by Ellie Dean
‘It’s different for me,’ Louise stormed. ‘Your father is safe and well. I don’t even know if my Tino and Roberto are still alive.’ She burst into noisy tears, collapsing on the bed in a huddle of misery.
Louise had a point, but it was clear she couldn’t think beyond her own misery – couldn’t understand anyone’s needs but her own – and wasn’t prepared even to try. Rita took a deep, trembling breath, shocked that it had come to this, and mortified by her own lack of self-control. Their harsh words couldn’t be taken back, and she feared the consequences to their once loving and close relationship.
Rita perched on the end of the bed, knowing she had to do something to make amends. ‘I do love you, Mamma,’ she said softly, ‘and I’m sorry I’ve upset you. But talking to Dad made me realise just how much I miss him, and this is a chance to be with him again.’
There was no response from Louise, and Rita took a steadying breath. ‘I know it’s hard for you without Papa Tino . . .’
‘You know nothing of how I feel.’ Louise sat up and glared at Rita through the tangle of her greying hair, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed, her face streaked with tears. ‘Go to your father!’ she shouted. ‘Leave me. See if I care.’
Rita closed her eyes. ‘You know very well I could never leave you while things are so uncertain,’ she murmured as the tears spilled down her face. ‘But please, Mamma, think about Dad’s offer and don’t just dismiss it out of hand.’
Louise collapsed back onto the pillows and reached for the rosary beads and family photographs that rarely left her side. ‘I will wait in Cliffehaven until they return,’ she sobbed. ‘If you really loved me you’d understand and stay with me.’
Rita’s head was pounding and she could still feel the heat of Louise’s slap on her cheek, but as she regarded the huddled figure on the bed, she ached for her understanding. Yet it was obvious Louise was deaf to everything, and would continue to use emotional blackmail to keep her tied to her. The love and respect she’d always had for Louise had been badly dented, and she wondered if either of them could emerge from this night’s terrible confrontation unscathed.
‘I need fresh air and time to think,’ she said wearily. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be, but try and sleep, Mamma. We’ll talk again in the morning.’
Louise emerged swiftly from the pillows and grabbed Rita’s arm. ‘Don’t go,’ she begged, her eyes wild with fear. ‘Please don’t go, Rita. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I said so many terrible things. I didn’t mean them. Really I didn’t.’
Rita gently moved out of her clutches, pulled on her leather jacket and reached for her gas mask box. ‘I know you didn’t,’ she said, drained of emotion and weary to the bone. ‘And I’m sorry too. I should never have spoken to you like that – but I’ve had enough, Mamma. I’ve really had enough.’
Louise stared at her, shock and distress battling in her eyes. ‘What do you mean by that, Rita?’
‘Don’t worry, Mamma. I’m not leaving you for more than a few hours. But we both could do with some time alone to think about everything – and to try to work out where we go from here.’
Louise scrambled off the bed, fresh tears streaming as she followed Rita to the door. ‘But there’s nothing to think about,’ she rasped through her sobs. ‘We love each other, and when Tino and Roberto come home we will be a family again.’ She grabbed Rita’s jacket sleeve. ‘Please, cara mia, don’t go. Don’t leave me.’
Rita hated pulling away from her, loathed herself for leaving the room and closing the door sharply between them. But her spirit and strength had been sapped by all that had happened over these past months and she needed to escape.
She heard the door opening as she ran down the stairs – heard Louise’s pleas for her to return ring out in the echoing stairwell, and closed her mind to them.
But her heart heard them, and she knew she would answer those calls before the night got much older. For now, she needed the wind and the rain and the throb of the powerful motorbike engine beneath her – needed the freedom of the tracks lacing the hills and the silence of the night to help her heal.
Chapter Fourteen
IT WAS CHRISTMAS Eve and Anne had spent the morning with Mrs Finch and Lady Sylvia in the kitchen. Now the cake was safely cooling in the larder, the birds had been plucked and stuffed, and she needed to sit down and rest. The baby had been particularly restless since last night, her ankles were swollen and her back ached.
‘I’ll help Mrs Finch tidy up,’ said Sylvia kindly. ‘Drink this cup of tea and rest, dear. You look all in.’
She sipped gratefully at the very weak tea and closed her eyes. The morning’s baking had all been a bit last minute, but Rosie had supplemented their extra rations of dried fruit and sugar with her own, and it had been decided that Christmas wouldn’t be the same without a proper cake. Now the heavenly aroma of brandy-soaked fruit and rich cake drifted through the house, making it at last feel festive.
The clock ticked loudly on the mantelpiece and Anne settled deeper into the comfortable chair. Martin and Cissy had wrapped up like Eskimos to go for a tramp across the hills to forage for mistletoe and holly with Grandpa Ron and Harvey, the nurses were not expected home until teatime and her father had fed the chickens and was now outside chopping wood for the fire. It was lovely to be at home; to have Martin with her every night and not have to worry about him – and he looked so very much better already after only a few days’ rest.
But she missed her mother dreadfully, and although it was selfish, she wished she hadn’t gone all the way to Somerset to be with Bob and Charlie. Peggy had been away for only two weeks, but it felt like months, and Christmas just wouldn’t be the same without her.
The sharp rap on the front door startled her and she snapped from her rambling thoughts and struggled to get out of the chair.
‘I’ll go,’ said Sylvia, not bothering to take off the rubber gloves as she pressed Anne back into the chair and hurried into the hall.
Anne could hear her talking to someone on the doorstep, and then her quick footsteps returning across the hall.
‘It’s arrived at last,’ Sylvia said triumphantly. ‘I knew they wouldn’t let me down.’ She dumped the enormous wicker basket on the kitchen table, her eyes shining in delight as she peeled off the rubber gloves.
‘Good heavens,’ muttered Mrs Finch, eyeing the basket with suspicion as she fiddled with her buzzing hearing aid. ‘Are we taking in laundry now?’
‘It’s the hamper from Fortnum and Mason’s,’ said Anne.
‘Camping fork basins? That doesn’t make sense, Anne.’
Anne struggled from the chair and spoke directly into Mrs Finch’s ear. ‘It’s the hamper from Fortnum and Mason’s,’ she said loudly.
‘Well, why didn’t you say so? Hurry up, Sylvia, and let’s see what’s inside.’
Sylvia laughed and unbuckled the sturdy straps, letting the wicker lid fall open. The three of them stood there in stunned silence as they regarded the bounty before them. They hadn’t seen food like this for over a year, and it was almost too much to take in.
Anne reverently drew out the oranges, the circular box of crystallised fruits, the little bag of walnuts, the two pouches of tobacco, and the twelve packets of Sobranie cigarettes. They were the exotic kind that were wrapped in pastel coloured papers, with gold foil tips – a rare and special treat never before seen at Beach View.
Mrs Finch cooed over the ornate canisters of tea, coffee, sugar and cocoa, and lovingly caressed the tins of shortbread and mince pies. ‘I’d better put my very best teeth in for these,’ she muttered.
They all gasped at the sight of two precious bars of foil-wrapped chocolate, and the beribboned box of tiny pink and white sugared mice. Digging deeper into the fragrant pale yellow straw, Sylvia found a Christmas pudding, a joint of ham, a box of cheese and a packet of plain crackers. She delved still deeper and examined the labels on the bottles of wine, champagne and brandy and pronounced them to be just as she’d o
rdered.
They stood and grinned at each other in delight, but as Anne regarded the treasure trove that now stood on the battered old kitchen table, she realised they must keep it secret. ‘We’ll have to hide it from the men,’ she murmured. ‘If they even get an inkling of this in the house, they’ll plunder it.’
‘A wise decision,’ said Sylvia. ‘We’ll put it all back but the ham, which I’ll cook now, and keep the hamper in my room. We can have the champagne and the wine with lunch, but the rest will stay out of sight until tomorrow afternoon. We don’t want anyone spoiling their appetite for Christmas lunch – not after all the trouble we’ve taken.’
They quickly packed everything away and Sylvia hauled it upstairs, leaving the kitchen only moments before Jim tramped in from the garden, his arms laden with firewood. ‘Did I hear someone banging on the front door?’
‘You must have been mistaken,’ said Anne, quickly covering the ham with a tea towel and shooting the giggling Mrs Finch a warning look. ‘I expect you’d like a cup of tea after chopping all that wood?’
‘Aye, I would that,’ he said as he stacked the logs neatly in the corner by the range. Straightening, he looked from Mrs Finch to Anne and frowned. ‘What’s going on? The pair of you look like guilty children.’
‘Nothing,’ said Mrs Finch, who was desperately trying to keep a straight face.
‘Here’s your tea, Dad,’ said Anne hastily, biting her lip.
‘Is there not a biscuit to go with it?’
Anne and Mrs Finch burst into giggles and he eyed them suspiciously. ‘To be sure,’ he muttered, ‘I’ll never understand women.’
‘Better that we hold a bit of mystery, Jim,’ said Sylvia as she came back into the kitchen. ‘We need something to keep you men on your toes.’ She avoided looking at Anne and Mrs Finch, but the corners of her mouth twitched as she pulled the rubber gloves back on and began to vigorously scrub the pots and pans.
‘Something’s going on here,’ he muttered good-naturedly, ‘but I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised – not with a house full of women and Christmas only hours away.’ He sniffed the air appreciatively. ‘Something smells delicious,’ he said. ‘Are we having cake for tea?’
‘It’s not to be touched until tomorrow,’ said Anne sharply. ‘I’ll find you something else to be going on with.’ She reached into the larder and pulled out the biscuit tin. There were only a few broken digestives in the bottom, but they would have to do.
‘Is that it?’ He eyed them in disgust. ‘I thought you bought some the other day? Have you hidden them?’
‘You ate them, remember?’
The loud rap of the door-knocker saved Anne from a prolonged inquisition and she hurried into the hall to open the door.
The daunting figure of her Aunt Doris stood on the top step, resplendent in her best mink coat, pearls and natty hat. Her furious expression did not bode well.
‘You should have told me,’ she said without preamble as she brushed past Anne and stepped into the hall. ‘I would have come sooner if I’d known. It was most lax of you not to give me some warning.’
Anne heard her father’s hasty retreat back into the garden as she closed the door. Her mother’s sister was difficult at the best of times, and Jim couldn’t stand her when she was on her high horse. By the look of her, she was saddled up and ready to go into battle.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Aunt Doris,’ she said, despite the fact she understood all too well. ‘But it’s nice to see you,’ she added with a wry smile. ‘You look in robust health.’
Doris waved away her compliment with a gloved hand. She wasn’t about to waste time on social niceties. ‘I see the Rolls-Royce is parked outside,’ she said briskly. ‘Is Lady Anstruther-Norton receiving visitors?’
‘Oh,’ said Anne, trying to keep a straight face. ‘And here’s me thinking you’d come to wish us a happy Christmas.’
Doris bristled. ‘Well?’ she asked impatiently.
‘She’s in the kitchen doing the washing-up,’ said Anne, the giggles bubbling very close to the surface now.
Doris’s eyes widened and she paled beneath the careful make-up. ‘You don’t ask a Lady to do the washing-up,’ she hissed. ‘Even I have a girl to do that.’ She quickly checked her appearance in the hall mirror, straightened her hat a fraction over her stiffly set brown hair, and walked purposefully into the kitchen.
Anne followed her and quietly sat by the fire to watch the fun.
Doris swept past a startled Mrs Finch as if she was invisible and held out her gloved hand. ‘Lady Anstruther-Norton,’ she said in her most refined and strangulated accent. ‘May profound apologies for not presenting mayself sooner.’
Sylvia paused a fraction of a second before she turned from the sink, her hands swathed in bright yellow rubber gloves that dripped soapsuds. ‘How do you do?’ she said coolly.
‘This is my Aunt Doris,’ Anne hurriedly explained as Doris eyed the rubber gloves, thought better of shaking Sylvia’s hand and ruining her own, and awkwardly clutched her handbag.
‘We haven’t been introduced, Lady Anstruther-Norton,’ Doris simpered, ‘but Aye do believe we have a mutual acquaintance.’ She paused for effect. ‘My dear friend Lady Charlmondley sends her regards.’
‘Good grief,’ said Sylvia. ‘Is that old battleaxe still going?’
Doris looked distinctly put out. She cleared her throat and forgot momentarily to keep up the strangled accent. ‘Lady Charlmondley is very much alive,’ she said. ‘In fact she and I are on the board of many of our local charities.’
‘Aurelia always did enjoy bossing everyone about,’ muttered Sylvia as she pulled off the gloves and placed them on the wooden drainer. She looked at Doris and smiled, ‘but a doughty lady nevertheless. I’m sure you’re both a great asset to Cliffehaven’s charitable institutions, Mrs . . .’
‘Mrs Williams, but please, call me Doris,’ she replied hastily, deeming it safe now to risk shaking hands. ‘May husband Edward and Aye are delighted to welcome you to Cliffehaven, Lady Anstruther-Norton.’
‘Thank you,’ Sylvia said with a gracious dip of her head, a smile twitching the corner of her mouth.
The introductions over, Doris got into her stride. ‘May husband Edward is the area manager for the Home and Colonial Company, you know, and we are terribly concerned about your welfare – and that of your son, of course. How is that poor, dear brave young man?’
‘Christopher is getting stronger by the day,’ Sylvia replied, ‘but I don’t really see why you should be concerned over my welfare.’
‘Well,’ said Doris with a disapproving glance sweeping past Anne and Mrs Finch to the clutter on every flat surface. ‘It’s hardly what you’re used to, is it Lady Anstruther-Norton?’
Sylvia raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s homely and warm and welcoming, and the people who live here have been kindness itself. Are you implying that my home in Wiltshire is not the same?’
Doris reddened. ‘No, of course not,’ she blustered. ‘I just meant that you must be finding it all a bit . . . a bit . . .’ She leaned forward like a conspirator. ‘Working class,’ she hissed disdainfully. ‘James and Ronan can be so terribly uncouth at times, and their humour is questionable, to say the least.’
‘Really?’ Sylvia eyed her coldly. ‘I find both of them delightful company. And if it hadn’t been for dearest Ron, I would have lost my son. As far as my husband and I are concerned, he’s a hero.’
Clearly disconcerted that every approach had been skilfully turned against her, Doris fidgeted with her coat collar and patted the triple strings of pearls at her throat. But she was not a woman to be thwarted. She was here on a mission and nothing would stop her. ‘May husband and Aye would be honoured if you’d stay with us in Havelock Gardens,’ she said determinedly. ‘We have a naice detached house in the better part of Cliffehaven.’
‘You’re very kind,’ Sylvia said smoothly, ‘but I’m quite content here.’
Doris frowned
. ‘Are you sure, Lady Anstruther-Norton? Only Aye’ve had may gel prepare a room for you – with your own bathroom, of course. May son is away on important, secret business with the MOD, so there is plenty of room.’ She hurried on before Sylvia could interject. ‘You’ll be very comfortable, Aye assure you, and of course Lady Charlmondley is a frequent visitor, and Aye just know—’
Sylvia cut in. ‘I’m grateful to your girl for going to so much trouble, but I will not be leaving Beach View.’ She smiled and held out her hand, forcing Doris to shake it. ‘It was kind of you to come,’ she said pleasantly as she slowly drew Doris towards the door. ‘But as you can see, we are rather busy this morning, and Anne needs to rest. Please pass on my regards to Aurelia when you see her.’
Anne watched in admiration as a flustered Doris was expertly steered into the hall.
‘Perhaps you would do me the honour of attending may little tea party next week?’ Doris asked in a final desperate bid. ‘It’s a trifling thing really, arranged more for charity than may own pleasure, but one has to do what one can in such troubling times, doesn’t one?’
‘One certainly does,’ murmured Sylvia as she opened the front door.
‘Ay’m sure your august presence would lend cachet to the occasion and help raise the much-needed funds for all those poor souls who’ve been made homeless,’ Doris gabbled. ‘When one is as fortunate as you and Aye, it is our duty to do what we can, don’t you think?’
Anne watched in amusement from the kitchen doorway as Sylvia moved in such a way that Doris had no choice but to step outside.
‘It is indeed,’ said Sylvia. ‘But I’m here to care for my son, not to join in the social whirl of Cliffehaven.’
Doris dithered on the top step, the light of rising panic gleaming in her eyes. ‘Lady Aurelia was especially looking forward to seeing you and will be most disappointed,’ she muttered, nervously tugging at the strap of her handbag.
Sylvia dug in her skirt pocket and pulled out a large pink crumpled pound note. ‘Please accept this small token towards your charity. I’m sure the recipients are truly grateful for all your sterling work.’