Coming Home to Island House

by Erica James

  Her lips pursed, Romily stared over at the row of neatly lined-up clay pots on the bench. Such was her concentration, Hope could have almost believed she was actually counting them. ‘Well,’ she said eventually, ‘it’s a tall order you have to contend with, but it’s not insurmountable. We can easily solve part of the problem.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I see two solutions. One, you could hire a nanny to look after Annelise; or two – which I favour, and would be the quickest way to help you while you’re here – is that we do as Lady Fogg says and get all hands on deck. I’m sure Mrs Partridge would be the first to do what she can to help, as will Florence, and I’ll do my bit too, and even Kit and Allegra if we ask them nicely. I think we can safely agree that it would be preferable to leave Arthur out of the arrangement.’

  ‘But you have work to do yourself,’ said Hope, her voice trembling with an unsteady note. She was stunned at Romily’s suggestion. ‘And Kit and Allegra wouldn’t know one end of a baby from the other.’

  ‘Do any of us? We’ll all just have to muck in and knuckle down.’

  A fresh batch of tears pricking at the backs of her eyes, Hope pressed the handkerchief in her hand to her lips. ‘Why are you being so understanding towards me?’ she murmured.

  ‘I don’t like to see anyone suffering, and I think you’ve been quietly suffering for too long on your own.’

  Suspecting that Romily was talking about more than just her inability to cope with Annelise, and wondering what she knew, and from whom she’d learned it, Hope said, ‘I’m afraid I was quite rude to Florence first thing this morning. She was trying to help and I was horrible to her. And I don’t even know why. Would you tell her I’m sorry, please?’

  ‘Of course. But telling her yourself would be better, don’t you think?’

  Hope bristled. ‘Are you trying to belittle me and put me in my place?’

  Romily looked at her with a frown on her face. ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  Any number of reasons sprang to mind, but Hope suddenly saw how petty she was being. Here was this relative stranger doing her best to help, and all Hope could do was question her motives. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve become so used to my own company and feeling wretched that I sometimes forget how to be nice to others.’ She paused. ‘And you’re the first person I’ve admitted that to.’

  ‘Then I’m honoured you felt able to say it. Now then, do you have everything you need to work on these illustrations?’

  ‘I never go anywhere without my drawing materials.’

  ‘Good. So what you presumably also need is a quiet room with good light. Yes?’

  ‘My bedroom will be fine. It’s where I always used to draw. But I’ll need a table or a desk to put in front of the window.’

  ‘Easily sorted. Leave it with me. Well then,’ Romily added decisively, getting to her feet as if all was settled, ‘why don’t we go back up to the house and find you something to eat, and afterwards you can get to work – that’s if you feel you want to, if you’re in the right frame of mind.’

  ‘I’d better see to Annelise first,’ said Hope. ‘She’ll be awake from her nap now.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll go and see if she’s awake while you have your lunch.’

  As they walked in step along the gravel path away from the glasshouse, Hope had the strangest of feelings; as though this wholly pragmatic woman had the power to make everything right in the world. There was a powerful magnetism about her, too. You couldn’t help but be drawn towards her and respond to her positivity. Was that what Hope’s father had seen in her?

  They were almost at the gate that separated the kitchen garden from the rest of the garden when Hope slowed her step. ‘How do you do it?’

  Romily stared back at her. ‘In what sense?’

  ‘Make life look so easy?’

  ‘Don’t be fooled. I’m a swan, gliding along on the surface but paddling frantically beneath.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe. You’ve just lost your husband and yet you’re able to show me sympathy and enormous kindness. I couldn’t have done that when I was first widowed. In fact, if I’m brutally honest, I still can’t.’

  ‘You do yourself down, Hope. You could have said no to Annelise’s parents, but you didn’t. You did something wonderfully heroic by bringing their precious daughter home with you.’

  ‘The trouble is, I can’t stop thinking of Otto and Sabine. I should have tried harder to make them come with me. I fear for them, I really do.’

  ‘I believe you have every right to be concerned. What I saw going on in Europe when I was recently there chilled my blood. But you did what you could. We all, in the end, have to make difficult choices, and simply do the best we can.’

  Romily paused and turned to look towards the house. ‘I found writing today a great comfort,’ she said softly. ‘It was a much-needed diversion.’ She slowly switched her gaze back to Hope. ‘Maybe you’ll find that doing some work will help you get a fresh perspective on your new-found situation. You know, your father was immensely proud of your talent as an illustrator.’

  ‘He never said so. Not in those actual words.’

  ‘He probably thought you’d imagine he was patronising you. Would he have had cause to believe that?’

  The pain of an old wound deep inside Hope made itself felt, made her remember how furious her father had been when she’d first told him about Dieter. She remembered too how much she had hated him for his high-handed and illogical prejudice. ‘My father rarely gave praise,’ she said, ‘but in contrast he was always quick to show his displeasure at something.’

  ‘Do you mean when you wanted to marry Dieter?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hope said flatly. ‘My father refused point-blank to consider any view but his own on the matter. His trouble was that he couldn’t accept he could ever be wrong.’

  ‘He did, you know. He profoundly regretted his reaction to you and Dieter. If he could have turned back time, he would have.’

  Hope chewed on her lip and frowned. ‘What made you fall in love with him? It’s a question that’s puzzled me ever since meeting you. You just don’t seem to be the sort of woman who would put up with a man like Jack Devereux.’

  ‘I fell in love with him because … because he made my world seem so much better than it had before.’ Romily stared into the distance, her gaze directed towards the church tower on the other side of the beech hedge. ‘The sun was brighter when we were together,’ she said faintly, ‘the sky bluer, the stars and moon bigger. I can’t explain why that should be, but Jack just had that effect on me. Yes, he could be dogmatic and wickedly quick-tempered, but equally he could be gentle and thoughtful. I was ill once, just with a silly head cold, but instead of driving down to London for a meeting he had planned, he cancelled it, then put me to bed with a hot-water bottle, a glass of lemon and honey and a tot of whisky, and read to me.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like the man I know,’ Hope said. But no sooner had she uttered the words than a memory from a long time ago surfaced, and she pictured her father by the side of her bed, reading to her and encouraging her to sip the milky drink he’d brought up for her.

  ‘Perhaps he was afraid to show his softer side,’ said Romily. ‘It couldn’t have been easy for him being on his own after your mother died. He had to be both father and mother to you; he was bound to make mistakes. Mistakes I know that he very much came to regret. He so badly wanted to make amends to you all. But he realised it too late. And now he’s dead.’ She turned away and resumed walking, but not before Hope saw her eyes fill with tears.

  ‘I’m sorry if I upset you,’ said Hope, and meant it.

  ‘Don’t apologise, there’s no need.’

  ‘When you feel able to, will you tell me some more about my father, the man you came to know?’

  ‘I will if you’ll tell me about Dieter.�
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  Hope’s instinctive reaction was to refuse the request, to withhold every precious memory she had of Dieter for fear of exposing it to ridicule, or worse, losing it. But sensing she was in the presence of somebody who might actually understand, she said, ‘Dieter made me feel the same way my father made you feel, he made my world feel infinitely better than it had ever been before.’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘At a lunchtime concert at the Albert Hall. It was a piano recital, Grieg. I don’t know how you feel about Grieg, but after a while he palls for me.’

  Romily smiled. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

  Hope smiled too. ‘Well, I rather rudely began to occupy my time with doodling on my recital programme, drawing a family of trolls and their little house built into the rock of a hillside. I was so absorbed that I didn’t notice that the man in the seat next to me was watching what I was doing.’

  ‘And that was Dieter?’

  ‘Yes. When the concert was over, I apologised for distracting him from the music, and he said that he’d welcomed the distraction, that it had given him enormous pleasure to watch me and that he was envious of anyone who had such a natural gift. I’m making him sound more forward that he really was; he was actually quite a shy man.’

  Romily nodded. ‘But he plucked up the courage to ask you to go out with him, I’m assuming?’

  ‘He gave me his telephone number in the hope that I might like to arrange an outing together to another concert sometime.’

  ‘Which you did?’

  ‘Yes. And from then on, we were more or less inseparable.’

  Neither of them spoke for a few moments, not until they were almost on the terrace of the house. ‘It strikes me,’ said Romily, ‘that we’re not so very different, you and I. We’ve both lost the man we loved and we’re in a similar line of work, with deadlines to meet with our respective publishers. Why don’t we, in the days ahead, do all we can to support each other?’

  Hope was surprised at the suggestion. ‘I’m not sure how I can support you. Or if you really need any assistance.’

  ‘Don’t you? How about helping to make peace with your cousin and brothers?’

  Chapter Twenty

  Lady Fogg arrived the following morning on the stroke of eleven o’clock, just as the last of the chimes from St Mary’s rang out.

  An overbearing, condescending woman of advancing years who believed firmly in the old order – the more feudal the better – Lady Fogg was comprehensively reviled within the village for her ability always to cause offence. Romily was fascinated by her, from the top of her Queen Mary styled hair to her large sensible lace-up shoes. Most assuredly, and before too long, the woman would appear as a femme formidable of some magnitude in one of her novels.

  Villages up and down the country undoubtedly needed and relied upon this type of woman. They were the backbone of small communities; without them, nothing would get done. It was a fact that Lady Fogg had been only too quick to point out to Romily as she swept in on a gust of her own martyred self-importance.

  ‘If one wants anything done, one has to get on with it oneself,’ she’d barked. ‘As if I haven’t enough to do! But since nobody else was inclined to grasp the nettle and offer themselves as billeting officer, there was nothing else for it but for me to volunteer.’

  Privately Romily would sooner believe that nobody else had had the courage to put themselves forward, or if they had, the move had been swiftly vetoed.

  ‘Now then, Miss Temple,’ said Lady Fogg, as though addressing a large gathering, while settling her ample posterior into the armchair opposite Romily and clasping a folder to her equally ample bosom. ‘I need to check a few details with you and convince myself of the suitability of the accommodation you have here, which I’m sure—’

  Romily raised a hand to interrupt the flow of Lady Fogg’s words, something she warranted not many dared to do.

  The woman looked at her askance.

  ‘It’s Mrs Devereux-Temple,’ Romily said smoothly. ‘After all, Jack and I were married.’

  A flaring of nostrils indicated that Lady Fogg was far from pleased at being corrected. Furthermore, she probably doubted the veracity of Romily’s marital status.

  ‘I believe the accurate use of titles is so important, don’t you agree, Lady Fogg?’ said Romily with a smile. ‘Please, do carry on.’

  ‘I was under the impression that you were retaining your maiden name,’ the woman responded.

  ‘And so I am for professional purposes; to my readers I shall always be plain old Romily Temple. However, in my private life I was Jack’s wife, alas all too briefly, and I’m proud to bear his name.’ She knew that Lady Fogg had been particularly vocal on the subject of her living in sin at Island House with Jack; had even snubbed her on one occasion.

  ‘Quite,’ replied the woman with a steely tone.

  Not for a second had Romily expected any kind of half-hearted attempt on Lady Fogg’s part to offer condolences on Jack’s untimely death, and in many ways it was refreshing not to have to summon the platitudes demanded in such circumstances. It was much more fun to be sparring with the woman.

  ‘Now if we could get on,’ Lady Fogg said. ‘I’m extremely busy. Yours is not the only house call I have to make this morning.’

  ‘I suppose I would be adding to your burden if I were to offer you some refreshments; a cup of coffee perhaps?’

  Lady Fogg hesitated.

  ‘No, no,’ said Romily quickly, enjoying herself, ‘you have far too much to do. Silly of me to say anything, of course you need to get on. I mustn’t delay you. Not for a minute.’

  Her lips pursed together, Lady Fogg opened the folder on her lap and withdrew a pen from her handbag. A pen that didn’t work, it transpired. She jabbed it at the piece of paper, but it refused to cooperate.

  Romily went over to her desk and helpfully handed Lady Fogg a pen. ‘Try this one.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the woman said, without the slightest trace of gratitude. The pen poised, she crossed her legs at her ankles, which were remarkably slim, given her bulk. ‘Of course in so many ways this is all highly unethical,’ she said, ‘but needs must.’

  ‘In what way unethical, Lady Fogg?’

  ‘Well, Island House isn’t strictly yours, is it? Not until probate has been dealt with, presumably.’

  If she was trying to make a point that Romily did not in some way belong here, she had better think again. ‘In that case, maybe this has been a wasted visit for you,’ said Romily, with some heat to her voice. ‘I’d hate for you to feel compromised in the name of necessity.’

  ‘In difficult times one can always find a way round these things,’ Lady Fogg replied. Her satisfied expression showed that she felt she’d scored a well-aimed blow. She then gave her attention to working through the details of what would be involved in having an evacuee to stay.

  When she’d finished, she said, ‘Will the house be sold off and the proceeds shared amongst the children? Talking of which, I heard they were staying on with you. It must be a trying time for you; they’re not an easy family.’ She gave a bizarrely sudden and loud laugh, like a gunshot being fired, which made Romily start. ‘You may well rue the day you ever met Jack Devereux!’

  Enough was enough. Romily rose to her feet. ‘Lady Fogg, you could not be more wrong. On all counts. Do please forgive me for rushing you, but I’m expecting a phone call from my editor. Do you have time to inspect upstairs before leaving? I must ask you to respect Mrs Meyer’s privacy; she’s working in her room so I’d rather we didn’t disturb her.’

  With his eyes closed, and basking in the pleasantly warm morning sunshine on the wooden bench to one side of the open French doors of the drawing room, Kit had been listening to the exchange between Romily and Ma Foghorn, all the while silently cheering Romily on. Hearing how easily she had run rings around the o
ld battleaxe, he’d back his stepmother any day in a head-to-head!

  He opened his eyes and looked over to the pond, where his brother was rowing languidly through the lily pads. Once he was in the middle of the pond, he stopped and drew in the oars, then produced a bottle of beer and proceeded to twist off the cap. Watching his brother gulp down the beer, tipping his head back in the sun, Kit could almost believe Arthur was happy, that he was enjoying the solitude. But more likely he was plotting who to upset next.

  Well it wouldn’t be him, vowed Kit. There were more important things going on in the world than allowing himself to be cowed by Arthur. Following his admission to Evelyn yesterday that he was thinking of joining the RAF, he couldn’t help but think he’d better get on and do something about it. Or should he wait until war was declared? No point in rushing to sign up if nothing was actually going to happen.

  And there he went again, he thought crossly. Why did he keep procrastinating? Why could he not just make his mind up and get on with things?

  From around the side of the house his cousin Allegra appeared. She saw him, hesitated, and then came over. ‘You look as bored as I feel,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not bored at all. I was just sitting here thinking. You’re welcome to join me.’

  Again she hesitated, but then smoothed down the back of her skirt and sat next to him. ‘What do you think of this idea of Romily’s to have us all babysitting Annelise?’ she said.

  ‘It’s certainly not something I thought I’d ever be doing, but you saw the state Hope was in yesterday; she was obviously at her wits’ end.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t see why that should mean we have to be reduced to the same neurotic state. Why doesn’t she simply find some girl from the village to do it?’

  Kit had thought much the same thing, and for now was grateful that the maid, Florence, was occupying Annelise while Hope worked upstairs in her bedroom. ‘It’s only for a few days,’ he said mildly.