by Erica James
‘I’ll vouch for how busy she is,’ said Mrs Partridge. ‘She never stops all day.’
‘I know,’ said Romily, ‘and that’s why I’m going to advertise for somebody to take your place and carry out your old duties, Florence. I wouldn’t expect you to look after three children, especially not a tiny baby, and do everything else as well. As you all know, I promised Allegra personally that her daughter would be loved and well cared for, and I fully intend to learn on the job and do my fair share of looking after Isabella. So it won’t all be on your shoulders, Florence. But your help, should you agree to this, will allow Hope and me to continue with our work.’
Mrs Partridge patted Florence’s hand. ‘I’ll help you all I can, love, you know I will.’
‘Me too,’ said Hope. ‘We’ll pool our resources, just as a family should. Because that’s what we are, aren’t we? A family.’
Romily smiled at Hope, who was suddenly blushing. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ she said.
‘Does this mean you think Stanley is going to stay with us permanently?’ asked Florence.
‘Permanently might be too strong a word to use, but after what you’ve told me this evening about the burns on his body, I shall move heaven and earth to keep him here with us for as long as possible. Don’t ask me how; I haven’t got that far yet. And who knows, maybe his mother won’t come looking for him again.’
After taking a sip of her tea, she said, ‘I have other changes in mind also. We have no idea how long the war will go on for, and with Finland now in the hands of the Russians, more rationing on the way and goodness knows what else to emerge in the coming weeks and months, I’ve decided that we should make more of an effort to economise and cut back on things. I’m sure it won’t be long before coal is rationed, so we’ll shut up any bedrooms not in use and we shan’t use the dining room any more. That will mean fewer rooms to heat and clean. We’ll eat our meals here in the kitchen – that’s if you don’t object, Mrs Partridge, this being your territory. It makes good sense to scale things back.’
‘You’ll hear no objections from me,’ said Mrs Partridge, ‘after all, it is your house.’
‘It’s our house,’ Romily said firmly, ‘our home.’
That night before she got into bed, Florence wrote to Billy. Her last letter had been to tell him about Allegra’s death; now she wrote and told him that she was to be a nursery nurse and that Miss Romily was going to increase her wages. I’ll be able to save even more now for our home together when you eventually come back, she wrote.
She also told him about Stanley running away from his mother and Bobby’s joy at being reunited with him. I swear that if that dog could sing, he would be singing from the rooftops how pleased he is to have Stanley back with us.
She finished her letter by telling Billy to take care, and that if he saw Elijah, he was to let him know that Isabella was well and growing just as she should be.
Funny, she thought, when at last she got into bed and turned out the light, life just kept on surprising her. Every day seemed to bring something new for them at Island House. What would be next? she wondered as she drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
‘I see that evacuee is back, then,’ said Elspeth Grainger, looking out of the window of the Cobbles Tea Room onto the busy market square. Her gaze was hooked on one passer-by in particular, the woman pushing a pram with a boy and dog at her side.
‘You’d think his mother would have more sense than to allow him to return to such a household,’ said Edith Lawton.
‘It’s the baby I feel sorry for, growing up in a house of sin. God help her,’ joined in Ivy Swann. ‘Motherless and as good as fatherless.’
‘And of course Elijah Hartley isn’t the child’s father; heaven only knows who is.’
‘Personally I’d say the child is better off without that flighty Italian piece as her mother.’
Their gaze still on the woman pushing the pram, Elspeth said, ‘It didn’t take long for Jack Devereux’s widow to start making eyes at another man, did it?’
Nods of agreement followed, and then:
‘He was at the girl’s funeral,’ said Ivy, ‘bold as brass, I heard. You’d think she’d be more discreet.’
‘Women of that sort are without shame. They just do as they please.’
‘And look where it gets them.’
The three women tutted in mutual disgust.
Well aware that the coven was keenly observing her, Romily was on her way to see Dr Garland.
Florence had offered to take Stanley to the doctor, but Romily had thought it better that she do it herself; after all, it was she who was going to fight on behalf of the boy if his frightful mother came back for him. If possible, she wanted to have Dr Garland on her side, and she would also involve Constable Ashwood if push came to shove. Her hope was that Mrs Nettles would guess exactly where Stanley had gone and would be too lazy to make the journey a second time. She strongly suspected that by rights she should notify the authorities that Stanley was at Island House, but for now she was prepared to flout the law.
With Isabella fast asleep in the pram, Romily pushed it over the cobbled surface of the square and saw a familiar figure coming towards her. It was Tony Abbott. Stanley spotted him at the same time and called out to him.
‘Well, well, well, look who’s come back to us then,’ Tony greeted the boy while patting Bobby on the head, the dog wagging its tail at top speed. ‘Just visiting, are you?’
‘I ’ope not. London’s the last place I wanna be, that’s why I ran away. Mrs Devereux-Temple says I can stay.’
Tony looked at Romily. ‘I’m guessing that might not be as straightforward as it sounds.’
‘You’re right.’
‘And how’s Isabella?’ he asked, peering into the pram.
‘Sleeping like a baby,’ replied Romily. ‘Which thankfully she seems a dab hand at.’
He straightened up. ‘I don’t suppose I could tempt you into having a cup of coffee, could I? I have half an hour before I have to be back at base.’
‘Are you going on a mission?’ asked Stanley before Romily had a chance to reply.
Tony tapped his nose. ‘That would be telling. All I’ll say is watch the sky early this evening.’
‘Coffee is a nice thought,’ Romily said, when Tony returned his attention to her, ‘but we’re on our way to see Dr Garland.’
‘Oh well, I shouldn’t keep you in that case.’ He hesitated. ‘Look, I know it might not seem appropriate, but I don’t suppose you’d like to come to a concert we’re putting on at the cathedral in Bury St Edmunds in a few weeks’ time, would you?’
‘What sort of concert?’ she asked.
‘We have a surprising number of talented musicians amongst the chaps and WAAFs who frequent the Athenaeum, so we thought we’d put something together by way of entertainment, missions permitting, of course.’
‘Are you performing?’
He smiled. ‘I’m playing the piano. But don’t let that put you off.’
‘You never mentioned you were a pianist.’
‘Probably because I wouldn’t go so far as to describe myself in that fashion. I’m very much an enthusiastic amateur.’
‘Can I come, mister?’ piped up Stanley.
Tony laughed. ‘I should imagine it will be past your bedtime, old chap. So how about it, Romily? You could bring Hope along as well. I know it’s not much to write home about, but it would be an evening out for you both.’ His expression now solemn, he added, ‘Especially after … well, you know … after Allegra.’
It sounded tempting to Romily. Very tempting. But she quickly checked herself. Her life was different now, she couldn’t just abandon Allegra’s child for the chance of an evening out. ‘It’s sweet of you to invite me,’ she said, ‘but another time perhaps. I would feel badly leavin
g Isabella.’
‘Florence would look after the baby,’ piped up Stanley again. ‘You should go, miss, have yourself some fun.’
‘Thank you, Stanley,’ she said curtly. ‘When I need your advice, rest assured I shall ask for it.’
He stuck out his lip, stuffed his hands into his pockets and shuffled his feet. ‘I didn’t mean nothing by it,’ he muttered. ‘Just seems rude if somebody invites you somewhere and you says no. I mean, I’d go if—’
‘That’s quite enough, Stanley. Now come along or we’ll be late for our appointment to see the doctor.’ She nodded goodbye to Tony and sped off with the pram, bouncing it over the cobbles.
‘Are you cross with me, miss?’ asked Stanley, running after her.
‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘You shouldn’t have interrupted and butted in like that. It wasn’t polite.’
‘But it wasn’t polite to say no when Mr Abbott was being so nice. Don’t you like ’im, miss?’
‘Of course I do. Everybody likes him, he’s that sort of a chap.’
‘I reckon ’e likes you. A lot. And if—’
‘And there you go again, Stanley Nettles, putting your twopenn’orth in when it’s not required.
‘But I don’t understand. Why don’t you want to go and listen to ’im play the piano? I bet ’e’s good.’
It was a perfectly rational question, but for too many reasons Romily didn’t want to dwell on, she knew she shouldn’t go, even though in essence the idea had its appeal.
With Bobby tied to the pram outside the surgery, Romily carefully carried Isabella inside with them. Wrapped in a blanket, the baby was still sleeping soundly when they took their seats in the small waiting room while Dr Garland’s receptionist, Cynthia Blackwood, dealt with somebody on the telephone. She was still speaking to the caller when Dr Garland appeared with his hat and coat on.
‘I got delayed on my rounds,’ he said. ‘Have you been waiting long? Terribly sorry if you have. Nothing wrong with the baby, is there?’ His face and tone of voice were the epitome of concern. He’d admitted to Romily how upset he’d been when he’d returned from his holiday and learned of Allegra’s death.
‘Isabella’s fine,’ she said, rising to her feet, ‘although it might be prudent for you to check her over while we’re here, just to be on the safe side.’
‘Of course,’ he said. Noticing Stanley as he hung up his coat on the ornate rack beside the door, he smiled. ‘Hello there, young man. So you’ve returned to us, have you?’
Suddenly looking anxious, Stanley took a step back. Romily put a gentle but reassuring hand on his shoulder, regretting now how abrupt she’d been with him.
‘It’s Stanley I’ve come about,’ she said, her voice lowered, conscious that Cynthia Blackwood was all ears now that she had ended her conversation on the telephone.
‘Well then, let’s go through and have a chat, shall we?’
With his expression drawn into a frown, Dr Garland dabbed iodine on the burns on Stanley’s body, the poor lad bravely gritting his teeth all the while and then relaxing when the dressings were applied. When he had finished, he called for Cynthia to take the boy and give him a glass of barley water and a biscuit.
‘This is one of the worst cases of child abuse I’ve come across,’ he said when they were alone. ‘You did the right thing in bringing the boy to see me.’
‘I can’t allow Mrs Nettles to drag him back to London again; my conscience just won’t let me,’ said Romily. She was deeply shocked at what she’d just seen. How could a mother do that, or allow it to happen? ‘And yet I know she’s his mother,’ she continued. ‘It’s her right to have him.’
‘Why don’t we cross that bridge if we need to?’
‘We?’
‘Having treated Stanley, I’ll happily act as a witness that he’s in more danger by being with his mother than he is with you.’
‘She could claim she didn’t touch him, that it was her boyfriend who did it. Or, heaven forbid, she could say I’m to blame.’
‘I hardly think Stanley would let anyone believe that. Not for a second. Now then, let me take a look at Isabella.’
When they left Dr Garland, and still feeling guilty that she’d been so terse with Stanley, Romily offered to take him to the sweet shop to make amends. His face lit up. ‘You ain’t cross with me no more, then?’ he said.
‘No,’ she replied, ‘and I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you earlier. It was quite unnecessary.’
‘So will you go and see Mr Abbott play the piano? I think ’e’d like you to be there.’
She laughed. ‘You’re a pushy little devil when you want to be, aren’t you?’
The boy just smiled back at her and she suddenly thought: why not go? And why not take Hope with her so they could both have an evening out? A change of scene would probably do them good. And Isabella would be in safe hands with Florence, of course she would. But of equal concern to Romily was the feeling she knew she had to get over – that agreeing to attend the concert felt like a betrayal of her love for Jack. It was just a concert, nothing more.
‘Now then, Stanley,’ she said, her mind made up, ‘our next port of call is the newsagent’s, where we’re going to place an advertisement to find a new housemaid.’
It was a task she didn’t particularly relish. Whoever came to work at Island House would have to be exactly the right person. She didn’t want the applecart upset in any way.
Chapter Sixty
April 1940
It was nearly three weeks later when Stanley came careering into the kitchen one afternoon at top speed. He was panting hard and had Bobby hot on his heels.
‘You ain’t never gonna believe it!’ he cried, dropping his school bag and gas mask case to the floor. ‘Never in a million years!’
‘And you’ll never believe the sharpness of my tongue if you carry on hollering and banging,’ replied Mrs Partridge. ‘Florence has just got Isabella off to sleep, so hush with all your noise. Now wash your hands and sit down with a composure more befitting a gentleman. A gentleman who speaks properly too.’
Hope smiled at Florence as Stanley, scowling hard, went over to the sink. She watched him give his hands a cursory wash under the tap before drying them on the front of his jersey, causing Mrs Partridge to roll her eyes. ‘There’s a perfectly good towel right there on the hook behind you,’ she said.
‘Don’t you want to know my news?’ he said, ignoring this last reprimand and sitting at the table next to Annelise, who was chewing on a biscuit and looking adoringly at him. Given half a chance, she would follow round after the boy just like Bobby.
‘I for one would like to know what’s brought you home in such a lather of excitement,’ said Hope.
‘Me too,’ said Florence, cradling the sleeping baby in her arms and adjusting her blanket.
‘It’s old Ma Foghorn,’ Stanley said with undisguised relish.
‘That’s Lady Fogg to you, young man,’ scolded Mrs Partridge.
‘What’s happened to her?’ asked Hope.
‘She’s been taken off to the police station. Shoved into the back of a police car, she was. ’andcuffs … I mean Handcuffs and all!’
‘No! She couldn’t have been,’ said Florence. ‘She’s a pain, but surely not a criminal?’
‘Did you actually see it happen?’ asked Hope.
Stanley wrinkled his nose. ‘No, but that’s what Mrs Bunch said happened. You ask her when she comes tomorrow; she was the one who was telling everybody about it. I was just coming out of the sweet shop and she was there with a crowd around her. She said Constable Ashwood had to push Ma Foghorn into the car, and all the while she was shouting that she was going to report him to his superiors.’
‘So what is she supposed to have done?’ asked Mrs Partridge, putting a glass of milk on the table in front of Stanley. Hope could see that d
espite the woman’s high dudgeon, she was itching to know more.
‘She’s been accused of hoarding food, of buying stuff on the black market from a man in Sudbury. He sold her false petrol coupons and all and she’s been hiding everything in the cellar.’
‘How did the police find out about it?’ asked Florence.
‘Mrs Bunch says she fired one of her maids earlier in the week, accused her of deliberately smashing a teapot, and to get her revenge the maid told Constable Ashwood about the stash in the cellar, which Ma Foghorn thought nobody knew about.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Partridge with a tut of disgust, ‘so much for us all being in this war together. Some folk always have to think their need is greater and that they’re above the law.’
‘But what if it isn’t true?’ asked Hope, unable to believe that a woman of Lady Fogg’s standing, a supposed pillar of the community, could behave so disgracefully. ‘What if the maid told Constable Ashwood a pack of lies?’
‘She has been driving around in the Daimler a lot more than you’d expect her to be able to, given the restrictions on petrol,’ said Florence. ‘Do you suppose Sir Archibald was in on it?’
‘Nothing would surprise me,’ said Mrs Partridge. ‘They say wartime either brings out the best in a person, or the worst. Stanley Nettles, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a hundred times, please don’t slurp your milk.’
‘Sorry, Mrs Partridge.’
‘When you’ve finished, why don’t you get out from under my feet and find something to do in the garden?’
When Stanley had gone, taking Annelise and Bobby with him, Hope asked Mrs Partridge if everything was all right. ‘You don’t seem your usual self today,’ she said, refraining from suggesting that Stanley had been lucky not to have his head bitten off, and for no real reason.
The older woman sighed and sat in her chair by the range. She took up a bundle of knitting. ‘Oh, take no notice of me, I’m just a bit tired.’ She sighed again. ‘Must be getting old.’