by Janet Woods
She gave him a faint grin before turning back to the patient. ‘I’m not as delicate a flower as I look, Captain Sangster, and neither am I stupid. I think I might swear too if I were in your position. But let me warn you of one thing . . . if you lash out at me I shall box your ears, because I won’t put up with it.’
The shaking stopped and his bluer-than-blue eyes widened as they focussed on her. ‘S . . . saucy mad . . . am.’ A grin flitted around his lips.
She caught Beamish’s approving glance on her, and was heartened by it. ‘Now we all know where we stand, don’t we? If you need anything to make life easier, let me know. I’ll bring you up some tea in a little while. Welcome home, Mr Sangster. Mr Beamish, you’ll be a welcome addition to the staff, and we’ll do our best to make you feel comfortable here.’
‘Thank you, Ma’am.’
When Richard Sangster stuck his tongue out and saluted untidily, Livia sighed. ‘You’ve only just got here and already you’re being a childish pest. Behave yourself.’
She left the room accompanied by the low chuckle Beamish gave. It was going to be hard keeping any sort of control over these two, she feared, trying not to laugh.
Old Mr Bugg disappeared one day, replaced by a much younger version, who informed her that he was old Bugg’s grandson, just back from the war.
‘Grandpa’s rheumatism is playing up so he’s decided to retire. I’ve come in his stead. Call me Matthew,’ he said.
She didn’t know whether to inform anyone or not – so she didn’t.
‘Mr Bugg said he’d find me a small Christmas tree for Nutting Cottage.’
‘Aye, I’ll see to it for you.’
She wondered if she should perhaps tell Mr Stone, then decided against it. The major could do that if it occurred to him.
Matthew Bugg stayed on, and along with Beamish was useful around the house when anything heavy needed lifting, or the windows needed washing.
‘Who is that person?’ the major said to her one day.
‘Mr Bugg. He usually works in the garden.’
Vaguely, he said, ‘Ah yes, so he does; I thought he was an older man.’
Livia had worked out her routine with Beamish. She would have very little to do on her shift, apart from relax, keep Richard company, and walk him around the garden in his wheelchair if he felt like some air.
Richard Sangster responded to her attempts at conversation with grunts and the occasional word. He stuttered badly if he tried to converse, swore and banged his hand on the arm of the chair before stuttering out, ‘S . . . sorry.’ She learned to handle his moods with calmness, for they stemmed from frustration.
In the week before Christmas Livia took possession of Nutting Cottage. She made the beds, using painstakingly repaired linen that had been discarded for rags. It would do until she could afford some of her own.
She went there after dinner each evening and usually fell asleep in the armchair, waking cold and disorientated when the fire went out.
The new Mrs Sangster called her to the drawing room the next day. ‘This is not good enough, Livia. I rang the bell twice last night. A housekeeper needs to be on call twenty-four hours a day.’
‘I was at Nutting Cottage preparing for the arrival of my sister and brother. I’ve worked through my schedule with the Sinclair trust. As long as the kitchen staff are familiar with the menu and the housekeeping is kept up to date, my evenings are free to spend with my sister and brother, when they arrive.’
Her mouth pursed. ‘You certainly managed to manipulate the former Mrs Sangster. Well, don’t think you’ll do the same with me. We’re very different.’
Livia could say the same about her with the major. ‘Yes, Madam, you most certainly are. Is there anything else?’
‘You can take my underwear and give it to Florence to wash.’
‘I understood it was washed yesterday.’
‘It was not washed well enough.’
Raising an eyebrow, Livia gazed at her. ‘You know how short-staffed we are. Florence has a lot to do, and I would suggest you wash it yourself if you’re not satisfied. Florence has other tasks.’
‘You’re refusing a direct order. Be very careful, Livia. You might find yourself losing that cosy little home you’re making for your family.’
Fear leaped in her chest, digging its claws in as she whispered, ‘You wouldn’t do that . . . be so mean towards two innocent children.’
‘Wouldn’t I?’
Yes, she certainly would . . . but could she? Livia thought. The cottage didn’t belong to Major Sangster . . . yet. Out of habit she washed the underwear herself, otherwise the woman would make everyone’s life a misery
Esmé and Chad arrived the next day, just after lunch. From Richard Sangster’s window she saw Mr Stone’s car come up the driveway, and a pair of pale faces looking out.
Excitement fermented inside her. At last . . . at long last! Thank you, God. ‘It’s my sister and brother,’ she said, beaming a smile at the two men. ‘They’ve arrived.’
‘You’ll want to get them settled into the cottage, so we can manage without you this afternoon,’ Beamish said.
Richard stammered, ‘G . . . give them . . . something . . . eat.’
‘Thank you.’ She flew down the stairs and out of the front door. ‘Esmé! Chad.’
The pair huddled together, looking bewildered. They were pale and thin, and carried no luggage. How lethargic they both were. Again, Livia was kept at a distance by the blank gaze one usually gives a stranger. Esmé clung to Chad, and he said, ‘It’s all right, Es. It’s our sister. She won’t hurt you. Hello, Olivia.’
Both children took a step back when she approached, and Esmé began to cry. ‘I want to go back to the home.’
Tears pushed against Livia’s eyes. ‘You won’t have to go there again . . . not ever . . . come here, darling.’
Chad pushed her forward, and Livia took her sister’s thin little body in her arms. The girl began to struggle and scream. Wrenching away from Livia’s arms, she hurled herself against Chad, who put a protective arm about her. ‘It’s all right, Esmé.’ He gave Livia an angry glare. ‘She needs time to get used to you. Don’t make a fuss and she’ll come round.’
Connie came out. ‘Bring them into the kitchen where it’s warm. There’s some broth to eat, and if you’re still hungry after that, I might find a slice of roly-poly jam pudding and custard apiece.’ She ruffled Chad’s hair and took Esmé’s hand in hers. ‘Say thank you to Mr Stone and let’s get inside, where it’s warm.’
They did as they were told.
Simon Stone smiled benignly at her after they’d gone. ‘I have a son and a daughter about their age. The children are tired and hungry, I think. I have some business to conduct with Mr Richard Sangster while I’m here.’
‘I’ll go up and inform him. If you’d like to wait in the small sitting room, Beamish will bring him down. Thank you so much for bringing the children. I hope they weren’t too much trouble.’
‘None at all. This is a big change for them, Miss Carr, but it won’t take them long to settle down. I should be about an hour. If you’re ready, I’ll drop you all off at Nutting Cottage before I go home.’
‘That’s kind of you.’
‘It was my pleasure. They said they couldn’t remember being in a car before, and your brother was most interested.’ He hesitated a little, then said, ‘I thought your sister was a little lethargic. She slept for most of the way, and has a cough. Chad said she’d had it for some time. I do think it might be a good idea for the doctor to examine them both.’
‘Thank you; I’ll take your advice on that.’
‘I’ll leave the bags in the car then. I took the liberty of buying them some suitable clothing, since they only had what they stood up in.’
‘It didn’t enter my head that they wouldn’t have clothing. Oh dear . . . you must allow me to reimburse you out of my wages.’
She was filled with relief when he smiled, saying quietly, ‘You�
�ll need your wage, which is little enough to manage on. I’m sure the trust can absorb the cost. How are you managing with Captain Sangster?’
She laughed. ‘You’ll have to ask him that. He’s very brave, and I feel so sorry for his plight. I also like him. He has a sense of humour and doesn’t feel pity for himself. All the same, he’s a bit of a challenge, since I never know whether he’s teasing me or being serious. I’ll do my best to help make him comfortable, of course. Mr Beamish is very good with him.’
‘They went through the war together. Beamish saved his life at the front. He came looking for him after he returned home to discover that his own wife had become a victim of the flu.’
Livia had not known. Poor Beamish, she thought, and felt so very glad that her own kin had survived it. Perhaps her prayer had helped after all.
A little later, she, along with the children, copious bags, a fruitcake and a freshly made loaf of bread donated by Connie from the Foxglove House larder, were deposited at the cottage. She had to admit that Mr Stone had been generous with the trust’s money.
The little Christmas tree was in a bucket in the sitting room. She’d put some cotton wool on the branches to resemble snow, and had made an angel out of a paper lace doily for the top. It looked a little bare, but pretty, and the children could make some paper lanterns to hang on it.
After she lit the kitchen stove and collected the milk from the shelf in the porch, she went inside to find the children sitting on the settee. She smiled at them, feeling slightly awkward, because the reunion had not gone as she expected. ‘Haven’t you been upstairs to see your bedrooms yet?’
When the children looked at each other doubtfully, she said, ‘You have a bedroom each, and you don’t have to ask permission to go anywhere inside the house.’
‘For ourselves . . . a whole bedroom each?’ Chad said.
‘They’re only small, but if you go up those stairs you will find your rooms through the two doors on the right. I sleep in the one on the other side of the landing.’
‘How will we know which one belongs to us?’
‘Go and look. You’ll know. Take a bag up with you so we can put your stuff in the chest of drawers.’
There was also a large trunk in the hall, which was too heavy to take up by herself. She’d unpack the contents later, when she had time.
She followed the children up to the rooms, which she’d freshened up with a couple of coats of whitewash. Esmé’s room had a gaudy pink patchwork quilt Connie had bought from the market, and a kidney-shaped dressing table with a glass top and a front curtain of printed pink rosebuds that matched the curtains. There was a rag doll sitting in a wickerwork chair, which had also been given a coat of white paint.
‘Florence made the doll for you.’
‘For me?’
‘You must thank her when you see her.’
Nodding, Esmé smiled and picked the doll up. ‘She’s pretty.’
‘Isn’t she?’ Between them, the three women had crocheted squares and made a blanket quilt for Chad’s room, in dark blue, red and white. Livia had found a telescope in the attic, polished it and set it up at the window. ‘You’ll be able to look at the stars through it,’ she said.
‘You might see the man on the moon,’ Esmé said, giving a bit of a cough. Emptying the bags, Livia sorted out the clothing and folded it into drawers, thankful that Mr Stone had been practical in his choices. There were at least two changes for everyday, flannel smocks, a pretty velvet dress with a lace collar for Esmé, and for Chad, a suit for best and sturdy boots.
Chad’s mind wasn’t on clothing, though. He swung the telescope round, then shouted, ‘I can see a big red bird in the garden. He looks jolly fierce.’
‘Where?’ Esmé said, joining him and jiggling up and down with impatience.
‘Down there,’ and he handed the telescope to Esmé.
Livia smiled when she looked out of the window. ‘It’s a chicken. I’d better go down and shoo her back into her pen, else the fox will have her for dinner tonight. Then we won’t have any eggs for breakfast.’
‘Can I do it?’ the twins asked in unison.
‘We’ll do it together in case the others have escaped. We don’t want to scare them.’
Only two of the five were roaming the garden. The children took a handful of bran each and enticed the chickens back into their pen. They’d got out through a hole in their coop. ‘See if there’s a hammer and nails in the shed, Chad.’
He came back with both, and an old tin tray, saying in manly fashion, ‘The wood’s rotten. We need another piece.’
‘Chickens need . . . new home.’
They turned to gaze at Richard Sangster, who was rugged up and leaning on Beamish.
‘I thought you had a meeting with Mr Stone. Have you followed us?’
‘We did. Simon only wanted my signature . . . he’s w . . . with Pa now.’
Beamish smiled at them all and shrugged. ‘He was too curious to wait, and insisted I bring him.’
‘You walked all that way in this cold wind? I could have taken the children upstairs to meet you if you’d wanted, Mr Sangster.’
‘Room . . . like prison.’
‘He needed to get some fresh air, so I drove him in the Rolls.’
‘Hah! Call that . . . driving.’
‘Children, this is Captain Richard Sangster, for whom I work. And this is Mr Beamish, who looks after him.’
Esmé clung to her leg. Richard held out a hand and Chad took it. ‘Your hand is shaking, Sir,’ he said. ‘Are you cold?’
‘The war . . . made me ill.’
‘Were you shot?’
‘Chad, that’s rude.’
‘No, not rude . . . curiosity. War seems . . . an adventure to a boy. Yes . . . shot head and back . . . uncover scar for inspection, Beamish.’
Beamish removed Richard’s hat and Chad’s eyes widened. ‘Crikey Moses! You were jolly lucky, Sir. Have you still got the bullet? Can I see it?’
A wry smile twisted Richard’s mouth. ‘No bullet . . . I’m afraid. I should have . . . ducked . . . but didn’t see it coming. Beamish caught one in his arse and couldn’t sit down for a week. S . . . sorry, Livia.’
‘How do you manage to look innocent? Arse yourself, Richard Sangster.’
He laughed.
‘It was merely a splinter, but it’s not a war wound I can brag about,’ Beamish said.
When Chad began to laugh, Richard and Beamish grinned at each other.
‘Arse is a rude word,’ Esmé scolded. ‘Chad got the cane for saying that, and he cried.’
‘It didn’t really hurt, and I wasn’t crying, I had something in my eye,’ Chad said quickly.
‘I beg your pardon, Miss Esmé. A man shouldn’t speak like that in the company of . . . young ladies. Help you build henhouse . . . Beamish and me, next week. I’ll . . . instruct. You and Beams . . . do the work. All right, Chad?’
‘I’ll say, Sir,’ Chad said, adopting a man-of-the-house air. ‘We don’t want the fox to get at the chickens. In the meantime, I’ll patch it up with this tin tray I saw in the shed.’ He set to with a will, hammering nails through a rusty tray and rotten wood. It wouldn’t last long.
‘That’s . . . the ticket.’
Livia was worried about Richard being out in the cold. ‘Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea. The stove is lit, and it won’t take me long to put the kettle on and put a match to the fire in the sitting room.’
‘Good of you, Livia. Give me your arm. Beamish, fetch my . . . gift.’
Richard was trembling all over from the effort he’d made walking into the house. Livia seated him in a wing chair, struck a match and lit the fire. When she looked up at him his eyes caught hers. It was like looking at his mother; he had the same fragile vulnerability to his face.
‘Go and see where Beamish . . . has got to,’ he said to the children, and they ran off to do his bidding.
‘The room won’t take long to warm up,’ she said,
feeling suddenly awkward without the children as a barrier between them. She straightened up.
‘Don’t fuss over me, Livia. I’ve been in . . . colder places.’
She smiled. ‘I didn’t expect you to be quite so different. You were strong and healthy when you left . . . younger, of course, but less mature.’
‘I’ve aged about a century in the last few years. I expected you to be the same too . . . a child bobbing . . . around the house in an apron and cap with dustpan and brush . . . trying to please everyone at the same time. I felt . . . sorry for you.’
‘Now the boot is on the other foot. Hush, don’t talk so much, Richard Sangster, you’re running out of breath.’
His mouth twisted into a grimace.
Guilt filled her. ‘I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean that how it sounded.’
‘I know that too. Do you really feel sorry for me?’
She nodded. ‘Yes . . . I suppose I do.’
‘You’re sweet, Livia.’ He reached out to gently touch her cheek, but jerked his hand away when they heard the children.
Esmé had a purring black kitten with white socks, nose and whiskers cuddled in her arms. She wore an ear-to-ear smile on her face. ‘His name is Whiskers. Chad’s got a dog.’
Another two mouths to feed, Livia thought glumly, as a hairy white dog with brown patches came in, dragging Chad along on the end of a leather leash. ‘He’s fully-grown and yaps a bit. Beamish got him from the market. He’s house-trained and will keep the rats down.’
‘Watch this, Livia,’ Chad said proudly. ‘Sit!’
The dog sat and gazed up at him, his short tail sweeping the carpet.
‘Can we keep him? Please, Livia. It’s a moving-in present from the captain.’
A fait accompli if ever she’d heard one. Livia looked at the odd creature with its tufty hair, which already seemed part of Chad, and she didn’t have the heart to say no. ‘What’s his name going to be, Chad?’
‘Bertie.’
She offered Richard an accusing look when Bertie lifted his leg against the door frame. ‘I thought you said he was house-trained.’
Richard passed the look on to Beamish, who shrugged slightly and turned an innocent glance through the window. ‘That’s what I was told.’