‘Of course, I apologise, LJ. So his father is Welsh, I suppose?’
‘Yes, as you might have guessed, I’m as English as you. Such a shame that David barely knew his father. Robin, my husband, died in a riding accident when David was twelve, you see.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ murmured Greta.
‘So was I, my dear, but the one thing you learn, living on an estate such as this is that death is as much a part of life as life itself.’
Greta took another small sip of her gin. ‘You said this morning you used to live in the big house?’
‘We did. David was born there. When the house was taken over as a nursing home during the war I moved out to the Gate Lodge. I decided it suited me much better and never moved back, especially since—’ LJ stopped suddenly. ‘My husband’s elder brother lives there now.’
‘I see. It looks like a beautiful place,’ ventured Greta, sensing LJ’s tension.
‘I suppose so. Huge though, and the maintenance bills are a nightmare. Cost a fortune to have electricity put in. Mind you, with ten large bedrooms, it served well as a nursing home. It held twenty officers and a team of eight nurses at one time. Rather came into its own, I think.’
‘So, do you help run the Marchmont estate?’ asked Greta.
‘No, not any more. After my husband died, yes, I did. I looked after the upkeep of the place, which I can tell you is a full-time job. Owen, Robin’s brother, was in Kenya but returned home when war broke out and naturally he took over the running of things. The farm produced milk and meat for the Ministry of Agriculture and it meant that we here were self-sufficient. Rationing hardly touched us. It was all hands to the pump then, I can tell you. I worked on the farm from dawn until dusk. Then, when the house was requisitioned as a nursing home, I worked alongside the medical staff. I know I should be relieved the war is over, but I rather enjoyed all the activity. Feels a bit like I’ve been put out to pasture now,’ she said with a sigh.
‘But you still help on the farm?’
‘For the present, yes. Some of the young men from around here are yet to return, so the farm manager’s always short-handed. I’m roped in to help milk the cows or hunt for lost sheep when necessary. It’s quite a big operation, you know. Nowadays, one has to make one’s land pay its way. The milk and meat we produce earn sufficient income to keep the estate going. Now, that’s enough about me. Tell me about you.’
‘There’s nothing much to tell, really. I used to work with Taff— David, at the theatre and we became friends.’
‘You were one of the Windmill Girls, then?’
Greta blushed and nodded. ‘Yes, but only for a few months.’
‘No need to be embarrassed, dear girl. Women have to earn their living somehow and, until the world wakes up and sees the inner steel of us females, one has to get by any way one can. Take me, for example. The very model of an upper-class Englishwoman. Even had an “honourable” before my name. Being a girl, I had to stay at home and learn cross-stitch while my brothers – who in my opinion did not have a decent brain between them – were educated at Eton and Oxford. One’s a drunk and managed to squander the family pile in a matter of years, and the other got himself shot whilst hunting in Africa.’
‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t be. He deserved it,’ LJ said brusquely. ‘I’ve spent the past thirty years at Marchmont working in some capacity or another and it’s been the happiest time of my life. Anyway, we seem to have got back to me again. My fault. I digress all the time. One of my bad habits, I’m afraid. We were talking about you. I don’t wish to seem rude, but just what is your relationship with David?’ LJ’s aquiline nose almost quivered with inquisitiveness.
‘We’re good friends. That’s all, really.’
‘Would it be impertinent to suggest that I have the feeling that David is more than a little keen on you? After all, it’s not as if he lends the cottage to every stray girl he meets.’
‘As I said, we’re just good friends.’ Greta felt herself blushing. ‘David helped me because I had no one else.’
‘What about your family?’
‘I . . . they died in the Blitz.’ It was a lie, but LJ wasn’t to know.
‘I see. Poor you. And the baby?’
‘The father was an American officer. I thought he loved me and—’
LJ nodded. ‘Well, it’s happened through the centuries and will continue for time eternal, I’m sure. And there are lots less lucky than you, my dear. At least you have a roof over your head, thanks to my son.’
‘And I’ll always be grateful,’ said Greta, feeling suddenly tearful and overwhelmed.
‘Now, you don’t mind if we eat off trays in here, do you?’ LJ said, changing the subject. ‘The dining room’s so damned cold and gloomy. Only to be used for funeral wakes, in my book.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Good. I’ll go and fetch our supper, then.’
LJ was back shortly, carrying two plates piled high with a hearty beef stew and buttery mashed potatoes.
‘This tastes wonderful,’ Greta said, tucking in hungrily. ‘What we ate at home during the war was pretty awful.’
‘I heard those powdered eggs were something of an acquired taste.’ LJ raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, you won’t want for fresh produce around here. We have sheep galore, poultry, game birds and home-grown vegetables to boot. Plus the dairy, of course.’
‘Goodness me! I was starving,’ Greta said a few minutes later as she put her knife and fork together on the empty plate.
‘A combination of fresh air and pregnancy. Now, come and help me wash up. I do so hate coming down to dirty dishes in the morning.’
Greta picked up her tray and followed LJ into the kitchen.
‘Talking of food, I’ll bring eggs, milk, vegetables and meat for you weekly. If you want anything else, you can catch the bus into Crickhowell, the nearest village. Not that they stock hampers from Fortnum’s, but there’s a nice wool shop. Maybe you could knit some things for the baby – and for yourself, for that matter. You’ll need some warmer clothing, winter can be bitter here.’ LJ glanced at Greta’s thin jacket and skirt.
‘I don’t know how to knit, LJ.’
‘Well, then, we’ll have to teach you, won’t we? During the war I must have knitted about a hundred jumpers for our boys. It’s amazing the things you learn when you have to. And David has a stack of books that should keep you occupied. I’ve just finished Animal Farm by that chap George Orwell. Wonderful book. I’ll lend it to you if you like.’
Greta nodded eagerly. She’d always been an avid reader.
They went back into the sitting room, drank cocoa and listened to the nine o’clock news on the wireless.
‘Lifeline for us here, that ugly box of wire mesh,’ said LJ. ‘I’ve become quite addicted to Tommy Handley in ITMA, and David idolises him.’
‘May I ask why David left Marchmont to work in London?’ asked Greta. ‘If I’d been born here, I certainly wouldn’t have left.’
LJ sighed. ‘Well, for starters, David really left Marchmont a long time ago. He boarded at Winchester and was in his final year at Oxford when the war broke out. Although he didn’t need to, he enlisted straight away and was injured a few months later at Dunkirk. Once he recovered, he was sent to Bletchley Park and, from all accounts, was working on some pretty top-secret stuff down there. Clever boy, David. Has an excellent academic record. Seems such a shame he didn’t have a chance to finish his degree, or decide to pursue a career in which he can use his brains.’
‘Well, I’ve seen David perform. The way he reels off his patter is wonderful. I think you have to be very clever to be a good comedian,’ said Greta defensively.
‘Yes, well, not quite what one would have chosen for one’s only son, but he’s dreamt about the bright lights since he was a small boy. Lord knows where he gets it from. There aren’t many performers in his father’s family or mine,’ sniffed LJ. ‘I did wonder whether his stint in the ar
my might change his mind, but no. Eight months ago he was relieved of his duties. He came home and told me he was off to London to try his luck on the stage.’
‘Well, if it’s any comfort, he’s doing extremely well. Everyone at the Windmill thinks he’ll go far.’
‘It is indeed a comfort. When you have your little one in a few months’ time you’ll understand the agony of being a parent. Even if I had other plans for David when he was younger, I’m just grateful he lived through the war to pursue his dreams. My main concern now is that he’s happy.’ LJ yawned suddenly. ‘Excuse me. After last night’s debacle with the ewe, I’m exhausted. I’m sorry to throw you out, but I have to be up early to milk the cows. Will you be all right to make your own way home?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ promised Greta.
‘Good. I’ll pop in to see you whenever I can and, if you need anything, I’m always around somewhere.’
LJ walked into the hall and retrieved Greta’s coat from the banister. She stooped down and picked up a pair of wellington boots.
‘Here, take these. They’ll probably be far too big for you, but those town shoes you’re wearing won’t last you more than a few days here.’
Greta put on her coat and took the wellingtons. ‘Thank you so much for supper. It really is good of you to look after me like this.’
‘I’ve always been a sucker for my darling David.’ LJ’s face softened as she relit Greta’s hurricane lamp and handed it to her. ‘You’ll understand what I mean soon enough.’ She indicated Greta’s stomach. ‘Goodnight, Greta.’
‘Goodnight.’
LJ stood at the door and watched the girl make her way carefully down the path. She shut the door, deep in thought, and went to sit in her favourite armchair by the fire, trying to work out why she was filled with unease.
When David had telephoned her and told her he wanted Greta to come and stay in his cottage, LJ had heard the warmth in his voice when he spoke about her. Maybe he was hoping that Greta’s gratitude would spill over into something more, that she would one day reciprocate his feelings. Greta seemed a nice enough sort of girl, but LJ could see that she wasn’t in love with her son.
As she climbed the stairs to bed LJ prayed that her precious David wouldn’t regret his kind-hearted action.
She had a strong feeling that the arrival of Greta at Marchmont was going to have an effect on David’s destiny. And, for some reason she could not fathom, on her own, too.
6
After a week of living at Marchmont and with Christmas approaching, Greta knew that in the months to come, boredom would be her greatest enemy. Introspection had never been something that appealed to her; in truth, it frightened her. The thought of having hour after hour to contemplate her life and the mess she had made of it was not one she relished. But here, with nothing to do but read books – several of which were classics by Charles Dickens and Thomas Hardy, whose tales of tragedy only served to mirror her own misery – Greta found herself watching the clock and willing the time to pass.
She spent hours thinking about Max, where he was, what he was doing. She even contemplated getting in touch with Whitehall and trying to trace him, but there seemed little point. Max wouldn’t want her now.
She missed him. Not the presents, nor the life she could have had, but the man himself. His soft Southern drawl, his laughter, the gentleness of his touch as he’d made love to her . . .
In the afternoons she’d taken to going for a long walk, just to get out of the cottage. She would walk past the Gate Lodge, praying that its occupant might see her from the window and come out to have a chat. LJ had popped in a few days ago with food supplies, a pair of knitting needles and some wool. She had sat patiently with Greta for an hour, teaching her the basics, but Greta hadn’t seen her since and would set off alone into the woods.
Then, yesterday, LJ had arrived with a hamper filled with Christmas treats.
‘I’m off to my sister’s house in Gloucestershire in an hour or so. I’ll be back bright and early on Boxing Day,’ she’d imparted in her usual brusque manner. ‘This lot should keep you going, and I’ve asked Mervyn, the farmhand, to drop off some fresh bread and milk whilst I’m away. Merry Christmas, dear girl. Snow is forecast for tomorrow, so make sure you keep your fire stoked.’
As Greta watched LJ leave, her sense of isolation had deepened. And as the snow LJ had predicted began to tumble from the sky on Christmas Eve, even the pleasure of a home-made mince pie and a small glass of sweet sherry from the hamper hadn’t cheered her spirits.
‘We’re completely alone, little one,’ she’d whispered to her stomach as the nearby chapel bells chimed midnight. ‘Merry Christmas.’
On Christmas Day Greta drew back the curtains to see a fairy-tale picture in front of her.
The snowfall overnight had transformed the landscape. Every branch of every tree was covered with the pure white powder, as though someone had sprinkled them with icing sugar. The floor of the woods, with the occasional dark twig piercing the snow’s perfect surface, resembled a carpet of ermine. A thick frost added twinkling highlights to the idyllic scene as the morning sun rose higher over the frozen valley.
Walking downstairs, Greta pondered that on any other Christmas Day, she’d have been delighted that snow had fallen, but as she relit the fire and put the kettle on the range to boil, she thought she’d never felt so miserable.
Later, as she cooked and ate the chicken LJ had left her, then demolished the rest of the mince pies – her appetite seemed to be insatiable these days – she reflected on past Christmases and how very different they had been.
Not wishing to look back, but with nothing to distract her and unable to prevent the memories flooding in, she put on her coat, hat and wellington boots and set off for her afternoon walk.
Opening the back door, Greta stepped out, the snow crunching underfoot as she did so, her breath crystallising into thin wisps of white in the freezing air. Roaming through the woods, her mood lifted briefly as she drank in the magical surroundings, stopping here and there to examine the glistening, frosty patterns that had formed on tree trunks and fallen branches. Yet it wasn’t long before her mind began to wander once again.
Perhaps, she thought, the reason she felt so low was that it had been a year ago today when the problem that had precipitated her abrupt move to London had first arisen.
She’d had a happy childhood, living in a respectable suburb of Manchester, the only child of adoring parents. Then, one dreadful day when she was thirteen and the German air raids had begun in earnest, her father had gone out in his black Ford car and never returned. Her sobbing, hysterical mother told her the following day that he had died in a bombing raid at the Manchester Royal Exchange. A week later Greta had watched what was left of her beloved father being lowered into the ground.
In the two years that followed, in an atmosphere of tension as the war raged on, her mother went into a deep depression – sometimes taking to her bed for weeks on end – while Greta concentrated grimly on her schoolwork and buried her nose in books. The one other thing she derived comfort from was the cinema, which her mother had taken her to regularly. The world of fantasy, in which everyone was beautiful and almost all the stories had happy endings, had provided a blessed relief from reality. Greta had decided that when she was grown up she was going to be an actress.
When she was fifteen, her situation changed. Her mother arrived home one night in a big car with an overweight, grey-haired man and told Greta that he was to be her new father. Three months later they had moved to her stepfather’s enormous house in Altrincham, one of the most desirable towns in Cheshire. Her mother, relieved to have found another man to take care of her, became her old self and their home was once again filled with guests and the sound of laughter. And, for a while, Greta was happy.
Her new stepfather, a brusque but wealthy Mancunian industrialist, was a distant figure whom initially Greta rarely saw. But as she matured into a young woman, his attention had begun
to wander from his wife to her young, and prettier, daughter. It became a habit of his that, every time they were alone together in the house, he would seek her out. Things had come to a head on Christmas Day last year, when, during a party at the house, while her mother was downstairs entertaining guests, he had followed her upstairs . . .
Greta shuddered at the memory of his stinking breath, the heavy weight of his bulk pinning her against a wall as his hands had groped for her breasts and his wet lips had sought hers.
Luckily, on that occasion, the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs had prevented him going any further, and Greta had run to her room in a state of terrified shock, praying the incident had merely been a drink-fuelled one-off.
Sadly, this hadn’t been the case, and Greta spent the following few months doing all she could to avoid her stepfather’s advances. One hot June night he had burst into her bedroom as she was removing her stockings ready for bed. Grabbing her from behind, he’d thrown her onto the mattress with a hand over her mouth to prevent her screams. Somehow she’d been able to manoeuvre her knee upwards and, as he shifted his weight off her to open his trouser buttons, she’d managed to butt her knee hard into his groin.
With a howl, he’d rolled off the bed, then staggered to the door, screaming obscenities at her.
Knowing she now had no alternative, Greta had packed her suitcase, then, when the house was silent, stolen downstairs after midnight. She remembered that once, her stepfather had invited her into his study and insisted she sat on his knee. Revolted, but not wanting to incur his anger, she’d done so. He’d opened a drawer, taken out a key, unlocked his safe and shown her a diamond necklace he said would be hers if she was a good girl. Greta had noticed that the safe was stacked with cash. So that fateful night, walking swiftly to the drawer and taking the key from its hiding place, she’d unlocked the safe and grabbed a large wad of notes.
The Angel Tree Page 6