Coming Home to Island House

by Erica James

  So much for lightening the mood, thought Romily, pulling over towards the hedge in order to give a wide berth to an army convoy passing them on the other side of the road. These days it was a regular occurrence to come across military vehicles on the roads. The same was true of the sky, it was now a common sight to see a squadron of bombers flying overhead.

  ‘It’s good to be home,’ Florence said when Romily finally turned in at the entrance to Island House and came to a stop as near to the front door as she could manage. The driveway and garden were already completely covered in snow, drifts of it forming against the bushes.

  ‘It’s good to have you back,’ Romily said, stepping out of the car into the full force of the blizzard and hurrying round to the passenger side of the Bentley to help Florence out. ‘But under no circumstances are you to do any work until you’re quite well. As I told you before, I am laying down the law, and if you defy me, I shall take you straight back to the hospital, where you’ll have that sour-faced nurse to deal with.’

  ‘But I’ll go mad if I have to spend another day in bed. I’m sure I’m well enough to help around the house now. Just little things. Let me do that at least.’

  Romily tutted. ‘Absolutely not. Here, lean on my arm, it’s treacherous underfoot. And don’t think about arguing. You’re my responsibility, Florence, as I promised Billy, and I fully intend to take the task of looking after you very seriously.’

  They’d made it as far as the snow-covered steps when the front door opened and Mrs Partridge appeared in her apron. ‘Well God bless you both, there you are at last!’ she exclaimed, ushering them inside. ‘I was getting worried when I saw how fast the snow was coming down. They’re saying on the wireless that we’re in for a real spell of this weather. Come along in now; let’s get you both in the warm. I’ve got some milk warming for hot chocolate and a ginger cake fresh out of the oven. Here, let me take your hat and coat, Florence. Mercy me, you look half starved to death. I’ll soon put that right!’

  Neither of them had a chance to get a word in as Mrs Partridge took their coats, hats, scarves and gloves, all the while keeping up a steady flow of talk about the weather and the awfulness of butter, sugar, bacon and ham now being rationed. ‘And as for that disgraceful Unity Mitford,’ she chuntered on, ‘well, I’m just appalled. If it had been left to me, and seeing as she’s such a big fan of Hitler, I’d have left her there to stew in her miserable traitor’s juices. Pity she didn’t make a better job of shooting herself, in my opinion.’

  Romily winked at Florence and led the way to the inviting warmth of the kitchen, where they found Hope and the children waiting for them. Annelise immediately slipped down from her chair and greeted Florence with a beaming smile.

  ‘She’s been asking after you every day,’ Hope said. ‘She’s missed you terribly.’

  ‘And I’ve missed her,’ Florence said, bending stiffly to give Annelise a hug. ‘And you too, Stanley. What have you been up to while I’ve been away?’

  ‘I’ve taught Bobby a new trick. D’you wanna see it?’ the boy answered eagerly.

  ‘How about you let Florence get comfortable by the range first?’ suggested Romily. ‘And I’ll help Mrs Partridge with making some hot chocolate.’

  ‘There’s no need for that, Miss Romily,’ interjected Mrs Partridge. ‘I can manage. Why don’t you sit down as well? Can’t have us all bumping around into each other, can we now?’

  ‘Which is your polite way of telling me to get out of your way, isn’t it?’ said Romily with a laugh.

  ‘Not at all, perish the thought. I just want you to relax in the warm after driving through all that snow; it must have fair taken it out of you. Hope, perhaps you’d like to give me a hand by cutting the cake, please? And go sparingly with it, I used the last of the butter and sugar to make it.’

  Both Hope and Romily did as they were instructed – it never failed to amuse Romily how they all did what Mrs Partridge told them to do – then settled themselves down to enjoy the sight of Bobby standing on his hind legs and mimicking Stanley as he stepped first to the right, then to the left, before turning around on the spot.

  ‘You could take that act on tour,’ smiled Florence. ‘Stanley and Bobby, the Amazing Duo!’

  ‘It has a certain ring to it,’ agreed Romily as boy and dog lapped up the attention and began chasing each other around the table. Annelise, squealing with delight, tried to join in on her little legs.

  ‘That’ll do, Stanley,’ warned Mrs Partridge above the din. ‘Florence needs peace and quiet, not a rowdy hullabaloo from the likes of you. I swear you’re becoming more of a nuisance than that wretched Lord Haw-Haw!’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Stanley, bringing Bobby instantly to heel with a single click of his fingers. ‘Can I go outside now?’

  ‘And what, pray, are you going to do out there, other than catch your death of cold?’

  ‘I promised Annelise I’d build ’er a snowman, she ain’t never seen one before.’

  They all turned and looked dubiously out of the window at the rapidly falling snow. ‘Have something to eat and drink first,’ said Mrs Partridge, ‘then be sure to wrap up warm, I don’t want two invalids in the house to look after. I’ve got quite enough to do as it is, young man.’

  ‘I’m not an invalid,’ protested Florence. ‘Far from it.’

  Mrs Partridge shook her head and wagged her finger. ‘You’ll consider yourself one until I say otherwise.’

  ‘I wouldn’t fight it,’ said Hope with a smile. ‘Just accept you’re up against a superior foe.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Romily, ‘we’ve appointed Mrs P as our first line of defence against the Germans.’

  Mrs Partridge huffed and puffed and rolled her eyes. ‘And there’s me just doing my best for you all.’

  ‘And very well you do it too,’ said Hope, putting her arm around the woman.

  How changed Hope had become, thought Romily; she was so much happier now, and had grown surprisingly attached to Mrs Partridge. Her stay at Island House was now officially extended until such time as London was no longer deemed to be a target for the Luftwaffe. It was anybody’s guess when that might be. Every day the situation grew more grave, with Britain gearing up production of war materials. More than two million nineteen- to twenty-seven-year-olds had now been called up, and hundreds of young women were volunteering to be Red Cross nurses or Land Girls. Meanwhile, poor Finland was fighting hard to block the advance of Soviet troops. To her shame, all Romily had managed was a first-aid evening at the church hall. She really had to do more. But what? She had never been this indecisive before, but then she had never had this level of personal commitment before.

  After Stanley had gulped down his mug of cocoa and finished cramming cake into his mouth, offering the last bit to Bobby, he went to find his coat, the ever-faithful hound hot on his heels. ‘And don’t forget your hat and scarf,’ Mrs Partridge called out after the pair of them.

  ‘And your gloves!’ added Florence. She now had Annelise on her lap, the little girl tracing a small curious finger over her bandaged head.

  ‘Be gentle, won’t you, Annelise?’ said Hope anxiously.

  Florence smiled at the child and stroked her fine blonde hair, then tickled her lightly under her chin. ‘You wouldn’t hurt me, would you? Not an angel as sweet as you.’

  Annelise giggled, and with a butter-wouldn’t-melt expression on her face, helped herself to a bite of Florence’s cake.

  ‘She’s certainly not slow in coming forward these days,’ said Hope.

  ‘No bad thing in my book, especially for a girl,’ remarked Romily. Then, turning to Mrs Partridge, she said, ‘No sign of Mrs Bunch this afternoon?’

  ‘No, she’s not been in, and if the snow’s bad tomorrow she won’t make it then either.’

  ‘Not with her legs,’ said Hope and Florence in unison, making them all laugh.

&nb
sp; ‘Oh, before I forget,’ said Mrs Partridge, getting up from the table where she was sitting and going over to the dresser, ‘a letter came for you in the last post, Florence. Addressed to Mrs Minton it is, with a Bury St Edmunds postmark, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s your Billy’s handwriting. And there’s one for you too, madam.’

  Just as Mrs Partridge handed Florence her letter, the telephone rang and Romily went to answer it. It was Allegra.

  Allegra replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle and tried not to give in to the feeling that she was an utter failure. Could she get nothing right? Why did everything she attempt turn into such a mess? What sort of mother was she going to be? A mother who couldn’t even take care of herself without asking for help!

  The trouble had started when she’d woken in the night to the sound of something scratching and pattering about in the attic above her bedroom. Rats! Thanks to Arthur letting one loose in her bedroom when they’d been children, she was terrified of them. She’d leapt out of bed and, dragging the eiderdown with her, fled downstairs, stumbling on one of the steps and landing with a heavy thud at the bottom. When she’d caught her breath and picked herself up, praying in earnest that she hadn’t harmed the baby, she’d made herself comfortable on the sofa. But sleep had eluded her. Every time she had been close to nodding off, she’d imagined hundreds of rats swarming down the stairs from the attic seeking her out. She’d become so hysterical with fear, she’d started to cry.

  In the cool light of day, and after sleeping for no more than an hour or so and waking stiff with cold, she could see that she had overreacted, but with the dawn had come the realisation that in falling on the stairs she’d hurt her back, and the slightest movement sent pain shooting down her right leg.

  She’d managed to get hold of Dr Garland, but he hadn’t been able to come out to see her until the afternoon, the snow delaying him on his rounds. His diagnosis was that once again she needed bed rest and should not be on her own. He’d made light of her teary belief that the attic had been invaded by an army of rats, telling her that it was more likely to be a couple of tiny field mice in search of shelter from the icy cold. Not a word of which she’d believed; two small mice had not created the awful noise she’d heard.

  She’d hated telephoning Romily to ask for help, but Dr Garland had insisted that if she didn’t make the call, he would do it for her. ‘Or would you rather I whisked you off to hospital?’ he’d said.

  Neither was her preferred option, but for the sake of the baby, she knew she had to be sensible. She knew also that it would be what Elijah would want for her. She had received a letter from him this morning, the very sort of letter she had dreaded. He was at last on the move. He couldn’t say where exactly, but it was to join the British Expeditionary Force in either France or Belgium. At last me, Billy and Tommy will be doing what we signed up for, he’d written. There isn’t one of us here who isn’t ready. Keep me in your thoughts, Allegra, just as you and the baby will be constantly in mine.

  Wincing with every step, and listening out for the sound of rats overhead, Allegra set about packing a case to take with her to Island House. She placed Elijah’s letter, along with his previous ones, carefully within the pages of a bible he had given her. It had belonged to him as a boy, a present from his grandfather, even though he hadn’t been able to read it at the time.

  The suitcase closed, she left it on the bed and cautiously made her way downstairs to wait for Romily to arrive. It seemed in that moment that she would forever be destined to return to Island House.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The snow was coming down so heavily now, the wipers were making a poor job of keeping the windscreen clear. What worried Romily more was that the petrol tank of the Bentley was nearly empty. Very helpfully, the twin SU carburettors ticked a warning about a mile before the car would run completely dry – the ticking had sounded the moment she’d turned out of the drive.

  She had only ever run foul of an empty fuel tank once before, and that had been in France with Jack. They’d taken the Bentley across the Channel on the ferry and spent the weekend in Paris at the Ritz. They’d had the most glorious time staying in a suite overlooking the Place Vendôme, surfacing from it only when hunger drove them downstairs to the restaurant, that and the desire for a cocktail. It had been a perfect few days, and even running out of petrol and grinding to a halt some two miles from the ferry port had not put a dampener on their spirits. They’d hitched a ride on the back of a farm truck to the nearest garage, sharing the straw-strewn space with a couple of piglets, one of which, with no encouragement, had settled itself on Romily’s lap. Jack had thought it the funniest sight and had offered the driver of the truck an extravagant fifty francs to buy the piglet from him. The man had looked at the proffered money, then at the piglet, and shaken his head. ‘Non merci, monsieur.’ He’d given no reason for refusing the deal, but Jack had slipped a wad of franc notes into his hand anyway and thanked him for his trouble. ‘What on earth would you have done with the poor little piglet if the man had agreed to sell it to you?’ Romily had asked. ‘Given it straight back to him, of course,’ Jack had replied.

  She had known that day that she loved Jack, that she loved his impetuous nature, which in so many ways mirrored her own.

  A furious loud blaring of a horn roused her from the poignant memory. It was followed by a thundering great clunk as metal met metal, and Romily’s head hit the windscreen with an impact that rocked her violently backwards in her seat. Her hands flew up from the steering wheel, and the car zigzagged over the snow-covered road before coming to an inelegant stop.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Disorientated and feeling as though every ounce of air had been punched out of her, Romily opened her eyes and found herself staring into the face of an unknown man. A man dressed in a smart coat that was unbuttoned and revealed the blue of an RAF uniform beneath.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, thoroughly embarrassed at causing an accident, knowing that her mind had not been where it ought to have been. ‘Is your car very badly damaged?’

  ‘Oh don’t give that a second thought. It’s not mine; it’s a staff car and tough as old boots. I’m afraid your beautiful Bentley has come off worse. I tried to avoid colliding with you, but you came straight at me. You must have skidded on the ice. Come on, let’s get you out before the car slides any further down the bank and you vanish without trace into the depths of the snowstorm. I’ve never seen a blizzard quite like this before. There you go, take my arm. That’s it, I’ve got you.’

  ‘There’s really no need,’ she replied, vexed that he was treating her like a child. ‘As I said, I’m perfectly all right.’ No sooner were the words out than a gust of wind blew what felt like an entire snowdrift into her face, and she missed her footing and all but tumbled into the stranger’s arms. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered, her tone anything but apologetic, almost as if she held him responsible for her predicament.

  ‘Best hang on to me,’ he asserted. ‘Don’t want you coming to any more grief. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll see a doctor pronto; you’ve given your noggin quite a bash.’

  Mention of a doctor made Romily remember the reason for her being in the car in the first place. Allegra! She had been on her way to fetch the girl back to Island House. She turned to look at the Bentley, to see if it would be possible to drive it to Winter Cottage, but she could see from the precarious angle it rested at that it was going to take some help to get it going again. She peered through the blizzard to where the stranger’s vehicle stood. ‘Do you think you could give me a tow?’ she shouted above the blast of another gust of wind. ‘Only I need to be somewhere.’

  The man brushed at the snow that was settling on his face, particularly his eyebrows and moustache. ‘I’d advise you to go straight home,’ he said, ‘via a doctor. I’d be happy to drive you. Really, if we stand here a second longer arguing, we’ll both end up dead
from the cold.’ He took her by the arm, his grip sufficiently firm to dissuade her from resisting. ‘Hop in,’ he said, ‘and I’ll take you where you need to be, if you’re sure that’s what you should do.’

  ‘It is,’ she said.

  Once they were out of the howling wind and snow, and he’d turned the key in the ignition, he introduced himself. ‘Anthony, known to my friends as Tony. Once I’ve turned us around to head in the direction you were going, you’ll need to give me further instructions.’

  ‘How well do you know the roads around here?’ she asked.

  ‘Not very well; I only arrived a few days ago. I’m based at the airfield over at Larkshall. Do you know it?’

  ‘Of course. We’re all very well acquainted with the squadrons of Wellington bombers flying over us. You’ll need to take the next right.’

  He dropped a gear and took the turning slowly. ‘And am I going to have the pleasure of knowing your name?’

  ‘Romily,’ she said. ‘Romily Devereux-Temple.’

  ‘And is there a Mr Devereux-Temple?’

  She paused, taken aback at the directness of his question. ‘No,’ she said at length, and with no wish to elaborate further to a stranger. Even a stranger who had come to her rescue. ‘Next left,’ she said, ‘then follow the road. Winter Cottage is on the right, look out for a green gate.’

  ‘Which will probably be completely white now, if not buried deep beneath a snowdrift,’ he said with a crunch of gears before finding the right one. ‘Sorry I can’t provide you with a smoother drive. This car might be as tough as old boots, but it’s also a frightful old crock. You’d think we’d have better staff cars available to us, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Would I be right in thinking you’re a pilot?’ she asked, although she knew that he could not be anything else. She had met enough RAF pilots over the years to recognise one a mile off – without exception they were all extremely charming, with a jovial bravado that came with the uniform.