by Georgia Hill
‘So bossy,’ grumbled Tim. He pulled his lanky frame off the kitchen chair and plonked his mug in the washing-up bowl. ‘I’m definitely going off this B&B. Never stayed anywhere like this, where you get bullied so much by the landlady.’
‘I’ll do worse than bully you, if you don’t get out of my kitchen,’ Rachel giggled and, grabbing a tea towel, snapped it at Tim’s rear.
‘Ouch!’ he shrieked. Then he bent over, presented his behind to her, and wiggled it.
‘Ooh, spank me some more, matron. I love you when you get all dominant.’
Rachel flicked the tea towel again. It met its target with a crack.
‘Ow!’ Tim put up his hands in surrender. ‘All right, I’m going, I’m going!’
On the roof, Gabe paused in the act of fixing on a new tile and listened to the raucous laughter coming from below. He ran a handkerchief around his sweaty neck and shoved it into his back pocket. With a grim expression, he continued to work.
Chapter 17
Coming back on Monday lunchtime to an empty house, having dropped Tim off at the station, Rachel found herself wandering around a silent cottage. There was no sign of Gabe or his father, no familiar red Toyota pickup in its parking space.
She felt so restless she’d even welcome the distraction that was Kevin, even if he was always looking her over. There was something sleazy about him in the way he always talked to her cleavage and never her face. Even so, today, she’d gladly make him his usual coffee, if it gave her something to occupy her. She felt itchy under her skin, had a million things to do, but didn’t want to settle to any of them.
She and Tim had had a lazy Sunday, having collected the papers from Rita in a mood so foul it even silenced Tim. They’d taken them to the front garden and had snoozed and read and eaten and drunk far too much. But it had been good to have some catch-up time.
They discussed Jyoti again, going over the same ground, with Tim exhorting a promise from Rachel to ring her again – and soon. Then Rachel had broached the subject of Hetty. She hadn’t given the woman much thought since Tim arrived; he’d filled the house so completely there was no room for even a suggestion of a ghost or memory.
‘So, you think you’re going to put all her notes and things together to make a book?’ he asked lazily, as he fanned himself with the Sunday review section. It was a hot day yet again.
‘Well maybe, but probably just concentrating on her childhood and teen years. That seems the most detailed part of the journal, from what I can see. It tails off and gets scrappy after about 1910.’ Rachel poured more wine and handed a glass to Tim. ‘It’s almost as if something interrupted her flow and she didn’t get to finish her life history. I’ve just read some bits of diary written in 1910 and they’re not that interesting either. It’s very frustrating.’
‘Well, you might have enough to make it interesting, anyway. You know, the more I think about it, the better an idea it sounds. Shall I ask Justin about it, wonderling?’
Rachel turned to him in gratitude. ‘That would be great, Tim.’ Justin was one of those people who had contacts in all sorts of worlds. ‘I’ll discuss it with Freda, too, of course,’ she added, referring to her agent, ‘but ask Justin to put some feelers out, would you? Ask him if he thinks there might be a market for something like that. And he might know the best person to send it to.’ She grinned. ‘He’s the sort of bloke who knows stuff like that.’
Tim took a sip of his wine. ‘Oh, he’s certainly that, alright. He amazes me sometimes, the contacts he has.’ He wiggled his bare toes pleasurably in the sun. ‘Would you put in some of your lovely, lovely drawings?’
Rachel nodded. ‘That’s the plan. And some of the cottage too.’ She gestured to the half-dug beds, ‘Maybe some of the plants in the garden, if Stan and I get going on it.’
In fact, Stan had made an impressive start already; there had been just enough room on the cleared front path for she and Tim to put out a couple of kitchen chairs. ‘And I’m going to hunt down Delamere House.’
‘That was the big house?’
‘Yes. It’s in a village called Upper Tadshell, not far from here. If it’s still in one piece, that is. I get the feeling from Hetty it was in a bit of a state.’
‘No rellies left?’
Rachel shook her head. ‘Not one, as far as I know. Good, I suppose in a way.’
Tim slid his sunglasses down his nose and looked at her through one opened eye. ‘Why, pray?’
‘Well, if there were, I’d have to give the journal and letters back. Or ask permission to the use the material, at the very least.’
‘Ah!’ Tim nodded knowingly and pushed his glasses back into place. He changed tack. ‘But can you cope with the workload? Can you get your bread-and-butter stuff done and a book? And I know it’s idyllic out here, but the inside of your new house, my darling heart, is a mess. You’ve still got a lot to do.’
‘The sitting room’s fine,’ Rachel began defensively.
‘Apart from the hole in the skirting board.’
‘Okay, apart from the hole in the skirting board,’ she admitted but added, ‘that won’t be there long. Mike and Gabe are doing a great job and it looks as if Gabe might have finished the roof while we were out yesterday.’
Tim curled his lips wickedly. ‘While we were out torturing National Trust ladies. Bliss!’ he cried, ‘Heaven. The one in the grand salon was a hoot.’
‘You were very cruel pretending to be an expert on porcelain and claiming that vase was fake. She nearly had a stroke. I don’t know why you like to do it.’
Tim lifted a hand and waved it around, languidly. ‘She deserved everything she got. She wouldn’t let me try out the chaise longue. And, you must admit, purple brocade is very me.’
Rachel giggled. ‘You nearly got us thrown out.’
Tim did a lazy stretch. ‘I did, didn’t I?’ he said, with satisfaction. ‘But you have to admit, however annoying the guides are, the NT do a lovely lunch.’ Absentmindedly, he flapped a droning bee away.
‘It’s only you who find the guides annoying,’ Rachel reproved. ‘The rest of us don’t mind them at all.’
Tim sat up suddenly, making the pile of papers on his lap slide off. ‘Do you think this Betty woman –’
‘Hetty,’ Rachel corrected, hoping that if the ghost of the old woman was around she wouldn’t be offended.
‘Oh Hetty/Betty whatever. Do you think she lived in a place like that? Can you imagine it?’ He looked at Rachel over the top of his Ray-Bans. ‘Servants at one’s beck and call, stable boys to frolic in the hay with.’
Rachel giggled. ‘I don’t think it was quite like that at Delamere House. I get the feeling they only lived in part of it, and, as I said, it sounds as if the rest was falling down. And get your mind out of the gutter, Tim.’
‘It was in the hayloft, actually.’ Tim sat back again, took his sunglasses off and lifted his face to the sky. ‘Oh this glorious weather! One never feels the sun in quite the same way in London. Too much pollution, I suppose. Still, can’t get goggle face, never hear the last of it from Justin.’ In one of his lightning changes of subject, he got back to the topic. ‘Why didn’t Hetty live in the lap of luxury, then?’
Rachel had wondered about this too. She’d found pages and pages that described the house at length. ‘Well, they might have lived in an enormous house but, from reading her journal, it was clear the family didn’t have money. From what I’ve read, it sounds as if they only had a cook, a couple of maids and two gardeners. Oh, and someone to drive the dog cart.’
‘Poor things!’ Tim said drily, ‘however did they manage? And there they were, the poor, living in back-to-backs, fifty million families to a hole in the ground.’
Rachel reached over and poked him in the ribs. ‘You know what I mean! It’s all relative. It’s not a lot of people to run a big house. The family must have been quite impoverished.’
‘So, no stable boys, then?’ Tim sighed in an overly dramatic fashion.
> ‘There was one, apparently,’ Rachel giggled. ‘He was called Sam. Hetty speaks of him with great affection.’
‘I’ll bet she does.’ Tim gave a dirty laugh.
‘No,’ Rachel answered, suddenly certain of the fact but having no idea why. ‘Do you know, I think she was in love with her cousin.’
‘Keeping it in the family, that’s our aristo families for you. You mean this man she was supposed to marry?’
‘Well, he wasn’t really a cousin as such. Distant relative, though.’ Rachel scrunched up her eyes at the glare of the sun. Was that a movement over by the chestnut tree? She shook her head. The unwise combination of wine and sunshine was making her imagine things. Still, she could have sworn she’d seen a flash of a woman in dusty black. Hetty. Confirming that what she was about to tell Tim was the truth. ‘I think she was fond of Edward,’ she began slowly, ‘but I think it was Richard who she really loved.’
‘Richard? Sexy name!’
‘He was another cousin, distant cousin, that is. Younger.’
‘Oh, you can’t beat the allure of a younger man,’ Tim said and gave another, even filthier, laugh. ‘What was this Richard like, then?’
‘Blue-eyed, black-haired. Bit of a dare-devil, liked to hunt.’
‘Well, darling heart, she’d be mad not to prefer him over Edward. What was he like?’
‘Um … academic, bit stuffy. What they’d call a “good egg” I think.’ Rachel ears pricked. Was that a girlish giggle she’d heard? Or just birdsong?
‘But you think she married Edward and not this delicious-sounding Richard?’
Rachel blanked off her mind from the delirious possibility that Hetty was eavesdropping their conversation. ‘I think so,’ she answered, distracted. ‘Haven’t got to that part yet.’
‘Didn’t you say there are some letters wrapped up in ribbon in that tin of yours? Bound to be love letters, aren’t they? Haven’t you read them?’
‘No.’
‘Why ever not, wonderling? Be the first thing I’d dive into.’
‘I can’t quite bring myself to, somehow. Seems too much of an invasion.’ Rachel shifted. The hard wooden chair was getting uncomfortable.
‘Well, Hetty left them in the attic for someone to find,’ Tim pointed out reasonably. ‘She must have had half an idea they’d be found and read. Do you want me to look at them?’ He began to get up.
‘No!’
There was something in Rachel’s tone that made him sit back down. ‘Okay, darling,’ Tim spread his hands, placatingly, ‘but I think you’re mad not to read them. They’d be the first thing I’d go for. When are we talking about exactly? What period in history? Remind me.’
‘The actual journal begins in 1963, but Hetty’s living here then. She describes going to the big house in 1903. The last bit I read was a diary entry. It described a hunt ball in 1910. It was one of her first proper social outings.’
‘Christ!’ A blackbird shot up into the air, cackling, startled into flight by Tim’s oath.
‘What?’ Rachel peered at him.
‘They haven’t got long to go, have they?’
‘Until what?’ Rachel asked, puzzled.
Tim tutted. ‘Sometimes, dear girl, I despair over your education. The war. The Great War. World War One. Millions dead, even more terribly injured. You know, the war to end all wars.’ Tim snorted. ‘Some hope. You can bet your beautiful Richard and dutiful Edward went. Not to mention Sam the stable boy.’
Rachel sat up, feeling unutterably stupid. She clapped her hands to her face. ‘Oh my God! I hadn’t thought. I hadn’t put it all together. I’ve been so engrossed in Hetty.’
She glanced at Tim and tried to explain. ‘Somehow, the outside world didn’t impact much on their lives at Delamere.’ She shrugged. ‘There was the slightest mention of the king dying, but they seemed to live in their own little bubble.’ Rachel gestured to the garden. ‘Come to think of it, it’s just like that around here even now. People get on with their lives, but London and the rest of the country, let alone the rest of the world may as well not exist! It’s peculiarly remote.’
‘Very.’
Despite his answer, Rachel was aware that Tim didn’t really understand. After all, they were only three hours, by train, from London. There was television, a phone. But she felt it was true. Stan, Paul, Kevin, and even Gabe, went about their lives, not all that much differently to how their ancestors had lived a hundred years ago. Everything focused on the village or nearby Fordham. A trip into Hereford was rare and even then the city had more the feel of a large market town than the county capital. Most knew one another – and one another’s business! Strangers struck up conversations and, at the very least, shared a cheery greeting and a comment about the weather. That much Rachel enjoyed and found refreshing after the anonymity of London. But the county could also be unremittingly parochial and it was very male-dominated. Only the other day, she’d had to swallow back a retort when she’d heard Kevin refer to women as ‘birds’. She knew it would have been useless to begin an argument with him.
Herefordshire was a county unchanged and unchanging. Almost secretive. The inhabitants stuck to their ways, regardless of what went on in the outside world. It occurred to Rachel for the first time, that for Hetty, a young girl on the cusp of adulthood and possessing such a zest for life, it must have been suffocating. She did not have the luxury of choice that Rachel enjoyed. No vote, no position unless married, no career.
She stared out, beyond the garden, to where she’d seen movement before. Nothing moved, not even the leaves on the tree. It was very still and very warm. The air hanging low and heavy in an impossibly blue sky. But Rachel sensed a rush of gratitude from Hetty and knew she’d got it right. ‘And yet, despite all that, you didn’t let it defeat you, did you?’ she murmured. And got a faint laugh in response, as if to say, ‘Certainly not!’
Tim coughed slightly and rustled the paper. His interest had moved on; he’d picked up the Sunday supplement and was now engrossed in what looked like an article on the new Tate Modern opening. She’d let him read and continued to watch the view in silence.
And now, Rachel stood in an echoing house, at the sitting-room window, again staring out at the view but, this time, seeing nothing.
Tim had filled her little cottage with laughter and filthy jokes and, for a while, Hetty, Edward and Richard had faded into the past, probably where they belonged. She shivered. For the first time in three months there was a hint of chill in the air. Even though it was still only June, autumn was giving a premature warning. In contrast to the weekend, the weather was dank and misty. And depressing.
The tin on the shelf behind her was calling again. Crossing the room she took it down, pulled the throw around her and settled on the sofa.
Her fingers trembled as she picked up the little bundle of letters and untied the ribbon. The first one was small, stained brown and, as Rachel sniffed gingerly, a strange odour rose from it. Damp and age she thought, at first, and then…death.
The letter smelled of death.
Hardly wanting to, she unfolded the thin slip of paper and began to read. Tim had been wrong. They weren’t love letters at all.
4th December, 1914
1st Bn The Worcestershire Regiment
BEF
My darling girl,
Can you believe we have been married a year? Not quite the married life we hoped for, alas.
I am glad my last letter reached you and you found it ‘topping’! Is that a Richard word? As you can imagine, letters mean so very much to us all out here, so keep yours coming! I may not always have time to pen much more than a scribble, but I always appreciate your news.
Well, we have been in some scrapes, but the men have been marvellous and there is a great team spirit amongst them. We have had one or two casualties, but nothing to the losses in other battalions.
We are not at the sharp end all the time, thank goodness. It can get a bit stiff there and there have been some near thi
ngs. When we are held back in reserve, it can even be quite a jolly life. I was billeted with a wonderful family recently, complete with its very own Aunt Leonora, can you believe? She was a tiny, wrinkled old thing of near eighty or so but she ruled the roost, I can tell you.
Rations are not half bad and we had the most enjoyable curry last night. Richard might, indeed, have called it ‘topping’! It is not too bad a life at all and, for the first time ever, I feel my life has purpose. Whatever the outcome of this thing, I feel I will, at least, have done my bit.
And now, onto practical matters. Dear girl, could I presume to ask you to send me one or two things? Some more writing paper would be most appreciated, of course, but also some tobacco (my favourite if you can get it, but any will do) and socks! It gets so very cold out here unless I am lucky and get put up with the redoubtable Madame Orianne, as mentioned before. She keeps a great fire going. Heaven knows where she finds the wood!
Hetty, old thing, give my best to the aunts and to that young scrap Richard. Tell him not to be in such a tearing hurry to join us out here. He would hate to see what they do to the horses. Can you believe it will soon be Christmas? No chance of leave, I fear.
I can’t say much, but there’s rumour of a Big Push coming up, so wish me luck, old thing!
With happy and fond memories of our wedding day,
Yr loving husband,
Edward
So Edward had fought in the war! Rachel refolded the letter into it well-worn creases and laid it tenderly in her lap. Of course he would. He was exactly the type to do so. Where had he been when he wrote to Hetty? How long had they been married? What had happened to Richard? It was all so frustrating! She’d known it was a mistake to read the things out of order. She found another letter, a shorter one this time and in a different, more female, hand. This too had the same stench emanating from it but, unlike its predecessor, was written in ink.
March 14th, 1915
Dear Mrs Trenchard-Lewis,
I am a VAD stationed at Ward Twenty-Four, Etaples. Your husband is in my care, having been wounded at Neuve Chapelle. He was most adamant I write to you to say all is well and not to worry. He has a shoulder wound and a touch of fever, but is showing good grit. He has been showing us all his wedding picture of you both and, may I say, what a handsome couple you make.