by Erica James
Thinking the boiler might have finally objected to being hit, Evelyn offered to go and take a look herself.
‘It’ll take more than looking at it to get it going,’ he said sullenly.
‘Even so,’ she said brightly, ‘I shall still take a dekko.’ If she could fix their rotten old oven at Meadow Lodge, she could jolly well try her luck with the school boiler!
Alone in the boiler room and feeling as though she could take anything on in her current mood, which was making her fizz like a bottle of champagne, she rolled up her sleeves. ‘Now then old friend,’ she murmured to the ancient boiler, ‘I know this is a lot to ask of you, and you’re probably worn out with the extra load expected of you during this cold weather, but if you could see your way to working again, I’d be so very happy. If only to prove you-know-who wrong!’
An hour had passed when, and with her hands covered in grease and grime and her hair falling loose from the clips holding it in place – not to mention a stream of curses having been muttered under her breath – the boiler stirred into life with a series of clunks and gurgling noises. Evelyn gave it a grateful pat. ‘I knew you could do it, old girl. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’
Grabbing a grubby old towel from the back of a chair, she wiped her hands and gave thanks that by some miracle of birth she was born with a practical nature.
She also gave thanks to Max that he had gone to the trouble to write to her. She supposed she should feel sorry for him that he’d had the news he had from his doctor, and how that might affect his relationship with Isabella one day. But selfishly all she could think right now was that his inability to father a child chased away every last trace of the cloud that had been hanging over her since Miss Casey had sent that first poison pen letter.
Later, as she was crawling home in the car at a snail’s pace, the light from the headlamps picking out yet more softly falling snow in the dark, she felt the past, which had been so much in her mind these last few months, had finally been put to rest. It was the future now that occupied her thoughts. Not just hers, but that of Max and Isabella. As unlikely a match as they were, they had as much chance as anybody of making it work. She hoped they did.
Letting herself in at Meadow Lodge, and with a spring in her step and a happy lightness of heart, she called out to Kit. ‘Darling, I’m home!’
‘In the kitchen,’ he called back.
She found him on his hands and knees peering mournfully into the open oven. ‘I was going to cook dinner for you, as a surprise, but the wretched thing is refusing to work. I really think it’s time we replaced it.’
She laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Life,’ she said cheerfully, shrugging off her coat, then tossing her hat and gloves onto a chair. ‘Life is just full of surprises. Now why don’t you pour us a couple of glasses of Dubonnet and gin while I deal with the oven?’
On his feet, he kissed her. ‘What would I do without you?’
She kissed him back. ‘Since you’re stuck with me forever, that’s not something you’re ever going to have to deal with, my darling.’
Her sleeves rolled up for the second time that day, she set about coaxing their dilapidated oven into life.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Melstead Hall, Melstead St Mary
January 1963
Florence
‘I never thought to see the day when we’d be standing here,’ said Billy.
‘Me neither,’ agreed Florence, gazing round the crowded drawing room of Melstead Hall. Everywhere she looked there was a familiar face from the village. Many had come out of sheer nosiness, eager to have a snoop round the Hall and see if it was as dismal a mausoleum as legend had it.
Florence was guilty of the same curiosity and while the house itself was large and forbidding, and lacking in any homely charm, with a drinks party in full swing, it didn’t seem too awful.
Frank Ifield singing ‘I Remember You’ on a radiogram helped to create a relaxed atmosphere. All the same though, it struck an odd note, a party to celebrate Julia Devereux’s birthday while her husband was in hospital possibly breathing his last. Not that anybody seemed to mind very much. If this was her way of enjoying, or maybe even celebrating, her new-found freedom, Florence wished her well.
‘I could do with a bite to eat,’ said Billy, ‘any sign of one of those waitresses we saw earlier with a tray of canapes?’
‘I’m sure one will be round in a minute or two,’ said Florence.
‘Do you know what I really fancy?’ he said.
‘Surprise me.’
‘A big fry-up when we’re home. What do you say to eggs, bacon, sausages and a slice or two of fried bread? We could eat it by the fire, all nice and cosy like we used to.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ she said. ‘But won’t your mother be coming round?’
‘Not tonight, I told her we’d be back late.’
Florence looked at her husband. ‘If I didn’t know better, William Minton, I’d say you have an ulterior motive.’
He winked. ‘And you’d be dead right.’
She leaned in to him and kissed his cheek. ‘How many times have I told you before, I’m always right?’
‘I’ve lost count. But I just thought it would be good to have some proper time alone, now that George is back at his studies in London and we have the house to ourselves again.’
‘I can see that you’ve put some thought into this.’
‘I have,’ he said, stepping aside to let another couple of guests pass by. ‘But you know,’ he went on, ‘you’re not always right. You were wrong not to tell me about those poison pen letters. You’d have saved yourself a lot of worry if you had.’
‘I know that now,’ she said, ‘but at the time, I just couldn’t bring myself to tell you.’
‘I still can’t believe you doubted me, that you thought I could be messing about with some woman behind your back.’
‘That’s the trouble with poison pen letters,’ said Florence, ‘they poison the mind.’
‘Hello Mr and Mrs Minton, would you like something to eat?’
Florence turned from her husband to see Charles Devereux looking up at her with a tray of canapes in his hands. Florence smiled at the boy. How sweet he looked in his grey pullover, white shirt and tie and neatly combed hair. ‘If you promise to call me Florence,’ she said, ‘I might just try one of those tasty looking sausage rolls. Do you think you can do that?’
He nodded and after she had helped herself, he offered the tray to Billy. ‘Our new cook, Mrs Grundy, says that seeing as God gave us two hands, it’s always better to take two of anything.’
Billy laughed. ‘One for each hand; I like Mrs Grundy’s thinking!’
‘How are you liking your new school in the village?’ asked Florence.
The boy’s face lit up with the sunniest of smiles. ‘It’s great and a lot more fun than my stuffy old school. Best of all I can walk there and back and stay here with Mummy the whole time.’
‘And have you made some nice friends?’
‘Yes, Mrs Min . . . I mean . . . Florence. Some of us are going sledging tomorrow and then we’re going to build the biggest snowman ever.’
‘You’ll have no shortage of snow, and that’s a fact,’ said Billy through a mouthful of flaky pastry. ‘And you can tell Mrs Grundy that Billy Minton says her sausage rolls are delicious.’
‘That’s a rare word of praise from my husband’s lips,’ said Florence, ‘so be sure to tell her, won’t you?’
‘I will. If you’ll excuse me, I’d better serve some of the other guests.’
They were watching him go over to where Evelyn and Kit were chatting with Ralph and Annelise when the boy’s mother appeared. Her hair nicely coiffed and wearing a navy blue slim-fitting, above-the-knee dress of fine wool with a matching cardigan draped ove
r her shoulders, she looked elegant and poised. Remembering the dowdy shapeless dress she had worn to the party at Meadow Lodge back in October, and how awkward she had been that night, Florence was amazed at the change in her.
‘I’m so pleased you both came,’ she said graciously, looking and sounding like the perfect hostess.
‘It was very kind of you to invite us,’ said Florence. ‘Happy Birthday to you.’
‘Thank you. I hope people won’t think it very odd having a party like this when Arthur is . . . well . . . given the situation, but Ralph wouldn’t hear of not celebrating my birthday in style. I only agreed on the basis that everyone from the village was invited so I could thank them for their kindness these last few weeks.’
‘Which was very thoughtful of you,’ said Florence, thinking that Julia wasn’t so much changed as completely transformed. ‘We’ve just been chatting to your son,’ she then said. ‘What a charming and polite boy he is. You must be so proud of him.’
Julia smiled, her eyes searching for Charles in the crowd of guests. ‘He insisted he helped,’ she said, ‘even though we have plenty of waitresses the agency sent us.’
‘Is that where you found Mrs Grundy, your new cook? Charles mentioned her to us.’
‘Yes, she’s marvellous, and with any luck the agency will find a new housekeeper for me as well.’ Julia gave a short unexpected laugh. ‘A woman who doesn’t have designs on being mistress of Melstead Hall, or one who enjoys concocting horrid letters.’
Surprised that Julia could joke in such a manner, Florence said, ‘A number of us in the village owe you a debt of gratitude for discovering what Miss Casey was up to.’
‘I didn’t do anything particularly clever, I merely stumbled across the evidence quite by accident.’
‘However you did it, we’re all very glad you did, Mrs Devereux,’ joined in Billy.
‘Do please call me Julia. I hate everyone being so formal with me.’
‘That was more or less what I said to Charles,’ said Florence. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all. I’m just so happy that he now has the opportunity to get to know people here properly. This has always been his home, but until now it hasn’t really felt that way for him. Which probably sounds peculiar, but that’s the truth of the matter. Arthur didn’t like for us to . . . ’ she hesitated and fiddled with the string of pearls around her neck. ‘He didn’t like to share us with anyone else.’
‘How is Mr Devereux?’ asked Florence, noting that Julia had referred to him in the past tense.
‘Not good, I’m afraid. Ralph and I have been told to prepare for the worst, that the end is sooner rather than later. His heart is just so very weak.’
What heart? Florence was tempted to ask. Instead she asked how much longer Ralph would be staying.
‘He’ll be here for a few more weeks, which will be a great help to me . . . particularly,’ she lowered her voice, ‘if there’s a funeral to arrange.’
‘Yes,’ said Florence. ‘I can see that would be a help to you.’
‘Charles and I shall miss him when he does go back to London, we’ve grown very fond of Ralph. But he’s found himself a job with a firm of stockbrokers. Now if you’ll excuse me, I ought to chat with my other guests. Do have plenty to eat and drink, won’t you?’
Florence watched Julia go over to chat with Max and Isabella, who had arrived yesterday at Island House for the weekend. Unfortunately, due to the awful weather, the play Isabella had been performing in had closed after a dramatic drop in audience numbers. Isabella didn’t seem at all bothered, she was too busy being in love, Florence supposed.
‘She’s become quite the mistress of Melstead Hall, hasn’t she?’ remarked Billy.
Switching her thoughts back to Julia, Florence agreed. ‘After what she had to put up with from that monster of a husband, I say good luck to her.’
Romily had told Florence in confidence all that she knew that had been going on here, but it was already common knowledge that Julia had been treated appallingly by Arthur Devereux. There was gossip too that he had run his own sister over and that he’d been carrying on with Miss Casey.
Seeing Stanley standing in the bay window on his own, his hands pushed deep into his trouser pockets as he stared out at the garden, Florence thought how glum he looked. Leaving Billy to chat with Reggie Potters from Holmewood Farm, she went over to Stanley.
‘Penny for your thoughts,’ she said.
‘You know me,’ he said despondently, ‘I’m not a great one for parties, and this one feels plain weird, don’t you think?’
‘I think it’s Julia’s way of telling the village that Arthur is as good as dead and she’s now carving out a new life for herself.’
‘I know the feeling,’ he said.
Concerned how morose he sounded, Florence said, ‘Stanley, you would say if there was anything wrong, wouldn’t you?’
‘Why do you think there might be?’
‘It’s just a feeling I can’t shake off. You don’t seem yourself.’
He contemplated her for a moment, then when Elvis singing ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ started up on the radiogram, he rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘What the heck?’ he said, ‘it’ll soon be widely known before too long anyway, so you might just as well hear it from me. I’m leaving the village.’
‘Why? You came back because you felt you couldn’t live anywhere else. You said this was your true home.’
‘It’s Annelise,’ he said quietly, his gaze moving from Florence to where Annelise was making Hope comfortable in an armchair by the fire. ‘I have to put as much distance between the two of us as I can,’ he murmured. ‘It’s too painful living under the same sky as her.’
Florence had always known that Stanley had a soft spot for Annelise, but she hadn’t realised just how strongly he felt. ‘Does she know how you feel?’
‘I made the mistake of telling her that I loved her, and it’s ruined everything. I never should have said anything. I always knew I could only ever be a friend to her, but somehow I dreamt . . . well . . . you know what dreams are like, some come true, and some are simply nightmares in disguise.’
‘Oh Stanley, I’m sorry. But surely it doesn’t mean you have to leave? Annelise is going away with Hope and Edmund and then when they’re home, she’ll return to Oxford, and you won’t have to see her so much.’
‘Assuming she does go back to Oxford,’ he muttered. He then clenched his jaw as if he was biting on something.
‘Why wouldn’t she go back?’ asked Florence.
‘Forget I said anything,’ he said tersely. ‘I told you I’m no good at parties, they make me say stupid things.’
She stared at him, puzzled. Then suddenly she remembered being out with Annelise and the girl falling over in the snow. Helping her to her feet, Florence had asked if she was all right. Annelise had said she was fine, but at the same time she had placed a gloved hand over her stomach. Not until now had Florence thought twice about that small, but what she now understood was a very instinctive gesture. Was this the real reason Annelise was going away with Hope and Edmund?
‘Stanley,’ she asked, her voice no more than a murmur, ‘is Annelise pregnant?’
He hesitated. ‘If she is, you didn’t hear it from me.’
‘And the father?’
‘A married man in Oxford who had no intention of leaving his wife. And that’s all I’m saying on the subject. Don’t press me for anything more. But perhaps you now understand why I have to leave.’
‘Where will you go, London?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I’m emigrating to Australia.’
‘Australia!’ she repeated.
Florence didn’t know what was more shocking, that Annelise was pregnant, or Stanley planning to emigrate. Many a time when he’d been a boy, Florence had taken Stanley in her arms and
hugged him. She wished she could do the same now, especially if it would help make him change his mind. The thought of never seeing him again was just too awful to contemplate. As was knowing the pain he was suffering in loving Annelise and knowing he could never be with her.
‘When do you think you’ll go?’ she asked.
‘Just as soon as the necessary paperwork is completed.’
‘But what about Tucker? What will you do with him?’
‘I’m going to ask Kit and Evelyn to have him. Em seems to think they should have a dog.’
‘Well, if they say no, Billy and I will have him. If you’ll trust us.’
He almost smiled. ‘Of course I do.’
‘Does anyone else know what you’re planning to do?’ she asked. What she meant was, was there anybody else trying to put a stop to his plan?
‘Romily knows,’ he replied. ‘I told her before she flew to Canada for her speaking engagement tour.’
‘What did she think of what you’re doing?’
‘She said I had to follow my heart and do what felt right for me. Even if it was a terrifying leap into the unknown.’
That sounded exactly the kind of thing Romily would say. It was, after all, what she was doing right now. Except she wasn’t in Canada on a speaking engagement tour, that was what Romily had told people so they wouldn’t put two and two together. Only Florence knew where she really was and had been sworn to secrecy.
Secrets, she thought, there was no end to them.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
La Vista, Palm Springs
January 1963
Romily
Throughout the long flight to Los Angeles, Romily had rehearsed what she planned to say to Red when he opened the door to her. But not a word of it sounded right to her ears; it was too scripted. She needed to relax and to stop worrying that she was making a big mistake.
It was because she had decided to be more like her younger self – her young spontaneous and impulsive self – that she was now in a taxi and on her way to surprise Red. She had deliberately not bought herself a return ticket. What did she have to rush back for anyway? Island House would always be there for her.