she had assumed it was his Christian name, but no matter, he was going to be in for a surprise for sure.
A warm glow of colour rose to her face under the scrutiny of the upstart on the other side of the gate and Agnes knew sparks were going to fly, but she had to keep her nerve. This man didn’t look as if he was going to accept a woman in charge. However, she would start as she meant to go on, and she wasn’t going to show anyone how terrified she actually was. A new Agnes had emerged; one that had no masters.
‘Tell him Miss Agnes Weybridge is here to see him … please.’ The ‘please’ was an afterthought to show she did have better manners than the man balancing on the crutches.
‘Agnes Weybridge?’ He looked dubious.
Agnes, feeling braver now, smiled and said, ‘Yes, that’s right.’
She waited as her latest piece of information sank in before he said, ‘I don’t believe you.’ He looked Agnes up and down as if searching for a clue.
‘And I don’t care what you believe,’ Agnes answered with more conviction than she actually felt.
Drew made his way to Southampton dockyard by cab. He could see now that there was no point in hanging around London hoping that he and Tilly could be reunited. He had been a jerk for not letting her know what had happened to him when he’d gotten back to the States. He should have gotten word to her that he couldn’t make it back to London – but then when he did get to London he had sworn everybody to secrecy until he was able to walk again.
He was wrong to presume she would still be sitting at home pining for him. The wolves would have been circling before he even left, he knew that now. His mind flashed back to the scene where Rick, with his hand on the small of Tilly’s back, escorted her to the taxi-cab before getting in beside her. Drew could feel his heart thumping in his chest and he couldn’t concentrate on anything around him. As he looked out of the misty, rain-lashed window his mind was in sun-drenched Hyde Park with Tilly’s head on his lap, secure in the knowledge that she was his girl and always would be … What an arrogant son-of-a—
‘Here you go, guv!’ the cab driver called over his shoulder. ‘Where would you like me to drop you?’
‘This is fine, thank you.’ Drew blinked and realised that he didn’t recall one thing about this journey except that he was miserable as hell. He paid, giving the flat-capped driver a tip that made his eyes widen, and, picking up his suitcase, made his way to the dockyard.
THIRTEEN
‘Are they asleep?’ Olive asked as Dulcie pulled the expensive, coach-built pram up the step and into the hall. Dulcie would never leave the children on the step like mothers were encouraged to do so the babies could enjoy the afternoon air.
‘Only just,’ answered Dulcie, sighing, and Olive marvelled at the way she still looked so glamorous with two babies to look after, although, Olive mused, having someone to look after them while she got ready must be a big help. ‘Anthony’s teething now, and Hope is coming out in sympathy with him – every time he cries she thinks she has to join in.’
‘They are so close,’ Olive whispered, and, smiling, she looked into the twin pram at the sleeping babies, ‘just like brother and sister.’
‘And that’s another thing …’ Dulcie said, leading the way to the kitchen while Olive quietly closed the front door leaving the babies to sleep in peace in the hallway. ‘I said to our Edith, this child thinks I’m his mother – not that I mind because I don’t; I love having Anthony and so does David – but we have to know where we stand … And not only that, what about the boy? He won’t know if he’s coming or going if our Edith just ups and takes him without a by—’
‘Well, she certainly has no right to expect—’
‘You’re so right, Olive!’ Dulcie said, nodding, leaving Olive wondering what she was right about as her former lodger didn’t give her a chance to finish before she hurried out to the garden to let Alice show her the chickens. Olive, dizzy with Dulcie’s energy, was relieved when Sally came into the kitchen carrying a few letters.
‘The postwoman gave me these,’ she said. ‘It looks like you have one from Tilly.’ Sally smiled, holding on to a blue envelope, which Olive presumed was from Callum. He and Sally had been writing regularly since he left hospital, and now he had gone back to his base in Portsmouth the letters were delivered most days. ‘And there’s this one too.’ Sally looked grave. ‘It has an American address on the back – Drew?’
‘I’ll leave it on the mantelpiece,’ Olive said, putting it behind the clock. ‘I’ll send it on through the Forces’ Post Office.’ The weight of guilt still lay heavily upon her shoulders. Then she said quietly to Sally, ‘Or maybe I’ll save it for when she gets home.’ Olive didn’t want to stir any dormant feelings in Tilly that may still be hung over from her courting days with Drew. When she was home on leave three months ago for her birthday, her daughter seemed very happy courting Rick. They evidently enjoyed each other’s company, although, Olive was surprised Tilly hadn’t mentioned him in letters since then. Although, she reasoned, they were both based in different places, Tilly in Whitehall, where she was working all hours, and Rick in Italy with the Eighth Army, so it was possible they didn’
t get to communicate very often. Not only that, but her daughter, going by the letters she sent to her mother, was a lot more independent than Olive had been at that age. Tilly had no child to consider and, as long as she stayed safe, the world was hers to discover. However, that wasn’t the only thing playing on Olive’s mind right now; she knew that a letter from her one-time American sweetheart could cause Tilly all kinds of complications. Thinking about that, Olive decided she wouldn’t send the letter to Tilly. Instead, she would put it in her bag with last year’s Christmas card for safekeeping and give it to her daughter when she came home on Christmas leave – if she came home on Christmas leave …
‘Don’t you think it would be wise to let Tilly make up her own mind, Olive?’ Sally was not too sure her landlady should still be treating her daughter like a helpless schoolgirl who needed protecting from her own finer feelings.
‘If it’s in my bag I can’t forget to give it to her.’ Olive gave Sally a tight smile and silently willed her lodger to keep out of her business – although she would never say so. Sally was a very good friend as well as a level-headed nurse who was not given to flights of fancy, but sometimes, Olive thought, it would be nice if people allowed her to sort out her own affairs – without interference.
In a bid to change the subject, Olive asked Sally, ‘How is Callum coming along?’
‘He’s definitely got a soft spot for you, Sally. You can see it in his eyes when he looks at you,’ Dulcie said, back in the kitchen. She loved coming to Olive’s house on Saturday afternoons after browsing around Petticoat Lane market. It didn’t matter if her husband did have plenty of money, she wasn’t going to give up her Saturday morning rummage and then coming here to catch up on the week’s gossip – there was always something going on at number 13. Sally’s face was a tinge pinker after Dulcie’s observation. Always a girl to say what she thought, Dulcie didn’t hold back, but Sally chose to ignore the remark.