A Family's Duty E-Book

Maggie Bennett

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 451

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

1938. Britain and Germany are on the brink of war, and the tension and fear is felt throughout Europe. In the small Hampshire Village of North Camp, the lives of Tom Munday, his family and friends will be changed forever. Their stories of romance, both lawful and illicit, loss, hope and the will to endure are all inextricably linked and transformed by wartime England. For the Munday family, the effects of war echo on for generations.

Leseprobe

A Family’s Duty

MAGGIE BENNETT

To my dear grandson, George Kirill Bees

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

About the Author

By Maggie Bennett

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

1938

Sir Cedric Neville preferred to cover the four miles between Everham Magistrates’ Courts and Hassett Manor on horseback, rather than take the infrequent train service. It was a perfect day in May, but Neville’s thoughts were not on the verdant Hampshire countryside all around him. He had seen half a dozen cases that morning, and heard pleas of guilty from the drunk and disorderly, petty thieves and a couple of women whose public fight had resulted in a black eye for one and a split lip for the other. He had judged them to be about equally matched, and had cautioned them both for their ‘disgraceful behaviour’. Both had children under school age, and he therefore let them go with a warning of a fine if they came before him again. A drunken tramp had been fined five shillings, and another allowed to go free with a caution, because Neville could seldom punish a war veteran, having served in France himself. Where the man had a wife and children who suffered because of his drinking, Neville gave him a severe reprimand and ordered him to pay one shilling; persistent offenders got a short prison sentence. Neville was conscious of his own inadequacy as a magistrate, because he always thought he should do something to help the poor devils, and would if he had the time and the wherewithal. He had been so much more fortunate than any of them, for he had married Isabel Storey, a war widow with two children, now in her early forties, who was well known in the adjoining villages of North Camp and South Camp; he often thought that she did more good than he did.

He found her about to leave for the Rectory when he reached the manor, to attend the Ladies’ Hour held there every Wednesday by the curate’s wife, Mrs Kennard.

‘Rebecca’s at the stables today, so I hope Miss Pearson will be there to play the piano for us,’ Isabel said. ‘Otherwise I shall have to give them the note to start on.’

‘Well, don’t start too high or too low,’ he said with an affectionate grin. ‘Can’t you ask Philip Saville to play for you? The council offices are closed on Wednesday afternoons, and I passed him on the Everham Road, coming home. I could go back to the cottage in the pony-trap to bring him back if you like. His aunt hasn’t got a telephone.’

‘Do you think he’d mind?’ asked Isabel doubtfully. ‘All of us old ladies, I mean – hardly an incentive to the poor man!’

‘’Course he wouldn’t mind, it would do him good.’ Cedric laughed. ‘And you’re not old! – though it would be nice if you could introduce him to a suitable unmarried lady. What about that girl who works at Thomas and Gibson’s, the one with the old dragon of a mother. What’s their name …?’

‘Poor Miss Pearson? I was going to ask her to play for us, only she gets flustered if she doesn’t know the tune – and she’s so painfully shy.’

‘There you are then – introduce her to Saville and let them play duets to entertain the ladies!’

‘You do say some silly things, Cedric! They’d both be so embarrassed that they’d never come again.’ Isabel accepted that her husband was a tease, but she cared about the feelings of those who did not share his brand of humour. ‘Go on then, get out the pony-trap and go and ask Mr Saville if he’ll play for us. I’ll come with you as far as the Rectory.’

‘Aye, aye, captain.’

Thomas and Gibson’s haberdashery had stood on the main street of North Camp well before the turn of the century, long after Mrs Thomas and her sister Miss Gibson had passed on. It had changed hands twice, but had kept the ladies’ names engraved on the glass of two bay windows facing the street. The present manager Mr Richardson liked the shop’s cosily old-fashioned yet respectful air, reflecting over fifty years of good customer service. Young Mr John Richardson would take over his father’s business in the course of time, and meanwhile worked as a floor manager at Page’s, the big department store in Everham, four miles away but not as distant since the ‘Spur’ had been built – a cul-de-sac railway branch line that joined North Camp to Everham on the Southern Railway from London to Southampton. A disabled war veteran acted as ticket seller and collector, and waved the flag when the three-carriage train steamed back to Everham.

Wednesday was early closing day, and Miss Pearson tidied the glass-topped counter with its yard-long brass tape measure inserted; she put away the ribbons, buttons and zip fasteners, and the sharp scissors used for cutting lengths of material.

‘Are you ready to leave, Miss Pearson?’ called Richardson from his office at the back. ‘Two letters to post on your way!’

‘Right, Mr Richardson,’ she answered, clearing away the tea tray, emptying the pot, and rinsing the leaves down the drain. She took down her felt hat and long jacket from the hook in the passage, and pulled on her gloves. Mrs Pearson, her mother, insisted that she wore a vest and liberty bodice until the end of May.

Freedom! The church bell chimed for one o’clock and Miss Pearson set out to walk towards the meadows beside the Blackwater river, where she sat down under a tree to eat her packed lunch; it consisted only of two cheese sandwiches, but she knew there would be some of Mrs Kennard’s home-baked cakes and biscuits at the Rectory. Her spirits lifted; for the next hour she could enjoy the rural scene, the fresh new foliage on the trees, the sunlight on the water; and she could indulge her secret thoughts in solitude, reliving the moment when young Mr Richardson had breezed into the shop yesterday and commented on her hair, swept up into a bunch on the top of her head and secured by hair pins which tended to loosen and fall out. He had bent down and picked up a stray pin.

‘Why don’t you take them all out, Valerie, and let that pretty hair fall down over your shoulders?’ he had teased, and as always she had been unable to think of a suitably witty rejoinder. He had called her Valerie, and she longed to call him John, but that wouldn’t have been right; her mother would be horrified at such forwardness – so he had smiled and passed on into his father’s office. Whatever must he think of her stupid shyness? Thank heaven he could not read her thoughts, and here by the Blackwater she could indulge in day-dreams where the two of them held long, intelligent conversations, and he would reach for her hand and look deep into her brown eyes with a love that reflected her own.

At the Rectory Mrs Kennard, wearing a voluminous smock, was preparing for the Ladies’ Hour. Lady Neville had already arrived, but without Miss Rebecca Neville. There would be Miss Rudge who taught at St Peter’s Church of England Primary School which closed on Wednesday afternoons, Councillor Mrs Tomlinson, Mrs Lupton the doctor’s wife, Miss Pearson and sometimes Mrs Pearson, and two young mothers who lived next-door to each other and took turns at attending, the one at home looking after the other’s child as well as her own. The curate’s wife had tried unsuccessfully to provide a crèche for the children, but the rector and Mrs Allingham who had lived here for over thirty years and considered it theirs, had flatly forbidden it because of the noise and general disturbance which would shatter the peace of the six-bedroomed Rectory.

‘It would be no more disturbing than our chatter and singing,’ Joan Kennard now confided to Lady Isabel. ‘And when the baby comes—’

Isabel had smiled and shrugged in sympathy. ‘I’d gladly offer Hassett Manor for the meetings, only it’s such a long way out of North Camp for the older ladies to walk,’ she said. ‘In any case, you have every right to hold the Ladies’ Hour here – it’s your home now, as much as the Allinghams. You need to put your foot down, Joan, politely but firmly. Would you like me to speak to Mrs Allingham?’

‘Thank you, Lady – er, Neville, but—’

(If only I were just plain Mrs Neville, thought Isabel.)

‘—but it might cause bad feeling between them and us.’ Joan Kennard lowered her voice. ‘There’s tension between Alan and the Reverend Allingham as it is, and I don’t want the old … the rector to start complaining about the Ladies’ Hour. It’s such a good way to get to know the women of the parish and their families.’

‘Yes, I find it helpful, too,’ said Isabel, who privately thought the Allinghams envious of the Kennards’ popularity. ‘Ah, there’s Miss Pearson coming up the drive, and – oh, it’s Grace – Mrs Nuttall – on her bicycle.’ She laughed. ‘We must get them all cycling, it’s going to be the fashion of the future!’ This was a joke, of course, as not many of the women had bicycles, and to pedal along showing their legs was generally considered rather fast.

Grace Nuttall dismounted, nodded to her sister and took her cycle round to the back of the Rectory. ‘I’ve just been recommending it to Miss Pearson,’ she said. ‘She could halve the time it takes to get from her mother’s house to Thomas and Gibson’s.’

Valerie coloured and shook her head, muttering that she had never possessed a bicycle, and knowing that her mother would never approve of her making such an exhibition of herself. Isabel Neville shook her head at her sister, for she knew of Mrs Pearson’s domestic tyranny; having lost her son in the war, and her husband in the influenza epidemic that followed it, she had clung to her unmarried daughter with what she thought was devotion. Herself a war widow, Isabel had seen this situation played out over and over again; the loss of a whole generation of men had left a generation of single women whose duty – even their privilege, some thought – was to care for their ageing parents.

‘If only we could introduce her to some nice young man,’ Isabel had said in a low voice to Joan Kennard, remembering her husband’s words. ‘There are so many sweet souls who’d have been happy wives and mothers if it hadn’t been for that – that – wicked war! Now they have to care for an older generation while they themselves grow old. It’s so unfair.’

Mrs Kennard nodded. They all knew that Lady Isabel had lost her first husband, an Anglican vicar of an East End parish who’d survived the war only to die a broken and cynical man at the end of it. Sir Cedric Neville, her second husband, had also served in the war among the first men of the tank corps; now, in addition to running his estate, he gave his services as a councillor and magistrate, and was active in the British Legion on behalf of war veterans and their families.

‘Where’s Miss Rebecca, then?’ the ladies asked.

‘She can’t come this afternoon, unfortunately – she’s at the riding stables,’ said her ladyship. ‘But Cedric has gone to ask Philip Saville if he can play the piano for us. Ah, yes, there they are now, in the pony-trap.’

‘We’re all very grateful to you, Philip,’ she said as Mr Saville came in, and Mrs Kennard echoed her words. The ladies murmured their appreciation, and their eyes softened, for here was another victim of the Great War, and worthy of their consideration. Once the golden-haired boy of North Camp, the son of the previous incumbent of St Peter’s, Philip had excelled at tennis and cricket, and his dazzling good looks had stirred the heart of many a young girl who dreamt of him choosing her as his wife. When he had enlisted early in 1915, half of North Camp came out to cheer and wave farewell as he boarded the train at Everham. The Reverend Mr Saville and Mrs Saville hid their fears beneath smiles of pride, though as the war had gone on and casualty lists grew longer, they shared their anxiety with many of their parishioners who were comforted by their example.

When the telegram had arrived at the Rectory, it was said that Mrs Saville had fainted. When her husband opened it, he read that Philip had been wounded, and was in a hospital in northern France. It was five months later, in September 1917, that Mr and Mrs Saville had been summoned to London to collect their son from Charing Cross Hospital, where he had been taken on arrival from the crowded ambulance train that had carried the latest wounded up from Southampton. They had brought him home to the Rectory, and the people of North Camp eagerly looked forward to greeting their golden boy in church again; but it was almost Christmas before they caught sight of a thin, one-legged cripple walking unsteadily on crutches, his blue eyes sunk into bony orbits, having looked upon unspeakable horrors. When he opened his mouth he gave a deep, rattling cough, the result of inhaling poison gas. Words of congratulation froze on the lips of those who recognised Philip Saville, now an object of silent pity.

That had been twenty years ago. The Reverend Saville had retired and moved with his wife to another Hampshire village, but Philip had wanted to stay at North Camp, a clerk in the council offices in Everham, and lodging with his mother’s sister, his Aunt Enid, in her cottage on the Everham Road. He had not followed his father into the Church, but instead had studied music and now played the organ at St Peter’s. He had been fitted with an artificial left leg made of wood, but walked stiffly with a stick, as it had no movable knee joint. His spirits had sunk when Sir Cedric Neville came to ask him to play for the Ladies’ Hour, but he could not refuse the polite request, which now earned him the embarrassing approval of the ladies. Grace Nuttall was the only one disappointed at Miss Neville’s absence, and regretted making the effort to attend today, but she hid her feelings as best she could.

Mr Saville seemed to know every tune requested of him, both sacred and secular, and accompanied them on the piano with verve and versatility. The Ladies’ Hour opened as usual with a hymn, and this week the choice had been ‘To Be a Pilgrim’; then Mrs Kennard introduced their speaker, a plump, bosomy lady wearing an enormous hat, who spoke emotionally about the work done by the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

‘Picture an unhappy horse in a field, whose tail has been cruelly cut short, so that the poor creature can’t swish away the flies that torment it on a day like today,’ she said, ‘or a pathetic pet dog kept tied up to a post in a garden, without water at hand, and unable to run up and down the path; this is what breaks my heart, dear ladies. I’ve brought copies with me of our magazine, Animal Ways, which I’ll gladly distribute among you at the end of my talk, and I’m sure you will want to make a small donation to our very good cause.’

When all the magazines had been bought up (Lady Isabel bought the last half dozen and put a generous donation in the collecting box), the lady stood up with tears in her eyes. ‘God bless you all, dear ladies! Any friend of animals is a friend of mine!’

When she finally sat down, Mrs Kennard called upon Miss Rudge to sing a solo, ‘Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill’, and a young mother, whose toddler had been left in the charge of her friend and neighbour, rose to read a poem about a pet cat by a Mr Christopher Smart. Then refreshments were served, cups of tea were handed round, along with the delicious home-baked cake and shortbread biscuits for which Mrs Kennard was renowned.

Councillor Mrs Tomlinson, a widow in her seventies, observed with quiet satisfaction the curate’s wife and the lady of the manor, who presided each week over this social occasion designed to bring the women of the parish together. She listened to the accounts of domestic comings and goings among them, and the gossip, mostly unmalicious, over the cups and tea-plates. She joined in the thanks for Mrs Kennard’s hospitality when that lady ought really to be resting, in her condition, and wondered what the poetry reader would have thought if she’d known that poor Christopher Smart had been incarcerated in a lunatic asylum when he wrote his touching poem in the mid-eighteenth century.

She also kept to herself the anxiety she felt as storm clouds gathered over Europe. Widow of a brigadier killed in the Great War, she heard worrying news from her son in the diplomatic service, now resident in Vienna, and fervently hoped that the recent Anglo-Italian agreement would guarantee that Benito Mussolini would be a firm ally in the event of another war, which heaven forbid. He was in a good position to stand up against this maniac German Chancellor, Adolf Hitler, now seriously persecuting European Jews. She gathered that Mussolini was more of a dictator than a premier, as indeed was Hitler and his Fascists, but he had done a great deal to revive Italy’s prosperity since the dark days of the war; oh, surely, surely, thought Mrs Tomlinson, there could not possibly be a return to those dark days again!

The Ladies’ Hour, which quite often went on for an hour and a half or longer, ended with the singing of ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, but Lady Neville stayed on a little longer to talk with Philip Saville.

‘I’m glad to have the chance of a word with you, Philip,’ she said pleasantly, as if an idea had just struck her, though she had in fact been turning it over in her mind all the afternoon. ‘How is Miss Temple these days? It’s some time since I’ve seen her, and I really should call on her. Is she well?’

‘Thank you. My aunt keeps reasonably well, but the rheumatism is still troublesome,’ he answered with cool politeness.

‘Then thank heaven she’s got you there to do the man’s jobs, bringing in the coal and digging the gard—’ Isabel checked herself, remembering his disability.

He shrugged. ‘We are mutually obliged to each other. Aunt Enid is a very good cook, and sees that I always have a clean shirt to put on.’ A faint trace of a smile hovered over his face for a moment, and Isabel saw her opportunity to put a suggestion to him.

‘The Reverends Allingham and Kennard are very appreciative of your services as church organist,’ she said, ‘and your playing this afternoon was quite brilliant – and tactful,’ she added in a low tone, ‘for the skilful accompanist must be able to cover up the singers’ mistakes and get them back to the right key! You must have a library of tunes in your head.’

He gave the slightest of nods, and she hoped he didn’t think her patronising. It was time to come to the point.

‘One of the grooms at the Manor has twin boys, fine little fellows, now seven years old, and always singing in perfect tune, though they’ve never learnt music. Miss Rudge at St Peter’s Primary School has recommended that they learn the piano, and I asked them to come with their mother to see how they fared with our piano in the drawing room at Hassett Manor. I tell you, Philip, it was a revelation to see and hear those little boys play simple nursery rhyme tunes, entirely by ear, as they’ve had no lessons, nor is there a piano in their home. It occurred to me today, listening to your expertise, that you could give Charlie and Joe lessons if a suitable time could be arranged. What about Saturdays, or evenings after five o’clock, at the Manor?’

Philip Saville looked dubious. ‘I can’t walk very far without pain in my non-existent leg, and I haven’t actually taught music before, nor have I had much experience with children. I’m sure you could find somebody more suitable to teach them – a lady, preferably.’

Isabel noticed that he had not addressed her as Lady, neither did he show the deference to her social standing such as she received from the ladies at the Rectory. She found his attitude quite refreshing, for she would rather have been plain Mrs Neville. Daughter of a North Camp carpenter, she had married an eager young curate sent to assist Philip’s father, and moved with her husband to his London parish. After his tragic death she had returned to North Camp with her baby son Paul and a baby girl she had adopted from a desperate single mother. Now married to Sir Cedric Neville of Hassett Manor, Isabel had never forgotten her origins, and was embarrassed at being addressed as Lady Neville and referred to as her Ladyship by North Camp people she saw as her equals, especially in front of her sister, Grace.

She now spoke as an equal to Philip Saville. ‘I hope you’ll be prepared to give it a try, Philip, and see how you get on. I will send the pony-trap to fetch you over to the Manor and take you back, and of course I would pay you, say …’ And she named an amount well in excess of the usual payment for music lessons.

Philip showed no sign of being impressed by her bounty. ‘If I were to meet these boys and assess their skill for myself, then we might come to a decision whether or not it would be worth your while,’ he said, and she had no choice but to accept. It was agreed that he would attend at Hassett Manor on the following Friday evening at five thirty.

She thanked him and said she would take him home in the pony-trap. It would be a pleasure to meet Miss Temple again and commiserate with her over her rheumatism.

The Tradesmen’s Arms had stood in the main street of North Camp before the turn of the century, and was a meeting place for the older men of the village, a refuge from domestic turmoils and the behaviour of the younger generation, the grown-up children of men like carpenter Tom Munday and house painter Eddie Cooper, widowers in their seventies, who still obliged friends with their expertise. They could well remember the Great War that had sacrificed a generation, and for what cause? It had not ended in victory but in an armistice.

‘Nobody who never lived through that can ever imagine what it was like,’ said Tom Munday, setting down his glass.

Eddie agreed. ‘Nor the arrangements that had to be made for the girls left behind with babies inside ’em, like my Mary, after Dick Yeomans was killed,’ he said in a low tone, so as not to be heard by other patrons of the bar room.

‘It turned out all right, though, when Sidney Goddard took her over, and the farm – by Jove, that was a stroke of luck for everybody concerned,’ replied Tom. ‘Mary and Sid have been happy with a nice little family, and the Yeomanses—’ he hesitated.

‘And the Yeomanses have got their son’s child, our little Dora, even if she’s called Goddard,’ said Eddie with the reminiscent smile of one long resigned to a situation that had caused emotions to run high at the time. ‘And your Isabel’s done better than all of ’em, marrying into the Nevilles and taking Storey’s son with her, as well as the girl she adopted – look how well she’s turned out.’

Tom Munday took another long draught from his glass, and Eddie went on. ‘It’s a shame she hasn’t been able to give Neville a kid of his own.’

‘Cedric looks upon Paul and Rebecca as his own, and he’s been a good father to them – couldn’t ask for a better,’ said Tom firmly. ‘Nor could I ask for better grandchildren.’ He set down his glass with a gesture of finality. ‘Another?’

‘Thanks, don’t mind if I do,’ said Eddie, sensing that it was time to change the subject. Unlike Tom who had remained a widower, he had married again, and Annie had given him a son, Freddie, now living up north, married with kids of his own. No doubt there about the paternity! He smiled to himself, and then sighed, for Annie had died of cervical cancer only two years ago.

‘How’s Ernest getting on these days?’ he asked. ‘There’s one who’s done well after going to hell and back.’

‘Yes, but he’s settled down well with Aaron’s sister, Devora, and Miriam and David are lovely children,’ answered Tom. ‘Old Pascoe looked upon him as the son he lost.’ He paused for a moment, and then went on, ‘It’s as well, I reckon, that they’re over here and not over there, in Elberfeld, with Aaron’s brother and his family. I don’t care for the sound of what’s going on in Germany these days. This fellow Hitler is very anti-Semitic, and needs watching – if he rises to power, heaven help the Jews.’

‘I shouldn’t worry, old chap. This Hitler makes a lot of noise, but so does an empty drum. Good God, Tom, we couldn’t – we surely couldn’t – go through anything like that bloody war again!’

‘As I say, I’m not sorry the Everham Mundays are safely out of the fellow’s reach,’ Tom said gravely. ‘They say he’s out to rule over every country in Europe, and stockpiling weapons as well as training a bigger army than any of ’em.’

‘I think you’re underestimating the opposition he’ll come up against,’ said Eddie. ‘Our Prime Minister has got the measure of him, and we’ve signed that agreement with Mussolini and his Eye-ties, so he’ll have a fair-sized army, too. And don’t forget the Empire – they’d be more than a match for a raving loony like Hitler.’

Tom sighed and finished his beer. Perhaps Eddie was right. He’d better be, because a Europe under a German dictator was too terrible to contemplate.

CHAPTER TWO

1938

Dora Goddard had a spring in her step as she walked the half mile between Yeomans’ Farm and the sports pavilion, swinging her racquet. She knew how well her white outfit showed off her trim figure: a short-sleeved blouse and matching skirt with pleats all the way round, that flared out as she moved around the court. The North Camp hard tennis courts had space for three games to be played at once; it was conveniently close to the cricket ground with its pavilion, so the North Camp team, under their captain Rob Nuttall, could mix freely with the mostly female tennis players, an arrangement appreciated by all.

Billy Yeomans had not been ready to accompany Dora when she set out. He was the surviving son of his widowed mother, his elder brother Dick having fallen in the Great War at about the time of Billy’s birth, and Billy considered himself the head of the Yeomans family and heir to the farm. He had lately taken to sprucing himself up when he came in from the milking shed, changing his underwear and washing his feet as well as his face and hands before shaving and slicking his hair back with Brylcreem. A young lady was responsible for this new fastidiousness, and today he had brought her home to meet his mother. Pam Barker seemed a nice enough girl, a giggling trainee hairdresser with no experience of life on the land. ‘She’ll need to get her hands dirty before he takes her on,’ Mrs Yeomans had said, though she had no serious objection to the girl, and thought that at twenty-six it was high time that Billy settled down, whether with Pam or another.

When he was ready to leave, Billy took Pam’s arm and steered her towards the lane that Dora had taken, towards the sports pavilion. He was partly dressed for cricket in a white shirt and his best grey trousers, just as Pam was partly dressed for tennis in a light cotton print dress with white plimsolls and ankle socks. Her racquet was newly bought.

They found Dora playing a knockabout with Barbara Seabrook from the butcher’s, practising their forehand and backhand drives.

‘Both got their eyes looking out for a chap to come along,’ said Billy, and Pam giggled.

Rob Nuttall and his son Jack were out on the adjoining cricket field with two or three local lads, including Robin Seabrook, the butcher’s son. They were joined by Billy, leaving Pam standing at the side of the court, forlornly holding her racquet and hoping that somebody else would arrive to play. She did not have to wait long; Howard and Lester Allingham from the Rectory sauntered down the lane, and as soon as Barbara Seabrook saw them she put down her racquet and made a bee line for the brothers. Howard, the elder, was a pleasant young man destined for the church, and Lester, good-looking and self-assured, was said to be interested in aviation. Barbara, plump and pretty, looked up at him with big, china-blue eyes.

‘Care for a game, Lester? I’m sure that – er – that nice girl over there will lend you her racquet,’ she said, nodding towards Pam Barker whose eyes were on Billy, practising bowling in the cricket field.

She’s got a cheek, thought Dora, throwing herself at him like that, but Pam was only too pleased to lend him her racquet and hurry over to the cricket field to gaze adoringly at Billy’s rather erratic bowling. When Lester and Barbara commenced playing, shouting and laughing as they dashed from one side of the court to the other, Dora, seething inwardly, tried to appear unconcerned, and flashed a smile at Howard who came over and introduced himself. Dora asked him which he liked best, tennis or cricket; he said he really hadn’t a preference, but congratulated her on her own skill at tennis. When he told her he was soon to start at theological college, she smiled and told him she was attending Everham Commercial College to learn office skills, and perhaps, who knows, she teased, she might one day be his secretary.

‘I think I’d like that,’ he said shyly, and thought how pretty she was, her face flushed and her hair tousled from exercise. They laughed together, and Dora remembered that there might be a couple of old tennis racquets stored in the cricket pavilion. She ran to find out, and returned in triumph waving one in a circle above her head.

‘Right, now we shall see who’s best!’ she said, and, although he protested that he was out of practise, she insisted that they went onto the second court, starting with a knockabout ‘for you to loosen up,’ she said with a smile, giving herself every opportunity to jump and twist, returning the ball and showing the pleats of the white skirt swirling around her knees. Howard was enchanted, and Dora thought him worth encouraging over the summer months, in the absence of any serious competition.

Meanwhile Barbara and Lester had stopped for a rest on one of the bench seats at the side of the court. He casually flung his arm across the back of the bench.

‘I see you’re an expert at the game,’ he said admiringly.

‘Oh, yes, I suppose that’s why you won,’ she answered, looking away from him, conscious of his arm behind her back. ‘You’ve had more tennis practise!’

‘Who said anything about tennis?’ he murmured, and she looked round, meeting his humorous dark eyes, and for once not knowing how best to answer.

‘That’s meant as a compliment,’ he grinned, ‘though I’ll apologise if you want me to.’

Barbara Seabrook blushed but managed a little smile. He was certainly better looking than his brother, she thought.

‘If I’m forgiven, perhaps I can make amends,’ he continued. ‘That amazing cartoon film, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, is going to be shown at the Embassy in a couple of weeks’ time; would you like me to take you to see it?’

Barbara’s mouth opened. ‘What, really? Do you mean that place behind the builders’ yard off Everham High Street?’

‘No, no, that’s the old flea-pit. They’ve got this new place now, the Embassy Cinema. It hasn’t long been open, but it’s the big attraction, and they say the film took America by storm – incredibly good. So shall we go and see it for ourselves – Barbara?’

‘Well, yes, seeing that you’ve asked me, and thank you,’ she replied carefully, while her heart thumped and she tried to stop herself from showing her delight. Now she would be the envy of every girl in North Camp, and Lester was certainly a charmer, even if he was the son of that old bore the Reverend Allingham!

The stable yard at Hassett Manor dated from the days of coaches and carriages; now there was Sir Cedric’s Daimler and the useful little pony-trap. Perrin the groom was as proud of the horses as if they were his own, and nodded to Rebecca as she stroked the nose of her grey palfrey, Sunbeam.

‘Seems we’ve got visitors today, Miss Rebecca.’ She turned to see Paul and his friend from Cambridge, who was spending some of the summer vacation at the Manor. The Perrin twins were clamouring to ride Sunbeam.

‘Wait a minute, boys,’ said Rebecca. ‘Let Mr Bannister see her. She’s a beauty, isn’t she, Geoffrey?’ she said, with a smile at Paul’s friend, and of course he agreed, and patted the necks of the two fine stallions, Mercury and Playboy, on which he and Paul had ridden earlier in the day, to the annoyance of Rebecca who would have come with them if she had known of their plan.

‘We’ll go for a gallop tomorrow morning, Becky,’ said Paul, and she nodded.

‘That will be fun, won’t it, my pretty Sunbeam? You’re more than a match for those great big fellows!’

The mare nuzzled her neck, and the twins jumped up and down, begging for a ride.

‘You’d better let them, Perrin, or we’ll never have any peace,’ said Paul good-humouredly, at which they roared, ‘Look, Mr Saville, we’re going to ride Sunbeam!’

They turned to see that Philip Saville had come into the stable yard, leaning on his walking-stick to counteract the absence of a knee joint in his artificial leg. He nodded to Paul and Bannister, and half smiled at Rebecca.

‘The boys insisted that I come to see the horses,’ he explained.

‘You’re welcome, Saville,’ said Paul. ‘Meet Geoffrey Bannister, the son of the Right Honourable John Bannister, MP, who’s staying with us for part of the vacation – and Geoffrey, meet Philip Saville, veteran of the Great War, and music tutor to these two rapscallions!’

Geoffrey leant forward to shake Saville’s hand.

‘He’s making a jolly good job of it, too,’ Paul went on. ‘The Perrin boys’ll end up as famous concert pianists, I have every hope!’

Bannister was a little surprised that a musician should be teaching the groom’s children, and Paul guessed what he was thinking.

‘All due to Mother; she persuaded Saville against his better judgement! She must have seen – or rather heard how good he was, and snapped him up – not that he was very keen at first, were you, Saville?’

‘Lady Isabel is most kind, and the boys are amazingly quick to learn. I’m most obliged to her,’ said Savillle, a little awkwardly.

‘And so am I, Mr Saville; she’s a great lady,’ added Perrin in a low tone, for he had never been asked to contribute money for the lessons.

When Perrin and Rebecca led Sunbeam away towards the paddock with the delighted boys seated on her back, Paul asked Philip Saville to come with them back to the Manor.

‘If we’re lucky, Mrs Tanner will give us tea in the garden,’ he said. ‘Come on, Philip, don’t be shy – she’ll put out more scones if you come with us.’

They slowed their pace for him to keep up with them, and sure enough, a light folding table had been set out before the open casement windows, with a checked tablecloth on which Mrs Tanner placed a tray of tea and home-made scones warm from the oven. She smiled at Paul, nodded to Saville, and looked Bannister up and down before leaving them.

‘That was a very suspicious look she gave me!’ remarked Bannister. ‘Who is she, exactly?’

‘Sally Tanner served at the vicarage in Bethnal Green where my mother was wife to the vicar there, my father,’ said Paul. ‘He went out as an army chaplain, and his father, a retired clergyman, came to take his place.’ Paul hesitated, looking back on a time that was seldom spoken of. ‘Sally Tanner had lost her husband in the war, and Mother took her in as a sort of housekeeper. She helped look after me as a baby, and practically looks on me as her own, and Becky as well; she saw Mother through my father’s death, which was pretty tragic, really – he’d lost his faith and wasn’t easy to – but this isn’t much of a subject, so have another scone! And you, Philip? Butter? More tea?’

Sally Tanner wiped her hands on her apron and went to Lady Isabel’s study, next to her husband’s but half the size. Isabel looked up from her writing desk and smiled.

‘Have the boys had their tea, Sally?’

‘Of course they have, Isabel, along with poor Mr Saville. I took a good look at that Mr Bannister, and, though it’s a bit early to say, his face favours him, and he gets a thumbs up.’ She illustrated her words with a thumbs up sign.

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ teased Isabel, ‘though you really ought not to subject our guests to these examinations, Sally! It could be very embarrassing if they ever suspected. I hope you didn’t give Mr Saville the same scrutiny.’

‘’Course I didn’t – stands to reason he’d get a thumbs down, what with being a one-legged cripple twice her age!’

‘Oh, Sally!’ Isabel shook her head in disapproval, but could not hide her smile. In fact her friend’s judgement was usually right in matters of relationships.

Rebecca’s eyes sparkled with exhilaration as she rode Sunbeam at a gallop, digging her thighs into the mare’s flanks, and bouncing up and down on the saddle as they covered the stretch of heathland that rose above North and South Camp. The clear, cold light of early morning was for her the best part of the day, before the August sun rose above the Hampshire fields and woodlands. Ahead of her two companions, she rode down into the Blackwater valley, across the old pack-horse bridge, returning by the water meadows. With flushed face and windblown hair, she dismounted and patted Sunbeam’s heaving shoulders as she awaited Paul and Geoffrey who were following on. Geoffrey Bannister was unstinting in his praise.

‘Well done!’ he cried, panting from the exertion of the last gallop up from the meadows. ‘That was magnificent, Rebecca, a lesson in horsemanship – don’t you agree, Paul?’

‘Quite good,’ said Paul with a grin. ‘Coming along quite nicely, I’d say.’ He dodged her fist, privately amused at his friend’s raptures; it looked as if a romantic liaison was on the cards.

‘Don’t let her lead you astray, dear boy,’ he chuckled, but Geoffrey scarcely heard. Still breathing rapidly from the cross-county gallop with his eyes fixed upon the girl’s back, he was coming to believe that she was his ideal of womanly perfection: a girl he could love.

Enid Temple raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Are you all right, Philip? Were you held up at the Manor?’

‘I’m fine, Aunt Enid. It was due to the boys – they made me go with them to the stables, to show off the Hassett Manor horses and watch them ride Miss Neville’s mare. They’re a pair of scamps, but Paul Storey’s very good with them, and they got their wish. And then, well, Paul asked me to join him and his university friend for tea in the garden.’

‘Good,’ said his aunt, pleased though rather surprised that he had let himself be drawn into everyday life at Hassett Manor. The piano lessons for Charlie and Joe Perrin were turning out to be a blessing, she thought; there had been a definite brightening of her nephew’s rather lonely life since he had taken up Lady Neville’s suggestion.

‘And was Lady Neville there?’ she enquired. ‘And Miss Rebecca?’

‘Miss Neville was there, but not her mother; I think she was in her office. We were served tea by a lady called Mrs Tanner, and Paul was telling his friend about her history.’

‘Ah, yes, Sally Tanner, she’s devoted to the family, and knew Lady Isabel when she was Mrs Storey,’ said Enid with a sigh. ‘I remember Mark Storey’s determination to marry Isabel Munday, although she was only sixteen. Of course, your parents were in the thick of it, and my sister was very sorry for him. He had to wait another two years, but he got her in the end and took her off to that rough East End parish just as the war broke out.’

Philip Saville remembered it well, and the involvement of his father, the Reverend Mr Saville. And he also remembered Isabel when she was sweet Miss Munday, the carpenter’s daughter, and how all the fellows had envied Mark Storey.

‘But the marriage ended in tragedy,’ Enid continued. ‘Poor Mr Storey was never the same after going through all that—’ Enid quickly checked herself, and glanced at her nephew, for the same could be said about him. Philip never spoke of his experiences of trench warfare, the horrors he had looked upon, images that still remained with him and haunted his dreams.

‘It’s all right, Aunt Enid, don’t worry,’ he said quietly. ‘There were hundreds of thousands of us, those who were killed and those who came back with their ghosts.’

Enid had no answer, and he went on, ‘Like Isabel’s brother Ernest who slogged through Passchendaele with that friend of his, Aaron Pascoe.’

‘Yes, Ernest was a conscientious objector at the start of the war, but changed his mind when Aaron enlisted,’ she recalled. ‘After Aaron got badly wounded and died, Ernest was taken prisoner, which probably saved his life.’ She paused, remembering the events of twenty years earlier. ‘Then he took over Aaron’s place in the family firm, and married Aaron’s sister as soon as she was old enough.’

‘They’ve been happy, haven’t they, with their children?’ asked Philip.

‘Yes, it seems so, though we don’t see much of Ernest and Devora these days, living in Everham,’ said his aunt, and kept her next thoughts to herself. If only Philip had been blessed with a Devora to marry, he might have recovered and become an active member of the community instead of the semi-recluse he was now, playing the organ at St Peter’s and refusing all invitations from well-meaning parishioners. Ernest Munday was now senior partner in the firm of Munday and Pascoe, chartered accountants, formerly Pascoe and Munday. Of course, the family were not Christians, but Jews, and Ernest had converted to Judaism. Enid Temple wondered what his mother, the late wife of Tom Munday, would have said about her son’s choice.

But now Enid Temple, sister-in-law of an Anglican clergyman and leftover spinster from the Great War, found that her views had broadened: did it really matter?

It was the eve of Bannister’s departure, and Sir Cedric led Paul and Geoffrey out onto the terrace with their postprandial coffee and brandy; Geoffrey longed to spend these last few hours with Rebecca who had gone with her mother and Mrs Tanner to the drawing room for what Cedric affectionately termed their ‘petticoat council,’ much to Rebecca’s resentment.

‘As if women weren’t able to appreciate the superior wisdom of men’s minds!’

On this particular evening, however, both husband and wife wanted to do a little discreet ‘sounding out’ – ‘testing the water’ as Cedric put it to Isabel. Geoffrey Bannister had stayed at Hassett Manor for ten days, and had made a good impression on his hosts. In addition to riding, playing tennis on the Manor court, driving the Daimler down through verdant farmland for a picnic on the downs, their guest had assisted with fruit-picking in the orchard, and the less attractive, back-breaking labour of lifting potatoes. Cedric commented on ‘Farmer Bannister’ as they sat in the August twilight, darkening into the warm velvet of a late summer night.

‘You may tell your parents that we have all enjoyed your company, and hope they will spare you to visit us again soon – perhaps in the Christmas vacation?’

Young Bannister acknowledged the compliments with what he hoped was a modest smile. ‘Thank you, Sir Cedric, I’ve enjoyed every minute here, and look forward to visiting again,’ he said, wondering if the father and son would hear the unspoken words – his admiration for Miss Neville. The smiles and understanding nods of Sir Cedric and Paul were reassuring, allowing him at least to hope for a closer relationship with her in due course.

But there was something else that Cedric thought should be mentioned.

‘Your father’s at the centre of government, Geoffrey; how does he view these events in Europe? It seems as if this German Chancellor has got his eye on countries in eastern Europe, and possibly more. How great a threat does Mr Bannister think he is?’

‘Father believes he needs watching, sir, but he isn’t really concerned. If Hitler ever thought of marching his troops into Czechoslovakia, the opposition to him is formidable – Great Britain and France, Italy and the Low Countries – and we’ve got the might of the Empire behind us, that should be enough to warn him off.’

Paul interposed. ‘What does your father think of the Prime Minister?’

‘What – Mr Chamberlain?’

‘Yes, Mr Neville Chamberlain.’ Paul smiled as he emphasised the name.

‘With that name he must be a good man!’ quipped Geoffrey, though he knew that his father, like many others in the House, had serious reservations about the Prime Minister’s ability to deal with a megalomaniac dictator.

Paul laughed, but Sir Cedric looked grave. ‘We must hope so, we must fervently hope so,’ he said, adding with uncharacteristic emotion, ‘my dear boys,’ which surprised them; he then deliberately steered the conversation away from politics.

In the drawing room, Lady Isabel asked her daughter outright how she felt about Paul’s university friend.

‘I like him well enough, Mother, and enjoyed his company, but it’s much too early to talk about anything serious,’ answered Rebecca, and smiled as she noticed Sally Tanner’s approving nod. ‘And he’ll have to get his degree before he can start courting!’

‘But you like him,’ prompted her mother.

‘To be honest, I’d like to have a bit more life of my own before I think about marrying anybody!’

‘What a wise girl,’ murmured Sally Tanner.

Later that evening, as Isabel and Sally talked together over their night drinks, they returned to the subject.

‘We’ve heard how Rebecca feels about marriage, but there’s something else that would have to be told to any prospective husband,’ said Isabel. ‘Before an engagement could be announced, he would have to be told that we adopted her.’

‘Don’t tell him yet,’ said Sally Tanner. ‘The penny’ll drop sooner or later, when he works out that Paul and Becky are both twenty-one, with birthdays only six months apart!’

When Valerie Pearson saw Lady Neville and Miss Neville coming to Thomas and Gibson’s she stood smartly to attention, and replied to the Lady’s ‘Good morning, Miss Pearson’ with a ‘Good morning’ to each of them, adding, ‘How may I help you?’

‘We’re looking for some trimmimgs for lingerie,’ Lady Neville told her, and Valerie quickly opened some drawers behind the counter and put out the contents for the ladies to see.

‘Oh, what exquisite lace!’ cried Rebecca. ‘Just right for edging round your knickers!’

‘Rebecca! What will Miss Pearson think?’ chided her mother, though she smiled, and as she fingered the lace, casually asked, ‘How is your mother, Miss Pearson? I didn’t see her in church on Sunday morning.’

‘She – she’s fairly well,’ stammered Valerie, and on hearing this reply, Isabel Neville added kindly, ‘Please excuse us, Miss Pearson, perhaps we’re all a little on edge. I mean this German Chancellor Adolf or whatever his name is – he may be a source of amusement to some people, but for us who lived through the Great War, the very thought of going through all that again – ugh!’

Valerie Pearson watched the two women, the mother and daughter so at ease with each other, able to agree or disagree without rancour or rebuke, so different from the tension between herself and her own mother. She recalled the fear in Mrs Pearson’s pale blue eyes as she listened to the news on the wireless last night about the continuing unrest in Europe.

‘If that Hitler man ever turns on us, like the Kaiser in the Great War, it would be another war, and B – O – M – B – S day and night,’ she had said, spelling out the dreaded word as if there were children present, for to her Valerie was still a delicate child to be protected; she was unable to see that their roles were becoming reversed.

Suddenly Valerie made up her mind to ask Lady Neville a question, encouraged by that lady’s reference to the German Chancellor.

‘Lady Neville – please, Lady Neville, will you give me your opinion about – about the subject you just mentioned: the trouble in Germany, this man Hitler? My mother is so nervous. She went all through the Great War, you see, and lost my father and brother, and she thinks that if it were to happen all over again – I’m sorry, Lady Neville, but Mother and I would – we’re wondering what Sir Cedric thinks. If you wouldn’t mind—’ Valerie’s pale face flushed, and her voice stammered to a stop.

Together mother and daughter raised their heads in surprise and concern.

‘My dear Miss Pearson, what a pity about your poor dear mother!’ Lady Neville’s voice was full of sympathy, for she too had gone all through the Great War and lost her husband, though she made no reference to this. ‘Please, my dear, let me reassure you and your mother, because in fact Sir Cedric hopes that this Hitler can be kept in check, and on the whole he’s optimistic. Last month we had Mr Geoffrey Bannister, the MP’s son, to stay with us, and his father is of the same opinion. We can only hope and pray that they are right. Please try not to worry, my dear.’

‘Oh, Miss Pearson, what a shame!’ exclaimed Rebecca. ‘Just tell your poor mother that my father thinks old Adolf Hitler is like a balloon full of hot air, and as soon as other leaders stand up and prick him, he’ll go down like one! And tell her too that she’s lucky to have you for a daughter. I wouldn’t be as patient with my mother!’

‘No, I’m sure you wouldn’t,’ said that lady with an amused smile at Valerie, and having chosen and paid for their trimmings, the ladies thanked her and left.

As soon as they were out of earshot, they shook their heads at what they had heard.

‘That poor girl, Mother! What a life she leads with that tiresome old woman – she must be thankful to get away to Thomas and Gibson’s, though old Richardson isn’t exactly brimming over with gaiety – oh, the poor lamb!’

‘Ah, Becky, suppose we were like those two, wouldn’t it be just too awful for words?’ said her mother with feeling. ‘And Mrs Pearson isn’t that old, she must be in her fifties.’

‘Yes, it would be dire – but at least you’ve given them something to cheer them up a bit,’ said Rebecca, striving to be hopeful.

Her mother made no answer, being not entirely convinced that their optimism was well-founded. She suddenly thought of her brother Ernest and the Jewish family into which he had married. She wondered if their father, Tom Munday, had heard from him, and would have called on him today if she had been alone, but, having Rebecca with her, she avoided meeting Grace Nuttall at close quarters. She decided to call her brother on the telephone.

On that same afternoon Ernest and Devora Munday made a surprise call on his father at 47 Rectory Road, the house Ernest had grown up in with his sisters Isabel and Grace. Their mother had died shortly after the end of the war, without living to see her son’s return from being a prisoner of war in Germany. Tom, being now in his seventies, was happy to live with Grace and his son-in-law Rob Nuttall who had been his apprentice and had taken over the carpentry business. Their son Jack was already apprenticed to his father, and their daughter Doreen still lived at home, a quiet, shy girl of sixteen who helped with the housework.

‘Good to see you, Ernest,’ said his father. ‘We’ve been wondering how you are.’ He kissed Devora and noticed with dismay how pale she looked, her eyes full of anxiety.

‘It’s Devora’s brother Jonathan, Dad,’ said Ernest without preamble. ‘He and his family live out in Elberfeld, as you know, and Devora’s making herself ill, worrying over this anti-Semitism in Germany.’