‘Oh, Lor,’ said Bessie snatching Edna’s hand and dragging her back to the kitchen before the butler and cook-housekeeper came out of the sitting room and caught them eavesdropping. ‘This weekend’s going to be something dreadful for us. You’ve not been here when we’ve had a proper house party before, have you? You won’t believe the amount of additional work that’s involved, we’ll hardly have time to catch our breath or go to the lavatory even, and Mrs Palmer will be that flustered and bad tempered, she’ll be about to blow a gasket any minute and she’ll probably cancel our half day off on Sunday as well!’
Edna’s face crumpled and there was clearly the threat of tears spilling down her young face.
‘Don’t worry, Edna,’ Bessie said, kindly, holding her hand and pushing a black curl, that had come loose, back under Edna’s mop cap. She was only a few years older than the scullery maid, but Edna suddenly looked so young and frail that instinctively Bessie felt pity for her. ‘No need to give on so, Edna. Happen I did speak rather hasty like. All I meant was that it’s going to be a lot of hard work for the likes of you and me, but it’ll be exciting too. There’ll be a real buzz around the place, loads of comings and goings. They’ll be delivering the fish and meat and Mrs Palmer will be examining them, super critical like, she’ll be very exacting in what she’ll accept and she’ll give them an earful I can tell you if it’s not of the very best quality. And Ernie will probably be delivering stuff as well.’
At the mention of the delivery boy, Edna blushed and started to brighten.
‘And Mrs Palmer will be creating the most wonderful dishes, Edna, they’ll be a sight to behold. If you watch and listen you’ll learn such a lot. That’s what I’m going to do. And I’ll offer to give her a hand with some of the trickier dishes, because it’s the only way to learn, Edna. You know I’ve set my heart on being a cook before I’m thirty. And when I am, you’ll be my kitchen maid and we’ll have so much fun.’
With that, in something approaching high spirits, they raced to lay up Mrs Palmer’s table with all the utensils she would need to cook from scratch; two chopping boards, one big, one small, two graters, several sieves, including a hair one and a wire one, five mixing bowls and an impressive range of knives and forks, spoons and whisks. By the time Mrs Palmer had thumbed through a few pages of her cooking bible to double check recipes she already knew by heart, the table was fully laid.
‘Well girls, that’s what I like to see,’ Mrs Palmer took a deep breath and rolled up her sleeves. ‘Let’s make her ladyship proud, shall we? Let’s show them what the kitchen at Ashgrove is made of!’
‘My dear, whatever are you doing hiding yourself away in here?’ enquired Sir William, wandering into his wife’s morning room which was situated on the first floor of Ashgrove House, next to the linen cupboard.
‘I’m keeping out of the way, William,’ Lady Withers replied closing her copy of The Lady magazine, the pages of which she had been flicking through listlessly in an attempt to try and keep herself occupied. ‘You should have seen Mrs Palmer’s face when I told her Marjorie and Henry would be staying this weekend. She looked as if she was going to explode, I was so worried, I almost called out for Stafford; you’d have thought I was telling her that the King and Queen were coming, the way she kept going on, saying as how she’d have to change all the menus and bring extra staff in.’
‘Well, I’ve been thinking, my dear,’ Sir William said, ‘about Edith and well, I think you were right to be worried yesterday. I think it really would be best for all concerned if you put her off.’
‘Oh, William, how very tiresome of you,’ Lady Withers said, giving her husband a stare of exasperation. ‘If only you’d shown half as much interest in everything yesterday, when I was tearing my hair out with the worry of it all. I can’t possibly put Edith off, it’s simply much too late now. Why, Harold’s probably bundling Edith into a train carriage as we speak. And besides, now that I know Marjorie and Henry are coming down too, I think it might prove rather useful having Edith around, it might help to defuse things.’
‘How so, my dear?’ Sir William looked distinctly puzzled.
‘Well, as soon as Stafford told me that my sister was on her way here, I knew the weekend was going to be an absolute disaster. Marjorie has obviously got wind somehow about Lavinia coming down and probably intends to have it out with her about this shop work business once and for all. Well, of course, I realised that would mean that it was going to be absolutely awful for us all, Marjorie doing her usual bull in a china shop routine and Lavinia is bound to be all stubborn and tearful and sulky. We’d probably have been left to entertain her friend and Marjorie would have been paranoid that Cedric was going to take a shine to her and then Cedric probably would, just to annoy her … oh, I could hardly bring myself to think about it.’
‘I still don’t see, my dear, how Edith being here will make things any better. Surely it will only make things worse.’
‘Oh, William, you really are a typical man. Of course it will make things a whole lot better. No matter how angry Marjorie is with Lavinia, she won’t want to wash her dirty linen in public, will she? She may have been quite happy to have a go at Lavinia in front of us, what with us being family and she holding me responsible for Lavinia working in that shop in the first place, which of course is very unfair … but she won’t want to make a scene in front of Edith. She’s always rather turned her nose up at Edith what with her being a poor relation and all that, no, she won’t think it the done thing at all to have a row with Lavinia in front of her. And then, of course, Edith did go to school with Marjorie and me, so we will be able to reminisce about the old days when things start to get a bit heated. We’ll have lots to talk about because I don’t think Marjorie has seen Edith since we all left school. But, best of all though, Edith will be able to occupy Miss Simpson, what with them coming from the same sort of class and everything, they’re bound to have loads in common. And that will keep Miss Simpson out of harm’s way so that she can’t get up to any mischief with Cedric.’ Lady Withers was looking relieved. ‘All in all, William, I think things have turned out very well indeed, all things being considered.’
‘That may be so, my dear, but I think for poor Edith’s sake she must be put off from visiting us this weekend.’
‘But, William, I have just explained to you that it will all be fine.’
‘Not for Edith, Constance.’ There was a sharpness to Sir William’s voice that made Lady Withers look up at her husband both in surprise and with a degree of curiosity, for she was not used to him speaking to her in such a tone.
‘I’m sorry, William, but it’s really too late now to change anything. You really should have spoken up sooner if you objected to it so much.’
‘I really wish I had. Can’t you understand, Constance, I’m afraid.’ Sir William sat down beside his wife on the sofa and took her hands in his. ‘I’m really worried that something dreadful might happen this weekend, Constance. You see, it’s all so dangerous.’
Edith Torrington sat at the breakfast table surveying the remains of her half eaten slice of toast and half-drunk cup of tea, both of which she had forgotten about entirely and allowed to get cold.
‘Oh, for goodness sake, Edith,’ said Harold Torrington, gently but with obvious frustration, looking up from his morning newspaper. If he were a different sort of man he might have cursed. ‘That’s the second cup of tea that you’ve let get cold this morning. What on earth are you thinking about, my dear? You seem far away today, lost in your own thoughts.’
‘I’m sorry, dear,’ Edith looked up guiltily, ‘I’m sorry if I’m not quite with it today.’ Or any other day, she could have added. She studied her husband as if she was seeing him for the first time. She saw a middle-aged man with once very dark brown, almost black hair, now predominantly turned to grey and which was receding at the temples. He had been handsome once, she thought, or at least she had thought so and her mother had considered him quite a catch, she remembered, par
ticularly in the circumstances; the answer to their dreams. But now his looks were going, as were her own and he looked just like any other bank manager dressed for work in the City. She found her mind drifting away again until she discovered herself considering how many other such men there were, living in the suburbs of London, having their breakfast, just like Harold, before going off to work. And then she felt her mind float off to think about herself and what she must look like to a stranger looking on. I’m faded, she thought, a sob catching in her throat, a washed up, worn out version of the woman I used to be. If only I could live again, if only I could feel something other than this numbness, if only ….
‘Edith!’ She looked up sharply. Harold was beginning to lose patience now, she could hear that irritated edge to his voice. ‘You didn’t hear a word I said, did you. You always seem lost in a dream world these days, I can never keep your attention. Sometimes I don’t think you’d notice if I wasn’t here, indeed,’ he added bitterly, ‘perhaps you’d prefer it that way.’
No, she wanted to say, no, I wouldn’t. She wanted to get up from the table, overturn it and watch the breakfast things scatter and hear the satisfying smash of crockery. She wanted to look at the mess of egg yolks and toast as they congealed together on the floor, to see the tea spilling out of the cups and staining the slightly faded emerald green rug that she had always hated, but which Harold’s mother had given them for a wedding present and so she’d always felt she could not get rid of. But most of all she wanted to rush over to her husband, to take his two hands in hers and hold them to her as if she would never let him go. But she couldn’t, she knew, because he would see it as another sign that she was unstable. She wanted to shake him and scream that she would be all right if he would only let her talk about him, the person she had loved more than anything else in the world. If only he wouldn’t pretend that he had never existed, that what had happened had never occurred, oh, if only he would talk about it!
She looked at him, her lips trembling and wondered, what do you really feel? You must care. Why do you have to keep it all bottled up. Why don’t you scream and shout and cry and be angry with me? Why don’t you either tell me you hate me; that I ruined your life, or take me in your arms and tell me that everything is going to be alright, that it will get better? Why don’t you tell me that at least we have each other?
But he didn’t say or do anything, he never did, that was the trouble. Instead he just looked hurt, hurt and concerned. She could see the tell-tale vein throbbing in his forehead. If only he would stop being so nice, so nice but so very dull.
‘It will do you good, Edith,’ Harold was saying, trying hard now to make light of everything, trying to pretend that they were a normal married couple and that their marriage wasn’t falling apart around them.
‘What will?’
‘Going to Ashgrove to stay with Constance. You hadn’t forgotten, had you? You’re going this weekend. You arranged it a while ago. The country air will do you good, bring a bit of colour to your cheeks, you’ve been looking awfully pale you know, old girl.’
‘Am I? Yes, I suppose I am.’ She put her hand up to her face as if she could feel the greyness of her skin. If I go to Connie’s I can walk and walk, she thought, walk and walk in the gardens, in the parkland, in the woods beyond, go down to the river ... I can walk and walk until I’m so tired that I can’t walk anymore, and then perhaps I will collapse with exhaustion and forget, just for a few glorious moments, and if I do then perhaps I will be able to sleep, a deep sleep untroubled by dreams.
She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment as she imagined the blessed relief. But her eyes flew open almost at once. No, of course it wouldn’t be like that at all. She would have to listen to Constance, or at least pretend to listen to Constance, as she talked on and on about her silly pointless things: how good Stafford was, and how difficult it was to get and keep decent servants these days since the war, how the gardens never looked quite as good as they used to in the old days when they had an army of gardeners not just the head gardener and garden boy, how cold it was considering it was September and it looked so sunny, and a hundred other useless, trivial, meaningless things.
‘I wish you were coming with me, Harold, couldn’t you? It would do you good too to get away from London. It would give us a chance to talk about things like we used to, do you remember?’
‘No, Edith, I’m sorry, I can’t. It’s quite out of the question, I’m afraid, I’m far too busy at work.’
She felt him recoiling from her. What he means, she thought bitterly, is that he won’t. It’s got nothing to do with work. He won’t come because he doesn’t want to and he certainly doesn’t want us to talk about it, he wants to forget and he wants me to forget too. He wants me to forget that he ever existed, to act as if nothing happened, as if our lives have not been shattered, as if we are not living a sham.
‘I had better go, old thing, I don’t want to be late for work; can’t give them an excuse to lay me off, can I, not with jobs being so scarce nowadays.’ He was trying to make her laugh, she knew, and she managed a feeble smile. He got up from the table then, and came over and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and bent down and kissed her fleetingly on the forehead; just a gentle peck, she thought, no hint of passion. If only he wasn’t so nice and reasonable about it all. If only he showed her that he was hurting too. ‘Take care of yourself, old thing. I’ll see you Sunday evening and then you can tell me all the news from Ashgrove.’
With that he left the room. She heard him stop briefly in the hall outside to exchange a few words with Alice, their maid; no doubt, she thought bitterly, to warn her that her mistress was feeling particularly fragile this morning and to treat her with care. Then she heard the bang of the front door as he closed it behind him and then he was gone and she was left alone with the remains of the breakfast things.
Edith waited a few moments in case he returned. But all was still and quiet, except for the faint echo of Alice humming a tune to herself in the distant reaches of the house. When she was quite certain she would not be disturbed, Edith took the photograph from the pocket of her blouse. She studied it; it was getting so creased now, too much handling, of course. She’d have to be careful from now on in case it ripped, because there wouldn’t be another one quite like it, could never be another one. The thought hit her so forcibly, as if it was an actual physical blow, that she clenched her hands together suddenly feeling choked. She stared for a long time at the face of the young man in the photograph and then, as she had done a thousand times before, she bent and traced the features of his face gently with her fingers and touched her lips to the photograph, the paper receiving the kiss that she could no longer give to the flesh and blood man. How long she sat there, she did not know, could hardly hazard a guess even. Vaguely she became aware that tears were now trickling effortlessly down her face. How was it possible to weep so silently, so unconsciously? She shuddered and then with a hopeless shrug she surrendered to her grief.
Chapter Four
After much deliberation, Rose selected an all silk flat crepe dress in rose beige with a symmetrical column of bows and a normal waistline, made up of rippling flares and tiny pleats and with a longer skirt than was usual for the time. It was one of her favourite dresses, understated, but hinted at quality and taste, just the sort of dress she considered Lady Withers and, perhaps more importantly, her servants would approve of and consider appropriate for wear to a weekend country house party. Not though, of course, that it was to be much of a party as such with just one other guest besides themselves. However, she still wanted to make a good impression. Yes, she would wear this dress, together with her petal trim hat in dove grey. She had also packed her one good tweed suit, together with a couple of white silk blouses, one with a peter pan collar and the other with a pussy bow, just to be on the safe side because nobody could complain about those, and a couple of bright summer dresses in small flower-patterned material with co-ordinating cardigans for good measure
.
She had been less decided about evening wear. She knew that Sir William and Lady Withers always dressed for dinner regardless of whether they had guests or not, and Lavinia was sure to wear some ridiculously expensive, stunning gown. Backless ones were all the rage and, with her stunning figure, Lavinia was bound to look utterly gorgeous. It was tempting to try and compete. Rose had contemplated telling her mother about the visit earlier, for she would have insisted on running her up a couple of dresses in the latest fashions, made from the leftover bits of material from the gowns she made for her more affluent customers. However, her mother’s worsening eye-sight, coupled with their ever dwindling finances which made their financial situation ever more precarious, meant that Mrs Simpson could ill afford to waste her time making outfits for which she would not be paid. If only she, Rose, had inherited her mother’s sewing skills, but alas she had not. Besides, if Rose was honest with herself, she knew that she could never really hope to compete with Lavinia.
She had been tempted to pack her synthetic gold satin dress but it would look very inferior to Lavinia’s gold lame gown, a fabric incorporating metallic threads, which gave the overall effect of liquid metal. So instead she had settled on her old black silk velvet bias-cut dress with its cap sleeves, and a draped bodice gathered at the high waist which, while it might prove a little warm for a summer’s night and was rather plain, had the advantage of looking both tasteful and elegant. While she was sure Lavinia would wear different gowns on the Friday and Saturday nights, she had resigned herself to wearing the same dress twice but with different accessories; on the Friday night her mother’s pearls, which she felt would lift the outfit and give it a touch of class, and on the Saturday night, a flower, scoured from the flower gardens at Ashgrove, which she intended to wear as a corsage.
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