The Angel Tree

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘Whatever you want,’ Owen had murmured. ‘He’s gone. Where he lies in death makes no difference to me.’

  Greta had been undecided whether to take Cheska with them to the burial. She didn’t understand where her brother had gone. ‘Where’s Jonny?’ she would ask, her huge blue eyes filling with tears. ‘Will he come back soon?’

  Greta would shake her head for the hundredth time and explain that Jonny had gone to heaven and was now an angel, looking down at them from a big, puffy cloud.

  Finally, having decided it was better that Cheska didn’t see her beloved Jonny being put beneath the earth, a few days after the funeral Greta took her daughter into the woods and showed her the spot. She’d planted a small fir tree to mark Jonny’s grave until the stone was erected.

  ‘This is a special tree,’ she explained to Cheska. ‘Jonny loved the woods and this is where he comes with his angel friends to play.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Cheska, walking slowly towards it and touching one of its delicate branches. ‘Jonny’s here?’

  ‘Yes, darling. People we love never leave us.’

  ‘The Angel Tree,’ Cheska murmured suddenly. ‘He’s here, Mummy, he’s here. Can you see him in the branches?’

  And, for the first time in two weeks, Greta saw Cheska smile.

  Devastated as Greta was, she knew she had to maintain some semblance of normality for her daughter. But Owen had begun to drink regularly, and heavily. She could smell the alcohol on his breath at breakfast time and, by suppertime, he could hardly sit upright. After the initial devastation, he’d become morose and withdrawn and it was impossible to hold any sort of rational conversation with him. Greta began to take her evening meals up in her room, hoping that with time, as the sorrow lessened, he would pull himself together. But, as the months ground past and autumn arrived, it became clear to her that her husband’s condition was deteriorating.

  One morning she heard a shout from along the corridor and ran to find Mary outside Owen’s bedroom nursing a swollen cheek.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked in alarm.

  ‘The master threw a book at me. He complained his egg wasn’t done to his satisfaction. It was, Greta. Indeed to goodness, it was.’

  ‘Go and bathe that cheek, Mary. I’ll see to my husband.’ Greta knocked on the door, then entered Owen’s room.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked aggressively. He was sitting in a chair with Morgan at his feet. His breakfast tray was untouched and he was pouring himself a glass of whisky from an almost empty bottle.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit early for that?’ Greta indicated the glass and noticed how thin he looked in his pyjamas.

  ‘Just mind your own damned business, will you? Can’t a man have a drink in his own house if he feels like it?’

  ‘Mary’s very upset. She’s going to have a nasty bruise on her cheek where the book you threw hit her.’

  Owen looked off into the distance, ignoring her.

  ‘Don’t you think we should talk, Owen? You’re not well.’

  ‘Of course I’m well!’ he bellowed, draining his glass and reaching for the bottle.

  ‘I think you’ve had enough for today, Owen,’ she said quietly, walking towards him.

  ‘Oh, do you indeed? And what gives you the right to pass judgement on my life?’

  ‘Nothing, I . . . I just don’t like to see you like this, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, it’s your fault, anyway.’ Owen sank back into his chair. ‘If I hadn’t married you and taken on your two bastards, then I wouldn’t need to drink, would I?’

  ‘Owen, please!’ Greta was horrified. ‘Don’t call Jonny a bastard! You loved him.’

  ‘Did I?’ He leant forward and grabbed Greta’s wrists. ‘And why should I love some illegitimate Yankee brat, eh?’ He began to shake Greta, slowly at first, then harder. Morgan started to growl.

  ‘Stop it! You’re hurting me. Stop it!’

  ‘Why should I?’ Owen roared. He let go of one of Greta’s wrists and slapped her hard across the face. ‘You’re just a silly little whore, aren’t you? Aren’t you?’

  ‘Stop it!’ Greta managed to free herself and made for the safety of the door, tears of shock pouring down her face.

  Owen looked across at her, his eyes dimmed by alcohol. Then he began to laugh. It was a harsh, cruel sound that sent her running from the room and into her own bedroom. She collapsed onto the bed and put her head in her hands in despair.

  Owen’s behaviour got steadily worse. His moments of lucidity became rare. Greta’s presence seemed to ignite a flame of rage inside him, and the only person he would allow near him was Mary.

  After several minor physical attacks, Greta called Dr Evans, fearing that the situation was getting out of control. Dr Evans was sent running out of Owen’s bedroom by a hail of books, glasses and anything else her husband could lay his hands on.

  ‘He needs help, Mrs Marchmont,’ Dr Evans said as Greta offered him a cup of coffee. ‘Jonny’s death has sent him into a depression and he’s trying to find solace in drink. He nearly died in the First World War, you know, had a bad case of shell shock when he returned to England, before he left for Kenya. I wonder whether his bereavement has touched on old wounds.’

  ‘But what can I do?’ Greta rubbed her forehead in agitation. ‘He attacks me every time he sees me, and I’m starting to fear for Cheska’s safety. He’s not eating, just downing bottle after bottle of whisky.’

  ‘Is there anywhere you could go and stay for a while? Any relatives? If you left, maybe it would shock him into pulling himself together.’

  ‘No. I have nowhere to go. And anyway, I could hardly leave him like this, could I?’

  ‘Mary seems to cope admirably. She appears to be the one person who can handle him. Of course, what we really need to do is to send him somewhere that could help him, but—’

  ‘Not in a million years would he leave Marchmont.’

  ‘Well then, the last resort would be to have him committed to an appropriate institution, but we’d have to go to court and have the judge agree. And in my opinion, he’s not mad, just a depressed drunkard. I wish there were more I could do. I’m concerned for the safety of both you and your daughter. Do try and think if there’s anywhere you could go, and don’t hesitate to call me if you need help or advice.’

  ‘I will, Dr Evans, thank you.’

  Night after night, as Greta heard the sounds of loud snoring emanating from Owen’s room, she’d swear to herself that, come the morning, she’d pack a suitcase and leave with Cheska. But when dawn broke reality would hit her. Where could she possibly go? She had nothing: no money or home of her own. All she had was here with Owen.

  Eventually, it wasn’t Owen’s physical and mental abuse that made up Greta’s mind for her.

  One afternoon, when she put her head round the door of the nursery to check whether Cheska was still napping, she saw that her small bed was empty.

  ‘Cheska! Cheska!’ she called. There was no reply. She ran down the corridor and was about to knock on Owen’s bedroom door when she heard chuckling from within. As silently as she could, Greta turned the door handle.

  What she saw when she peered through the crack in the door made her shudder with horror. Owen was sitting in his chair, with Cheska perched happily on his knee as he read her a story.

  It was a scene of perfect contentment.

  Except for the fact that Cheska was dressed from head to toe in her dead brother’s clothes.

  11

  Greta arrived back in London with Cheska on a cold, foggy October evening, realising it was almost four years since she had left. She had with her one suitcase, which contained some clothes for her and her daughter and fifty pounds in cash – the money David had given her when she’d left London, plus twenty pounds she’d taken from Owen’s wallet.

  After finding Cheska in Jonny’s clothes, she’d finally known she had no choice but to leave. Days of agonising followed, and Greta had confided in Mary,
feeling guilty for leaving her alone with Owen but knowing she had little choice.

  ‘You must go, Miss Greta, for Cheska’s sake, if not yours. I’ll handle the master. If he throws things at me, I’ll just duck!’ Mary had smiled bravely. ‘And Dr Evans is only a telephone call away, isn’t he now?’

  Owen had been in his bedroom, as usual, starting on his daily path towards drunken oblivion. Greta had knocked on his door and told him she was taking Cheska into Abergavenny to do some shopping and might be gone all day. He’d gazed at her out of bleary eyes; she doubted he’d even heard what she’d said. Huw, Mary’s young man, had agreed to drive them to Abergavenny Station. Greta had thanked him profusely, purchased two rail tickets to London and boarded the waiting train.

  As it sped away from Wales and her shambles of a marriage, Greta stared numbly out of the window. Although she had no idea where she and her daughter were going to sleep that night, anything seemed better than living in constant fear of her increasingly unstable husband. She couldn’t allow herself to look back, despite her devastating loss. Cheska lolled against her, a rag doll clutched under one arm. Greta closed her arms protectively around her remaining child. And even though she knew she was returning to London with little more than she’d left with, Greta felt surprisingly strong and strangely unafraid.

  When the train finally pulled into Paddington, she stepped onto the platform, struggling to carry a sleepy and confused Cheska and their suitcase. She walked to the taxi rank and asked the driver to take her to the Basil Street Hotel in Knightsbridge. She’d been there once with Max and knew it was respectable, if expensive.

  Used to the silent tranquillity of Marchmont, the noise of the busy London streets thundered in Greta’s ears as she paid the taxi driver and walked into the hotel lobby. But at least the quaint atmosphere of the hotel comforted her. They were shown up to their twin-bedded room, and she immediately ordered two rounds of sandwiches and a pot of tea from the porter.

  ‘Here we are, darling.’ Greta sat Cheska up at a small table. ‘Cheese and tomato. Your favourite.’

  ‘Don’t want, don’t want!’ Cheska shook her head and started to cry.

  Greta quickly gave up trying to persuade the little girl to eat. Instead, she unpacked the suitcase and put her into her nightgown.

  ‘There you go, sweetheart. Isn’t this a treat? Staying at a hotel in London and sharing a room with Mummy?’

  She shook her head. ‘Cheska wants to go home,’ she whined.

  ‘Well, why don’t you pop into bed and Mummy will read to you?’

  This seemed to cheer her up and Greta read a story from Grimms’ Fairy Tales, her daughter’s – and hitherto, she reflected miserably, her son’s – favourite book, until Cheska’s eyelids drooped, then finally closed. She sat on the bed studying her daughter for a long time. The high cheekbones, retroussé nose and rosebud lips were framed in a heart-shaped face. The natural curl in Cheska’s soft golden hair made night-time rags unnecessary; it hung in perfect ringlets to her shoulders. Long, dark lashes rested against the perfect, unmarked skin under her eyes. Lying asleep, she looked like an angel.

  A powerful wave of love washed over her. Cheska had always been undemanding, seeming to accept without question the way Owen had fussed over Jonny and ignored her. Although Greta still battled daily with her grief over Jonny’s death, she hated the tiny part of her that felt almost grateful that it was he who’d been taken and not her beloved daughter.

  Greta undressed, then leant over and kissed the little girl softly on the cheek. ‘Goodnight, my darling. Sleep tight.’ She climbed into her own bed and turned out the light.

  Despite Greta’s resolve, the first few days in London proved hard. Her first priority was to find a place for the two of them to live, but Cheska soon tired of being dragged round apartment after apartment and became irritable and tetchy. Greta didn’t like the suspicious look in potential landladies’ eyes when she explained she was a widow. The stigma of being a single mother was one she supposed she would have to get used to.

  After three days of searching she found a clean, bright set of rooms on the top floor of a house very near to where she had lived before she’d fled to Wales. Kendal Street was just off the Edgware Road, and it gave Greta a feeling of security to move back to an area she already knew. The other advantage was the landlady, who had seemed very sympathetic when Greta told her that Cheska’s father had died just after the war.

  ‘I lost my husband and my son, Mrs Simpson. A terrible business.’ She sighed. ‘So many young ’uns growing up without their dads. Luckily, my husband left me this house, and it gives me a living. It’s a quiet building, mind. I live in the basement and we have a couple of old ladies on the ground floor. Your little one’s a good girl, is she?’

  ‘Oh yes, very good. Aren’t you, Cheska?’

  Cheska had nodded and given the landlady a big smile.

  ‘What a sweet little daughter you have, Mrs Simpson. When would you like to move in?’ the landlady had asked, obviously charmed.

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  Greta handed over a deposit and a month’s rent. She moved the two of them into the rooms two days later, pulling one of the twin beds into the sitting room so that Cheska could have her own bedroom and wouldn’t be disturbed at night.

  The first evening in the flat Greta put Cheska to bed, then went into her sitting room-cum-bedroom and sank into an armchair. After the spaciousness of the big house at Marchmont she felt horribly claustrophobic. But for the present, it was the best she could do. The money she had brought with her was dwindling already and she knew she had to find a job quickly.

  She picked up the copy of the Evening News she had bought earlier and turned to the ‘Situations Vacant’ section. She skimmed through the advertisements, ringing possibilities with a pencil. Feeling depressed at the lack of suitable vacancies, and her lack of qualifications for any of them, Greta went into the kitchen, made herself a cup of tea and lit a cigarette. Her job at the Windmill was hardly the sort of thing one could tell a prospective employer about, and she really didn’t want to go back there, as the punishing hours would mean leaving Cheska for long periods in the evenings. Ideally, she wanted some kind of respectable clerical position in an office in the City or the West End. Once she found a job, she’d have to advertise for a childminder to look after Cheska while she was at work.

  The next day Greta bought Cheska a chocolate bar then dragged her into a public phone box while she arranged interviews. She lied through her teeth, telling prospective employers that yes, she could type, and yes, she did have office experience. Having organised two appointments for the following morning, she now had the problem of what to do with Cheska while she attended them. Greta walked slowly back home, dragging her daughter behind her and feeling disheartened. In the hallway, an old lady was picking up the leaves that had made their way inside from the street.

  ‘Hello, dearie. You new?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve just moved into the top-floor flat. I’m Greta Simpson, and this is my daughter, Cheska.’

  The old lady’s eyes settled on the little girl. ‘Have you been eating chocolate, dear?’

  Cheska nodded shyly.

  ‘Here.’ The woman pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped Cheska’s face. Surprisingly, the little girl didn’t complain. ‘There. That’s better, isn’t it? I’m Mabel Brierley, by the way. I live in number two. Husband at work, is he?’

  ‘I’m a widow, actually.’

  ‘So am I, dear. Died in the war, did he?’

  ‘Yes, well, just afterwards. He was injured during the Normandy landings and never recovered. He passed away just after VE Day.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry. Lost mine in the First World War. Tragic times we live in, ain’t they, dearie?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Greta sombrely.

  ‘Any time you want a cup of tea and a bit of company, I’m always here. Nice to have a little one around the place. And such a pretty thing, aren’t you?
’ She bent forward, smiling, and chucked Cheska under her chin.

  Greta watched her daughter smile back at Mabel and decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘I was wondering, Mrs Brierley, do you know anyone who would be able to look after Cheska for a few hours tomorrow morning? I’ve got a job interview and I can’t really take her with me.’

  ‘Well, now let me think.’ Mabel scratched her head. ‘No, I can’t say I do. Unless . . .’ She looked down at the little girl. ‘I suppose I could mind her, as long as it wouldn’t be for too long.’

  ‘Oh, would you? I’d be so grateful, and I’ll be back by lunchtime. Of course, I’ll pay you.’

  ‘All right, then, dearie. We widows have to help each other out, don’t we? What time?’

  ‘Could I bring her down at nine?’

  ‘Yes. See you then.’

  Relieved, Greta carried Cheska up the stairs to their rooms.

  Dressed in the one smart suit and hat she had brought with her, Greta took Cheska down to Mabel the following morning. The little girl whimpered when her mother explained that she had to go out for a while, but would be back by lunchtime.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Mrs Simpson. Cheska and me’ll be fine,’ Mabel reassured her.

  Greta left before she could witness the tears that were bound to come and caught a bus to Old Street for her first interview.

  The position was as a clerk in a bank, performing menial tasks such as filing, combined with a little bit of typing. Greta was nervous and her lies were unpractised. She came out of the interview with the office manager knowing she wouldn’t be hearing from him.

  The next interview was for the position of sales assistant on the perfume counter in the Swan & Edgar department store at Piccadilly. Her prospective boss was a woman in her mid-forties with sharp features, crisply dressed in a masculine suit. She asked Greta if she had any dependants and Greta lied more smoothly this time but still came out of the shop knowing it would be a miracle if she were offered the position. Feeling depressed, she walked along the road to a news stand to buy a paper.