Sir David, founder of the Lankaster Engineering business, sat on the board of the Martyn Heering bank. Unmarried, he was a very old friend of Lally’s who she often invited to make up numbers if there was an excess of women.
“Hitler is a rabid anti-Semite,” Schwartz said. “I have been back to Germany and I have seen what he is doing to the Jews.”
His wife Alma nodded vigorously in agreement.
“In fact,” Schwartz went on, “I intend in time to sell my Berlin apartment and withdraw altogether from Germany; take all my money out and settle permanently in London.”
There was an awkward pause. As they had finished dessert, Lally, with her usual tact and intuition realising that the talk might become controversial and therefore an embarrassment to her guests, rose from her chair and invited the ladies to accompany her out of the room. This practice had ceased in many houses after the war, but it was a tradition Lally adhered to. With a backward glance she asked the men not to be too long.
The four men then closed up round the table and, as the port was circulated, lit cigars and resumed their discussion.
“I think that was a very successful evening,” Lally said, turning indoors with Alexander as the Schwartzes, the last guests to leave, drove off. “Thank heaven we avoided any arguments, though I know David Lankaster is an admirer of the new German Chancellor and, of course, the Schwartzes hate him.”
They went into the hall where Roberts, the Martyns’ elderly butler, stood waiting to receive final orders.
Now in his seventies, Roberts should probably have long ago retired, but he had nowhere to go, no relations or even close friends and, as he was youthful in outlook and enjoyed his work, Lally would not dispense with him. He was one of the family and when she did let him go, it would probably be to a comfortable retirement in a cottage on her Dorset estate.
Lally told Roberts to lock up and go to bed. She and Alexander went into the lounge for a nightcap, to dissect the evening as they usually did after a party. Alexander dropped into an easy chair and ran his hands over his face.
“Tired, darling?” Lally enquired solicitously, placing a small glass of fine cognac into his hands.
“Thank you, Mother.” Alexander looked up with a grateful smile. “A little tired. It seemed a long day.”
“You mustn’t work too hard, my precious.” Lally perched on the arm of his chair and began to stroke his brow tenderly. Alexander caught hold of her hand and kissed it.
“I wondered if we should invite the Becketts to Forest House for a few days, darling? Would that please you?” She leaned forward so that she could see his reaction.
“Not particularly.” Alexander played with her fingers and then gently let her hand fall.
Lally looked disappointed. “Don’t you like the Becketts?”
“I think he’s a bit of a stuffed shirt and so is Lankaster. It says everything if they approve of the Nazis. It was all I could do to stop myself – well, let it pass.”
Lally appeared taken aback. “But I didn’t dream that you felt so strongly.”
“I don’t feel strongly. I just don’t like the look of the Nazis, all that militarism.”
“I don’t think they actually like them,” Lally ventured. “I just think they’re trying to see their point of view and that of the German people who felt so terribly humiliated by Versailles.”
“Serve them right. They started the war. Damn it all, Mother,” Alexander turned on her savagely, “look at how many people were killed or wounded. Hugh Yetman lost a leg, and he was one of the lucky ones.”
“I just thought ...” Lally hesitated, surprised by her darling’s outburst. “She was rather nice – Minnie.”
“She’s all right.”
“I think she is very pretty and intelligent. Often the two don’t go together. I believe her father has already settled twenty thousand a year on her.”
“Mother, you’re matchmaking.” Alexander jumped out of his chair so suddenly that Lally nearly fell off the arm and righted herself just in time.
“I am not matchmaking, dear. But I think Minnie is a catch. I’m surprised she’s not engaged already. I understand a lot of young men have been after her since she came out.”
“Well, she will be spoiled for choice, then. Frankly I’m not interested.” Alexander looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Time for bed, Mother.” But Lally remained on her precarious perch anxiously gnawing at her fingernail. Finally she looked up.
“Every time I see you with that little Sprogett girl you seem very interested.”
“I like her very much.” Alexander gave her a chilly smile. “She’s very unaffected.”
“Unaffected!” Lally burst out, getting to her feet. “Well, she hasn’t much to be affected about, has she? I mean she’s a nobody with a very common mother who pushes her forward at any opportunity. As for her father ... he was a useless individual.”
“A war invalid I heard.” Alexander’s tone was still icy. “Well that’s what was said. He was a coward, if you ask me. He was sent home as unfit.”
“That’s a grave misjudgement. He was honourably invalided out of the army and never able to do another day’s work in his life. It wasn’t as if he didn’t want to.”
“You sound very knowledgeable,” Lally’s tone was sarcastic. “I suppose you got that from the daughter.”
“As a matter of fact, I did. She loved her father. Besides, Mother, as for being a ‘nobody’ Mary’s mother, Elizabeth, is Sir Guy’s natural daughter. In fact, she’s a Woodville.”
“But brought up as a servant, nevertheless.”
“No fault of hers. If she is the daughter of a baronet she can hardly be called common. Whereas we don’t know who my parents were, do we? It occurred to me my mother might have been a prostitute. My father may have been one of her clients. I wonder what the Beckett family would think about that! Really, Mother, you’re the most awful snob and considering where you came from I wonder you’ve got the nerve.”
And without the customary solicitous and tender good-night kiss Alexander stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him, in a rare display of temper.
It was the first row they had ever had, the first harsh word between them.
Lally didn’t sleep at all that night, her mind in turmoil. At around eight she heard the front door close and knew that Alexander had gone to work without putting his head round her door, as was his custom, to say goodbye.
One day she would have to tell him who his parents were, and what would he say to her then? If he was angry with her now, how would he ever find it in his heart to forgive her when he knew the truth?
She would put off that evil day for as long as she could. She feared losing Alexander for ever.
April 1933
Bart Sadler glanced up with surprise as his visitor entered the room, having been announced a few minutes before by his butler.
“Solomon, what a pleasure!” he cried rising and crossing the room to shake the young man’s hands. “Is Sarah Jane with you?”
“No, not this time.” Solomon, clearly nervous, avoided Bart’s eyes.
“Do sit down, do sit down,” Bart said expansively, pointing to a chair near the fire. “It’s so terribly cold.”
“It is.” Solomon rubbed his hands together, but remained standing, looking at Bart.
“Cigarette?” Bart proffered a case. “Or do you prefer a cigar?”
“This will be fine.” Solomon accepted a cigarette and as he held it to his mouth Bart saw that his fingers were trembling. The cigarette lit, Solomon sat down. Bart abandoned the shelter of his desk and sat opposite him, curious about the purpose of the visit.
“Is all well? Is there anything I can do?”
Solomon drew on his cigarette, gazing as he did so into the fire. Finally he raised his head.
“The fact is, Bart, I am in very much need of work. I haven’t worked since I left Wenham.”
“You amaze me.” Bart settled back in his c
hair, cigarette between his fingers. “You are so very talented.”
“It is nothing to do with talent. There is no work to be had. Believe me I’ve tried. I’ve even been up to London stumping the streets. I have been everywhere. There is no work about and we are living on my wife’s money, which will soon run out and then we shall be penniless.”
“I am very distressed to hear this,” Bart said getting to his feet. “Very distressed indeed. If I can let you have ...”
“I am not begging, Bart. I am not looking for charity. I would like work and I wondered if you knew of any opportunity here?”
“Well, of course, I have a lot of contacts. I’m sure I can find you something. Would you be prepared to move back to Wenham?”
“If necessary I would go anywhere.”
“Have you talked to Abel? I believe he is still doing well, despite the bad economic times.”
“I can’t talk to Abel. He has not forgiven me for going off with his mother.”
“I find that an absurd situation.” Bart lit a fresh cigarette. “However, I can talk to Abel. After all he is my nephew and he is such a nice man. I’m sure he will do what he can.”
“I would rather you didn’t talk to Abel. I wouldn’t want him to know my circumstances. I feel I should have been able to provide for my wife. After all, I persuaded her to come away with me and I’m ashamed that I have to ask for help. I would much rather that if you are able to effect some introductions for me they should be without Abel’s knowledge.”
“But he will have to know some time. Especially if you return to Wenham.”
“I would rather wait until that happens,” Solomon said, “and then I can decide what to do.”
Bart Sadler was a man of his word. It was nice to help people, not only for the sake of doing someone a good turn but because it helped to show how powerful you were. You could unlock doors that were shut to other people, open avenues that had been closed.
Bart was an influential man in the community and people were anxious to do him favours in the hope of being able to ask for favours in return. However, he found that the services of architects were not much in demand: builders were managing to do without them and drew up their own plans. Very few people were wealthy enough to build houses on the scale of Bart’s house, Upper Park, which had been built in the heyday of the eighteenth century.
The house, situated seven miles from the town of Blandford, was a fine example of Georgian architecture. Standing on an incline facing north-south, it was built of Dorset brick and faced with Chilmark stone. On all sides were magnificent views of the countryside. Surrounding the house were extensive formal landscaped gardens with an orangery. The stables and outbuildings had been refurbished and extended by Solomon Palmer when, in better days, he had worked on the house with Abel Yetman after its purchase by Bart.
Solomon was a first-class architect, with a fine imagination, and in a happier, more affluent age he would undoubtedly have flourished.
Now neither he nor Bart could find any work for him. Despite Bart’s range of contacts that went from the north to the south of the county and beyond, no one was able to offer a young architect, however talented, any work of any kind. Everywhere Bart drew a blank, offered with the greatest possible number of apologies and expressions of regret.
Bart was driving home one day about six weeks after Solomon’s visit brooding, among other things, on his lack of success on behalf of the young man, reluctant to admit defeat, when he was struck by an idea. The depression wasn’t going to last for ever, even now there was money to be made and people were making it. He knew that munitions were being shipped to Germany which was trying to pull itself up from the effects of the war under the able leadership of Adolf Hitler, whom Bart could not help but admire. He felt that he and Hitler had much in common: they were both men who had made something of themselves from humble beginnings, men of determination and stature. Bart, had left England penniless and had returned years later with a fortune, made by his own wits. Whatever people said, and critics abounded, you needed strong leadership in a country that had suffered total defeat as Germany had. Its currency had been devalued so as to be practically worthless, and it had millions unemployed. Bart knew of a number of small-arms companies which were exporting to Germany. He was interested in the business himself. In fact, he already had feelers out.
But the idea that came to him as he was driven home on a beautiful spring day through the Dorset countryside was that if he speculated and built a few fine houses, well designed to the highest specifications, and offered only to people of wealth and discrimination, he might well be on to rather a good business venture. And who better to act as architect for him for the high quality houses he had in mind than Solomon Palmer?
And, for that matter, who better to build them than Abel, his very own nephew?
As soon as he got home Bart telephoned Solomon and asked him to come and see him. For the moment he decided not to confide his plans to his wife.
***
Solomon could hardly believe his ears when Bart told him of his scheme over dinner at The Crown in Blandford where Solomon was staying.
“I have plenty of money, you see,” Bart said expansively, “and my fingers in a number of pies. I have many investments and I also have funds overseas which I can call on when need be without having to pay tax in this country. In fact I pay hardly any tax at all.
“I thought if we planned, say, four or five houses to start with, built on the grand scale with every modern convenience, rather like Forest House – though even better – we would sell them without any difficulty.”
“Are you sure?” Solomon, beside himself with excitement, looked incredulous.
“Eventually we will sell them. It might take a year or two but I have no doubt that the economy will improve. It has to, and when it does there will be a lot of very rich people around anxious to show off. I will form a company. Indeed, I have already taken steps to do it, and I am offering you the post of architect at a starting salary shall we say of six hundred pounds a year?”
“Six hundred?” Solomon gasped.
“Plus bonuses, of course, on satisfactory work completed. I don’t want to throw my money about but I want you to be properly rewarded. However,” he looked candidly across the table at him, “you will have to return to this part of the country. What will Sarah Jane say to that?”
“Sarah Jane will have to do as she’s told,” Solomon said firmly, “for once.”
“Until you have everything arranged you are very welcome to stay with us,” Bart said.
“But would Deborah mind? After all her sister Ruth is married to Abel. I don’t know how Debbie feels about the situation.”
“Like your wife, mine will have to do as she’s told,” Bart said with a smile. “We can’t have women wearing the trousers can we?” He raised his glass, brim full of fine claret. “Cheers,” he said. “Here’s to our partnership.”
“To our partnership,” Solomon said, fervently raising his glass in reply.
Bart looked round Abel’s house with approval. It was large and built of Ham stone to a conventional design, double-fronted, with an imposing portico to fit in with the big house that was its neighbour. The grounds were not yet landscaped but inside it was beautifully proportioned and finished, with gleaming paintwork and shining parquet floors. Bowls of spring flowers were scattered about on highly polished tables and the whole place exuded an atmosphere of wealth, taste and refinement.
The house was built on land given to the couple by Carson as a wedding present. It had been designed and supervised by Solomon Palmer and executed by Abel. It had been an ideal partnership, in Bart’s opinion, before Palmer seduced Abel’s mother and thus found himself out of a job.
A blushing maidservant showed him into the drawing room, which was large enough to entertain a considerable party of guests. It stretched the width of the house. The front looked out onto the Blackmore Vale and Pelham’s Oak, a couple of miles distant, t
he back faced the town of Wenham, also a similar distance away. In between were acres of Dorset countryside: copses, thickets, streams and lush pastureland grazed on by fat contented cattle.
Bart was fond of his nephew Abel. He was a grave, rather solemn young man who had assumed the burden of the man of the family at a tender age after his father’s death. He had grown up very quickly and, following in his father’s footsteps, had eventually qualified as a master builder and started his own business. He had married his pretty cousin Ruth in the spring three years ago. As yet there was no sign of a family, rather, one imagined, to their regret.
The young Yetmans seldom received a visit from their uncle and Abel came hurrying into the room followed by Ruth, who greeted him with a kiss.
“Do excuse this impromptu call,” Bart said, sinking into a deep, well-upholstered armchair. “But I had an idea and wanted to communicate with you as soon as I could.”
“You’re always welcome, Uncle,” Ruth said. “We don’t see enough of you. You’re so busy. Would you like coffee?”
“Coffee would be very nice.”
“Debbie not with you?” Ruth looked hopefully out of the window.
“Deborah has gone into Blandford on a shopping expedition, I believe. Anyway this is a business call.”
“Oh well, in that case I’ll leave you to it.” Ruth prepared to leave the room, but Bart held up his hand.
“No, I’d like you to stay Ruth. This concerns you too.”
“Sounds interesting.” Abel sat down opposite his uncle, prepared to listen, while Ruth briefly left the room to order coffee.
“You really have a lovely place here.” Bart lit a cigarette and looked around. “You must feel very pleased with it.”
“We are, and grateful to Uncle Carson for his generous gift of land.”
“It’s a beautiful position,” Bart agreed, “and a very fine house, beautifully designed.” Neither Abel nor Ruth, who had returned, replied, and Bart felt as though a chill had entered the room. He also began to feel a little less sanguine about the success of his mission. “I might as well come to the point,” he said at last. “Solomon Palmer has been to see me.”
A Time of Hope (Part Five of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 6