by Erica James
Once more she doubted the wisdom of being here. She should have stuck to her original plan and flown straight home to Island House.
Chapter Five
Melstead St Mary
October 1962
Annelise
The train journey home from Oxford was always long and tortuous and when Annelise stepped onto the platform at Melstead St Mary and saw Stanley with his dog waiting for her, her spirits lifted in an instant. She didn’t have that many friends, not what she would call close, but she counted Stanley as her oldest and dearest friend. She hadn’t been home since Easter, so she was particularly pleased to see him again.
Putting down her suitcase, and after making a fuss of Tucker, she hugged Stanley warmly. ‘You look well,’ she said, taking in his collar-length hair, open-necked shirt and sandy-coloured corduroy jacket.
‘And you look tired,’ he said, holding her at arm’s distance and studying her face with a frown. ‘You’ve been overworking, haven’t you, burning that candle at both ends?’
‘You’re a fine one to talk when it comes to working long hours.’
‘I guess we’re just two of a kind,’ he said with a grin. It was a grin she knew of old. As children, she had always looked up to Stanley, eight years her senior, like she would an older brother. She must have made such a nuisance of herself, always trailing after him, wanting him to play with her. All these years on she could remember so vividly him pulling her along on a sledge in the snow of the garden at Island House. Or teaching her how to climb a tree or ride a bicycle. Not once could she remember him ever telling her to leave him alone, not even when he became a teenager and the age gap showed obvious signs of widening. Then, as if out of the blue, he was suddenly a man, whereas Annelise was still a child. She smiled to herself, thinking how eager she had been to catch him up, to be an adult too.
Carrying her case for her, his arm linked through hers as Tucker scampered on ahead, they walked out of the station.
‘New car?’ she asked, when Stanley unlocked the boot of a pale blue Triumph Herald and stowed her luggage inside.
‘It’s not actually brand new,’ he said, opening the passenger door for her, ‘I bought it second hand from Wally Stimpson’s garage.’
‘That old rogue? Are you sure it’s safe?’
Stanley laughed and after Tucker had squeezed in between them, he slipped into the driver’s seat. ‘Safe as houses. And it handles like a dream.’
‘Does that mean you’re about to drive us to Island House with ambitions of being the next Stirling Moss?’
‘Don’t worry, I have no intention of crashing the car like he did his Lotus at Goodwood.’
As good as his word, they set off at a sedate speed, following behind the local bus while Stanley told her all he knew about the arrangements going on at Meadow Lodge for Kit and Evelyn’s party. Which was the reason Annelise was home. She was disappointed to hear that Romily wouldn’t be back to attend the party along with the rest of the family.
‘How’s it going with Mums and the new house?’ she asked.
Now a fully trained architect, Stanley had designed Hope’s dream house. It was Edmund’s house as well, of course, but he had sensibly left most of the decisions to Hope. He was all for an easy life.
‘Haven’t they told you?’ said Stanley.
‘Oh, I get the usual thing from Mums, that it’s all going much too slowly.’
He glanced sideways at her. ‘She’s not unhappy, is she?’
‘Come on, Stanley, you know as well as I do, Mums is not the greatest of advertisements for the state of happiness. She just can’t allow herself to be truly happy. And don’t look like that.’
‘Like what?’ he said.
‘As though I’m a fine one to talk.’
He smiled. ‘If the cap fits.’
He was right, of course, the cap most certainly did fit. She might not be biologically related to the woman who had brought her up, but she did suffer from the same inability to enjoy life to the full. Always there was the feeling that she didn’t deserve to be happy. How could she when almost every member of her family in Germany had perished at the hands of the Nazis during the war?
Annelise had no memory of her mother and father. Everything she knew of Otto and Sabine Lowenstein was what she had read in official reports during trips to Germany to uncover the truth about her family. Hope had also helped to fill in the blanks.
Hope’s first husband, Dieter, had been Sabine’s brother and while their parents – supporters of Hitler and the Third Reich – had disapproved of Dieter’s choice of bride, an English girl, they had been horrified that their daughter wanted to marry Otto Lowenstein, a Jewish doctor. When war became increasingly more likely, and with Jews being regularly rounded up and sent to labour camps where they were never heard of again, Sabine and Otto had pleaded with Hope, not long widowed, to take Annelise to safety.
On her tenth birthday and with Hope now married to Edmund and knowing that Sabine and Otto had not survived the war, they legally adopted Annelise. They also changed her name from Lowenstein to Flowerday. In the preceding years, before knowing the fate of Annelise’s parents, Hope had wanted to believe that they might have survived the death camps and would one day claim their daughter.
It pained Annelise to wonder how she might have reacted if that had happened, when she had known no other life than the one in Melstead St Mary. How would she have coped with being uprooted to live with strangers, to leave behind all that she knew and loved? To be parted from those who had enriched her life beyond measure?
One of whom was Romily. Without doubt Romily had been an enormous influence in her life. The extraordinary woman had been friend, aunt and mentor all rolled into one. There had been times as a young child when, in need of help or advice, Annelise had turned to Romily instead of Hope or Edmund. More often than not, Hope was unapproachable, the door to her studio firmly shut, blocking out all distractions.
Annelise knew that she had a similar tendency to distance herself from others. It took a lot for her to open up to people. Recently she had begun to do just that, and with one person in particular. His name was Harry, and such was the strength of her emotions for him, he would dominate her thoughts far too much if she allowed them to.
She was twenty-four and some would say laughably inexperienced when it came to matters of the heart. Until now romance had not been a priority for her. She was a scholar first and foremost and loved her work as a junior research fellow in German History at St Gertrude’s College in Oxford. Which was where she had studied, just like her aunt Evelyn.
She was proud of what she had achieved, but viewed it very much as the start of greater things. She wanted to make Hope and Edmund proud of her. Romily too.
Nothing annoyed her more than not being taken seriously. It happened a lot, primarily because of the way she looked. She was blonde with a petite build that made her appear younger than she was.
‘So, tell me, how is the new house coming along?’ she asked, feeling Tucker nudging her elbow with his nose, as though letting her know that she had let her thoughts wander.
‘It should be finished within a month,’ replied Stanley.
‘I can’t wait to see it.’
He briefly turned his head. ‘We could take a detour and go and see it now, if you’d like? I don’t have a key on me, but I could show you the exterior.’
‘Why not?’
For answer, he checked the way ahead was clear and put his foot down to overtake the bus. She had joked earlier about him turning into Stirling Moss behind the wheel of his new car, but he was actually one of the safest drivers she knew. She trusted him implicitly, and in all things. She always had. If she was brave enough, she might even tell Stanley about Harry, having told no one else about him.
Chapter Six
Fairview, Melstead St Mary
Stanley
The house was approached via a long straight driveway flanked by lawns and newly planted beech trees. Hope and Edmund had bought the three acres of land because of its convenient proximity to Melstead St Mary and unrivalled views of the softly undulating landscape. Hope had insisted that the house be positioned squarely in the middle of the plot, as though deliberately isolating it from everything around it. With its partially white stucco walls resplendent in the autumnal sunshine, it stood majestically before Stanley and Annelise.
‘It’s very impressive,’ Annelise said after a lengthy pause. ‘And bigger than I thought it was going to be.’
‘It was always going to be this big,’ Stanley said, watching Annelise carefully to see what she really thought. Her opinion always mattered to him. As did the need to please her and gain her approval. If he could only convince himself that he had her total respect and admiration, he might believe he stood a chance of being her equal. Which in his heart of hearts he knew could never be. Just as he knew it was futile to hope that one day they would be more than just good friends. To Annelise, and many others, he was destined always to be Stanley Nettles, the grubby illiterate evacuee from the East End of London who’d made good.
The plain truth was, despite the education he’d been given and then the long hard years studying to be an architect – all thanks to Romily’s generosity and encouragement – a girl like Annelise would always be out of his league. They moved in very different circles. While she mixed with academics in the rarefied atmosphere of Oxford, a world which, if he were honest thoroughly intimidated him, he preferred his life here in Melstead St Mary with his old village friends.
London had been fine when he’d been studying, and for a brief period after he was qualified and working for an architectural firm, but it hadn’t felt like it would ever be his true home. He was happiest here in the Suffolk countryside, where he’d lived since being put on a train as a nine-year-old boy and subsequently deposited at Island House. He’d hated it initially; he’d been terrified of the big empty sky, the wide-open spaces and the unnerving silence. He hadn’t missed his cruel and sadistic mother, though, and when he realised he wasn’t going to be beaten or locked up by anyone at Island House, he grew to love the place.
Now, and working on his own as an architect, he made a decent living here in the village, sufficient for his needs at any rate. The commission from Hope and Edmund to build them a spacious six-bedroom house with echoes of the Arts and Crafts movement was by far the biggest commission he had been given to date.
He took Annelise down some steps in the garden so that she could have the best view of what he’d designed. Once again, he examined her face for her reaction.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said at length. ‘And quite unique. I love how the ground floor seems to be made almost entirely of glass, and curves in that sinuous way, and the way the two wings reach out like a welcoming pair of arms.’
He hardly dared ask the question, but he had to. ‘You approve of it, then?’
She turned to look at him, her blue eyes wide and clear in the afternoon sun. ‘What a strange question, of course I do. I love it! I can understand now why Mums is in such a hurry to move in.’
Filled with relief, and pride, he said, ‘Talking of your mother, I’d better get you to Island House before she starts to wonder what’s happened to you.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ Annelise said, still staring up at the house. ‘She’s probably working and lost track of the time.’
‘What time is Isabella arriving?’
Annelise smiled. ‘I’ve no idea. But you know Isabella, there’s no pinning her down.’
No, thought Stanley, but then the same was true of Annelise.
Chapter Seven
London to Suffolk
October 1962
Isabella
As an actress, Isabella Hartley was more than used to being stared at, but the man sitting opposite her in the first-class train carriage was making her feel distinctly uncomfortable. Ever since he’d removed his raincoat and dumped it on the seat next to the one he was occupying, he hadn’t stopped staring at her while pretending to read his crumpled copy of the Daily Mirror. He might just as well have had flashbulbs going off in his eyes for all his subtlety. Some men really had no self-respect.
Mind you, when she thought about some of the things she’d had to do to get where she was, she wondered about her own self-respect. All those slobbering men she’d had to charm and flutter her eyelashes at. But if that was what it took to get to the top, then she’d grit her teeth and do it. Though she had her limits. Her compliancy only went so far.
Acting wasn’t for the weak; she’d learned that when she was at RADA. It was a world in which only the fittest survived, and she had no intention of not surviving. She wanted to be the best. She wanted the kind of stardom she had always dreamt of since being a child, and nothing was going to stop her.
The man opposite her was still making a lousy job of pretending to read his newspaper. There was a strong smell of alcohol coming off him and a dusting of dandruff on his shoulders. He had moved his legs so that they were stretched towards hers. She pulled her fur coat around her as though it would shield her from his gaze, and pointedly jerked her head to stare out of the window at the passing countryside.
This was a rare few days off for her; it was ages since she had last been home to Melstead St Mary and she was looking forward to seeing everybody. People often didn’t believe her when she said her work schedule was so demanding. But it was. At the theatre six days a week, she seldom made it back to her flat before one in the morning. Her habit was to sleep in until nearly midday, unless it was a day when she had a matinee performance to do as well as the evening one. It was an antisocial way of life.
But for all the hard work and frustration, she had to confess that she loved what she did. Particularly seeing herself on screen. She knew just how to make the most of her looks. Her striking face with its wide cheekbones, full lips and sultry eyes, together with her long dark wavy hair and curvy body, were her greatest assets. She had been dubbed the British Sophia Loren, a moniker she was more than happy to play up to.
She was now beginning to be recognised when she went out. She loved it when she was asked for her autograph and always made a point of smiling and exchanging a few words with the person who’d asked for it. It was possible that the man looking so lasciviously at her knew who she was.
Lulled by the rhythmic clackety-clack of the train, she wanted very much to close her eyes and sleep for the rest of the journey, but there was something about the man in the compartment with her that made her reluctant to do that. She decided to go in search of another compartment, hopefully one that was empty. She was just reaching for her suitcase in the overhead rack when the man sprang to his feet. ‘Allow me,’ he said, his hand on the handle of her case.
‘I can manage,’ she said.
‘I’m sure a beautiful woman like you could do just about anything she wanted,’ he said. ‘Especially with the right encouragement.’
There was a sheen of sweat above his top lip and she could smell the sourness of his beer-soaked breath. Revolted by him, and what he was implying, she snatched her suitcase from his grasp, slid open the compartment door and hurried away down the narrow corridor of the train.
Changing her mind about wanting to find an empty carriage where the man might follow her, she headed to where the second-class seats were located.
‘Isabella? Is that you?’
She glanced at the young man who had just called her name.
‘It’s me, George,’ he said.
She stared at him blankly as the other passengers looked up interestedly. Then she smiled. ‘George Minton,’ she said, ‘fancy seeing you here.’
‘Are you going home for the party?’
> ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘You too?’
He nodded. When he indicated the empty seat next to him, she declined. ‘Come with me,’ she said, leading him to the empty first-class carriage she had spotted before.
‘But I don’t have the right ticket,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry about that, I’ll buy you one if the ticket collector comes round again.’
When they were settled, and grateful for his company after her encounter with that repulsive man, Isabella tried to remember when she’d last seen George. ‘Was it Christmas when we last saw each other?’ she asked.
‘It probably was,’ he said.
‘And how are your parents?’ She felt badly that she didn’t make more of an effort to stay in touch with Florence.
Some of her earliest memories were of sitting on Florence’s lap and being cuddled. That was during the war when she lived at Island House with Florence, Annelise and Hope, along with Stanley and dear old Mrs Partridge, their cook. Florence had run the household while Romily was away flying with the ATA. There had also been an Austrian refugee who had helped with the chores, leaving Florence to look after the children. Later memories included Isabella playing with George, and then his younger sister, Rosie, when she was old enough to join in with their games. Her cousin, Annelise played with her too, as did Stanley. Isabella and Annelise referred to each other as cousins, but strictly speaking they weren’t related.
Isabella’s connection to the Devereux family was complicated, and had, if she were being objective, all the makings of a great film. Her mother, Allegra Salvato had been the illegitimate daughter of Harry Devereux, Jack Devereux’s ne’er-do-well brother. When Jack had learned that his brother was dead, and of the existence of a young child living in an orphanage in Italy, he had felt duty-bound to give Allegra a home at Island House alongside his own children, Arthur, Kit and Hope. But just as soon as she was old enough, Allegra went back to Italy to embark on what she had hoped would be a successful singing career. When Jack was dying, and now married to Romily, Allegra, down on her luck and pregnant, returned to Island House and married her childhood sweetheart, Elijah Hartley. It was not to be a happy ending for them, though. While Elijah was away fighting in the war, poor Allegra died giving birth to Isabella. In his absence, Romily was made Isabella’s official guardian.