‘But I love you. I love you just as much as before.’ She had to make him understand. ‘I’m not too young to be in love with you.’
He put his arms around her and clasped his hands at the back of her waist, smiling at her ingenuous declaration of love, which, Isobel realised, might sound forward or brazen. He said, ‘You’re sixteen. You can’t know, at sixteen. Let’s walk. And talk.’ He kissed her on the forehead and held her close. ‘Tonight we’ll spend an hour at the piano, shall we? Come to Archerfield early. I want to get to know you. If I have to wait two years to kiss you like that again, we’d better find some other passion in common.’
They went into the green silence of the pine woods, hand in hand, and as they walked on the springy, needle-strewn ground that muffled every sound, she found that she could talk –and talk – and talk to him. All of her secrets came spilling out, the secrets of her heart – that she had been born without a legal name or a legal right, that she was afraid for her beautiful diabetic mother, that she would forever feel herself to be an outsider and a nobody until she knew who her father was, for the stepfather she mistrusted was not her real, true father. She couldn’t stop talking though she had never spoken as openly before.
She could not tell him why she mistrusted her stepfather. She could not talk about such things. That was something she had to bury, for Mam’s sake as well as her own. But she told him that many of her heart’s desires had come with Mam’s marriage, and she told him that she no longer had a vile pink record card that followed her from one council school to another. She was adopted, legitimate. She had chosen a name she loved. He listened intently to her outpourings. They were out of the pine woods, dropping through fields of clover and mayflowers, over ancient stiles to the River Dean, past stone-walled farms to the turnpike road to Derbyshire. She kept on talking and talking, telling him that both she and Mam had been baptised at a little midweek ceremony at St Michael and All Angels. ‘Publick Baptism of such as are of Riper Years’ it was called and soon they would be confirmed and able to take Holy Communion. She ought to be happy that she was, in the eyes of the church, ‘a member of Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of Heaven’.
But there was something missing. Something was wrong.
When finally she finished talking she was exhausted. They were sitting on a drystone wall by an old mill pond. Ian put his arms about her again and said, ‘Oh, Isobel! It was your father you were seeking – not legal status. It won’t go away, the need to know. I hope you find him one day but it’s what kind of a person you are, not the mistakes your parents made, that matters. We can’t blame our parents, our background, our past for everything. Life goes forward and we’re all going in the same direction, no matter where we came from. We have to look ahead. Not back.’
‘I’ve talked too much,’ she said. ‘I’m usually the one who listens.’
‘I’m glad. I know what has made you what you are.’ He slid his arm round her waist and held her close. ‘You’re the girl I want.’
They walked on in the spring sunshine, and as they went he told her about his own life. He said it had been just as hard when he was a child, having no mother, as it had been for her without a father. It was hard to live up to a father you loved and admired. He loved the challenge and the freedom of sailing. He’d have liked to join the Royal Navy but his father had refused his permission. His father had insisted on his studying medicine. Ian was glad; glad he’d been made to study in his early years because out of that had come self-discipline. He needed to use his brain. Great achievements were expected of him – and of his dear sister, who had no mother to teach her womanly graces. Rowena, he said, was an odd mixture of enthusiasm, tactless confidences and long silences. He said, ‘My father’s not to blame for the stout-hearted way Rowena and I behave, any more than your Mam is to blame for the way you are.’
He was absolutely right. Isobel said, ‘I don’t blame them.’
Ian helped her down, laughing, ‘I sound like a blinking preacher.’
They went along the stony cart tracks, side by side, hands free. Isobel said, ‘What will you do? When you are a doctor? Specialise or be a family doctor like your father?’
‘I’m drawn to genetics – what’s in the blood, as you might say.’
‘Because of Magnus?’
‘Because Magnus’s haemophilia comes from the Mackenzie family. I don’t have it, and as long as my wife doesn’t carry it my children will be normal. But Rowena may be a carrier. Sylvia almost certainly is. Magnus dare not risk marrying and having children. I want to know more.’ He went quiet, then he said, ‘I may not get the chance.’
‘Why not?’
‘Our generation’s not going to have an easy ride. There will be another war. And we’ll be in it.’
A shiver went down Isobel’s back. ‘Someone’s going to have to stand up to Hitler. Don’t you think?’
He took her hand again. ‘The French want us to stand up to him and we do nothing. We’ve let his Nazi jackboots march into the Rhineland.’ He went along, silent for a few more paces, before he said, ‘Sorry. I do go on a bit. What about you?’
‘The law.’ She held tight on to his hand. Perhaps it was a dream – a dream of escape, just as her adoption had been. ‘I used to say that all I wanted was to be married; to have a happy home – a big house in the hills – married to a good man and with loads of children.’
Ian’s eyes were bright with approval. ‘I think that’s a wonderful ambition. It’s my goal in life. To be the father of a big, happy family.’
They fell quiet, embarrassed. They were approaching Archerfield but were high above it; Isobel said, ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Ravenous.’
‘Then we’ll have a picnic. In White Nancy.’
Inside the round picnic room of White Nancy Ian said, when they had eaten, ‘It’s going to be the best party ever. I’ll come for you in Dad’s car.’
‘I can walk!’
‘I’ll come for you. It will give us an excuse to be alone.’
Chapter Seventeen
Sylvia sent down to Lindow three dresses, silk stockings, artificial flowers and ribbon. She also sent her spare pair of gold sandals, knowing they both took size five.
Isobel chose a long dress of bias-cut amber silk that had one shoulder bare and the other tied with wide silk bow straps. It was a much older style than she’d worn before, but Sylvia was taller than her, and with this one she could adjust the straps to make it shorter. She pinned on to the shoulder a little bunch of velvet violets and silk snowdrops with trailing stems of green silk.
At six o’clock she was dressed and ready and sitting patiently in the living room while Nanna brushed her hair. ‘If I could take my head off,’ she said, ‘I’d try a Grecian bun.’
‘Impossible!’ Nanna went on brushing it, back and up. ‘These curls will spring back again in no time. I’ll get it smooth and fasten it with my ivory clasp.’ She went on brushing with long strokes for another five minutes while Grandpa sat watching from his armchair by the fire.
‘There,’ said Nanna when she‘d finished. ‘Eeh! Spit and image of your mother. Isn’t she, Dad?’
Grandpa nodded. ‘Pretty as a picture.’
‘Take a peep.’ Nanna held up a long-handled mirror.
Isobel was startled by her reflection; milky-white skin with a sheen, high cheekbones touched with Nanna’s ancient rouge. Her naturally thick eyelashes were silky from a feathering with Vaseline. Nanna had told her that when she was young one of her beauty secrets was, of all things, soot. So Isobel blackened a mole near the outer corner of her eye into a beauty spot, then dipped her toothbrush in soot and scrubbed her teeth until, with all traces of black gone, they gleamed against her naturally red lips that were full and sharply defined.
But it was the shining grey eyes, with the amber flecks dancing when she glanced this way and that, that made her see that her looks were out of the ordinary. She had a light in the eye, a turn of
the head that could bewitch and beguile. She was as pretty as Mam.
‘That’s enough primping, miss.’ Nanna took her hand-mirror away. ‘Put your other shoes on for going down the lane in.’
Grandpa said, ‘I’ll walk down with her.’
‘Ian’s coming for me.’
Grandpa said, ‘I don’t approve of a young lass being alone with a man. Make sure he treats you with proper respect.’
‘Grandpa! I’m sixteen,’ Isobel said as Ian’s knock came on the back door and she leaped to her feet.
‘All right. All right.’ Grandpa was smiling as he went to open the door. ‘I’m an old-fashioned old man!’
Then Ian was inside, filling the little room because he was so tall and full of life and presence, shaking hands with Grandpa and promising to take care of her; asking Nanna if it was she who played the piano. Nanna and Grandpa were won over. Nanna began to flutter and dimple with pleasure as he admired her piano, asked, ‘May I?’ and sat down and played ‘Over the Sea to Skye’ for them, remarking on the fine tone.
When he had done, Nanna said, ‘Will you stay a little while?’
‘Not now. But may I come tomorrow?’ Ian took Isobel’s hand. ‘It will give me another chance to see Isobel.’
‘None of that! Don’t hold hands with a girl until you’re courting her properly,’ Grandpa said. Then, seeing embarrassment on Ian’s face, he said, ‘After morning chapel tomorrow. Come at two o’clock. You’ll be able to meet Isobel’s mother and father as well.’
Isobel went hot and cold. She hadn’t thought so far ahead. The web of lies was growing. ‘Oh! I don’t think I’ll be here by then, Grandpa. I have to get an early train.’
‘Never mind,’ Ian said. He had not been embarrassed by Grandpa’s rebuke because he lifted her hand, this time for all to see, gave a little bow and said, ‘Your carriage awaits, ma’am!’
In the car he said, ‘What was all that about your going back to school? I thought you said Monday.’
‘No,’ she said quickly, ashamed that she was having to lie to Ian. ‘Sunday. I have to be back for Monday.’
‘I can drive you, if you like. We could leave early in the morning and be in Southport for two. It’s about sixty miles, isn’t it?’
‘Would you?’
The driveway to Archerfield was not long, and Sylvia and Magnus were waiting at the open door. Sylvia, fair and ethereal in white, with a camellia clipped into her bobbed hair, came down the steps. ‘You look marvellous in that colour, Isobel,’ she said. ‘So glad you’re here. It’s going to be a wonderful evening.’
Magnus, who was lounging against the doorpost, gave an appreciative whistle.
‘Magnus! Don’t whistle!’ Sylvia chided him, and took his arm. ‘Mother and Father will be down later. We’ll have an hour to ourselves in the drawing room before the guests arrive. Rowena is in there already – arranging everything to her liking.’
The room was ready. The piano stood in its position, where the band would play in an hour’s time. Rowena was setting out glasses, fruit cup and cocktail shakers on the high semi-circular bar in the far corner of the room. ‘Goody! You’re here!’ Rowena called out before coming to the piano. ‘Give us something lively, will you, Ian?’
First Ian played ‘Three Little Maids’ from The Mikado, while Sylvia, Rowena and Isobel tried to sing and act it out. But he stopped and said he’d have to cover his ears, they were making such a caterwauling. He played jazz for a few minutes, then stopped and said, ‘Isobel, I saw your music on the piano. Play the Chopin waltz for us.’
‘I’ve never been able to get it right,’ she said. ‘I’ll have a go but my playing sounds mechanical compared with yours.’
She played it through then Ian drew up a chair beside the stool and said, ‘You start off a bit fast. Try it with less speed and less pedal.’ She tried again. He said, ‘Good. Do it again. Up to the tenth bar. Go on. Make it exciting!’ Excitement was mounting in her. She concentrated on the music but was aware of his face close to hers, his breath near her cheek. ‘Don‘t scramble those big skips. Go on! Good.’
He was a natural teacher. She was playing better than she’d ever done before, and her mouth was pushing in and out, and when she got to the Cantabile her eyebrows were going up and down and she knew she looked silly, but Ian was tapping his foot ‘Meno mosso! Make that piano sing’. He was singing in tune with the music, ‘Come on! I’m going to there – to there – to there – to there! I’m going to there! I’m going to there!’ Then, ‘Sh! Tempo one. Molto vivace! Keep that fingering clean and crisp. Brilliant!’
When she ended she felt as if she’d run a mile. Ian put his arm across her shoulder and said to the others. ‘What a performance!’
Then Isobel heard Mrs Hammond’s voice, clear and haughty. ‘Is that my daughter’s dress you are wearing, Lily Stanway?’
She whirled round. Mrs Hammond was behind her. Isobel’s cheeks flamed as she got to her feet. Not knowing how to answer, she could only look in desperation at Sylvia, who quickly came to her rescue.
‘Mama! I’m furious with you.’ She faced her mother. ‘I told you that I was going to lend my dress.’
Ian blazed, ‘Aunt Catriona! I know it’s your house, but … !’
Magnus, in a fury, shouted, ‘Don’t you dare upset Isobel, Mama!’
And Isobel hung her head in shame, just as she had as a five-year-old; forcing back tears and wishing for the ground to swallow her.
‘Oh, dear! I didn’t mean to be rude. I thought I was being witty,’ Mrs Hammond said, ‘I was taken aback, seeing Lily – er – Isobel in the dress I bought for Sylvia.’ She gave a careless laugh. ‘Please accept my apologies, Isobel.’
‘Yes. Yes,’ Isobel stammered. It would take ages for her to calm down.
‘Good. Let’s go to the door. The guests will be here at any minute.’
There were fifty guests, young people and friends of the Hammonds, and of course Ian and Sylvia couldn’t talk only to her all evening, but at last Isobel’s embarrassment dissolved. The band started to play and couples took to dancing. The lights were low, and although hard drink was not served, the cocktails had a punch and the Pimm’s was delicious and the guests became noisier. Isobel chatted and laughed and sipped the fizzing, iced, fruity drinks that made her head light.
Magnus, unable to dance, settled himself behind the bar and was happily shaking cocktails and making Pimm’s for everyone who asked, trying to act the sophisticate he’d never be, saying, ‘I say, old boy!’ to the men and, ‘Dah – ling, you look di – vine!’ to the girls. And they all knew that it was a wonderful act of his, because he had just read The Great Gatsby.
An hour later Rowena and Isobel sat on high, chromium-plated stools, facing Magnus. Rowena leaned both elbows on the bar, urging Magnus to pour a double helping of something or other into her glass. Isobel swung her crossed legs like film stars did, holding a coolie-hat cocktail glass by the stem, dipping the cherry in to suck the sharp martini cocktail off slowly while Magnus went on with his nonsense – making them laugh, saying that he was ready for marriage and soon would propose to the prettiest girl in Macc, and inviting them to guess who she might be.
There was a tap on her shoulder. Isobel looked up into the handsome face of a red-haired young man with a devilish smile: Ray Chancellor.
‘Magnus,’ he said, ‘don’t keep all the pretty ones to yourself.’ He put his hand on her bare shoulder. Isobel felt his fingers moving gently, tightening over her collar bone so that she nearly lost her hold on the glass.
‘Oops!’ she said as she wobbled on the stool and stretched out to save the cocktail. Ray was quick. His hand came over her hand to steady the glass. ‘I’ve never had a pretty girl fall for me so quickly before …’ Then they were all laughing together, and his hand was on her elbow. ‘May I have the pleasure of this dance, please, Miss? Miss … ?’
Isobel put the glass on the counter, tilted her head to one side for all the world like her mother did,
and said, ‘Isobel Leigh. Thank you, Ray Chancellor. Yes, I‘d like to dance.’
They went zipping around the floor to a quickstep while Ray asked questions and she flirted, practising her new charms. ‘How do you know my name?’ he said. ‘Have we met before?’
‘Many a time. I used to see you here at Archerfield when I was little,’ she teased, pleased that the cocktail had given her confidence, pleased that Ray Chancellor was flirting and dancing with her because Doreen said that every girl in Macclesfield was crazy for him. ‘I’ve seen you in church. But I sit at the side and you are on the front row. And I go to evensong instead of morning service.’
‘Do you?’ He laughed and held her tighter. ‘I’d remember if we had met,’ he said. ‘You’re the prettiest girl in the room.’
She was enjoying this though she knew he was spinning a yarn and dancing close and fast so that everyone would have to get out of his way and all eyes would be on him. She tilted her head again to make him say more. ‘No. I’m not. Sylvia’s the prettiest.’
He held her closer and leaned his head down to speak in her ear, so nobody should hear him. ‘Sylvia’s beautiful and charming. The kind of girl men want to marry. You are a dazzler! The kind of girl men fall madly in love with.’ Then he straightened up, gave that wicked grin again, looked into her eyes and said very softly, so that only she should hear him, ‘I want to kiss you.’
Isobel could not think of an answer, but his bold, suggestive words brought a startled response in her. Fancy a boy daring to say such a thing in public – on a dance floor, with everyone looking on. She glanced about the room. Everyone was looking, and somehow she knew that Ray wanted to make somebody in particular watch his performance, because he held her close and whirled her round faster and faster. So this was flirtation! Ray Chancellor was very, very daring.
Her head was spinning. ‘Can you slow down a bit?’ He hadn’t heard. He was full of devilment.
But she did not have a chance to ask him again or wait for him to stop, because Ian, a determined look on his face, came striding across the floor and grabbed Ray by the shoulder, halting him, nearly knocking him off his feet. He said, in a furious voice, ‘Find yourself another partner. You’re dancing with my girl!’ Then he took hold of Isobel with a roughness she’d not seen in him before, and those level blue eyes flashed with anger as he said, ‘Have nothing to do with that fellow. He’s no good.’
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