Grace's Story

by Jennie Walters

  ‘Mother’s driving Father and me straight down to Dover this evening.’ He doesn’t take his eyes off my face. Then he says, ‘Oh, Grace,’ and holds out his arms.

  Just that, ‘Oh, Grace,’ but the way he says it lets me know everything’s going to be all right, and I go to him. There’s no awkwardness or embarrassment any more, only a wonderful feeling of contentment, as though I’ve come home after a long journey. He kisses me, and I can feel my heart soaring up to heaven like a swallow wheeling across the sky. Whatever happens in the future, we shall always have this moment. No one can ever take it away.

  Author’s Note

  I am very grateful to Chris Baker, both for his wonderfully informative website about World War One, ‘The Long, Long Trail’, at www.1914-1918.net, and for his checking of my manuscript to make sure it was historically accurate. Thanks also to Philip Kirk for letting me read his grandfather’s First World War diary, to Julian Fellowes for the bus anecdote, and to Venetia Gosling and Harriet Stallibrass for their helpful suggestions about the end of the story.

  Jennie Walters

  Swallowcliffe Hall

  3

  Isobel’s Story

  In the final part of the Swallowcliffe Hall trilogy, Isobel comes to the house in 1939, to stay with her grandmother Polly. She’s meant to be resting after a serious illness, but talk of war is on everyone’s lips and it’s an anxious time – especially for Andreas, a Jewish boy who has managed to escape from Germany on the Kindertransporte. Can Izzie possibly help his family find sanctuary at the Hall too? She is determined to try, although the house has fallen on hard times and its very existence is threatened. Attempting to heal old wounds, she uncovers a family secret that has remained hidden for years, and discovers courage in the face of danger and prejudice she never knew she had.

  ‘This historical novel is full of excitement and adventure and I couldn't put it down, I would recommend it to anyone.’ An Amazon customer

  Chapter One

  We must hope for the best and prepare for the worst.

  Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, on his return from meeting Adolf Hitler in Munich, September 1938

  ‘Better take every jersey you’ve got,’ Mum warned, dragging the battered leather suitcase off the top of her wardrobe. ‘You don’t know what cold is until you’ve spent a winter in that ice box of a place. And don’t forget your gas mask, for Heaven’s sake.’

  I was going back with my granny to stay at Swallowcliffe Hall for a while so she could put some flesh on my bones and I could breathe fresh country air instead of London smog. ‘Look at the poor girl! She’s as pale as a ghost,’ Gran had exclaimed when she’d arrived to stay with us for the holiday and found me dozing in Dad’s old chair by the fire, wrapped up in a blanket. ‘Well, that’s tuberculosis for you.’

  I’d only just got out of the sanatorium in time for Christmas. ‘Aren’t you the lucky one!’ the nurses had said. I didn’t feel so lucky, not after spending months in a hospital bed with no idea what was going on outside while my friends were all having fun without me. ‘You haven’t missed much,’ Mum had said. ‘The same old palaver about whether there’ll be a war and the Prime Minister going off for a pow wow with Herr Hitler.’

  I didn’t like the idea of leaving Mum and my brothers, not with war on the horizon, but Swallowcliffe wasn’t so very far away - only down in Kent - and I could probably get back on the train in an emergency, or they could come down and join us. Besides, there wasn’t much choice. Mum had to go back to work in the new year and I still couldn’t manage by myself. My legs felt wobbly if I stood up for too long, and the thump of Stan and Alfie’s football in the back alley made my head pound like a roadmender’s drill. Gran would look after me and when I felt better, she said, I could start helping her with odd jobs in the kitchen.

  ‘Now then,’ Mum had interrupted, ‘you’re not turning our Izzie into a kitchenmaid. She’ll be back home and studying for School Certificate as soon as she’s well.’

  ‘I know,’ Gran had replied, ‘but she might as well keep herself busy in the meantime.’

  You could see from Mum’s face that she still wasn’t happy. She can’t bear the thought of any of us going into service like she and her mother did when they were young. Gran had started working at Swallowcliffe Hall when she was my age and never left; she was cook/housekeeper now. We’d only visited the place once, Stan and me, around the time our father died (Alfie wasn’t more than a few months old so he’d stayed behind with Mum). It must have been ten years ago, but I could remember a few things: climbing up a narrow wooden staircase that seemed to stretch on for ever, looking out of an attic window across miles of fields and woodland, standing in a jungly greenhouse and biting into a tiny, warm tomato which burst into sweetness on my tongue. When I forgot to worry, going off to Swallowcliffe with Gran seemed a wonderful idea. It’d be quiet there, and peaceful. I was sick of lying in bed, staring at the same four walls or trying to read while Stan and Alfie fought downstairs and the buses rumbled along our street. If only it wasn’t for Hitler…

  I watched Mum as she fiddled with the suitcase’s rusty catches. ‘Mum, if there is a war any time soon, you and the boys will come down as well, won’t you? It’ll be much too dangerous to stay in London.’

  ‘We’ll stick together one way or another, Izzie, I promise,’ she said, sitting down beside me on the bed and smoothing a strand of hair behind my ear. ‘Try not to fret so much. Mr Chamberlain’s sorted things out for the moment.’

  So why did we have to take our gas masks everywhere? Why were they still digging those mysterious trenches no one knew the reason for, and why were sandbags still piled up outside the town hall? Hitler wasn’t really backing down and nobody knew for certain what he’d do next, no matter what the Prime Minister said. I wanted us all to be together in the country where it was safe.

  I felt suddenly shy, sitting opposite Gran in the chilly railway carriage as we set off for the Hall, but at least we didn’t have to talk. She had her knitting and I had my book - the latest in the Chalet Girl series. I’d grown out of the Chalet School books, really, but it was comforting to have something familiar from home in my haversack. Yet I couldn’t settle to reading and gazed out of the window as the backstreets of London flashed by, trying to imagine what lay in store.

  Gran caught my eye. ‘Fancy a barley sugar?’ She snapped open the clasp of her handbag and started rustling about inside it.

  ‘If I bump into Lady Vye, should I curtsey?’ I asked Gran when we were sucking away at our sweets. ‘And what should I call her?’

  ‘You can call her Lady Vye,’ Gran said, ‘or ma’am, if you’d rather. And we don’t go in for curtseying these days. If I took to bobbing about at my age, they’d have to get a winch to haul me up again!’ And she laughed.

  I hope I look like Gran when I’m old. She has smooth, nut-brown skin even in the winter, crinkled and worn like an old leather glove; when she smiles, her face lights up and the years fall away. She patted my knee. ‘Now don’t worry so much. You won’t be seeing a great deal of Lady Vye, anyway. The family aren’t back from Scotland for a few days and then I expect she’ll go straight up to London. She’s not much of a one for the country. The children will be about, of course, although Master Tristan’s due back at school soon so you may not even catch a glimpse of him.’

  We knew something of the Vye children at home because Tristan, the oldest, was just a couple of years younger than Alfie, and my brothers always clamoured to hear the latest Master Tristan story whenever Gran came to visit. To us, he seemed like a cross between Little Lord Fauntleroy and Oliver Twist. He had two little sisters - twins of six, Miss Julia and Miss Nancy - but somehow they didn’t hold the same fascination, being only girls and having more ordinary names.

  ‘As soon as you’re up to it, you can start with some easy jobs like cleaning the silver or mending linen,’ Gran said, taking up her knitting again. ‘And you might like to spend some time reading to the twin
s. The nursery maid keeps them clean and fed, but she’s not got much imagination.’ She sniffed. ‘Sissy, her name is. You’ll meet her soon enough.’

  I leaned my head against the grimy window and gazed out, wondering about this strange, old-fashioned world of silver and linen and nursery maids - a world as foreign to me in its own way as the Austrian Tyrol, where the Chalet School was set. Now the railway line was running between row upon row of terraced houses with tiny concrete backyards like ours, the odd piece of washing half-frozen on a line. Here was a garden with a patch of lawn, big enough for an Anderson shelter covered over with turf like a miniature hill fort. Mum said we didn’t need a bomb shelter outside anyway, not with our cellar, but what if the house was hit and we were trapped down there in the dark, with no one to hear us or know we were there? I picked up my book and tried to stop thinking. The next time I looked outside, the sooty landscape of cement and brick had given way to misty fields and oasthouses; we’d arrived in Kent.

  We were met at Hardingbridge Station by the chauffeur and handyman at the Hall, Mr Oakes. He had a dour, craggy face with a smear of blood on the chin where he’d cut himself shaving, and was dressed in a flat cap and a tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows. Apparently he’d only wear uniform when the family were at home. I didn’t mind that at all, but I did feel horribly sick in the motor-car. It was only the second time I’d ever been taken out for a drive. If we went anywhere at home, we took the bus or a tram, and I wasn’t used to being shut up in a stuffy, jolting box. Luckily we’d only been going for ten minutes or so when Gran tapped on the glass partition between us and Mr Oakes in front, and he brought the car to a stop by the side of the road.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ she said, opening the passenger door. I got out too, partly for a breath of air and partly because I didn’t want to be left behind with silent Mr Oakes. We had arrived at a churchyard. I leaned against the car and watched Gran walk through the gate and down a path between the gravestones, clutching her bag with both hands. She has a bad knee and limps a little, so the glass cherries on her hat chinked together with every step. I don’t like cemeteries - they give me the creeps - but the sight of my granny standing all alone by one of the graves, head bowed, made me follow her down the path. She took a little bunch of mistletoe and Christmas roses tied up with ribbon from her handbag and laid it against the headstone while I hovered around behind, not sure whether she wanted company.

  ‘It’s all right, dear,’ Gran said, without turning round. ‘You can come nearer if you like.’

  ‘Iris Baker’, read the inscription on the stone, ‘1869-1890’. That was ages ago! ‘Was she a friend of yours?’ I asked, realising it was a stupid question as soon as the words were out of my mouth. Iris Baker must have meant a lot to Gran if she was still visiting her grave nearly fifty years later.

  She nodded. ‘Iris took care of me when I first arrived at Swallowcliffe. She passed away around Christmas, so I usually pay my respects at this time of year.’

  ‘Is Grandad buried here too?’ I asked, looking at the neighbouring headstones.

  ‘No, he’s in the village churchyard at Stone Martin - much handier. I’ll show you on Sunday.’

  We stood for a while longer without speaking. I was thinking how little I really knew about Gran and the life she’d led when she was young. Or the life she led now, for that matter. Was she lonely, all on her own? Grandad had died about six years ago and, out of their four children, Mum was the only one near by. (Aunt Hannah was up in Yorkshire, Aunt Ivy had married an Australian soldier and had her own family out there now, while Uncle Tom had been killed in the war.) Mum had gone down to Swallowcliffe for Grandad’s funeral - she’d left us with Mrs Jones next door for the day, saying it wasn’t the time or place for noisy children - but why hadn’t she visited more often since then?

  I gave Gran’s hand a squeeze. ‘Don’t be too sad.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she said, ‘but it’s important to remember.’

  She took my arm and we walked back to the car together. Mr Oakes started up the engine without a word and we set off again with a sickening lurch. I felt tired and low for the rest of the journey, as though the damp fog had seeped out of the graveyard and into my heart. Perhaps that was why the Hall made such an impression on me at first, looming out of the mist like Sleeping Beauty’s castle. Several windows were boarded up, and the house stared blankly down as though determined not to show any interest in our arrival. The gravel drive sweeping up to the main entrance was studded with thistles, while bright green moss carpeted a flight of stone steps leading to an overgrown lawn. There didn’t seem to be anyone about, apart from a large black bird waddling stiff-legged over the sodden grass which took off with an irritable ‘caw’ when Mr Oakes slammed the car door shut. He lifted our suitcases down from the luggage rack and led the way through a blue-painted door at the side of the house.

  ‘We’ll go straight upstairs so you can rest after the journey,’ Gran told me as we followed him down the corridor inside. ‘At least you’ll have a few days to settle in before the family come back from Scotland. Your room’s next door to mine, so you won’t feel lonely, and when you’ve had a lie-down I’ll show you where everything is and tell you what’s what.’

  By now we were climbing up a flight of stairs at the end of the hall. There was no carpet and they were quite steep. ‘Can you manage, Gran?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course I can, dear. One flight of stairs isn’t too much trouble. Mind you, I’d have a struggle getting up to the attic where we used to sleep when I was a girl - you’ll have to explore that on your own. I’ve got a lovely room now opposite the nursery, and there’s a bathroom we share with Sissy and the children. It’s all very comfortable, you’ll see.’

  We had come to a bend in the staircase. A flight of three or four stairs on the right opened out into another, longer corridor with doors on each side. Mr Oakes strode off down it, deposited Gran’s case outside the first door on the right, and mine outside the next one along. ‘Thank you, Mr Oakes,’ she said. ‘And thank you again for meeting us.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Mrs S.’ They were the first words I’d heard him speak. ‘Miss.’ He tipped his cap and marched back down the corridor.

  ‘Here we are.’ Gran opened the door to my bedroom and I followed her inside with my suitcase. The room was large, with pale green walls and a swirly red carpet. There were a few pieces of furniture cast adrift in it: a chair covered in faded flowery cotton, a white enamelled bedsteads made up with sheets, blankets and an eiderdown, and an oak chest of drawers in the window alcove. It was also cold. Incredibly cold. You could see your breath in a cloud on the air.

  ‘Oh, that dozy Eunice! I wrote to tell her when we were coming back. She was meant to have had a fire going in here all day!’ Gran picked up the coal tongs and started struggling down on one knee by the fireplace.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, taking the tongs out of her hand and guiding her towards the door. ‘I think I will have that rest now, if you don’t mind.’

  A wave of exhaustion and homesickness had suddenly washed over me. Not bothering with the fire, when Gran had gone I kicked off my shoes and climbed into bed under the blankets and quilt in my thick tweed coat, beret and gloves. So many empty rooms in that huge house, and only one of them filled by me! I felt like the beating heart in a sleeping, frozen body. Then I fell asleep myself, and dreamed about all sorts of extraordinary things. I dreamed Mum was running after me with my gas mask, but when I opened the cardboard box it was full of wriggling worms. I dreamed Mr Oakes came to fetch me from the station in a bus, but I didn’t have any money for the fare. I dreamed I was following two girls down a country lane in summer. I called after them, and one of the girls looked back. It was Gran. ‘Have you met my friend, Iris?’ she said, but when the second girl turned around, she had no face, only two deep black holes for eyes.

  This was so terrifying that I woke up with a start, bathed in a cold sweat - and knew immediatel
y that I was not alone in the room. It was almost completely dark by now, but somebody was watching me, I felt certain. Watching and waiting. Yes! There, by the door, the blackness had puddled into a square, solid shape. The breath caught in my throat and my heart thumped so heavily it hurt my chest. Then the shape spoke. ‘Who are you?’ it said. And another voice chimed in, ‘What are you doing in our house?’

  So that was how I first met Miss Nancy and Miss Julia. The family had come home unexpectedly and, down in the kitchen, my granny was having kittens because none of the beds was aired.

  About the Author:

  Jennie Walters has had over twenty books published for children and teens, including the popular ‘Party Girls’ series. She was partly inspired to write the ‘Swallowcliffe Hall’ trilogy by visits to beautiful old English country houses, including Kingston Lacey in Dorset, Belton House in Lincolnshire and Castle Howard in Yorkshire. When younger, she spent two years in a cliff-top boarding school converted from a Victorian mansion with wood-panelled rooms, a huge marble staircase and one of the largest collections of stuffed birds in England. Finding a silver housekeeper’s châtelaine while clearing out her father-in-law’s flat whetted her interest in Victorian servants and their masters and mistresses, and prompted her to create a fictional country house of her own.

  Jennie lives in London with her husband, two cats and a dog, and has two grown-up sons.

  For a fascinating insight into the world of English country houses and the families and servants who live in them, visit Jennie’s website, packed with original photographs, historical information, extracts from servants’ letters, and much more!

  http://www.jenniewalters.com