Daughters of Cornwall

by Fern Britton

  Ernest looked skywards and sniffed like an old mariner. ‘Mmmh.’

  The bus arrived and took us down winding lanes and up steep hills, collecting a straggle of early passengers. From our high seats we could get the odd glimpse of the sea through breaks in the hedge and the mist, before the vapour cloaked them again like a magic trick.

  At last we dropped down into the heart of Bodmin town and, as we got off, the driver called out, ‘Good luck in France.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Ernest and I replied together.

  I slammed the door and the driver put the clutch in, ground the bus’s gears into first and drove away.

  ‘Nice of him.’ I smiled at Ernest.

  ‘Very.’ He picked up his bag. ‘Well, this is where we say goodbye.’

  ‘Just au revoir,’ I said, reaching my arms out to him.

  Our hug was awkward, what with our heavy bags banging against each other, but neither of us dismissed the affection and importance of it.

  My words were spoken into his neck. ‘Good luck, Ernie.’

  ‘You too, Bertie.’

  The fog from the moor was gathering around us.

  ‘Right.’ We let go of each other. ‘I’d better get to the station.’ I turned my head away. ‘Look after yourself.’

  ‘You too.’ Ernie was finding his boots suddenly fascinating. ‘Let’s hope the bally thing isn’t over before we get there. Toodle-pip.’

  ‘Bye.’

  I watched him as he went; in just a few paces he had all but vanished in the fog. I could hear him whistling as he headed towards his barracks.

  I stayed until I could hear him no longer, then set off on the three-mile walk to Bodmin Road station.

  Back in London, the sun was shining. I reported for duty at Buckingham Gate and was given a warrant to attend the Abbotts Langley Camp two days hence. Two days! I could have stayed longer at home, after all. I quickly swept aside the guilt I felt for leaving my mother early and decided that if these were to be my last two days in London, I’d have a damn good time.

  I had three guineas in my pocket, pressed on me by my father, with an order to go to the Army and Navy Stores on Victoria Street and kit myself out with extra socks, warm underwear, good boots, and a decent razor. The extravagance and pleasure of spending money buoyed me up no end. I even had some money left, so I went to a pub, ordered myself a pint of London Pride, and thought about how I might spend the evening.

  The barmaid was very pretty and overtly flirty. She made it clear that, for payment, she would, as she put it, give me a relaxing hour when her shift finished. I let her down gently and politely and, when I paid my bill, left her a small tip for her kindness. She gave me a sweet smile and told me I would always know where I could find her.

  I stepped outside into the warmth of the London evening. The city was full of promise and romance. Lighting a cigarette, I strolled south towards St James’s Park.

  Buckingham Palace stood ahead of me. The Royal Standard was fluttering limply from its flagpole. I caught a glimpse of chandeliers, twinkling from the upstairs apartments. King George the Fifth was in residence. The same king I had sworn to serve only days ago.

  The enormity of it all hit me like a club. I am not a religious man, much to my father’s disappointment, but at that moment I closed my eyes and prayed that I would be brave enough.

  ‘All right, sir?’ A policeman had approached.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I stuttered, ‘Fine.’ Had he seen my appalling cowardice?

  He tipped his helmet to me. ‘Have a good evening, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I headed down The Mall. The scent of mown grass coming from Green Park on my left and St James’s Park on my right was sweet and reminded me of Cornwall.

  I passed St James’s Palace and turned left, heading towards Piccadilly.

  A memory struck me. Somewhere on Piccadilly there had been a bridge club I’d visit with friends when up from Cambridge. Could it still be there?

  It took me about a quarter of an hour but I found it: 26B, The Piccadilly Bridge Club.

  The familiar door was opened by a chap who was new; after a brief introduction, he pointed the way up the well-remembered, ornate but peeling staircase.

  The quiet voices of players hummed behind the grand double doors of the club room, cheering me up. I was looking forward to a game and hopefully finding chaps who remembered me. I turned the door handle and poked my head around to make sure I was in the right place. It was the same room but it wasn’t quite the same atmosphere. This had always been a gentlemen’s club, but now I saw there were women sitting at the tables. I did what any chap would do in the circumstance, I walked in and went to the bar.

  ‘Scotch, please.’

  ‘Righto, sir.’

  I leant my back to the bar and surveyed the room.

  A man on the opposite wall took a cigar from his mouth and waved at me. ‘Bolitho!’ He navigated the tables briskly and arrived in front of me, wreathed in smiles. ‘Glad to see you. Glad to see you.’

  ‘Good God,’ I said, shaking his hand. ‘Jimmy. Long time no see.’

  ‘How long has it been?’ He beamed.

  ‘Well, I’ve been in Malaya since early 1912.’

  ‘How hot is it?’

  I laughed. ‘Is that all you can ask me after all these years?’ It was good to see him. ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘Oh, the usual. After Cambridge, I did Europe, the tour you know, bloody good timing. I hear the fighting is destroying the place.’

  ‘Yes. Terrible. I’ve been reading about it. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Scotch please.’

  I caught the eye of the barman.

  ‘Anyway,’ Jimmy continued, ‘I came back because Father wanted me in the family business, you know the thing.’

  I did know the thing. For generations his family had made their money from the bank bearing their name.

  I paid the barman and handed Jimmy his whisky. ‘And are you enjoying it? The bank?’

  He grinned, ‘Oh, let’s not talk about money, I want you to meet someone.’ He took my elbow. ‘I have found the woman of my dreams. And she’s a damn fine bridge player.’

  He guided me to the edge of the room where two women were sitting on their own with a pack of cards lying in the middle of the small square table.

  ‘Marianne, may I present one of my best friends from Cambridge, Mr Herbert Bolitho.’

  Marianne looked perfect for Jimmy. Clearly of good stock. Wearing a short pearl necklace and a good diamond on the fourth finger of her left hand. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you. Jimmy is a lucky man.’

  Jimmy and Marianne looked at each other and giggled. ‘He certainly is,’ she said.

  ‘And this young lady is …’ Jimmy faltered, clearly not remembering the name of the other young woman.

  She spoke for him. ‘Clara Carter.’ Her voice was low and even. Her hand felt cool as I shook it.

  My first impression was of a young woman in her early twenties, dressed soberly and unadorned. No jewellery or rouge. Her dark hair in a neat bun at her neck. The edges of her eyes turned slightly down, almost sad, but they also shone with an interest and intelligence rarely seen in the eyes of the wealthy, bored women I had met in Malaya. She smiled. Her teeth were even. ‘Would you care to join us?’ she asked. ‘We can be partners.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ I said, pulling out the chair opposite her.

  Jimmy sat down and nudged Marianne. ‘He’s a damned good player. We’d better keep a keen eye.’

  ‘Jimmy! Language.’

  ‘Sorry m’dear.’

  Jimmy ordered some more drinks, and we began to play. And, as we played, the more I admired Clara. Not in a physical way but in the way she comported herself. The more we played, the more in tune we became. I liked the way she played, and the way I understood her eyes as they signalled to me what card she might play next and enquiring if I had something to our advantage. If I had concentrated more on the game
and less on her, we might have won, but Jimmy and Marianne were ferociously competitive and bickered constantly.

  It was almost a relief to let them win.

  The barman signalled last orders and the room began to thin out.

  ‘Goodness.’ Marianne checked her watch. ‘Daddy will be so cross with me. I told him I’d be in by eleven and it’s now almost eleven thirty.’ She turned to Clara. ‘He waits up for me. I expect your parents are the same?’

  ‘Unfortunately, my parents are no longer alive,’ Clara said, without looking for sympathy. ‘I am my own keeper.’

  ‘God, I’m envious,’ snorted Marianne. ‘Can’t wait to get married. Jimmy and I will be free to do as we please.’

  ‘Steady on old girl.’ Jimmy put her coat, mink by the look, around her shoulders. ‘I shall have to take a cold bath when I get home.’

  Out on the pavement, the air had cooled considerably. Jimmy and Marianne said their goodbyes and left Clara and me standing awkwardly together.

  ‘You play bridge very well,’ I said.

  She smiled. ‘I am a beginner.’

  ‘Really? Well you seem to have picked it up very well.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘May I walk you home?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s too far,’ she said, doing up her thin coat.

  ‘Where?’

  She hesitated. ‘The other end of the Strand.’

  ‘Well I can’t let you go all that way on your own.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘It’s not out of my way, I have nowhere to stay tonight yet.’ I said it without thinking.

  ‘I see.’ She gave me a look of pure disappointment. ‘What do you take me for?’ She turned on her heels and walked quickly away, tossing over her shoulder, ‘Goodnight, Mr Bolitho.’

  ‘Miss Carter,’ I called, picking up my bag and running after her. ‘Miss Carter. You misunderstand me.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think I do. I’ll call a policeman if you don’t leave me alone.’

  ‘I am the son of a vicar,’ I said plaintively. ‘I am about to go to France.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Her look was withering. ‘That’s what they all say. I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  ‘Honestly. It’s true. I arrived in London today and I have forty-eight hours before I go to my training camp in Abbotts Langley.’

  She was striding away from me now. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘That came out all wrong.’ I went after her in order to explain. ‘I came up from Cornwall tonight not expecting to be given two days before I have to leave London. I need to book a bed for the night yet, which is why I have no hotel to go to …’

  ‘Well, you’re not having mine.’

  I stopped walking and called after her, ‘I am so sorry. Please, I meant nothing. I won’t bother you any more. It’s been a delightful evening.’

  She stopped. ‘Are you telling the truth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You really are a vicar’s son, who hasn’t got a bed, and is going to France?’

  ‘Yes. Honestly.’

  ‘Well.’ She paused, giving me the once-over. ‘You can walk me to my door and that’s it. As it happens there are a couple of hotels near me.’ She smiled. ‘I can’t have a brave soldier sleeping on a park bench, can I?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  We began walking and I noticed she was shivering.

  ‘May I offer you my coat?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ she answered, and then looked at me. ‘Unless you don’t feel the cold?’

  ‘I grew up in Cornwall where the westerlies can freeze your ears off.’ She laughed at that and I took off my coat and helped her into it. ‘Better?’ I asked.

  ‘Much. Thank you.’

  Chapter Seven

  Clara, London

  June 1915

  By the time we had got to my door, he had told me his life story. His upbringing in Cornwall, his father’s church, the summers he and his siblings had spent on their beach, rock pooling, swimming and sailing. He built a picture so beautiful, I felt that I had been with him; eating pasties made by Cook, singing in his father’s church choir, fighting with his brother Ernest and then the exotic descriptions of Penang, the plantation, the monsoons, the heat of the day.

  ‘I’ve never left England,’ I said. ‘Coming to London was the furthest I’ve ever been from Kent.’

  ‘You must miss it,’ he said.

  I could have told him the truth there and then, but I didn’t. I was not that poor orphan any more. I was a working woman. Independent and unafraid. I told him the story I had been telling my work friends, but this time much embroidered.

  ‘My parents died in an accident on the family farm,’ I said. ‘I grew up amongst apple trees and hop fields. I miss them every day. And our horses. My father and I would ride out most mornings. We’d go for miles. Checking fences. Talking to the workers.’ My imagination was spinning my lies into truth. ‘From my bedroom window to the horizon, all I could see was our land. We had several hundred acres, you see.’

  ‘It sounds like a fairy tale.’ He smiled. ‘How often do you get back?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t. It was all sold. To my uncle. I have nothing of it left, but my uncle did make sure I had a good education, and that is the greatest gift of all. Isn’t it? I have nothing else.’

  ‘Your uncle sounds rather mean to me.’

  I laughed. ‘To be honest I turned it all down. I wanted my parents to be proud of me. I have always been very independent.’ That much was true at least. ‘I am a suffragette. Does that shock you?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no.’

  ‘Good. You see, I believe, as my mother did, that women are the greatest partner a man can have. Not just in running a home and bringing up a family, but in standing together, sharing our different skills.’

  I remembered my next words, as the ones I had heard a suffragette say. She had been outside our office, talking to the crowd. ‘A man without a woman is only half the jigsaw.’

  I could see I had provoked his thoughts with my exposition.

  ‘And that is what you honestly believe?’ he finally said.

  ‘Of course,’ I said firmly. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I am ashamed to say I have never thought about it.’

  ‘Well, I suggest you do.’

  We arrived at my door. ‘This is me.’

  He looked up at the building. ‘Which is your window?’

  I ignored the question and held out my hand. ‘Goodnight, Mr Bolitho, and thank you for the walk and the pleasant conversation.’

  He took my hand and kissed it. ‘The pleasure was mine.’

  I remembered his coat and took it off.

  ‘Here. You’ll need this. Goodnight.’

  At lunchtime the next day, I left the office to walk to a small Italian café on the corner of Fleet Street and Bouverie Street. I went maybe once a month as a treat for myself. It was a beautiful early summer day. The shop windows were filled with colourful displays offering holiday outfits, toys and sandals. All the girls in my office had been chatting for weeks about where they would spend their week-long summer holiday. Brighton, Eastbourne, Norfolk.

  I thought it all rather pointless. I had never had a proper summer to get excited about. The best bit for me was going to church with my grandfather and staring at the ladies’ hats. If I managed to look innocent enough, some of the ladies and gentlemen would pass me a farthing. Sometimes a penny. I didn’t feel sorry for myself. Far from it. I could do a lot with a penny, providing my dad didn’t find it and take it to the pub.

  So, there I was walking to the café when I heard my name called. I knew immediately it was Herbert, even before I turned around to look at him.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, running to catch me.

  ‘Are you following me?’ I asked.

  ‘Gosh no,’ he said, patting his travelling bag. ‘Just left the hotel.’

  ‘I thought you said you had two days in London.’

  �
�Yes.’ He grinned. ‘Well remembered. The hotel is full tonight so I have to find another.’

  I tilted my head to one side. ‘Yes. You’d better had.’

  He had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘I really will find one.’

  ‘Good.’ I began walking again.

  ‘Where are you going?’ He fell into step with me.

  ‘Lunch.’

  ‘I could join you?’

  I let him wait before I said, ‘Yes. You could.’

  Café Maria’s windows were full of hams, cheeses and salamis. Its very foreignness excited me. Maria herself was exotically beautiful. Glossy black hair wound into an untidy bun, slender legs in black heeled shoes, and wearing a dress that swung as she moved her hips.

  ‘Signorina Carter,’ she cried across the noise of customers, her eyes taking in Herbert. ‘You bring a gentleman friend?’ She put her hands on her hips, looking him up and down. ‘Are you good enough for Signorina Carter? You a good boy? I look after her from men like you.’

  I enjoyed Herbert’s discomfort. ‘Goodness. No. Nothing like that. Miss Carter and I are acquaintances. We only met last night.’

  Maria whirled a manicured finger at him. ‘Last night, eh? That is what I worry for.’

  I stopped her teasing. ‘Maria. It’s all right. I don’t think you need worry.’

  ‘OK.’ She smiled at me and then gave Herbert a knowing look. ‘Remember, Maria see everything. Sì? OK, so where you want to sit? By the window? A nice table for two? Follow me. We have good minestrone today.’

  I ordered the soup and he the Italian ham with bread.

  Maria swept up the menus and invisible crumbs from the table. ‘Good choices. And what will you have to drink?’

  ‘Coffee, please.’ I had never drunk coffee until I had come to Maria’s. Now I loved it. It made me feel sophisticated.

  ‘Sì.’ Maria raised her eyebrows towards Herbert. ‘Signor?’

  ‘Do you have beer?’

  ‘You think I am a peasant? Of course I have beer.’ She chucked him under the chin. ‘I get you special glass.’

  She walked away, her hips swinging, welcoming new customers or shouting ‘Ciao’ to departing ones.