The Angel Tree

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘It sounds lovely, but—’

  ‘Greta, all I can do is offer you an alternative,’ he said, seeing the doubt and fear in her eyes. ‘And yes, it’s very different from London. There are no bright lights, there’s nothing to do in the evenings and you may be lonely. But at least you’ll be safe and warm.’

  ‘This – er – estate is where you were brought up, is it?’

  ‘Yes, although I was at boarding school from the age of eleven and, after that, university. Then the war came and I was away with my regiment, so I haven’t been back as often as I’d have liked. But Greta, you’ve never seen anything more lovely than a sunset over Marchmont. We have over five hundred acres, the house is surrounded by woodland that’s home to endless plant and bird life, and a salmon river runs right through it. It really is a very beautiful place.’

  A glimmer of hope for her hitherto devastated future began to glow in Greta’s mind.

  ‘You say your mother has said she won’t mind if I stay? Does she . . . does she know about the baby?’

  ‘Yes, she does, but don’t worry, Greta. My mother is unshockable and very broad-minded. And, to be honest, I think she’d enjoy the company. The main house on the estate was used as a convalescent home in the war and, since all the staff and patients left, she misses the activity.’

  ‘It really is very kind of you, Taffy, but I wouldn’t want to impose. I have very little money to pay rent. In fact, none at all.’

  ‘You don’t have to pay anything. You’d be there as my guest,’ he confirmed. ‘As I said, the cottage is empty and it’s yours if you want it.’

  ‘You really are very generous. If I did take you up on your offer,’ she said slowly, knowing that whatever this cottage was like, it had to be preferable to an unmarried mothers’ home, ‘how soon could I go?’

  ‘As soon as you would like to.’

  Two days later Greta went to tell Mr Van Damm that she was leaving the Windmill. When he asked her why, despite strongly suspecting that he already knew the reason, Greta merely said that her mother was unwell and she had to return home to care for her. She came out of the office apprehensive, but feeling better that she’d made a decision. Later that day she informed her landlady that she’d be vacating her room at the end of the week, and spent her last few days at the theatre trying not to worry about the future. All the girls signed a card for her and Doris hugged her goodbye, at the same time discreetly handing her an envelope containing a tiny pair of bootees.

  It took Greta no time at all to pack her few belongings into two small suitcases. She paid her landlady and said goodbye to the room that had been her home for the past six months.

  David accompanied her to Paddington Station on a foggy December morning to see her off on the long journey to Abergavenny.

  ‘Oh, Taffy, I do wish you were coming with me,’ she said, leaning out of the window as he stood on the platform.

  ‘You’ll be as safe as houses, Greta. Trust me. I wouldn’t do wrong by you, now would I?’

  ‘Your mother will be there to pick me up from the station?’ Greta asked anxiously for the third time.

  ‘Yes, she’ll be there. And one word of warning – try and remember to refer to me as David. She won’t be very impressed with my Windmill nickname, I can assure you,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘And I’ll come and visit as soon as I can, promise. Now, here’s a little something for you.’ He pressed an envelope into her hand as the guard blew his whistle. ‘Goodbye, sweetheart. Safe journey and take care of the both of you.’

  Kissing her on both cheeks, David thought Greta resembled a ten-year-old evacuee being billeted out to an unknown location.

  Greta waved until he was a tiny speck on the platform, then made her way to her carriage and sat down amongst a group of demobbed soldiers. They were smoking and talking excitedly about friends and relatives they hadn’t seen for months. The contrast between them and her was almost unbearably poignant – they were returning to their loved ones and she was on a journey into the unknown. She opened the envelope David had put into her hand. It contained some money and a note telling her it was for emergencies.

  As she watched London’s familiar buildings give way to undulating fields, Greta’s fear began to grow. She comforted herself with the thought that if David’s mother turned out to be a madwoman and the cottage no more than a chicken shed, she now had enough money to return to London and rethink her plans. As the train travelled west, stopping at numerous stations, the soldiers gradually disembarked to be greeted on the platforms by joyful parents, wives and girlfriends. There were only a handful of passengers left by the time she’d changed trains at Newport, then, eventually, Greta was alone in the carriage. She began to relax slightly as she stared out of the window at the unfamiliar Welsh landscape. As the sun began to set, she became aware of a subtle change in the scenery; it was wilder and more dramatic than anything she’d seen before in England. Snow-capped mountains appeared on the darkening horizon as the train chugged nearer to Abergavenny.

  It was past five o’clock and already pitch black when the train finally drew in to her destination. Greta pulled her suitcases from the rack above her head, straightened her hat and stepped out onto the platform. A chill wind was blowing and she pulled her coat closer to shield her body. She walked uncertainly towards the exit, glancing around for anyone who might be expecting her. She sat on a bench outside the tiny station as her fellow passengers greeted those there to meet them and subsequently departed into the night.

  Ten minutes later, the narrow forecourt was almost deserted. After shivering on the bench for a few more minutes, Greta stood up and walked back into the relative warmth of the station itself. The clerk was still working behind the window, and she tapped on it.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  ‘Yes, fach?’

  ‘Can you tell me what time the next connecting train to London leaves?’

  The clerk shook his head. ‘No more trains tonight. The next one’s tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Oh.’ Greta bit her lip, feeling tears pricking the back of her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, miss. Have you anywhere to stay tonight?’

  ‘Well, someone’s meant to be meeting me to take me to a place called Marchmont.’

  The clerk rubbed his brow. ‘Look you, that’s a good few miles from here. Not walking distance. And Tom the Taxi is over in Monmouth tonight with his missus.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Don’t panic yet, see. I’ll be here for another half-hour or so,’ the clerk said kindly.

  Greta nodded and retraced her steps to the bench. ‘Oh goodness,’ she sighed and breathed on her hands, trying to stop them going numb. Then she heard the sound of a car approaching. A loud horn assaulted her ears and bright lights dazzled her eyes. Once the noisy engine of the vehicle in front of her had died into silence, a female voice called out, ‘Damn! Damn! Hello there! Are you Greta Simpson?’

  Greta tried to make out the figure sitting in the driving seat of the open-topped car. The driver’s eyes were shielded behind huge leather goggles.

  ‘Yes. Are you Taff— David Marchmont’s mother?’

  ‘I am. Jump in then, quick smart. Sorry I’m late. The blasted car got a puncture and I had to change the tyre in the dark.’

  ‘Er, right.’ Greta stood, picked up her suitcases and hauled them across to the car.

  ‘Throw those in the back, dear, put these on and grab that travel rug. It can be a bit breezy if the old girl gets above twenty miles per hour.’

  Greta took the proffered goggles and blanket. After a few false starts the engine burst into life and the driver reversed rapidly out of the station forecourt, narrowly missing a lamp post.

  ‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ Greta ventured as the car hit the open road and sped down it at frightening speed.

  ‘Don’t talk, dear girl. Can’t hear a word above this racket!’ shouted the driver.

  Greta spent the following half-hour with her eyes tightly
shut and her hands balled into fists, the knuckles white with tension. At last the car slowed, then it stopped abruptly, almost throwing Greta over the small windscreen and onto the bonnet.

  ‘Do be a darling and open those gates, will you?’

  Greta stepped shakily out of the car. She walked in front of the headlights and pushed open two enormous wrought-iron gates. On the wall to one side of them there was an ornate bronze plaque with the word ‘MARCHMONT’ engraved upon it. The car drove through and Greta shut the gates behind them.

  ‘Buck up, dear. Nearly there now,’ the driver shouted over the roar of the engine.

  Greta scurried back into the car and they set off along the rutted drive.

  ‘Here we go. This is Lark Cottage.’ The car shuddered to a halt and the driver leapt out, grabbing Greta’s cases from the back seat. ‘Home sweet home.’

  As Greta stepped down, she watched the woman making her way through a glade of moonlit trees. Following nervously behind her, she sighed in relief as a small cottage came into view. Oil lamps illuminated the interior, giving out a soft yellow glow. The woman opened the front door and they went in.

  ‘So.’ The woman peeled off her goggles and turned to face Greta. ‘This is it. Will it suffice, do you think?’

  It was the first opportunity Greta had had to study her companion, and she was immediately struck by the woman’s resemblance to her son. She was very tall and long-limbed, with piercing green eyes and a shock of windswept greying hair cut in a short, sensible style. Her outfit of corduroy breeches, knee-length leather boots and a tailored tweed jacket was both mannish and strangely elegant. Greta glanced around the cosy interior of the cottage, looking gratefully at the fire, with its burning embers.

  ‘Yes. It’s lovely.’

  ‘Good. Bit basic, I’m afraid. No electricity in here yet. We were just about to install it when war broke out. The privy’s outside and there’s a tin bath in the kitchen for high days and holidays, but it takes so damn long to fill it’s easier to use the sink.’

  The woman strode towards the fire, picked up a poker, stirred the embers and threw on three logs from the basket beside the fireplace. ‘There. I lit it before I came to fetch you. The oil for the lamps is in a canister in the privy, the logs are in the shed out back, and I’ve put some milk, fresh bread and cheese in the pantry for your supper. I’m sure you’re parched. Put the kettle on the range and it’ll boil in no time. And don’t forget to stoke it with wood every morning. It’s a hungry beast, if I remember rightly. Now, got to be off, I’m afraid. We’ve lost a ewe, you see. Gone over a gulley, we suspect. David said you’re a pretty self-sufficient kind of gel, but I’ll drop in on you tomorrow when you’ve got your bearings. I’m Laura-Jane Marchmont, by the way’ – she thrust out her hand to Greta – ‘but everyone calls me LJ. You should too. Goodnight.’

  The door slammed and she was gone.

  Greta shook her head in confusion, sighed and then sank into the threadbare but comfortable armchair in front of the fire. She was hungry and desperate for a cup of tea, but first she needed to sit down for a few minutes and recover from the ordeal of her day.

  She stared into the fire, pondering on the woman who had just left. Whatever she had expected Taffy’s mother to be, it was not Laura-Jane Marchmont. In truth, she’d imagined an unsophisticated country widow with plump, ruddy cheeks and child-bearing hips. She glanced round her new home and began to take full note of her surroundings. The sitting room was snug, with a charming beamed ceiling and a large inglenook fireplace taking up an entire wall. The furnishings were minimal: just the armchair, an occasional table and a crooked shelf stacked untidily with books. She pushed open a latched door and walked down two stone steps into the small kitchen. There was a sink, a Welsh dresser filled with mismatched crockery, a scrubbed pine table with two chairs and a pantry, in which she discovered a loaf of fresh bread, a slab of cheese, butter, some tins of soup and half a dozen apples. She opened the back door and found the icebox masquerading as a lavatory to her left.

  A creaking staircase led off from the kitchen to a door at the top, beyond which was the bedroom. The low-ceilinged room was almost entirely taken up by a sturdy wrought-iron bed covered in a cheerful patchwork quilt. An oil lamp cast a warming, shadowy glow. Greta looked longingly at the bed but knew that, for the baby’s sake as much as her own, she needed to eat before she slept.

  After a supper of bread, soup and cheese in front of the fire, she yawned. She washed as best she could in the kitchen sink, realising she’d have to boil the kettle in future if she wanted warm water. Then, shivering, she picked up her suitcases and finally made her way up the staircase.

  Pulling her nightdress over her head, and adding a jumper on top of that, she pulled back the quilt and sank gratefully into the comfortable bed. She closed her eyes and waited for sleep to wash over her. The silence, after her noisy London room, was deafening. Eventually, exhaustion overtook her and she fell into a dreamless slumber.

  5

  Greta woke the following morning to the sound of two pigeons cooing outside her bedroom window. Feeling disoriented, she reached for her watch and saw that it was past ten o’clock. She rose from the bed, drew the curtains back and peered out of the window.

  The sky was a soft blue and the frost of the night before had been melted away by the weak winter sun, leaving a heavy dew. Below her, there was a gently sloping valley, its sides planted with a dense wood, the huge trees now bare of leaves. The sound of rushing water told her a stream must be close by. Across from the river that bisected the floor of the valley she could see undulating fields sloping upwards, populated with small white dots which must be sheep. And away to her left, presiding over the valley, stood a low red-brick house surrounded by sweeping lawns and tiers of stone terraces. Its many mullioned windows glinted in the sun and she could see smoke coming from two of the four majestic chimneys. She assumed this must be Marchmont Hall. To the right of the house there were barns and other outbuildings.

  The sight of the peaceful, natural landscape surrounding Greta filled her with unexpected pleasure. She dressed quickly, eager to go outside and explore. As she was walking down the narrow staircase, there was a knock on the front door and she hurried to open it.

  ‘Morning. Just came to check that you’re settling in all right.’

  ‘Hello, LJ,’ said Greta self-consciously. ‘I’m fine, thank you. I’ve only just woken up.’

  ‘Good grief! I’ve been up since five nursing that blessed ewe. She had fallen over the gulley, and it took the men hours to coax her up. Looks as if she’ll make it, though. Now, we need to have a chinwag about logistics whilst you’re staying here, so why don’t you come over to me tonight for a spot of supper?’ suggested LJ.

  ‘That would be lovely, but I don’t want to put you to any bother.’

  ‘No bother at all. To be honest, it’ll be nice to have a bit of female company.’

  ‘Do you live in that big house over there?’ enquired Greta.

  ‘Used to, dear girl, used to. But nowadays I live in the Gate Lodge by the main gate. Does me fine. Just turn right out of here and follow the path. A brisk walk of five minutes should do it. There’s a hurricane lamp in the pantry. You’ll need it. Pitch bloody black around here, as you saw last night. Now, I must be off. See you at seven.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll look forward to it. Thank you.’

  LJ smiled at Greta, then turned round and waved as she marched briskly down the path.

  Greta spent the day settling into her new home. She unpacked her cases then went for a walk, following the sound of running water. After a while she found the stream and knelt to take a drink of the clear, sparkling water. The air was bracing and bitterly cold, but the sun was shining and the leaves that had fallen from the many trees formed a natural carpet for her to walk on. She arrived home weary, but with a hint of pink in each of her normally pale cheeks. She changed into her best skirt and jacket, looking forward to supper with LJ.

>   At five to seven Greta knocked on the door of the Gate Lodge. By the dim light of the moon, she could see it was a modest but handsome red-brick building whose gable-fronted architecture echoed that of Marchmont Hall itself. The small front garden looked immaculate.

  LJ opened the door a few seconds later. ‘Bang on time, I see. I like that. I’m a stickler for punctuality. Come in, my dear.’ She took the hurricane lamp Greta was carrying and extinguished it before helping her off with her coat.

  Greta then followed LJ through the hall and into a formal but reassuringly cluttered sitting room.

  ‘Sit down, dear girl. Drink?’

  ‘Yes, please. Anything soft, thank you.’

  ‘I’ll mix you a small gin. Do you and the baby no harm at all. Drank like a fish myself when I was carrying David, and look at the size of him! Won’t be a second.’

  LJ left the room and Greta sat down on a chair by the fire. She glanced around the room and took in the mahogany dresser filled with expensive-looking china and the framed pictures depicting lurid hunting scenes. It was obvious that the furniture in the room was valuable, but had seen better days.

  ‘There we go.’ LJ handed a large glass to Greta and sat down in the armchair opposite her. ‘Welcome to Marchmont, my dear. I hope that for the time you’re with us, you’ll be very happy.’ LJ took a large gulp of her gin as Greta tentatively sipped her own.

  ‘Thank you. It’s so kind of you to have me here. I don’t know what I’d have done if it hadn’t been for your son,’ she murmured shyly.

  ‘He always was a soft touch for a damsel in distress.’

  ‘Taffy’s doing awfully well at the Windmill, too,’ Greta said. ‘Mr Van Damm has just given him a regular slot. His routine is very funny. All us girls fall about when we listen to it.’

  ‘Yes, well, could I ask one favour? While you’re here, please could you try to remember to call my son by his proper Christian name? I’m afraid it offends my sensibilities to hear his extremely unimaginative nickname. Especially as he’s only half Welsh in the first place.’