A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel

by Margaret Graham

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Margaret Graham

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Copyright

  About the Book

  1937

  Evie and her family have struggled to keep Easterleigh Hall, now a hotel, running during the depression, and with war looming, she worries for the children, who have to find their way in a changing world.

  Bridie is learning her trade at her mother Evie’s side, and is becoming a talented chef. Her cousin James has run away to fight in Spain, leaving the family devastated.

  And Tim, the boy Bridie has always loved, shocks everyone by joining the Black Shirts and going to Germany, discovering too late that he’s playing a dangerous game.

  Heartbroken at Tim’s defection, Bridie isn’t sure she can ever forgive him. But somehow these three must find a way to reconcile, because if war does come, they will need each other more than ever…

  About the Author

  Margaret Graham has been writing for thirty years. Her first novel was published in 1986 and she is now working on her sixteenth. As a bestselling author her novels have been published in the UK, Europe and the USA.

  Margaret has written two plays and numerous short stories and features, and has co-researched a television documentary, which grew out of Canopy of Silence. She is Contributing Editor for Frost Magazine, and is also a writing tutor and speaker. She founded the Yeovil Literary Prize and now that she lives in High Wycombe she has launched and runs the charity www.wordsforthewounded.co.uk. WforW raises funds for the recovery of wounded troops by donations, literary festivals and the Independent Author Book Award writing prize.

  She has ‘he who must be disobeyed’, four children and three grandchildren who think OAP stands for Old Ancient Person. They have yet to understand the politics of pocket money. Margaret is a member of the WI, her local U3A. She does Tai Chi, and eats too much.

  For more information about Margaret Graham, visit her website at www.margaret-graham.com and www.wordsforthewounded.co.uk

  Also by Margaret Graham

  Easterleigh Hall

  Easterleigh Hall at War

  After the Storm

  (previously published as Only the Wind is Free)

  Annie’s Promise

  Somewhere Over England

  (previously published as A Fragment of Time)

  A Time for Courage

  (previously published as A Measure of Peace)

  At the Break of Day

  (previously published as The Future is Ours)

  For fellow writers: Pat – born to dance and Michael – forever Ambridge.

  They lead me astray – yes, it is that way round.

  Chapter One

  Easterleigh Hall, May 1936

  At eleven on the day of Jack Forbes’ wedding, Evie Brampton, part owner of Easterleigh Hall hotel, head cook and wife of the Honourable Auberon Brampton, roared with laughter and chased Lady Veronica Williams down the yard steps, heading for the kitchen.

  ‘Nearly got you,’ Evie called as they entered the boot hall, but Ver darted ahead into the kitchen, laughing too.

  Behind them, Mrs Moore manoeuvred her way down the steps, shouting, ‘You’re in your forties, not a couple of bairns, you daft pair, and this is no way to sort out the final preparations for your brother’s wedding buffet, Evie. And you, Bridie Brampton, for the love of God, come away from the stables; your mam needs to test your canapés. That horse can do without your strokes for now.’

  Evie and Ver raised their eyebrows, laughing so hard they had to hang on to one another as they leaned against the nearest range. It was still warm from the cooking of quiches. Ver whispered, ‘Has she finished bossing?’

  Evie shook her head and the laughter continued as Mrs Moore heaved herself down the last of the steps, still issuing a stream of orders. Finally, they heard her call, ‘Bridie, pet, come now. Evie might be your mam but she’s still your boss. And everyone remember to wash your hands before you touch anything, if you don’t mind. By, it would all go to pot if I wasn’t here.’

  Evie and Ver pulled themselves together, straightening their pastel-coloured silk outfits. Evie set her wedding hat more firmly on her head and skirted the huge kitchen table, heading for the apron hooks against the end wall. Ver said, following her, ‘Crikey, eighty and still in full voice, bless her cotton socks.’

  Evie laughed again as she threw an apron to the woman who was her best friend, hotel partner and sister-in-law. ‘How will we get ourselves from A to B if she ever does properly retire? It truly doesn’t bear thinking about. I just love her so much.’

  She shouted, knowing that Mrs Moore would hear because she’d be entering the boot hall by now. ‘The forties aren’t old, so very there, but those in their eighties are ancient.’

  The two women heard Mrs Moore’s great booming laugh, and rushed into the scullery to wash their hands, thrilled that Jack and Gracie were married at last. They headed into the cool pantry set alongside the scullery, and within seconds they were putting the desperately extravagant gift of Russian caviar onto the pastry bases, set on wire trays, that Bridie had baked at five this morning. The job done, Evie saw her anxious daughter hovering in the doorway and picked up a couple of the pastries.

  Ver nudged her. ‘Come on, then, Evie, let’s taste ’em.’ The two women grinned at each other, then held their noses as they ate the canapés. They grimaced. ‘Mam,’ Bridie whispered, her hazel eyes wide as she stared at Evie. ‘Are they really that bad?’

  Mrs Moore appeared and put her arm around Bridie’s shoulders. ‘No, pet. If they were, your mam would be thinking of a nice way of telling you. That daft expression means the canapés are nigh on perfect. They’re just being silly, because they’re heady that your Uncle Jack and Auntie Gracie have regularised things.’

  She steered Bridie to the huge pine table, above which hung the gleaming copper pans that had been in use since before even Mrs Moore had joined Easterleigh Hall. Evie followed, smiling. Mrs Moore and Bridie, the young and the old, stood together at the far end. The old had experienced so much, before and during the awful war when they were a hospital, and the years after when Easterleigh Hall had become a hotel. The young, fresh and eager, was soaking up the handed-down knowledge like a sponge.

  Behind them, at the end of the ranges set along the left-hand wall, the furnace gurgled. Evie had stoked it up before they left for the blessing in the church, and that should see it through for a few more hours. Over everything hung the heavy smell of baked potatoes, which were keeping warm in the end range, and would be served with the buffet.

  Evie gaze
d around, and waved to the kitchen and laundry staff taking a break in the staff hall before putting on their finery. First, though, they would take some buffet treats across to the Neave Wing Convalescent Centre, which as usual had its fair share of patients recovering from injuries, though not war induced any more. They would then join in the fun.

  ‘Our very own Easterleigh Hall hotel. Seventeen wonderful and peaceful years,’ Evie murmured, overcome with emotion. Ver slipped her arm through hers, saying, ‘They have been, haven’t they?’

  During that time the hotel had grown, only stalling slightly during the years of economic depression. The Neave Wing had continued its care of the injured, and Jack and Mart had been able to keep most of their men employed at the pits they managed for Auberon. They were hoping that they might open yet more seams, but the problem was selling the coal at a viable rate in these parlous times.

  Of course the hotel had to be cautious, but, following on from the war, the kitchen staff were experts at making something excellent out of very little. Many returning guests were ex-patients, whom Evie loved, and who had eventually eased themselves out of the darkness of their wounds and their memories into the sunlight.

  At the thought of war and darkness, she faltered. Were such times returning again? There had been trouble between the communists and the fascists in Hawton last week, and similar outbreaks had occurred in many major towns. There was still nationwide unemployment, the Nazis were in charge in Germany and had taken back the Rhineland. There were strikes and anarchy in regions of Spain.

  It was too concerning to contemplate, and she concentrated on Mrs Moore and Bridie, who were heading for the wedding cake. It stood on three tiers at the end of the pine table, hidden from view beneath swathes of muslin to await, as promised by Bridie, the great unveiling.

  Evie murmured, ‘I just hope that everything improves, Ver. Not just in the world, but here, in our family.’ Ver said nothing, just tightened her mouth and reached forward, touching the table for luck. Evie did the same, for she could feel her joy sliding away.

  Damn Millie. Jack’s wife had run off with a German prisoner of war based near Easterleigh Hall, but eighteen months ago she had written to him out of the blue, offering him a divorce which would enable him to marry Gracie. They had all celebrated that the woman was finally giving Jack his freedom after all these years. These celebrations, though, had been cut short when Millie had begun writing to her son, Tim, whom Jack and Gracie had brought up in the face of her abandonment. Not just writing but inviting him over to Germany, and so it had started.

  Evie whispered to Ver, for what seemed like the millionth time, ‘Good grief, Ver, we now have a member of our family who is a fascist. It doesn’t seem possible.’

  Ver nodded. ‘I know.’

  Evie glanced at the clock. Eleven twenty. They’d have to report for the photographs when the bridal party returned from the church. What on earth was keeping them? Bridie and Mrs Moore weren’t ready either, it seemed, for they were still deep in conversation.

  Evie moved closer to the table and the lists she had made last week, which were laid out in two piles. She leafed through them, checking them off again in her mind: the quiches in the cool pantry, the chicken legs, the ham, the potato salad, the forced lettuce, the . . .

  Ver cut in, leaning close to Evie so that the others couldn’t hear. ‘Of course, Millie will be encouraging Tim in his politics, bloody woman. She always was a poisonous baggage. Think of the trouble she and that POW caused before they scarpered, destroying Harry Travers’ hives, blowing up the cedar tree, stealing the silver. Now she wants her son back, body and soul, probably because he’s too old to be dependent on her.’

  Evie gripped her friend’s hand. ‘We don’t know that, she might have changed,’ she whispered.

  Ver’s smothered laugh was harsh. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. More than half the pleasure of her reunion with her son will be the pain his conversion gives Jack and Grace, not to mention the rest of us. But don’t forget, Tim’s in his early twenties, Evie darling. There’s still time for him to get himself sorted out.’

  At the other end of the table, Bridie was grinning at something Mrs Moore had said and looking for her notebook. Evie took it from the pile next to the lists and scooted it down the table. The pencil was on a string and dragged along behind. ‘Thanks, Mam.’

  Bridie wrote something down.

  Evie whispered to Ver, holding up one of the lists as though they were discussing it. ‘But it’s as Jack and Gracie say, the lad has every right to make his own choices, and they don’t want the family condemning him for his decisions.’

  Now Bridie and Mrs Moore were running through their own lists for the desserts. Evie continued, ‘The trouble is, I’m not at all sure that Bridie accepts that. I find I’m really on edge when they’re together in case she says something unforgivable, but he does taunt her so. Have you noticed? It’s a nasty type of bullying when all three cousins have always been so close.’

  Ver slipped her arm around her friend. ‘Bridie’s a chip off the old block, so she’ll still be standing when the rest of us are flat on our backs.’

  The pair of them smiled at one another. Evie said, ‘Anyway, Millie hasn’t taken him over completely yet, Ver. The lad’s still working and living in Newcastle, so I suppose the time to despair will be if he moves to Berlin.’

  Ver said flatly, ‘We’re not even going to think about that.’

  The women fell silent, watching Bridie and Mrs Moore and trying not to look at the clock, because if there was something very wrong with the cake, they’d need a few moments to sort it out. Another five minutes passed and Evie wondered if she could hurry them up, but then, glory be, Bridie and Mrs Moore began to untuck the muslin that covered the wedding cake. Evie called, ‘Your da is so proud of you, Bridie, and can’t wait to see it.’

  Ver said, ‘As are we all.’ She whispered to Evie, ‘She does like her moments of drama, doesn’t she, bless her.’

  Now she said loudly, ‘Bridie wouldn’t discuss the cake at all, you know, Evie, but said I had to wait. Do you know, I think she could even outshine your cooking, my girl, in time, and with Aub’s blonde hair the boys will be like bees round a honeypot.’

  ‘Oh, Aunt Ver,’ groaned Bridie, adjusting her grip on the muslin.

  ‘Over my dead body,’ Evie murmured, knowing that Aub would be beating them back even before she got off the starting block.

  ‘Over your dead body can be arranged,’ Ver countered.

  Evie laughed gently. ‘Aye, no doubt it can, and I can see that the reputation of Easterleigh’s secure with Bridie, because, my dear Ver, one day we will be old and decrepit.’

  Mrs Moore swung round. ‘Who’s old and decrepit? I’ll show you. Ready, Bridie? Let’s do it, pet.’

  Evie watched the young and the old as they lifted the muslin with a flourish, revealing the cake. As the muslin floated back down, Bridie scrunched it into a bundle. She faced her mother, flushed with excitement, standing there in her powder-blue silk dress with a darker blue jacket, and her small feathered matching hat. She looked more beautiful than Evie could remember, and the cake was supreme.

  For a moment there was silence until Evie eventually found her voice. ‘It’s quite the best I’ve ever seen, truly it is.’

  Mrs Moore patted Bridie. ‘Aye, we work well together. She has the most nimble of fingers.’

  ‘Yet another triumph, both of you. It is absolutely grand.’ Evie moved to Bridie, loving this child, loving Mrs Moore, and cross with herself for twisting and turning in Millie’s breeze.

  ‘What do you think, Mam?’ Bridie asked.

  ‘I’m just trying to remember when I’ve seen such workmanship, and I can’t. Jack and Gracie will be so pleased.’ Her heart lightened. It was her brother’s wedding, it was a day of joy, and her daughter had helped to produce not just a magnificent cake, but excellent canapés, and desserts, which was something that Evie would not have been able to do when she was fifte
en.

  Ver was circling the table, looking in awe at the wedding cake, which would need to be carried out to the marquee. Kevin, who had been the bootboy way back before the war but was now on the front of house team, would organise that.

  Bridie slipped to Evie’s side. ‘Mrs Moore let me do quite a bit of the icing, Mam. She’s such a canny cook, isn’t she, even with her poor swollen hands and all. Do cooks always get arthritis?’

  Evie replied, ‘I haven’t, so no, and yes, she is clever. She taught me all I know.’

  Just then they heard the revving of a car as it drew into the garage yard. A moment later there was the slamming of a door. Someone came rushing down the steps. Evie hugged her daughter, and now they were both laughing.

  Evie said, ‘If I’m not mistaken, that’s the sound of James’ tippy-toes, and before he comes, remind me to make sure you have a glass of champagne this afternoon. You deserve it, though you’re a little too young.’

  ‘I’m nearly sixteen, Mam.’ Bridie sounded irritated.

  Evie laughed. ‘Of course you are, quite the old woman.’

  James Williams, Ver and Richard’s son, clattered into the kitchen, his suit creased and his tie askew. He tossed his hat onto the table, and Mrs Moore bawled, ‘Off, off.’

  He put it on one of the stools instead, hurrying across to Evie and Bridie by the dresser, his face hot and sweaty.

  ‘Aunt Evie, I’ve finally delivered Uncle Jack, Aunt Grace and Tim to the photographer following the church blessing. I had to get strict with everyone at the church, as they were just milling about and wouldn’t get a move on. It’s like herding cats. The vicar is following on his bike. I do wish he wouldn’t, he’s not safe wobbling all over the place. Honestly, he’s halfway to heaven already, with his head stuck so high up in the clouds.’

  His mother, Lady Veronica, didn’t turn, but continued to pace around the table, her eyes on the three magnificent tiers. ‘Draw a breath, James. Yes, I think we gather that you’re back, but you must come and admire this work of art. Honestly, Mrs Moore, and you, Bridie, I’m not surprised Easterleigh Hall hotel is being asked to hold so many wedding receptions.’ She swept back to her son, kissing him, then moving on to Evie, Bridie, and finally Mrs Moore, kissing them all.