by Dominic Luke
‘A gold digger?’
‘Money fills a gap in her life: acquiring it and spending it. I expect at bottom there is something psychologically wrong with her, but I can never fathom what it is.’ Letitia added, ‘She could not wait to get her hands on The Firs. She made that obvious.’
‘This was the country house as you’ve talked of? You never have told me what happened to it in the end.’
‘I sold it, not long after the war. It held too many unhappy memories. All those years of waiting for news of Hugh, wondering if I would be receiving the dreaded telegram, or if perhaps he would come back home minus an arm or leg, or blind.’
‘Plenty did. Sometimes I wondered if the ones that never came back at all got the better deal. Some of the poor old sods you used to see begging on the street, it was a crying shame.’
Letitia smiled, admiring Mrs Mansell’s forthright approach. It was unfair to compare her with the indefatigable Annie. They came from different eras, different worlds almost. Girls like Annie no longer existed. The war had put paid to them – the first war, that was. That war had changed everything. It had certainly changed Annie. She had given notice, gone to work in an armaments factory where the pay was good and she was doing her patriotic duty. Had young women in Germany done the same? Letitia had sometimes pictured a German equivalent of Annie, making the bombs and bullets which had killed Julian and Rupert and Justin; not to mention Mrs Mansell’s husband Ned who had been shot clean through the head so that he did not suffer.
Swallowing the last of her tea, Letitia wondered if she would have felt differently about The Firs if Annie had still been there. In the end it had not been a wrench to sell it. Hugh had married in the spring of 1919. The house was sold in the autumn. That last evening, she had walked through the empty rooms, her feet tap-tapping across the dusty floorboards. She had listened to the faint sound of mice behind the wainscoting, heard in her mind the doorbell tinkling as it had done unexpectedly one day seventeen years before, the day Hugh arrived. Outside in the dusk she had breathed the cool autumnal air which was scented with woodsmoke and the heady smell of those trees which gave the house its name. She had looked back one last time as she got into the motor, then left her old house behind forever.
She had been back to the village of Binley only once since then. That was for Connie Lambton’s funeral in 1925. It had been a pitiable affair, sparsely attended. Julian’s widow had been there, dour in black, her face impassive. Her eleven year old son Jimmy had appeared bored by the whole procedure. The Manor had passed to him, held in trust until he came of age.
On the village green, the duck pond had been filled in and a war memorial erected. Letitia had looked at the list of names, and traced her finger sadly across those of the three Lambton boys, etched in brown sandstone. None of them had a known grave.
Hugh had bought a house in Northamptonshire, spending money left to him by his maternal grandparents. Letitia had moved gracefully into the background of Hugh’s life; or so she had expected. She had decided to live in London, buying for a bargain price the house she now rattled around in; the house where, in January 1941, she was talking in the kitchen with Mrs Mansell.
‘Hugh married a woman who was remarkably like his mother.’
‘They say men do.’
‘Of course, one knew nothing of Freud in those days.’
‘I don’t know nothing of him now for that matter.’ Mrs Mansell drained her mug, slipped off her perch on the corner of the table. ‘What I do know is that this washing-up is not going to do itself no matter how long I sit and stare at it.’
Chapter Six
‘HELLO! ANYONE AT home?’
Letitia, climbing unsteadily down the stairs to the basement, heard a male voice calling out below. Turning into the kitchen, she saw a young soldier standing in the open doorway, lit from behind by early May sunshine. His kitbag was on the flagstones in front of him. Letitia paused, holding onto the door jamb, at a loss to explain the man’s presence, uneasy in her frailty.
‘Aunt Letitia! So this is the right house! I did wonder if I’d made a mistake. There is some most peculiar washing hanging out in the area.’
‘Good grief! Is it Ian?’ Letitia realized that the apparent stranger was in fact Hugh’s son. It was a little over twelve months since she’d seen him last; but it could have been five years, he looked so different. It was not just the uniform and the cropped hair; he seemed taller, broader, more confident, coarser-grained. He was also very tanned.
‘I was rather hoping that you could put me up for a night or two,’ said Ian, after a pause.
Letitia realized she had been staring rather. The surprise had disoriented her. Gathering her thoughts, she said, ‘Of course I can put you up. There’s plenty of room.’
‘But what’s going on?’ Ian lugged his kitbag over to the kitchen table, dropped it with a thud. ‘I’d swear there are nappies hanging out there on the line! I know you’re a miracle worker, Aunt, but at your age that is surely a miracle beyond even your powers.’
Letitia laughed, Ian’s youth and vitality warming her like the spring sunshine. ‘Sit down and I’ll explain.’ She put the kettle on and placed bread on the table, adding some butter and cheese as it was a special occasion.
Sitting across from Ian, watching him eat and drink, Letitia told him all the news. The blitz, of course, was uppermost in everyone’s minds.
‘In February, the weather was so bad that the raids stopped for a while. People were thankful for once for the uncertain English climate.’
‘Interesting.’ Ian cut another huge slice of bread and began buttering it. ‘But what have air raids got to do with nappies?’
‘If you will just be patient, I am getting to that part. Once the weather improved, the Luftwaffe returned. A bomb dropped on the Mansells’ street, demolishing their house and leaving them homeless. With so many rooms lying empty and shrouded in dust sheets, it was impossible not to offer to take them in.’
‘Mrs Mansell.’ Ian wrinkled his nose. ‘I remember her. Very bossy. Almost rude, in fact.’
‘But very competent. And in a funny way, we get on.’
‘Can it be? Is she a “treasure”, like the fabled Annie?’
‘Annie was unique. But then so is Mrs Mansell in her own way.’
‘She is also common.’
‘Never judge a book by its cover.’ Letitia spoke rather stiffly, reminded that she was not quite sure about Ian. He had been his mother’s boy as a child. That was not to say he hadn’t grown out of it, but he had spent most of his last (brief) leave with Cynthia. Hugh worried about him, too. It was hardly Ian’s fault if his life was being put at risk because he was doing his duty; but Letitia could not quite shake the irrational feeling that he was in some way to blame.
‘Mrs Mansell is a treasure of a different kind, a rough diamond. To call her common is something I’d expect from your mother but not from you.’
‘And that’s me told,’ said Ian with his mouth full.
Letitia wondered if she’d spoken rather more sharply than was necessary. Watching Ian chewing busily, swigging his tea, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, she searched for clues to his character. Did he take after Cynthia? Sometimes his grey eyes had a distinctly murky look to them.
‘Don’t worry, Aunt. I don’t subscribe to my mother’s opinions, social or political,’ Ian said, as if reading her mind. ‘All the same, she is still my mother.’ He smiled wryly, reached for the cheese again. ‘With your house full of Mansells, will you have room for me? I had thought of going to Dad, but (a) I don’t know where exactly he is out in the wilds of Buckinghamshire; and (b) I doubt if he’d be able to accommodate me.’
‘Of course there’s room here for you.’ Letitia was willing to offer an olive branch, but to keep him on his toes, she added, ‘Your mother is still an admirer of Hitler, I presume?’
‘She no longer admits as much.’ Ian looked away, as if he found the subject unpalatable. In profile, he
looked much more like his father. ‘But she has certain cronies who think the war is a hoot. It’s their considered opinion that the British Empire has had it and they scoff at Churchill for carrying on when the situation is, as they say, hopeless. They consider Churchill a drunkard and a parvenu.’
‘One can hardly call him a parvenu. He is related to the Duke of Marlborough.’
‘My mother’s friends have an aversion to Churchill because he has put so many of their friends in jail, BUF members and so on. They believe the aristocracy to be decadent and effete, with the exception, perhaps, of the Duke of Windsor. My mother drinks to the duke’s health every evening. She also listens faithfully to Lord Haw-Haw and thinks that the BBC is all propaganda.’ Ian’s face remained expressionless as he bit into another chunk of bread.
Cynthia obviously did not improve with age, thought Letitia. One was rather glad to have washed one’s hands of her. Ian, however, did not have that luxury. She was, as he’d put it, still his mother. But he had a father too. That was, Letitia felt, worth pointing out.
‘You did not go to see your father on your last leave. You do not write often enough. He worries about you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure; don’t be absurd.’
‘It’s not always easy to work out what he’s thinking. I find it difficult to get through to him at times.’
‘You should try harder.’
‘Should I?’
‘You must. There’s no excuse. There have been more than enough wasted opportunities in this family.’
Ian looked at her speculatively, licking butter off his fingers. ‘Are you talking about my drowned grandpa? I gather he was never around much when Dad was a kid. I never understood why. But you’ll know, Aunt. Come on, spill the beans. Let’s have all the family skeletons out of the closet.’
‘There’s no time for all that now.’ Letitia shut the lid very firmly on that can of worms, pointing up at the clock. ‘The refugees will shortly start to forgather.’
‘Talking of which, where are they all? And why the nappies?’
‘The nappies belong to Mrs Mansell’s granddaughter, who is asleep upstairs with her mother. The others are at work or school, except Mrs Mansell. She has gone shopping, or foraging as she calls it.’
Ian, having polished off all the bread and cheese and a whole pot of tea, now got to his feet. ‘Tell me where I can dump my things, and if it is permissible to have a bath. I suppose I must paddle in an inch of water?’
‘That is the rule.’
Letitia consigned Ian to the attic, not without a shred of satisfaction; but Ian accepted it with good cheer. ‘I am banished to the servants’ quarters, whilst the servants have all the best rooms. Very egalitarian. You’ll be joining the Labour Party next, Aunt.’ He laughed and held up his hands in surrender. ‘All right, all right. No need to look at me like that. I am only joking. Of course the guests must have priority.’
Letitia looked at him closely as he heaved up his kitbag. ‘You are very brown.’
‘I’ve been in the desert.’ Ian grinned, as if the desert was a picnic; but Letitia sensed that his cheery veneer was suddenly wearing thin. Behind his bright façade was a sense of strain, and his face was grey and pinched beneath the tan. Relenting in the face of this discovery, Letitia decided to make allowances in future. He was only twenty, when all was said and done.
This war was not so very different: not in the way it treated the fighting men.
On the stairs, Ian met Mrs Mansell’s daughter Peggy with her crying baby propped on her hip. Peggy looked washed-out, her hair straggly and unkempt, but to Ian, so long bereft of female company, she was like a breath of fresh air.
‘Things are looking up!’ he said with a grin as he passed.
Peggy looked at him blankly for a moment, then something seemed to stir inside her. Her free hand went up to straighten her hair and her eyes sparked into life; but Ian carried on up the stairs heading for a bath and a sleep. Peggy was left to stand and gape.
People began to arrive in the kitchen. First came Mrs Mansell, bumping her bicycle down the area steps, the basket in front loaded with the results of her foraging. Slim Susie came back from her shop job, fresh-faced Clive from school. Later, Mr Mansell slunk in from work and immediately went upstairs. Mrs Mansell set about preparing dinner for eight, not counting the baby. Letitia leant a hand where she could.
They all squeezed into the kitchen to eat. Mrs Mansell flatly refused to go ‘traipsing up all them stairs’ with plates and plates of food.
‘Shouldn’t you be evacuated?’ Ian, tucking in – his appetite seemed limitless – looked across the table at Clive.
‘He didn’t like being evacuated, so he came back home,’ said Mrs Mansell. ‘He’s better off at home, anyway.’
‘And does he ever speak for himself?’
‘He doesn’t speak with his mouth full, I know that much. He was brought up decent, not like some as I could mention.’
Ian grinned, shovelling food into his mouth. ‘I’m just a humble private. You can’t expect good manners from me.’
‘W-why are you a private?’ stammered Clive. ‘I thought you’d be a captain or a lieutenant.’
‘Well, for one thing, I knew that enlisting as a private would be a sure way to irritate my mother, and it’s a boy’s duty to irritate his mother.’ Ian winked at Clive, then went on, ‘It was also a point of principle. Rank should be conferred because of ability, not because of class. The last thing we need is a new generation of Colonel Blimps.’
Letitia raised her eyebrows at this. It was not an attitude one expected of Cynthia’s son. Perhaps there was more to him than met the eye. He was certainly a hit with young Clive, who questioned him eagerly about his experiences in the desert; but Mrs Mansell looked on with displeasure. She already had one son in the army. It was her fervent hope that the war would be over before Clive’s turn came.
Clive was not the only person won over, Letitia noted. Peggy was watching Ian with a rather gooey-eyed expression, and even sensible Susie seemed more animated than usual. Conversation around the table grew quite lively and it was not just Ian with tales to tell. Letitia was reminded of a badge people had worn the previous autumn: I’ve Got A Bomb Story Too. So many different stories. And at the end of the war, who would be left alive to listen to them?
‘Oh bloody, bloody hell!’
Ian cried out in exasperation as the wailing of the siren intruded into Peggy’s bedroom.
Lying underneath him, Peggy said, ‘We should go down to the basement. It’s safer. I have the baby to think of.’
‘Damn and blast your baby! I haven’t finished yet!’
‘I don’t want to be bombed with no clothes on.’ Peggy’s shrill voice ended on a rising note, the compliant and co-operative woman of a moment before having metamorphosed into a thin and fretful girl.
Ian swore, swept back the sheets and blankets, and jumped out of bed. He threw on his clothes while Peggy sat huddled with a sheet around her, having suddenly rediscovered her modesty. It had taken him days to get this far – days of wheedling, cajoling, sweet-talking – and now he was to be thwarted at the eleventh hour.
‘Aren’t you coming? I thought we had to go to the basement. I thought it was bloody urgent.’
‘Go away. I can’t get dressed with you watching.’
‘You weren’t so fussy just now,’ muttered Ian, stomping towards the door. He had his hand on the handle when he heard the first of Peggy’s sobs. Looking back, he saw her sitting on the edge of the bed, tears streaming down her face, shaking. Not exactly the type of damsel in distress one dreamt of, but he couldn’t just walk out on her.
He went back, sat next to her, put his arm round her.
‘There, there. What’s all this? What’s wrong?’
Peggy took a deep shuddering breath, opened her mouth – and out it all came in a rush: how life was a nightmare when she just wanted it to be normal, how all she asked
for was her own little house, to stand on the doorstep of a morning and talk across the street. What did she get instead? Night after night down the tube with no comfort and no privacy, where it was smelly and cramped and you couldn’t even have a wash, where people squabbled and mosquitoes bit and the baby grizzled incessantly whilst catching scabies, impetigo and goodness-only-knew what else. Every day this had gone on, every day for weeks. They had queued for hours and hours to get a half-decent spot on the platform, and queued again for the privilege of using overflowing chemical latrines. And then, to add insult to injury, their house had been bombed flat and they had moved here, to this unknown part of town and this strange big house. Why was everything so horrid? It wasn’t fair; she was fed up with it, she wished she was dead!
‘There, there, don’t cry.’ Ian felt awkward and inadequate as he patted her on the back. How come this always happened to him? How come he always ended up listening to their life stories when all he wanted was a bit of fun? Did the other lads in the platoon have this trouble? You could bet your life they didn’t. His problem was, he was too soft. Too bloody well mannered for his own good.
Peggy dried her eyes on the frayed linen sheet, said that they really should go down now and she’d like to get dressed please. As Ian was going out of the door, she added, ‘You’re mad at me now, I suppose? I’ve spoiled everything and you won’t ever want to look at me again.’
Ian said no, he wasn’t mad – he was mad, but at himself, which was different. He grinned at her – what else could he do? – and unexpectedly she grinned back.
Going downstairs, he felt somewhat placated. He’d done his good deed – and for once it seemed it might just pay off.
She looked almost pretty when she smiled.
In the kitchen, the clock was striking eleven. Letitia said, ‘It may be a false alarm.’
Clive was holding the kitchen door ajar, looking out into the night. ‘It’s not a false alarm. I can hear aeroplanes already. And there’s a full moon. They always come when the moon’s bright. Can I go out and look, Mum?’