by Daisy Wood
She shrugged. ‘Why shouldn’t he take you? He’s going there anyway and it’s a crime to waste petrol. He’s off to London at the drop of a hat these days – no sooner home than he’s tearing back there again, whether the House is sitting or not.’ Her eyes focused blearily on Nell for a moment. ‘Anyone would think he was trying to avoid me.’
Nell laughed nervously. ‘I’m sure he’s a busy man.’
‘Oh, yes. My husband has his finger in all sorts of pies.’ Lady Winthrop rose, a little unsteadily, to her feet. ‘Let’s go and beard the ogre in his study. You never know, he might be glad of some company on the journey.’
I doubt that very much, Nell thought, following Lady Winthrop upstairs. She was probably the last person Lord Winthrop would have chosen as a companion. The door to his study was ajar and Nell could hear him talking as they approached.
‘Yes, Handle’s going ahead,’ he said. ‘Definitely.’ Followed by a clunk as he replaced the telephone receiver. By the time Lady Winthrop had knocked and entered the room, he was stuffing papers into a briefcase. He looked startled and not exactly overjoyed to see them, and listened to his wife’s rambling request with a deepening frown.
‘I’m afraid there’s no time to take passengers on board,’ he growled. ‘We shall be leaving the minute Cooke’s finished his stint as Father Christmas. I have to reach the city before nightfall.’
‘That won’t be a problem,’ Nell assured him. ‘I’ll just run home to grab a few things and be back before you know it. I need to contact Arthur urgently, you see.’
He glared at her. ‘Can’t you go by train in the morning?’
‘Don’t be so disobliging, Lionel.’ Lady Winthrop’s face was flushed. ‘No skin off your nose, is it? You don’t have to drive. You just sit in the back, reading your papers and not talking to anyone. Not even your wife.’
‘All right, all right,’ Lord Winthrop snapped. ‘I see I won’t get any peace until I agree. Just don’t be late, Mrs Spelman. If you’re not back here in an hour, we won’t wait.’
‘Thank you so much,’ Nell replied humbly. ‘I do appreciate it.’
When they were alone in the hall, Lady Winthrop took Nell’s hands in hers and pressed them to her ample chest. ‘Don’t pay that old grump any attention. Your place is with your husband,’ she murmured, in a gust of alcohol-laced breath. ‘Fly to him and bring succour.’
Nell could hardly believe her impulsive request had been granted. Of course, there was Alice to think of, but her mother and Susan Potts wouldn’t mind looking after the baby between them. It was the school holidays now and Nell wouldn’t be away for long. She had to hurry, though, and keep her head. Firstly, she ran back into the dining room, where the game of musical chairs was reaching its conclusion. Susan and Janet were watching Timothy, one of the final few still clinging to a chair; apparently Brenda had taken Malcolm to the toilet. Nell asked Susan to take the other children home after the party, and to help Rose take care of Alice for a day or so. Then she slipped out of the room, seized the pram and pushed it hurriedly back to Orchard House, planning what she should pack and how she could explain the situation to her mother.
In the end, she opted for simplicity. ‘Ma, I need to go to London for a couple of days, to sort something out for Arthur. Lord Winthrop’s offered me a lift in his car. Would you mind looking after Alice while I’m gone? Susan will help.’
Rose’s hand fluttered to her chest. ‘You want to go to London? At a time like this? Whatever for?’
‘Please,’ Nell begged, dancing from foot to foot with impatience. ‘I haven’t time to explain but I’ll be careful, I promise.’
Rose glanced at the clock. ‘Your father’s taking a nap. He’ll be in a terrible mood if I wake him up.’
‘No, don’t do that,’ Nell said quickly. She improvised, crossing her fingers behind her back. ‘I told him the other day I might have to go back at some point and he didn’t object.’
‘Oh, all right, then,’ Rose sighed eventually. ‘If you’re set on going, suppose I can’t stop you. But please come home the minute you can. You know how I’ll worry while you’re away.’
Nell ran upstairs, threw some clothes into a haversack and changed into more sensible shoes, suitable for dashing about. Then she levered up the floorboard to retrieve the Beretta; she daren’t risk leaving a gun for Brenda to find. Her identity card and enough money for the return train fare were in her handbag, and the watch Arthur had given her was around her neck, as always. She fished it out: with a bit of luck, she’d make it back to the Manor in plenty of time. First, though, she had to say her goodbyes.
‘Be a good girl for Granny,’ she whispered, holding Alice so tightly she squawked in protest and burying her face in the warm, soft folds of baby skin. ‘I’ll be back before you know it.’ For the briefest of moments, she wondered whether she were doing the right thing, until she remembered the fear in Arthur’s voice.
Rose held out her arms for the baby and Nell passed her over. ‘Thanks, I’m truly grateful. Say goodbye to Pa for me.’ And then she was gone, hurrying up the lane with the haversack bumping on her shoulder and the breath tearing at her throat. How long would it take to drive to London? An uncomfortable couple of hours, maybe, but she could put up with that.
When she rounded the last corner of the drive, Lord Winthrop was already standing on the doorstep and the smooth, shiny bulk of the Bentley was nosing its way out of the garage to pick him up. She might have guessed he would try to give her the slip. Running the last few yards, she arrived panting and flustered as Cooke was opening the rear passenger door for His Lordship to climb in.
‘Oh, there you are,’ he said, peering out at her from the back seat. ‘In the nick of time. Would you mind sitting in the front? I have papers to read.’
Cooke held the door open for Nell, staring impassively into the distance. She was just stowing her handbag in the footwell and settling herself down for the journey when Brenda’s face loomed up at the car window.
‘Goodbye,’ Nell mouthed, giving her a thumb’s up. ‘See you soon. Behave yourself!’
Brenda looked agitated, hopping from foot to foot. She signalled that Nell should wind down the window, but its handle was stiff and wouldn’t move. Cooke started the engine and the Bentley began to crunch forward over the gravel. Brenda said something Nell couldn’t make out and rapped on the window, trotting along beside the car.
‘Drive on!’ Lord Winthrop commanded from the rear seat. ‘Who is that ghastly child?’
Nell raised her hands in mock surrender as the Bentley drew away. ‘I do believe she’s chasing us,’ Lord Winthrop grunted, craning around. ‘What infernal cheek.’
Nell felt a pang of disquiet as the car gathered speed and Brenda’s running figure receded into the distance. What had she been trying to say? Nothing important, most probably, but she wished they could have spoken nevertheless. Glancing in the wing mirror, she saw Lord Winthrop clasp his hands over his stomach and close his eyes, frowning. Cooke still seemed determined to ignore her so she stared out of the window, watching the countryside roll by as they drove through the gathering dusk towards London. For some reason, she remembered the phrase, ‘Handle’s going ahead,’ spoken so urgently and distinctly. Which particular pie of His Lordship’s was that?
Chapter Twelve
London, January 2022
Ellie and Dan had fallen into the habit of speaking on the phone almost every night. Whenever she’d tried calling Beth, it always seemed to be the wrong time: Morgan was either taking a nap so Beth was busy with chores, or needing a feed or to have her nappy changed. But Dan had time to talk and he usually had some news to report – her cactus had flowered, a new tenant had moved into the apartment downstairs, there’d been a fire at the Italian restaurant on the corner, her dishwasher had broken but he’d managed to fix it – and he was interested in what she had to say. She caught the loneliness in his voice, the sense of dislocation. Perhaps she was especially glad to hear from
him because that’s how she was feeling, too, navigating her way through a strange city. It didn’t sound like he was living the bachelor in Manhattan dream. When she asked him what he’d been up to, it mainly seemed to consist of running along the Hudson River Park and watching old movies on Netflix. ‘Same old, same old,’ he’d say. ‘So come on, tell me what you’ve discovered.’
Not a great deal, Ellie had to admit. She’d visited the Palace of Westminster, home to the Houses of Parliament, and although the buildings were magnificent, they hadn’t given her the instant connection to her family that she’d been hoping to find. Her grandfather hadn’t been a politician or a peer, he’d been a craftsman. She couldn’t sense his presence in the echoing Westminster Hall, with its timber roof like the hulk of an upturned boat so high above her head, nor in the long corridors, where light fell through stained-glass windows to scatter jewels over the marble floors. History unfurled before her in a gorgeous tapestry of statues, paintings, robing rooms and thrones: remote and academic. She’d spent a long afternoon at the Imperial War Museum, she told Dan, looking at cases of Second World War stirrup pumps, ration books and gas masks, and sitting in a replica Anderson shelter while an air raid exploded outside.
‘Terrifying, and so claustrophobic – I could only stand it for ten minutes.’
She told him how she’d booked a session in the research room, to read up on Fascism.
‘Should be interesting,’ Dan said. ‘I’m jealous.’
He sounded sorry for himself. For some reason a memory flashed into Ellie’s head: red party cups, kegs of beer, teenage boys throwing up in the Scardinos’ back yard. ‘Wait a minute! Isn’t it your birthday sometime soon?’
‘That’s right, in a few days. How did you remember?’ She could tell he was touched.
A dreadful thought struck her. ‘It’s not your fortieth, is it?’
‘That’s next year. I’m going to pretend this one isn’t happening. Or maybe treat myself to extra pepperoni on my pizza.’
‘Oh, Dan.’ She tried to think of something to cheer him up. ‘Well, if you’re at a loose end, you can always jump on a plane and come to London. There’s a couch in my living room.’
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Sure, it would be great to have company, but Dan might think she was hitting on him, and she had enough emotional drama to deal with as it was. Luckily, Dan wasn’t the impulsive type. He only laughed nervously and said it was a kind offer that he would think about. ‘So, have you patched things up with your aunt?’ he asked, clearly wanting to change the subject.
Ellie groaned. ‘Not yet. I will, though. Soon.’
‘You’ve been saying that for days. Go tomorrow, then you won’t have it hanging over you anymore. I’ll call in the evening to hear how it went.’
The next afternoon, Ellie found herself standing on Gillian’s doorstep, with a bunch of flowers this time. What was the worst that could happen? If Gillian slammed the door in her face, that would prove she was mad and Ellie wouldn’t have to worry about her anymore. She’d have done all she could. She pressed the bell, her heart thumping. Through the stained-glass panels of the front door, she saw the slender outline of her aunt approaching and braced herself.
‘Oh. I thought it was my supermarket delivery.’ Gillian was wearing a pair of dark glasses; it was impossible to read her expression behind them.
Ellie thrust the flowers towards her. ‘I brought you these. To apologise for the other day.’
Gillian hesitated, then reached forward. ‘Thank you. They’re very nice.’
They stood looking at each other. ‘May I come in?’ Ellie asked.
Gillian turned without a word and Ellie followed her down the hall to the kitchen, rehearsing what she might say. When she faced her aunt, though, it was Gillian who spoke. ‘I should be the one bringing you flowers. I wasn’t on very good form the other day.’
That was an understatement. ‘You weren’t feeling well,’ Ellie said. ‘And having to entertain me was too much of a strain. When you’re better, maybe I could take you out for tea or something, and we could start over again.’
‘Maybe. Although actually, I might not be feeling better for a while.’ Gillian laid the flowers on the counter and took down a vase from one of the cupboards. ‘How lovely. White lilies remind some people of funerals but I rather like them, and they do suit this room.’ Propping her glasses on top of her head, she filled the vase with water, tore the cellophane from the flowers, trimmed the stems and began to arrange them. Her eyes looked pink and swollen.
‘Is it the flu?’ Ellie asked tentatively.
Gillian looked at her directly for the first time. ‘No, I’m afraid it’s cancer.’
Her words hung in the air like smoke from an explosion. Ellie racked her brain for some kind of response but all she could do was stare at her aunt, speechless.
‘That’s the first time I’ve said it out loud.’ Gillian stood back from the vase and tweaked one of the stems, frowning. ‘Perhaps the telling will get easier with practice. I’d found a lump in my breast before Christmas, you see, and was waiting for the biopsy results when we met. Not very good timing, was it? But you couldn’t have had any idea about that. Anyway, I heard yesterday the tumour’s malignant. I have breast cancer. You’re the only other person who knows, apart from the nurse and my oncologist.’
Ellie sat down with a thump. ‘But what about Max? And your daughter?’
‘Lucy has another couple of weeks in South Africa and there’s no point spoiling her holiday. As for Max – well, you’ve met him. You’ve seen what he’s like.’ She shot Ellie a fierce look. ‘You must promise not to tell him. This information is strictly between the two of us.’
At that moment, the doorbell rang. ‘That’ll be my shopping.’ Gillian put her glasses back on and straightened her shoulders.
Ellie slid off the bar stool. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll bring it in.’ She walked down the hall, her head reeling, glad of the chance to digest what she’d just heard.
It took her a couple of trips to bring all the bags through to the kitchen. Gillian was sitting at the kitchen table, gazing out of the window, so Ellie unpacked the groceries, arranging them on the island in groups so they’d be easy for her aunt to put away. She wondered about putting the milk and cheese in the fridge, but that felt like intruding. Fridges were so personal; what if she opened Gillian’s to find nothing but a bottle of vodka and a tin of cat food? And Gillian didn’t have a cat? When she’d finished, she sat beside her aunt and joined her in looking out at the yard. It was immaculately landscaped, with seats under a pergola at the far end, square flowerbeds surrounded by low box hedges, and a pond full of waterlilies fed by water flowing from pipes set into the wall.
‘Max designed my garden,’ Gillian said. ‘He’s a dear boy, really, although rather too easily blown off track. He doesn’t like any sort of unpleasantness.’
‘You’ll have to tell him sooner or later. He’s bound to notice something’s wrong.’
Gillian laughed. ‘You’d be surprised.’
They sat quietly for a little while longer. ‘Should I make us a cup of tea?’ Ellie offered. She’d have killed for one.
‘Actually, that would be rather nice. But you don’t know where anything is.’
‘I’m sure I can find my way around.’
‘All right, then. Do your best. I like mine strong, with plenty of milk and no sugar.’
Gillian resumed her garden vigil while Ellie pottered around the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards in her search for teabags, and a couple of mugs. The design was too stark for her taste but she could appreciate the workmanship and thought behind it: the drawers sliding smoothly to and fro, the doors softly closing, the canisters slotting so neatly into place. Maybe if she had a kitchen like this, she would become a more efficient, purposeful person altogether. She brought Gillian her tea with a packet of ginger thins from the supermarket delivery and they sat together, drinking and n
ibbling. Ellie was afraid of saying the wrong thing, so she waited for her aunt to break the silence.
Gillian didn’t seem in any hurry. Eventually she said, pushing back her chair, ‘By the way, I have something for you. Wait here and I’ll bring it through.’
She returned with what looked like a thick hardbacked book, which she placed on the table between them. ‘The album. Turns out it wasn’t so hard to find after all.’
Ellie laid her hands on the faded leather cover, as though she could absorb the past through her skin. Then, reverently, she opened it. The first photograph showed Arthur and Mavis on their wedding day. Ellie guessed it was Mavis who had compiled the album, labelling each picture underneath in small, looped handwriting with the date and any other salient facts. She and Arthur had been married on Friday, 18 March, 1949, at St Luke’s Church in Kentish Town. The bride wore a rayon satin gown with a Chantilly lace veil, according to a newspaper clipping on the next page, and was attended by her niece, Miss Marigold Rawlins, and her stepdaughter, Miss Alice Spelman. Mavis was short and plump, her blonde hair set in frantic waves and an expression of joyful triumph on her face. She had a weak chin and small pointed teeth, and looked as though she would be more inclined to fussiness and nit-picking than coarseness. Arthur was solemn and resolute, stooping next to his new wife as though to minimise their height difference. There were several pictures of the bride and groom: on the church steps, climbing into a car, flanked by Arthur’s mother and both Mavis’s parents – Ellie was interested to see the bride’s father, a bespectacled man in a top hat whom she wouldn’t necessarily have taken for a butcher – and then, at last, a photograph of the bridal party, with an awkward, glowering Alice on the end of the row, beside a fair-haired cherub of five or so. She must have been about nine, already tall for her age and not at all flattered by the frilly bridesmaid’s dress that looked adorable on little Marigold.