Coming Home to Island House

by Erica James

  ‘It’s probably the extra work we’re putting you to,’ said Hope. ‘With any luck after tomorrow, when we’ve interviewed those who have responded to the advert, things will get better. Trouble is, with so many girls leaving the village to go off and do their bit for the war, I don’t suppose we’ll have the best of the crop. Evelyn was saying that their latest maid at Meadow Lodge has just left to join the Land Army, and she’d only been with them a short while. She’s the third girl to go in the last week.’

  ‘In search of excitement, no doubt,’ said Mrs Partridge. ‘Young girls these days are all the same. Just don’t you go getting any ideas, Florence; I don’t know what we’d do without you.’

  Florence smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.’

  Hope watched the girl run her hand over the baby’s head, stroking her downy hair with a tenderness that brought a sadness to her. Poor Allegra, it should have been her sitting here with them and holding that dear little baby.

  It still didn’t seem real that Allegra was dead, and Hope continued to be haunted by the memory of being so short with her cousin that afternoon just before she had gone into labour. Romily had told her not to dwell on it, that it would have been the last thing on Allegra’s mind once the baby had decided it was time to come. Hope knew she was right, as she was with so many things, but it was a lesson in learning to keep one’s temper under control.

  ‘I’ll keep an ear out for Annelise,’ said Florence, ‘if you want to go and do some work.’

  ‘Would you?’ said Hope gratefully.

  ‘Of course. It’ll be no bother.’

  ‘You’re a saint, Florence.’

  Upstairs in her room, the window open, Hope looked down onto the garden and saw Stanley pulling Annelise and Bobby along in the old wooden cart she and Kit had unearthed from the outhouse. As tempting as it was to continue watching the children playing, she tore her gaze away and sat down ready to start work.

  Following Stanley’s return to Island House, her children’s book had gained a pleasing momentum, and it was now almost finished; both her agent and publisher were keen to see this new direction of her work. Stanley had no idea that he had become her muse; she hoped to surprise him with a copy of the book when it was printed.

  To everyone’s relief, there had been no reappearance of Mrs Nettles on the doorstep, and for the time being life at Island House had settled back into its previous rhythm. Maybe the ghastly woman was ashamed of the state her son had been in when he’d run away to them, although she didn’t strike Hope as the type of woman who would be easily shamed.

  She had been working for nearly an hour on a pen-and-ink drawing of Freddie and Ragsy ambling along a country lane on a bright and sunny summer’s afternoon when she heard Bobby barking down in the garden. She leaned forward to look out of the window and saw the post boy pedalling up the drive on his bicycle with the last delivery of the day. Stretching her neck and easing the tension in her shoulders from sitting in the same position for so long, she watched Stanley dart across the lawn to take the post from the boy. He gave it to Annelise, who was still sitting in the wooden cart, then lifted her out and took her by the hand, walking her beside him towards the house so that she could deliver the letters herself. He often did this with her, knowing that at even so young an age she liked to be helpful.

  A few minutes later, when Hope had resumed drawing, Annelise came into the room. ‘Letter,’ she said proudly, holding it out to Hope. At eighteen months old, she was acquiring a new word almost on a daily basis, though heaven help them all at some of those she would end up learning from Stanley! ‘Letter,’ she repeated.

  ‘For me?’ asked Hope.

  Annelise nodded and pushed it into Hope’s hands before scooting off with a giggle.

  Hope recognised her brother’s handwriting instantly. Reaching for the penknife she kept for sharpening her pencils, she carefully slit open the sides of the blue airmail envelope, then the top. She smoothed the flimsy paper flat on her desk and settled down to read what Kit had to say.

  Dear Hope,

  I still can’t believe the news about Allegra; it really doesn’t seem possible that she’s dead. I wonder if you feel the same way as I do, that it was only recently, since our father died, that I came to know – and like – Allegra. I wish we’d had more time to get to know each other properly, as adults; we spent far too much time bickering as feuding children, each of us, as I see it now, vying for our father’s attention. It’s such a shame we didn’t find a way to forgive each other a very long time ago.

  It’s funny, but being so far away has given me a fresh perspective on life, and us as a family. As I see it, you and I have always got on – and don’t be angry for me saying this, but after Dieter died, you turned away from the world, and from me, as if unable to bear anyone close to you. (Was it because you didn’t want me to see you at your worst?) I have a sense that maybe that need to isolate yourself is behind you now. I do hope so; you have so much to offer the world. Dare I mention (and I do dare, because I’m not within hitting range!) Edmund’s name at this juncture? He’s a good man who I know cares about you, and given the right sort of encouragement, he could care for you a lot more. Life can be cruelly short, Hope, as you know all too well, so don’t let the chance of happiness pass you by.

  When I think about it, I suppose Dad’s final wish for us to grow closer as a family has been achieved to a degree, thanks to Romily. The exception being an obvious one: Arthur. Do you ever hear from him? I haven’t heard a word since I’ve been here. Did he bother to attend Allegra’s funeral? Probably not.

  I don’t know why I’m asking you these questions as I shall be seeing you very soon – I now have my pilot’s licence and am coming home! If all goes to plan I’ll have a berth on the Arcadia departing from Halifax, Nova Scotia, in just over a fortnight’s time – I should make Liverpool docks on or shortly after my birthday, depending how the crossing goes, so please be sure to ask Mrs P to have a cake ready for me when I eventually get to Island House! I’ll try to put a trunk call through to you to let you know what train I’ll be on. It would be nice, petrol permitting, if somebody came to meet me at the station, as I’ll have my luggage with me.

  Could you keep news of my return from Evelyn, please, as I’d like to surprise her when I’m back? So mum’s the word, sister dear!

  I’m so looking forward to seeing you all. I expect Annelise has grown in my absence. I shouldn’t think she’ll remember me, especially as I’ve grown a moustache!

  Fondest love,

  Kit

  Hope smiled, trying to picture her baby-faced brother with a moustache. Annelise was not the only one to have grown in the last few months; it was obvious to Hope that Kit had too. Going to Canada had evidently done him good, had matured him, so it seemed, and made him insightful as well. Not so long ago such a blatant reference to Edmund would have maddened her, but now it merely made her smile. She hadn’t seen Edmund since the night of the New Year’s Eve party, but they were regularly in touch, and increasingly Hope found herself looking forward to his letters.

  But now she was looking forward to seeing Kit. She longed to hug her younger brother and say how sorry she was for treating him the way she had. Thank God she would have that opportunity, something she regretted not having with her father.

  Thanks to her many conversations with Romily, the image in her head of the man she had grown up believing at worst to be a terrifying ogre, and at best distant and uncaring, his mind always elsewhere, had altered greatly. Now she saw a complex man she had never understood, a man who had perhaps never really understood himself. More and more she wished they had made their peace before he died and they had both been able to sweep aside the bitterness they had exchanged over Dieter. One thing she would say to her father now, if it were possible, was that she forgave him, that she knew grief had blighted his life just as she had allowed it to do
her own.

  Her flow of concentration now gone, she put away her drawing things and went downstairs to share the good news of Kit’s return with Romily. Her brother’s surprise would add to the enjoyment of the evening ahead of them, when they would be going to the concert Tony Abbott was playing in.

  Downstairs, crossing the hallway, she could hear the sound of typing. Romily was in the throes of completing her latest novel and spent the afternoons cloistered away in the drawing room while Florence took care of Isabella. When it was the children’s bathtime, Romily stopped work and took over from Florence. Often she resumed work later in the evening after supper, the sound of her feverish typing continuing sometimes until nearly midnight.

  Hope knocked on the drawing room door and instantly the sound of Romily’s typewriter went quiet. ‘Whoever it is, I hope you’ve brought me tea and cake. I’m famished.’

  ‘No tea and cake,’ answered Hope, going inside, ‘but good news from Kit; he’s written to say he’s on his way home. According to the date on his letter, he should be with us any day soon – perhaps even tomorrow for his birthday.’

  ‘How wonderful. We shall have to arrange a party for him.’

  Hope smiled. ‘He’s already put in a request for Mrs Partridge to bake him a cake.’

  ‘In that case, we’d better not disappoint him, had we?’

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Tony had offered to be their chauffeur, but having saved sufficient petrol coupons, Romily had opted to drive to the concert in her MG. It was a beautiful spring evening, and with the top of the car down and their headscarves tied firmly in place, she and Hope set off in good time to meet him at the Angel Hotel for a pre-concert drink.

  ‘I still can’t believe the news about Lady Fogg,’ remarked Romily when they passed the entrance to Melstead Hall. ‘What could the stupid woman have been thinking?’

  ‘I almost feel sorry for her,’ said Hope. ‘She’ll never live this down, she’ll be the laughing stock of the village.’

  ‘I suppose we should hold on to the old edict about not throwing stones in glass houses. I know for a fact that Mrs Partridge stocked the larder up in advance of war being declared. She won’t have been the only one to do that.’

  ‘Yes, but what goes against the grain is Lady Fogg lecturing the rest of us about doing one’s bit, that it’s all hands to the pump, while all the time she was doing quite the opposite and looking out for number one. How did she think she would get away with it? That’s what baffles me, especially as she has such a poor reputation for the way she treats anyone who works for her. Did it really not cross her mind that one of them would try to get even with her?’

  ‘I think we can safely call that a classic display of arrogance born out of inbred contempt for the lower orders,’ said Romily, enjoying the sensation of freedom as she drove along the narrow lane, the sound of birdsong just discernible above the engine of her MG. ‘It’s the very thing I can’t tolerate. Jack couldn’t either. It was one of the many things that attracted me to him, his complete lack of airs and graces.’

  Hope smiled. ‘That’s one of the things that Arthur always held against him, his unconventional desire to ignore the rules by which others played the game. On one occasion Dad turned up at Arthur and Kit’s school for some play or other in a butcher’s van. He’d forgotten all about the play, and when he did remember, he leapt into his car only for it to break down some ten miles from the school. He then hitched a ride from a local tradesman. Arthur was mortified and never lived it down. Frankly I thought it showed Dad in a good light; another father might have given up altogether.’

  Romily gave her a sideways glance. ‘That’s the first time I’ve heard you recall your father with something akin to fondness.’

  A moment passed before Hope replied. ‘I think it’s only now that I’m allowing myself to remember the good times with him,’ she said. ‘I’d buried them deep the day we fell out over Dieter. After that happened, I needed to hate him, which is a terrible admission.’

  ‘But wholly understandable. I know without a shred of doubt that he would have given anything to put things right with you.’

  ‘Dieter was much more forgiving of him than I was. He always believed that my father would come round to our marriage, that he just needed time. I can hear him now telling me that the memory of fighting in the Great War had of course left an indelible mark on Dad, and that we had to be patient.’

  ‘He was right.’

  ‘I know, but like Dad, I can be a stubborn devil when I want to be. I’ve certainly been stubborn over not wanting to relinquish Dieter.’

  With a change of gear as she increased her speed, Romily said, ‘I don’t think you have to; more like you need to reach a stage of acceptance. Easier said than done, I know. It’s something I’m going to have to do myself. I have to be grateful I had that time with Jack. Better that than nothing at all.’

  ‘That’s how I’m beginning to feel, whereas before I would have regarded a shift in my emotions like that as a betrayal. I would have punished myself for daring to think that way. The funny thing is,’ Hope went on, adjusting her scarf, ‘Kit more or less said that in his letter that came today. He knows me better than I thought he did.’

  Romily took her hand off the steering wheel and patted Hope’s forearm next to her. ‘That’s often how it is: we underestimate other people’s insightfulness. Probably because we’re so blinded by the dark to which we’ve subjected ourselves.’

  ‘But you didn’t strike me as being consumed by your grief for Jack,’ Hope said after Romily braked hard and swerved to avoid a rabbit darting across the road.

  ‘I came close to it,’ she said, her foot pressing down again on the accelerator so that she had to raise her voice above the throaty roar of the engine, ‘but there wasn’t time to succumb fully to the pain, not with suddenly having a house full of guests. With hindsight, I can see it was a blessing having you all there, almost as if Jack knew it would help, knowing that unless I have a challenge to overcome, I don’t feel whole.’

  ‘I suspect that your charming wing commander might see you in a similar light: as a challenge. One has to admire his persistence.’

  Romily tutted. ‘And there you go again, Hope, busily fishing with your little net.’

  ‘At least I’m not pretending to be subtle about it.’

  ‘Well, and with equal frankness, I could ask if you are beginning to regard Edmund as more than just an old chum?’

  A small smile playing at the corners of her mouth, Hope said, ‘I might be.’

  ‘Good.’

  Tony was waiting for them at the entrance to the Angel Hotel. His hair was pushed back from his broad forehead, and he was wearing a white dress shirt and a dinner jacket, a white carnation in his lapel. Romily had to do a double-take to make sure it really was him; he appeared so very different.

  ‘If a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing properly,’ he said in response to Romily’s comment about his attire. ‘And if I may say, ladies, you both look jolly smart yourselves. Now then, what would you like to drink?’

  Their drinks ordered at the crowded bar – sherry for Hope, and whisky and soda for Romily and Tony – he indicated a table in the window, but before they could reach it, a crowd of fellow musicians similarly dressed in formal evening wear intercepted him.

  ‘No wonder you sloped off so fast,’ joked a fair-haired man with a wink at Tony. ‘You had these two beautiful ladies hidden up your sleeve. Which I call damned sly of you.’

  ‘Allow me to introduce Guy Lance,’ said Tony, ‘the worst violinist your ears are ever likely to be subjected to, but not a bad pilot, I’m pleased to say.’

  ‘You’re too kind, old chap.’ The man, who was younger than Tony, shook hands first with Hope and then with Romily, holding onto her hand for a moment longer than was necessary, at the same time letting his rakish gaze sw
eep over her – a thoroughly disagreeable gesture that did not go unnoticed by Tony, Romily noted.

  There then followed, amidst much exuberant laughter, a round of enthusiastic introductions to the rest of the musicians, culminating in a toast. ‘To an evening of fine music,’ Tony said, holding his glass aloft.

  ‘Or something close to it!’ joked Guy Lance. Seconds later, and in a skilled manoeuvre that a sheep dog would have been proud of, he somehow managed to separate Romily from the group.

  He offered her a cigarette from the packet he’d pulled from his jacket pocket. She declined and eyed him speculatively as he lit the cigarette and blew an ostentatious ribbon of smoke into the air, air that was already thick and hazy blue.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘just how the devil does Tony know you? And are you the reason I can never find him at the airfield when we have time off?’

  ‘I bumped into him in the snow earlier in the year,’ Romily replied, ‘and as to how he spends his time off, you’ll have to ask Tony about that.’

  He grinned. ‘Are you sure he didn’t bump into you on purpose? I suspect I might have done if I had chanced upon such a beautiful woman.’

  A tremor of anger stirring within her, Romily gave him a cool look. ‘Are you always this brazen?’

  ‘Lord, no, I’m on my very best behaviour and restraining myself with great effort.’

  ‘Then may I suggest you try a little harder. This brash act might work with girls your own age, but not with me, I can assure you.’

  ‘Goodness,’ he said lightly, ‘I do believe you mean it.’

  ‘I do. Now I really should talk to Tony, since I’m here as his guest.’ She turned abruptly and, quietly seething, moved over to where Tony was talking to Hope.

  ‘What an arrogant pig that man is,’ she muttered.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Tony. ‘I didn’t get a chance to warn you about old Guy. He has a certain reputation when it comes to the ladies.’