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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: Greyladies
- Sprache: Englisch
Wiltshire, December 1915. Olivia Hanbury is widowed and has been persuaded by her cousin Donald to move in with his meek little wife while he is serving in France. When he's wounded, he returns home to convalesce. Tensions rise between him and lively Olivia. Her friend Babs involves her in starting the new Women's Institutes and introduces her to Alex, an antiques dealer. Meanwhile, Phoebe Latimer is holding the fort at Greyladies, an ancient manor house, while her husband is away at war. But someone is attempting to rid Greyladies of the German internees based there. Their nasty tricks put Phoebe's life and that of her unborn child at risk. A chance meeting brings Olivia to Greyladies, and she feels as though she's finally come home. Alex joins her there. Will these three help one another through these troubled times? Or will violent men destroy Greyladies and all it stands for?
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Seitenzahl: 428
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
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Legacy of Greyladies
ANNA JACOBS
Dear readers,
I often get asked what inspires me to write a story. All sorts of things, to tell you the truth! The way a family greet each other at an airport, weeping for joy. The way ordinary people you see on the TV news deal with major life problems, becoming suddenly magnificent and heroic.
But with the Greyladies series, it was something very specific that started me off: Avebury Manor in Wiltshire and the slightly smaller country houses in similar style that you drive past in the countryside nearby.
If you want to see for yourself, do a search online for ‘Avebury Manor’ and you’ll find photos of a large house with steep roofs and gables. The image of this wonderful old house kept creeping into my dreams and eventually I had to write about a similar house. Who could have built it? What were the original occupiers like? And then the ‘grey ladies’, nuns in grey clothing, began to walk round the house of my dreams.
I knew about the Dissolution of the Monasteries under Henry VIII – and my little nunnery wouldn’t have survived that. So what did my grey ladies do after they were thrown out of their abbey?
Well, of course Anne Latimer, the strong-willed abbess, would have saved them by marrying and bringing up a family in the old house, rather than letting it be destroyed. The villagers called it Greyladies, for obvious reasons.
Anne loved the house so much that her spirit stayed on there to guard it and her descendants. And having seen nuns thrown out on the streets and in great distress, she founded a charity to help other women in trouble.
Finally, since men have done most of the inheriting of stately homes in England, I thought I’d even things up a bit. I decided to let this house pass down the female line.
And away I went, into that magic state where a story forms in my mind and characters inhabit my dreams.
I have loved writing every word of this series. It’s set in one of my favourite eras, too, the first two decades of the twentieth century, and includes the Home Front in World War I.
For the time being, Legacy of Greyladies is the third and final book in this set of stories, but if you think I can leave the house behind completely, you’re wrong.
I’ve got another idea forming in my mind … a story taking place somewhere nearby. Give me a little time to let it brew, dear readers, and I’ll be off again on another exciting adventure.
Happy reading,
Anna
This book is for Teena Raffa Mulligan, who is not only a friend, but a fellow writer and who acts as my assistant, doing a wonderful job.
Everyone should have a friend like Teena!
Contents
Chapter One
Wiltshire, December 1915
As soon as she entered the house, Olivia heard Cecily sobbing and her heart sank. She prayed nothing had happened to Donald, who had suddenly been posted to France a few days ago, due to a shortage of officers.
As Olivia entered the sitting room, Cecily raised a swollen, tear-stained face but didn’t get up from the sofa. ‘My Donald’s been wounded. He’s going to die, like your Charles did, I know he is! And then what shall I do?’ She held out a piece of paper in one trembling hand.
Olivia stiffened at this tactless remark, waited a moment to control her own emotions, then took the letter. It was from a hospital in London and said that Captain Donald Ballam had been shot in the leg, brought back to England and operated on at the hospital. He was as well as could be expected and would be sent home to recuperate, arriving the following Monday afternoon.
‘I don’t think Donald’s life can be in any danger if they’re planning to send him home so soon.’
But Cecily ignored that, clasping her hands at her bosom and shedding a few more tears. ‘To think that my darling was injured and I never even knew!’
‘How could you possibly have known?’
‘I should have sensed it.’
‘Rubbish. And think about the positive side. Your husband will be home for Christmas.’
The tears stopped. ‘He will, won’t he? Oh, dare I hope?’
Olivia had had enough of this weeping and wailing, so decided to turn Cecily’s thoughts to the practical needs of her husband. ‘If Donald has been injured in the leg, he may not be able to climb the stairs, at first. We may have to make up a bed for him downstairs … in the dining room, perhaps.’
‘But where would we eat if we did that?’
‘In the kitchen. You and I ought to have our meals there anyway, to make life easier. You only have a daily cleaner now.’
Cecily’s voice was faint with shock. ‘Eat in the kitchen! Donald would never agree to that! He always insists on maintaining standards.’
‘He may have to lower his standards if he can’t get up and down the stairs.’
But Cecily didn’t seem to hear her. She’d gone over to the mirror and was setting her hair to rights, murmuring, ‘Home for Christmas.’
Olivia left her to primp and went into the kitchen, which the daily help had left immaculate, as always. She put the kettle on to boil, thankful for the modern gas cooker. It made such a difference to a woman’s life to have instant heat to cook on instead of having to keep a stove fed with coal. And the gaslights here made it so easy to read in the evenings. Well, they would do if Cecily would stop talking and leave her in peace.
She decided they’d make do with sandwiches for their evening meal. It didn’t really matter what she cooked, Cecily only picked at her food.
No wonder her cousin’s wife was so slim and dainty, eating so little. Donald often commented on how pretty and ladylike his wife was, looking pointedly at his cousin as he spoke.
Olivia had her mother’s red hair and was tall and strong like her father’s side – like Donald himself. It seemed that strength and red hair were all right for him, but not for her. He had very fixed views about a woman’s role in life, but for all his bossy ways, he was the only close family she had left now so she didn’t want to fall out with him.
She sighed. Already she was dreading him coming home to convalesce for several weeks. She could put up with his bossy ways for a day or two, but the two of them were bound to quarrel if he was here for weeks. They always did.
Oh, how she missed her husband! She still turned round sometimes, thinking she heard Charles’s footsteps, half-expecting him to come bounding into the room like an overgrown puppy. He had been such a cheerful man and he had loved her being strong and energetic.
The only sadness in their marriage had been the lack of children. That seemed even worse now. If they’d had children, they would have been a legacy from Charles, a way of carrying on his life, not letting it end so completely. She didn’t know whether this lack was her fault or his, but he’d never blamed her, just said more quietly than usual that you had to accept whatever fate handed you, and at least they still had each other.
She put the plate of sandwiches on the table, opened a tin of peaches and one of evaporated milk and called, ‘It’s ready.’
Cecily appeared in the doorway to say faintly, ‘Do you really want to eat dinner in here?’
‘Yes. And it’s tea, not dinner from now on. You don’t seem interested in cooking and without full-time help in the house, we have to make things easier to manage.’
Cecily drifted over to the table and sat down with an aggrieved sigh. ‘It’s the fault of the government for letting women do men’s jobs. I believe some former maids are earning quite scandalously large wages in munitions factories. Two or three times what I used to pay mine.’
‘Good for them! How else can the government get the necessary jobs done with so many men away at war? And why should they be paid less than a man?’
But Cecily was pouring herself a cup of tea and didn’t answer that question. Her soft, whispery voice meandered on between mouthfuls about the shocking price of coal and the lack of some of her favourite foods in the shops.
‘Shipping is being bombed, so some food doesn’t get through to Britain,’ Olivia protested at one point in exasperation.
‘But it’s still not right to have so many shortages. The government should do something about it.’
Olivia concentrated on her own meal, eating twice as much food as her cousin. She nodded her head from time to time as if she was listening and agreeing, which seemed to satisfy Cecily.
She’d go to bed early and read, she decided. At least Donald had plenty of books in the house. He favoured tales of adventure and heroic deeds. Tales for men, but they were more fun to read than the books his wife favoured. Cecily read magazines and silly tales about ordinary girls falling in love with princes and dukes. As if that could ever happen!
Cecily regularly reread the four books she owned by a lady called Ethel M Dell. She had several times expressed a fervent hope that the war wouldn’t stop that author writing more of these wonderful stories.
Olivia had tried one out of curiosity and it was certainly full of passion and love, but also contained a surprising amount of violence. Having known true love with Charles, she didn’t find the emotions described in the stories at all realistic. She’d said that to the vicar’s wife one day and Mrs Simmons had agreed with her, saying disapprovingly that the books were rather racy, and she was surprised Captain Ballam allowed his wife to read them.
Donald would never notice what his wife was reading!
Olivia realised Cecily had finished her meal and was looking questioningly across the table.
‘Sorry. I was thinking about something. What did you say?’
‘Shall we clear the table and do the washing-up now?’
What else would you do after a meal? she wondered. Yet Cecily asked the same thing every evening.
It was two long hours before Olivia could escape to her bedroom. Even knitting socks for the troops didn’t help the evening pass more quickly. She’d never been fond of knitting. She and Charles had talked – oh, how they’d talked!
This way of life definitely couldn’t continue or she’d go mad with boredom.
The following day, Olivia was glad to get away for a few hours. She’d taken on a temporary job helping out in the village shop and it was a lifesaver in many ways. Not because she was desperate to earn money, though she didn’t mind adding the extra to her savings, but because it got her out of the house and away from Cecily for several hours.
She was sure she now knew more people from the village than they did, even though the Ballams had lived there for four years, ever since their marriage. Well, Donald would consider it beneath him to chat to common people. He was such a dreadful snob. She didn’t know where he got it from. None of their parents had had that attitude to the world.
As she was putting on her outdoor things, she decided her life couldn’t go on like this indefinitely. She’d stay until after Christmas, because she couldn’t leave Mrs Cummins at the shop in the lurch at this busy time. After that, she’d look for something more worthwhile to do with her life. Only, what?
Carefully she manoeuvred the silver hatpin into the crown of the wide-brimmed, navy felt hat, pushing it through her hair and out again to keep the hat firmly in place. The hat had flowers round the crown and was rather frivolous, but her navy tailor-made suit was very practical, with a hip-length jacket and gored skirt in the new shorter fashion. She liked having a hem several inches above her ankles, not needing to brush dried mud off the hem after wet days and being able to stride out freely.
On her way to work Olivia looked across the street and saw a woman she knew slightly, who had also lost her husband. The other was absolutely draped in black, with a veil on her hat to cover her face. Surely that made you feel worse about your loss?
She hadn’t had black clothes made, because when he volunteered for the army, Charles had forbidden her to go into mourning if he was killed. ‘Keep that lovely red hair of yours shining in the sunlight. Never, ever hide it.’ He’d emphasised that by planting one of his smacking kisses on each of her cheeks in turn. Oh, she missed those sudden kisses so much!
The worst had indeed happened and her husband had been killed in the second Battle of Ypres at the beginning of May. His commanding officer had written to inform her that Charles had been shot by a sniper and died instantly. She hoped it was the truth, but knew only too well many officers said that to soften the blow. But nothing could soften the news that the man you loved had been killed.
She had only just turned forty and some would say her life was over. Her cousin Donald had told her she should live quietly from now on until the time came for her to join her husband in his grave.
‘As if I’d live like that!’ she told her reflection fiercely. ‘Charles would be horrified if I sat around doing nothing. I may not have a husband, but I can still have an interesting life.’ Somehow. Once the war was over.
Mrs Cummins peeped into the room from the shop. ‘Did you say something?’
‘What? Oh no. Just talking to myself.’
‘My mother does that since my father died. Drives me mad. You’ll have to watch yourself now you’re on your own.’ The doorbell of the shop rang and she vanished to serve the customer, calling over her shoulder, ‘See you tomorrow, dear.’
Olivia gave a wry smile at Mrs Cummins’ tactlessness. The shopkeeper was famous in the village for saying exactly what she felt. Luckily the woman hadn’t a nasty bone in her body, so the blunt remarks were never unkind.
She walked briskly home to her cousin’s house, today’s groceries swinging by her side in a string bag.
It was all the fault of the scarlet fever epidemic, which had broken out in Swindon in November. Her cousin Donald had insisted she move to the safety of his home in the village of Nether Bassett. She’d not even argued, partly because Donald was like a steamroller when he wanted something doing and partly because it’d make a change. She’d desperately needed a change.
She left one of the Belgian refugees she’d taken in a few months ago to look after her house. Madame Vermeulen was a capable woman and could be trusted to see that everything was properly cared for.
To her surprise, Olivia was enjoying some aspects of living in the country, especially the way everyone knew one another. She’d said so one day and remembered how smugly Donald had smiled at her.
‘I knew it! You must stay here for the duration of the war, Olivia, and keep an eye on my poor darling for me. It’s what your parents would have wanted, if they’d lived, I’m sure. Besides, it’s not right, a woman living alone,’ he’d added.
She hadn’t allowed him to get away with that. ‘I was hardly living alone. I had five Belgian refugees staying with me.’
‘Foreigners, and two of them men! Highly unsuitable. I can’t imagine why you volunteered to take them in. After the war you must find yourself a female companion, another widow perhaps, and take a cottage in our village. You can help out at the church and go shopping with Cecily.’
She was about to say she’d rather die than dwindle into old age like that when he added, ‘And anyway, Swindon is full of soldiers, so you can’t go back yet.’
‘What’s wrong with soldiers? You are one.’
He stiffened. ‘I’m an officer and gentleman, which is rather different, let me tell you. I’ve heard the men talking. They consider women on their own easy prey.’
‘None of the soldiers I met in the street was anything but civil to me.’
‘You were lucky, then. But when you live here after the war I’ll be able to keep an eye on you and help you manage your money. You haven’t given me the details of what you inherited from Charles yet, by the way. How can I advise you if I don’t know anything about your finances?’
‘I can manage my own money, thank you.’
‘Nonsense! Women don’t understand these things. Your husband would want me to look after you. In the meantime it’s settled: you will live here with Cecily till the war’s over and those Belgians can jolly well pay you some rent.’
It wasn’t Donald’s arguments but Cecily’s unhappiness and getting the temporary job that made Olivia agree to stay for a while longer. But just till after Christmas, when the job would end. She could only take so much of a woman whose conversation consisted mainly of worrying about her husband and wondering what comforts to send him in the next package. Chocolate, Oxo cubes, a cake maybe. She agonised over such decisions for days.
But her decision didn’t solve the problem of what she was going to do with her life after she got back to Swindon.
At Greyladies in another Wiltshire village, Phoebe Latimer took a phone call and heard her husband’s voice.
‘I’ve got five days’ leave for Christmas.’
‘Oh, darling, how wonderful!’
‘I’ll arrive sometime in the middle of the afternoon on the day before Christmas Eve.’
She hung the telephone’s earpiece on its hook and watched it swing gently to and fro till it came to rest. That was still a week away, but she was so excited at the thought of it she couldn’t settle to anything.
She hadn’t seen Corin for over a month and since their marriage in June, she’d spent exactly eight days with him. It was a good thing she had plenty to keep her busy at Greyladies, with her charity work for the trust she managed.
She didn’t feel like going back to her mending, so decided to walk into the village and call in at the shop where Mrs Pocock would no doubt have some gossip to share.
As she strolled along, Phoebe found herself humming ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’. One of the soldiers guarding the internees at Greyladies had a good voice and he’d taught everyone the latest songs, but that one was his favourite. Everywhere she went in the house, someone was bound to be singing, humming or whistling, most often about Tipperary – herself included. Even the German internees knew the words now.
As she strolled across the back garden, a quiet voice said, ‘Guten Tag, Phoebe.’
She turned to greet Herr Stein in his own language, which she spoke slightly. Once, he and his wife had been her employers in a shop making curtains; now they were interned at Greyladies because they were originally from Austria. They’d moved to England years ago because of anti-Jewish feeling in Austria but many people didn’t see any difference between foreigners who’d moved their whole lives and loyalty to Britain, and those who were potential spies.
For the time being, the Steins were safer here at Greyladies than out among people. She’d seen for herself their shop reduced to ruin by a mindless mob.
Most of the internees had had similar experiences, but these people had skills and knowledge that were useful in the ongoing struggle against Germany, so they hadn’t been sent to the Isle of Man, where most internees were lodged.
At Greyladies they formed a group the War Office could turn to for help. As Corin had said when he was commandant there, wars weren’t only won by battles and killing.
‘Where’s Mrs Stein?’ she asked.
‘Upstairs, remaking some of your curtains.’
‘We’re so grateful for her help.’
‘Ach! It’s I who am grateful to you, Phoebe, for letting her do this. My Trudi misses our shop and enjoys having something useful to do. I fear that after the war we’ll be too old to open another shop – even if people will allow us to live freely in this country once again.’
‘In that case we’ll find you a house to rent near here and you can come to tea every week.’ Phoebe patted his arm, knowing he was right about the future. His wife was very vigorous still, but he had a frail look to him these days that worried her. ‘At least you’ve managed to save some of your money for afterwards.’
‘You saved a lot of our money, my dear, brave girl.’ He pulled out his pocket watch and consulted it. ‘I have a class to give soon and I see from your basket that you’re going shopping in the village.’
At her farewell nod, he gave one of his courtly little bows and went back into the house. He had shown a gift for teaching, and was at present running a German language class for selected officers from a special army unit, men who already had some knowledge of the language. No one ever mentioned why they were doing this, but it wasn’t hard to guess.
Phoebe turned at the gate to study the roof of her home and check that the previous day’s storm hadn’t dislodged any tiles. There was such a large expanse of roof, with several steep gables, and it took her several minutes to look at every part she could see from the front. As current chatelaine of Greyladies, she tried to keep an eye on things, even though the government had requisitioned the newer part of the house at the beginning of the war, and that wasn’t considered her responsibility now.
Newer part, she thought with a smile. That meant the front half of the house, built in the early eighteenth century and connected to the rear half by a huge oak door. The really old part dated from the sixteenth century, and for some reason the officers inspecting the premises at the beginning of the war had decided it wouldn’t be suitable for the government’s needs, so had allowed the previous chatelaine, Harriet Latimer, together with her husband Joseph and their two sons, to stay there.
Then one by one, Joseph’s three brothers had been killed in the war and he’d inherited the family estate, something he’d never expected to happen. Harriet had reluctantly given up her position here and handed over the care of the house to Phoebe.
Greyladies was always passed down the female line, though not necessarily to direct descendants, and was only held in trust, not owned, so it could never be sold. The chatelaine always knew instinctively when it was time to leave and who would look after the old house next. The ghost of its founder always appeared briefly when the next chatelaine arrived, as if to demonstrate her approval.
Those who didn’t believe in ghosts said it was merely a trick of the light, but Phoebe herself had seen Anne Latimer when she first arrived. The transparent figure in Elizabethan costume wasn’t at all frightening and had a lovely smile.
Any husbands of those who inherited took the Latimer name, as Corin had done when he married Phoebe. At the same time he’d even given up his plans to take over his family home and estate near Manchester after the war, something she felt guilty about because he was an only son and loved his home.
Maybe all wasn’t lost for him. Some chatelaines spent their whole lives caring for Greyladies; others only a few years. She had a feeling she was one of the latter. She didn’t know whether to hope so, for Corin’s sake, or to feel sad at the prospect of leaving the home she loved.
It was the house and its legacy which mattered, she always reminded herself, not her own wishes. There was a trust fund and the money was used both to run the house and to help women in distress – any woman who needed it, with no conditions set.
Recently there had been an increase in the numbers of women bearing children out of wedlock, because of their love for men going to the front. If the fathers were killed before they could marry and the women’s families didn’t help them, that could make things very hard for the young mother and her baby.
Phoebe found her hand going to her own stomach. She had exciting news for Corin and couldn’t wait to see him again.
Chapter Two
On the Monday afternoon, soon after Olivia got back from the shop, an ambulance drew up outside the house. Donald was rolled down a ramp in a wheelchair and brought in by two orderlies. His leg wasn’t in plaster, but it was heavily bandaged and when the man pushing the chair bumped it against the door frame, the patient winced visibly.
Cecily would have run forward and bumped him again, but Olivia grabbed her arm and pulled her back towards the sitting room. ‘Let Donald get into the house. It’s hurting him to be moved and you don’t want to jar him.’
‘She’s right, old girl. Hey! Careful, you!’
The orderly moved even more slowly, looking tight-lipped, as if he was finding this patient difficult.
Once the invalid was settled on the sitting room sofa, the orderly put two crutches next to Donald and the other man wheeled the empty chair out. Cecily didn’t even attempt to show them to the door because she was holding her husband’s hand and gazing adoringly at him.
Olivia did the honours instead. ‘Thank you for looking after my cousin.’
‘Always glad to do our duty, ma’am.’
Even though it was quite chilly, she stood at the door watching them drive away. She didn’t go inside again for a few moments, to give the lovebirds time together.
The sound of the car engine faded quickly. How convenient motor cars were! She missed theirs. At weekends Charles used to drive her out for little picnics in the country or visits to friends.
She chewed on her thumb as an idea occurred to her, not for the first time. Dare she learn to drive? She’d never tried to do it when her husband was alive, but it couldn’t be all that difficult because since the war had started other women drove cars and even omnibuses.
She hadn’t been able to bring herself to dispose of their vehicle, which was standing useless in the big shed in her back garden in Swindon. Such a waste! She shivered and realised she was still standing at the door staring down the street, so went back inside.
In the hall she paused to look at herself in the mirror and said firmly, ‘I’ll do it.’
In the sitting room, Donald was patting his wife on the shoulder, looking at her fondly. Cecily moved her foot carelessly as she leant forward to kiss his cheek and he sucked in a painful breath.
‘Oh, I’m sorry! Did I hurt you, my darling?’
‘Just a little. You must try not to bump my leg, old thing. It’s still rather tender. They had to put nearly fifty stitches in it.’
Her face turned white. ‘You aren’t … going to lose it, are you?’
‘Of course not. But it’ll take time to heal and I mustn’t put any weight on it yet. Our kind Dr Pelham will have to come and check it every day or two until the stitches can be taken out.’
Donald seemed to realise suddenly that they were no longer alone and looked across to his cousin. ‘Nice to see you again, Olivia, old girl. How good it is that you’re here to help Cecily look after me.’
She decided to start as she meant to go on, because it’d take a while to get through his stubbornness. ‘For the moment. But as I told you before, I’m going back to Swindon after Christmas. There’s nothing like your own home, is there? And I’m missing mine.’
He frowned at her. ‘And as I told you, you can’t possibly leave yet. We don’t want you catching scarlet fever, and anyway, I’ll be back at the front in a couple of months, so Cecily will need you just as much as ever.’
Olivia shuddered at the mere idea. The war might go on for years yet. Even a few weeks with Cecily had been hard to endure.
‘Will you be able to get up and down the stairs to bed?’ she asked Donald.
‘’Fraid not. In fact, they forbade me even to try for a couple of weeks.’
‘Then we’ll bring a bed down for you. We can put it in the dining room if we push the table right back. Cecily, I can dismantle that single bed frame, but you’ll have to help me carry the parts downstairs.’
Donald stared at her as if she had suddenly grown a second head. ‘Cecily can’t help you carry such heavy pieces! And you can’t dismantle a bed, either. It requires the use of tools.’
‘As it happens, I’ve done it several times already. I had to when I took in the Belgian refugees.’
‘You know I never approved of that,’ he said, as he did every time she mentioned them.
She was fed up of going over the same ground again and again. Did he ever listen to her? ‘I’ve found them very pleasant and grateful for my help, and anyway, they have nowhere else to live.’
‘And so they should be grateful. You always did like to help lame dogs. But even if you did somehow manage to dismantle the bed base, you can’t carry it down on your own.’
‘I’ll go and ask the neighbour’s help, then.’
When she came back with the news that the neighbour would be round in a few minutes, Donald was looking angry.
‘Sit down a moment, Olivia, if you please. I want a word with you.’
What on earth was the matter now? she wondered.
‘Cecily has just told me about you working in the village shop.’
‘Yes. I’m helping Mrs Cummins. With her husband in the army, she can’t manage alone and her new helper can’t start till after Christmas.’
‘Then she should find a village woman. I’m not having my cousin doing menial work like that and waiting on the local hoi polloi.’
‘There’s a war on. Besides, I enjoy the work.’
‘But we have to live here permanently and it won’t look good you working in the shop. You must stop immediately.’
‘In that case, I’ll return home and your wife can manage your convalescence without my help.’
There was a pregnant silence, then he said, ‘We’ll talk about it again later.’
She knew what that meant. He’d work out a sneaky way to stop her. But he wasn’t going to succeed this time. ‘I’ll just go and dismantle that bed.’
‘If the neighbour’s coming in, he can—’
She left the room because it was the only way to manage without an explosive row. It hadn’t taken long for the two of them to start bickering, but their disagreements were getting worse. He had been an annoying child, but he was an utterly infuriating adult.
Half an hour later, she and the neighbour carried the single bed frame down from the smallest bedroom and set it up in the dining room, then he brought down the mattress while she carried the feather overlay.
The neighbour, a pleasant middle-aged man, started teasing her about how strong she was for a woman. When he caught sight of Donald’s glowering expression, he winked at her and took his leave.
Olivia saw him to the door, grabbed her hat and coat and called, ‘Cecily, I’ll leave you to make up the bed. I forgot to buy something from the shop and it can’t wait. We have a man’s appetite to cater for now.’
She was out of the house before either of her cousins could stop her.
During a lull between customers, she explained to Mrs Cummins quite frankly that Captain Ballam would probably try to stop her working there. ‘And I’d go mad stuck inside the house all day with D— um, stuck indoors. So don’t listen to him.’
Mrs Cummins, who had lost all fear of upsetting a lady like Olivia within an hour of her starting work, said comfortably, ‘As long as I know what you want, dear.’
‘I’d like to work here till after Christmas, as planned.’ She laughed. ‘Though if my cousin throws me out of his house, I may have to come and camp in the shop.’
‘I’ve got a spare bedroom, but I’m sure it won’t come to that. The captain needs you to look after Mrs Ballam. We all know what she’s like. My niece used to work for her.’
She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to.
That evening Donald scowled round as he followed his wife and cousin slowly into the kitchen for his dinner. ‘Only in wartime would I put up with eating in here. Are you sure you can’t find a proper maid, someone who’ll cook our meals and set the table properly, Cecily?’
‘I’ve advertised several times with no luck. They’re all working at the railway works or on the trams in Swindon, and they get paid so much more than I’m offering that no one even applies.’
‘Shocking! What are things coming to when the gentry can’t get proper service?’ He stared at the food again. ‘What sort of dinner do you call this?’
‘We call it tea, not dinner,’ Olivia said. ‘I didn’t have time to cook anything today, so it’s cold meat and pickles with nice fresh bread.’ If he complained, she’d tip the contents of the plate over his head, she decided. Well, she wouldn’t really, but even imagining doing it cheered her up.
He opened his mouth to protest, caught her eye and said instead, ‘You always were a hoyden. No sense of your position in the world. No feminine skills. Only a rough diamond like Harbury would have put up with you.’
She slammed her knife and fork down and stood up, covering her plate with another one and putting them in the pantry as the other two gaped at her. ‘I’ll finish this later, when I can eat my food in peace without someone insulting my husband, who gave his life in the service of this country, I will remind you.’ She stormed out.
Donald called to her to come back but she didn’t. It wasn’t dark yet and a short stroll would be just the thing to walk off her annoyance.
She didn’t give in to the tears that threatened, but when he talked so slightingly about Charles, she wanted to thump him good and hard.
It was bad enough when Donald started nagging and criticising her, but she wouldn’t tolerate him or anyone else insulting her husband.
She should have had more sense than to come here.
In Challerton Mrs Pocock was on her own in the shop, for once, and greeted her with the news that a new family had moved into the village. Phoebe had already heard that, but she didn’t know anything about them yet.
‘No one knows much about them because they don’t mix,’ Mrs Pocock confided. ‘The husband’s lost a leg and been invalided out of the army. Hatterson, they’re called. He’s poor Bill’s nephew and inherited the house. YoungHatterson suffers from severe headaches, someone told me, but Thad Diggan who lives next door says he’s just plain bad-tempered and his poor wife is worn down with running round after him. She’s very civil when she comes shopping, though, I have to give her that.’
She hesitated, then added, ‘And I think you ought to know, Mrs Latimer, what this Hatterson is saying about the people interned at Greyladies. It’s shameful, that’s what it is. Those old men and women aren’t our enemies, as everyone here knows. Some people don’t have the sense of a day-old turnip, whatever airs they give themselves!’
‘What exactly is he saying?’
‘That we shouldn’t allow Huns to stay in our village. That we should chase them out of Challerton, burn them out of Greyladies, if necessary.’
Phoebe stared at her in shock. ‘If I hadn’t seen for myself a mob destroying the Steins’ shop, I’d find it hard to believe that an Englishman could make such vile threats.’ She shivered at the memory of the mindless anger on the faces that dreadful day. ‘Did Hatterson actually say this in public?’
‘Not in public, no. He was talking to someone at the rear of his house. Mr Diggan overheard him. He said Hatterson got very vehement and sounded as if he actually meant to do it. It’s a bit of a worry.’
‘Dear heaven, what are we to do about him? I wish Corin were here.’
‘If anyone tries to attack you, Mrs Latimer, I’ll be running up to Greyladies with my rolling pin, and I won’t be the only one to come to your aid.’
‘Thank you. I’ll have to try to meet this man, see what he’s like.’
‘Well, all I know is, he might be a Hatterson by name, but he’s not like our Bill, who was a decent old soul. This one has never been to Challerton before. And if he hadn’t lost a leg in the service of his country, I’d tell him he’s not welcome in my shop if he goes on saying such things, I would indeed.’
‘We’ll be all right, with four soldiers stationed at Greyladies. And a doctor, orderly, nurses and two cooks. Hatterson won’t be able to do much against so many.’
‘Cowards never act alone. I wouldn’t put it past him to find others. Wait till you meet him, you’ll see what he’s like from the sour expression on his face. A nasty creature, he is, snapping at you for no reason. I think he’s blaming every German or Austrian for the loss of his leg, which is just plain stupid.’
Phoebe was surprised at this tirade. Mrs Pocock was usually placid and good-natured, finding something to like in everyone who came into her shop.
‘I told him straight: our foreign gentlemen and their wives at Greyladies have been in England for long enough to learn civilised ways, I said.’
She was so indignant. ‘Mr Hatterson must have been very rude to you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so angry,’ Phoebe said.
‘Yes, he was. He came into my shop once and listened to me talking to someone, then interrupted and told me I was easily fooled. When I told him to mind his manners and said I’d not have talk of violence in my shop, he said people who didn’t get rid of Huns were damned traitors.’
‘I can’t believe he said that.’
‘That’s what he said, “damned traitors”. My husband came out of the back room then and told him to keep a civil tongue in his head or get out of our shop. But did he apologise? No, he did not. He just shrugged and said, “I’ll have half a pound of cheese as well, please.” I was so shocked, I’d started to serve him before I knew it.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t forget the look on his face when he said those things, Mrs Latimer. Mark my words, he meant it about burning the internees out. He seems to blame them for losing his leg. You should tell the commandant to watch the house at night.’
Someone else came into the shop then, so she whisked out her handkerchief, blew her nose and took a deep breath. ‘Now, what can I get for you today, my dear Mrs Latimer?’
‘Just some jam, please. We’re running rather short.’ And she had quite a craving for toast with jam these days. ‘We didn’t manage to make enough jam last year.’
‘We only have plum, I’m afraid. But it’s Mrs Olworth’s jam that I’m selling for her, because she had a glut of plums last year, and heaven knows, the poor woman needs the money now her husband’s gone and died on her. You’ll have to give her the jar back, though.’
As she started back, Phoebe slowed down to study the house where the newcomers now lived. There was no sign of life at the front of the building and the garden, which had been Bill’s pride and joy, was looking untidy; it hadn’t been cleared for the winter. She supposed the occupants were in the kitchen keeping warm.
On that thought she shivered and began to walk more quickly. It felt like rain and the wind had a real bite to it.
Just before she reached the big house, she heard the sound of a bicycle behind her and a voice calling, ‘Mrs Latimer! Mrs Latimer! Telegram for you.’
She spun round, her heart thumping in her anxiety. Surely this couldn’t be one of those telegrams? Corin wasn’t fighting at the front.
The lad handed over the envelope. ‘Shall I wait for a reply?’
‘Yes, please. Give me a minute.’ She tore open the telegram, then sighed with relief. ‘No reply needed.’
‘Is it bad news?’
‘Just that my husband might not be able to come home for Christmas.’
‘Sorry to hear that, Mrs Latimer.’
She watched the delivery lad tear away on his bicycle. That was the village for you, or it had been until now. Everyone kept an eye on what other people were doing, helped out as needed, which was nice in some ways, annoying in others.
She reread the telegram. Corin’s father was ill with pneumonia and his life was feared for. Her husband had been given compassionate leave and was going north to Manchester at once.
It might be a very quiet Christmas, even a sad one.
She wasn’t going to tell Corin about the baby in a letter, though, because she wanted to see his face when he found out. Like her, he very much wanted children.
And if they had a son, then he could inherit Corin’s family home near Manchester one day. That would make her feel so much better about depriving her husband of his birthright.
He said he didn’t mind, that what she did at Greyladies was a sacred trust and through it she did a lot of good in the world, but of course it made him sad sometimes to lose his home. She knew him too well for him to be able to hide his feelings from her.
After some thought, Phoebe went into the new part of the house to pass on to Captain Turner what Mrs Pocock had told her.
‘Is she sure the fellow was advocating violence?’ the commandant said. ‘Perhaps the good lady misheard.’
‘It was Mr Diggan who heard it and he told Mrs Pocock. She’s nobody’s fool and says this Hatterson fellow seems to blame all Germans for losing his leg.’
The captain glanced down instinctively at his own missing limb. ‘That’s foolish. No, no. The man may shout and complain, but I doubt he’ll actually do anything. Not in a small place like Challerton. Who would support him? They’re a friendly lot in the village, I’ve always found.’
‘Most of them are, but one or two families aren’t quite as friendly, and there are other villages and hamlets nearby, not to mention Swindon. If Hatterson’s been talking about it to one person in secret, he must already have found others who agree.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll inform all my staff and we already keep a careful watch on the house and grounds at night.’
But Phoebe still felt uneasy. She didn’t feel that the commandant was taking the matter seriously enough. She decided to take a good look at Mr Hatterson on Sunday in church, and try to eavesdrop on what he was saying to people in the churchyard afterwards.
If he continued to urge violence against the internees, she might have to organise something herself, hire some of the village lads, perhaps. No one was going to damage Greyladies if she could help it.
When she returned to the old part of the house, she told her two maids what Mrs Pocock had reported.
Cook hesitated and said, ‘I’ve heard my cousin saying something similar. She hates the Germans since her husband was killed. She wasn’t talking about burning down Greyladies, though. What a shocking thing to suggest! I shan’t sleep a wink at night now.’
That made Phoebe even more worried. She’d told Captain Turner that there were other disaffected people around, and that had immediately been confirmed by her own servant.
She would speak to him again if she heard so much as a whisper of unrest.
Chapter Three
As she walked past the church in Nether Bassett, Olivia nearly bumped into the vicar’s wife who was coming from the opposite direction. ‘Oops! I’m sorry, Mrs Simmons. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
‘That’s all right. Excuse me saying so, but you look rather upset, Mrs Harbury. Are you all right?’
‘Not really. Does it show that clearly?’
‘That you’re angry? I’m afraid it does. Look, why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea? It can help to talk to someone and I never betray a confidence.’
Olivia hesitated, then followed the vicar’s wife inside. ‘This is a lovely house. I always admire it as I walk past.’
‘It’s far too big for the two of us and I wish there were less of it to heat and clean. It took two years of pleading before the church would even put in a gas cooker and gaslights in the main downstairs rooms. I’d just like to see them cook meals on that monster.’ She gestured towards a large, old-fashioned kitchen range. ‘It still heats the water and it keeps the kitchen warm, but that’s all it’s good for.’
She gestured to a chair. ‘I hope you don’t mind sitting in here? It’s much warmer.’
‘I don’t mind at all.’
Her hostess put the kettle on, then cocked one eyebrow. ‘So … what’s been upsetting you, my dear Mrs Harbury?’
Olivia didn’t like to be disloyal and didn’t know Mrs Simmons very well, so hesitated.
Her hostess asked quietly, ‘Captain Ballam returned this afternoon, didn’t he? Is it something to do with him?’
Why try to deny it? ‘Yes. My cousin hasn’t changed since he was a boy. He’s just as annoying. More!’
Mrs Simmons laughed. ‘Let me guess. He’s been ordering you around.’
‘Trying to. How did you know?’
‘He kept telling my husband how to run this parish when we first came here. Fortunately, my husband has had many years’ experience of smiling blandly, saying very little and doing nothing unless he agrees with it.’
‘I wish I could be the same. Donald always tries to order people around, but when he said something about my husband, it was too much to bear, and I walked out. If he doesn’t stop carping, I shall have to leave earlier than planned.’
‘We’re going to miss your cheerful face in the shop when you do go.’
‘I wouldn’t like to spend my life behind a counter, but it’s very interesting to see how things are done and I’ve enjoyed meeting people.’
They chatted together with the ease of old friends, and Olivia gradually calmed down.
Only when Mr Simmons came in from visiting a parishioner did she realise it had grown completely dark outside. ‘I’d better get back or my cousin will be sending out search parties. Thank you so much for the cup of tea … and the soothing chat.’
‘I’ll walk back with you,’ Mr Simmons offered.
‘It’s only three hundred yards and the village is quite peaceful. If I screamed for help, a dozen people would be with me in seconds. There really is no need. You look tired.’
Mrs Simmons stood up. ‘I’ll see you to the door and watch you down the street.’ As they stood at the step, she hesitated then asked, ‘I wonder if you care about women’s position in society?’
Olivia was surprised by this, so asked cautiously, ‘Do you mean votes for women, and – and things like that?’
‘Yes. I would never have gone as far as the sorts of things the suffragettes did because I abhor violence, but I very much agree with what they were trying to achieve. I do not consider my mind to be inferior to that of a man, and if a woman does the same sort of work, as they have during the war, and shows she can cope, I feel it’s only fair she should be paid the same amount of wages.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’
‘Good. I meet with a small group of like-minded ladies every week and we discuss what we can do to change things and help other women, both now and after the war. We’ve helped quite a few people in the area. Would you like to join us?’
‘I’d love to, as long as the meetings are after my shop hours.’
‘They are. Um, I’m afraid I can’t include your sister-in-law in the invitation. Mrs Ballam holds rather different views on women’s role in the world.’
Olivia chuckled. ‘She doesn’t hold any views whatsoever of her own. It’s Donald who doesn’t believe in women getting the vote. And whatever he tells her, she believes. I promise not to bring her.’
‘We meet here on Wednesdays at four o’clock. Everyone brings a plate of food and we have tea together after our chat. Not too much food and nothing lavish because some of the women don’t have much money.’
‘I shall look forward to it.’
When Olivia went into the living room Donald greeted her with, ‘You shouldn’t have been out on your own after dark.’
Cecily nodded vigorously in agreement.
