by Debbie Rix
Chapter Five
Gloucestershire
September 2016
Sophie watched the empty removal van backing out of the long gravel drive of their Cotswold stone cottage and sank down, with relief, on a kitchen chair, which had been dumped unceremoniously in the hall. Every room in the house was now crammed with boxes neatly labelled with their final destination – sitting room, kitchen, bedroom and so on – but towards the end of the packing process in London, as Sophie and Hamish grew ever more exhausted, the labelling system had become increasingly erratic. Sophie feared that if she opened any one of the unmarked boxes, she would discover the detritus of her life that had previously been abandoned in their small box room in Herne Hill.
It had been a frenetic summer. One evening in early June, as rain began to fall and the air outside turned damp and unseasonably chilly, Sophie hurried home up their leafy road. She opened the door and threw off her wet coat, hanging it on the banisters, where it dripped water onto the tiled floor. Shivering, she walked through to the kitchen, which was always warm from the range. She put the kettle onto boil, and then took some onions from the fridge to chop up for their supper.
She heard Hamish’s key in the lock and, a few seconds later, as the front door slammed shut, he rushed, excitedly, into the kitchen.
‘I got it!’ he said, picking her up and whirling her around. ‘The consultant post in Cheltenham!’
‘Careful!’ she giggled, as her feet knocked against the kitchen cupboards.
Breathlessly, he ground to a halt, and planted a kiss on her forehead.
‘Well done – really, well done.’ She was sincere. She knew what it meant to him; what it could mean for both of them. But she also knew that they were facing a summer of disruption.
‘When do you start?’
‘As soon as we can get organised. Don’t worry – they know we’ve got to sell this place and buy somewhere new – they understand. But they want me to start in September.’
Sophie exhaled sharply. ‘September… so just over two months. That’s quite a deadline.’
‘Yes, but we can do it – can’t we?’ he asked excitedly, his eyes pleading for a positive response. Sophie had busied herself, sweating onions on the hob. She knew what he wanted her to say, but she was consumed by the implications for herself. How am I supposed to get pregnant when I’m stressed by moving house? She knew that the burden of showing people round their house, looking for a new home, packing up their lives, would fall on her shoulders. But, as usual, she repressed her anxieties and tried to be positive.
‘Of course we can do it. No problem,’ she said cheerfully, opening the fridge. She had a bottle of champagne standing by – just in case he got the job, and she poured them both a glass. He drained his gratefully and refilled it.
‘Let’s see what’s on the market in Gloucestershire.’ He flipped open his laptop on the kitchen table. ‘Here’s one… look at this – huge garden, darling. You’d love that.’
‘There’s no rush is there, Hamish? I don’t even know if I can transfer to somewhere near there yet. I’ve got no university lined up. We can’t settle on where we’re going to live until I find a new home for my PhD.’
‘I thought you’d spoken to your supervisor already… I thought you had this in hand?’
‘I forgot,’ she admitted. In her heart, Sophie had hoped he might not get the job and that she might never have to face the disruption of moving. She was so preoccupied with her desire for a child, there was no room for anything else. Her diary was a testament to her reproductive processes: periods were marked in red, her temperature recorded daily, and days when ovulation might be possible were entered in green. If she and Hamish made love that was entered into her diary too. Nothing seemed to matter anymore – apart from getting pregnant. Her work, her friendships, any other part of her life, had begun to suffer. The need to move her PhD to a different university had simply slipped from her list of things ‘to do’.
‘What do you mean – you forgot?’ asked Hamish. ‘I thought we’d agreed.’
‘I know… I just didn’t want to jinx it,’ she lied, ‘in case you didn’t get the job.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ Hamish snapped his laptop shut. ‘God, you really know how to kill the mood, don’t you?’
Taking the bottle of champagne, he stomped through to the sitting room.
Sophie knew he was right. She should have spoken to her supervisor, and let Hamish have his moment of glory and shared in his excitement. She quickly assembled the casserole and put it in the bottom oven, then, carrying her empty glass into the sitting room, curled up next to him. She held out her glass, inviting him to fill it.
‘I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to spoil things. I’m really pleased – honestly. There’s a lot to do and it will be…’ she paused, searching for the right word. ‘Exciting!’
‘Exciting – yes. Different… certainly.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Probably stressful… but we’ll cope – won’t we?’
‘Sure… we always do. I’ll get onto my supervisor tomorrow and see what can be arranged.’
Much to Sophie’s delight, her supervisor persuaded her that she could carry on with her PhD at London University. She would have to cut down her teaching hours but could continue her research work remotely.
‘I’ll have to take the train to London at least once a week – perhaps twice, but otherwise I can work from home,’ she told Hamish that evening. She felt relieved that her academic work would not be completely abandoned. ‘I won’t miss the teaching so much, and there will be so much to do when we move.’
The new house was a seventeenth century worker’s cottage in the middle of, what the estate agent’s particulars described as, ‘a chocolate box Cotswold village’. The house had been extended and renovated numerous times and its quaint exterior gave no clue as to the large, contemporary house within. On the other side of their garden wall was the village pub, which – judging by its tiny windows and irregular roof – must have been one of the earliest buildings in the village. The pub faced the village green, which in turn was edged by rows of cottages, built in the local gold-coloured stone, their front gardens filled with a riot of late summer colour. At the edge of the village was a large manor house owned by a family who had farmed the surrounding land for generations. A church stood nearby, which traced its roots back to Norman times. The old rectory next door had a well-proportioned eighteenth century façade concealing its much older origins. This splendid house was no longer inhabited by the local vicar, who lived, instead, in a modern Cotswold-stone bungalow at the other end of the village. The vicarage’s current incumbents were a forty-year-old hedge fund manager and his wife, who descended on the village each Friday evening in a gleaming white Range Rover accompanied by their three young children and Daisy, a beige cockapoo. Sophie gleaned this information from the lady who ran the village shop, on the day she and Hamish moved in.
‘I just need some fresh milk,’ Sophie said, as she leapt out of the car, ‘and it will be nice to introduce ourselves.’
‘Well, don’t be long,’ Hamish called after her, ‘the removal van is only a few minutes behind us and they can’t get in without me – I’ve got the keys.’
‘You go on then,’ she said, ‘I’ll walk down to the house when I’m done.’
‘So, you’re taking the cottage behind the pub, are you?’ said the shopkeeper, as she rang up Sophie’s meagre shopping.
‘Yes… we’re moving in today. I just needed one or two things, and some fresh milk,’ said Sophie, looking around the unfamiliar shop. The selection of produce was limited, she noticed, to basic groceries, and a ‘not-so-fresh’ display of fruit and vegetables.
‘Over there in the fridge,’ gestured the lady. ‘Will you be here… all week?’ she asked, as she rang up the milk on her till.
‘Oh yes. My husband’s a doctor – he starts at Cheltenham General next week.’
‘Well, that makes a nice change.
So many of the houses round here have gone to weekenders. The place is a ghost town during the week. The old rectory was the last one to go… some posh couple from London who swan down at the weekends pretending to be Lords of the Manor. And there’s the poor vicar nearly half a mile from the church in that little bungalow. It’s not right. It was lovely when he lived in the proper vicarage. He’d have nice little “do’s” down there – the whole village was invited. But money talks now… doesn’t it?’
As she walked down to her new house, Sophie could see that most of the houses appeared uninhabited. But here and there were signs of activity. Lawnmowers whirring, washing hanging tidily on the line. The air felt cool and fresh and clean. And whilst she had been anxious at the idea of leaving London, in particular, of leaving her beloved family, the view from the green as she looked across the valley, was breathtakingly beautiful. Perhaps, she thought, she and Hamish could be happy here. Perhaps this was the place where they would finally become a family.
Sophie and Hamish’s nearest neighbours presented themselves almost the moment the couple moved in. As the removal van backed away down the gravel drive, Sophie shut the glazed front door with relief. She had just picked up a box of china ready to take it down the long curving hall to the kitchen, when she spied a thin elderly man with sparse grey hair, barely five feet tall, standing on the doorstep, carrying a hen under each arm. He wore a pair of stained twill trousers, a checked shirt and a tweed jacket that had seen better days. Standing behind him was a sturdy grey-haired woman – presumably his wife – carrying a parcel wrapped in tin foil.
‘Afternoon, missus,’ said the man in a broad Gloucestershire burr, as Sophie opened the door. ‘I’ve come to put the chicks away. I’m Mick… Mick the Chick.’
Sophie stifled a laugh, realising that he was perfectly serious. ‘How nice to meet you… Mick. And er… your…’ she looked in anticipation at the elderly woman bearing the parcel.
‘This is Dorothy – my wife.’
‘We’ve brought you a cake,’ explained Dorothy, holding out the tin foil parcel. ‘We live in the cottage at the end of your drive,’ she explained, gesturing to a tiny stone cottage emitting a faint wisp of smoke from the chimney.
‘Oh, that’s so kind… really thoughtful. Well, you’d better come in.’
Mick and Dorothy followed Sophie along the curving hall and into the kitchen. As Mick dropped the hens on the floor, they shook their feathers vigorously and meandered contentedly between the packing cases. Mick pulled up the only kitchen chair and sat down, proprietorially, leaving his wife standing. She hovered nervously, surveying the mountain of unopened boxes that had been dumped unceremoniously by the removal men.
‘Will the chickens be all right?’ asked Sophie anxiously, watching them pecking hopefully at her kitchen floor.
‘Oh, they’re fine. They’re used to coming inside,’ said Mick matter-of-factly.
The hens, Mick explained, were part of a flock that lived in a shed in Sophie and Hamish’s garden.
‘So are they our chickens?’ asked Sophie, somewhat confused. ‘I noticed them when we were looking around, but I thought they belonged to the previous owners – the Standings. I presumed they would take them with them?’
‘What’s this? Who would take what with them…’ asked Hamish, coming into the kitchen carrying two more chairs for their visitors.
‘Darling, this is Mick and… I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Dorothy,’ said the lady, taking one of the chairs from Hamish and sitting down gingerly at the kitchen table.
‘It seems the Standings have left us some chickens,’ said Sophie as cheerfully as she could, indicating the two hens.
‘I don’t think they ever mentioned anything about that when we were buying the place,’ said Hamish.
‘No… well they wouldn’t,’ piped up Mick. ‘They’re mine by rights. I’ve always looked after them. Since Old Man Trent’s days… He used to own this place. Owned most of the village, Old Man Trent did.’
‘So they’re yours… but they’re kept on our land,’ said Hamish logically, with just a hint of irritation in his voice. ‘Why don’t you keep them at your own house?’
Mick-the-Chick gave Hamish a look, as if having to explain a very simple problem to a particularly stupid child. ‘Because I don’t have enough room for them – that’s why. Like I say – I’ve always kept them here… no one’s ever minded before.’ He sounded quite affronted at this challenge to his way of life.
‘Oh no… we don’t mind,’ said Sophie hurriedly.
‘Well, hold on,’ interjected Hamish.
‘Let’s have a cup of tea,’ said Sophie. ‘We’re in a bit of mess, but I’m sure I can find the electric kettle somewhere.’ She unearthed the kettle, along with a knife and three plates from a cardboard box and cut Dorothy’s cake into edible slabs. ‘I’m afraid the Aga doesn’t seem to be working for some reason.’
‘Oh, I’ll get that going,’ said Mick, taking control. ‘It’ll be the oil intake – it gets clogged up if the oil’s a bit low. I suspect they didn’t leave a full tank for you – mean buggers.’
‘So where did you say the chickens were kept?’ asked Sophie, looking askance at the two hens, which were depositing little calling cards on the Yorkstone slabs.
‘In the shed – just outside the back door there,’ explained Mick, lying prone next to the Aga. ‘I come over each morning and let them out into the garden and collect the eggs. I can leave you a box each day if you like – out there on the windowsill. Then, at dusk, I come back and shut them up. Simple… Right, that’s working now.’ He stood up, patted the Aga, sat back down at the table, ate his slab of cake, drank his tea, and looked quite at home in the kitchen.
Dorothy volunteered her services to clear up the chickens’ mess and, as she stooped over the flags, rag in hand, suggested that she would be happy to clean and tidy for the couple. Sophie, who was exhausted from a dawn start and days of packing, heard herself acquiescing. Hamish shot her a dark look.
‘I tell you what,’ said Sophie, hurriedly backtracking, ‘let us get sorted. We’ll need a few days and then I’ll come and have a chat with you about it… all right?’
The couple left, using the back entrance. Mick put the two hens he’d arrived with into the chicken house and locked the door. From Sophie’s position in the doorway, as she waved the couple goodbye, she could hear the chickens clucking contentedly as they settled down for the night. As the tiny scrawny man and his larger, well-upholstered wife, walked away down the drive, Sophie was reminded of the nursery rhyme: ‘Jack Sprat could eat no fat…’
A mangy grey cat lay on the drive and rolled over compliantly. Mick-the-Chick knelt down and stroked it under its chin. The cat got up and wandered towards the house. It had only one eye, which gave it a lopsided and frankly hideous appearance. It strolled into the kitchen through the back door and lay languorously in front of the Aga.
‘What on earth…?’ said Hamish. ‘What the hell is this?’
Sophie rushed to the back door and called out to Mick and Dorothy. ‘Excuse me… but have you forgotten your cat?’
Mick swung round. ‘Not my cat – lives ’ere… always has. He’s called Uncle. He’s a dirty bugger…’
After they’d gone, Sophie and Hamish looked despairingly at the mangy animal which had taken up residence in their kitchen.
‘I don’t want a cat…’ said Hamish.
‘Well… we can’t just throw it out,’ said Sophie helplessly. ‘It’s obviously at home here.’
‘Well it better not get too comfortable. I shall get onto the Standings straight away and find out what the hell is going on. They’ll have to come and collect it.’
He returned to the kitchen twenty minutes later. Sophie had found some tall dark red dahlias growing in the garden and had put them into a vase in the centre of the table
‘That looks nice,’ said Hamish, pouring her a large glass of wine. ‘Something smells g
ood too.’
‘It’s just a casserole I made yesterday – it’s warming up – rather slowly. Think that Aga needs a bit of a service. Did you get hold of the Standings?’
‘Ah yes… it appears the old man was right. The cat rather goes with the house. That’s how it lost its eye apparently. Someone tried to move it years ago and it ran all the way back – from Devon, incredibly. It seems that we’re rather stuck with it.’
‘Well,’ said Sophie pragmatically, ‘I’m sure we’ll get used to him.’ The cat rolled over onto his other side, so concealing his missing eye. ‘He looks quite nice from this angle,’ said Sophie hopefully, stroking the cat’s flank.
Uncle purred deeply and looked up lovingly at his new mistress. He licked her hand with his scratchy tongue before laying his head contentedly down on the stone slabs, absorbing the warmth from the Aga, inhaling the smell of the casserole.
Sophie smiled up at Hamish. ‘And he might have his uses – mice and so on…’
‘I’ll tell you something,’ said Hamish, ‘it’s not going to be at all like living in Herne Hill.’
Chapter Six
London
March 1957
It was raining as George and Rachael stepped off the boat in Dover – a fine misty drizzle that coated their clothes and hair and seeped into Rachael’s bones. Their only possessions were contained in the two suitcases they had brought with them from Budapest. Rachael’s dark grey woollen coat, stretched over her swollen stomach, was frayed at the cuffs and had lost two of its buttons. She had no hat to protect her head from the rain. Her brown lace-up shoes were worn through and leaked as she slithered down the slippery rain-sodden gangplank at the docks.
After the inevitable and interminable wait for customs officials to check their passports and papers, the refugees were finally shepherded onto a crowded train heading for London. Father and daughter sat together, holding hands, staring out at the unfamiliar landscape through grimy windows.