The Hidden Dance E-Book

Susan Wooldridge

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

Seitenzahl: 446

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2009

Beschreibung

1933. The luxury liner SS Etoile sets sail from Southampton en route for New York. On board is Lily Sutton who is escaping the brutality of her failed marriage, and looking to begin life anew in America. Lily is caught between the privileged world she's left behind and her new-found love, which has given her the strength and courage to be herself. A new friendship makes the long journey easier to bear...until an old enemy surfaces and Lily must do everything she can to protect those she loves most in the world.

Leseprobe

The Hidden Dance

Susan Wooldridge

First published in Great Britain in 2009 by

Allison & Busby Limited

13 Charlotte Mews

London W1T 4EJ

www.allisonandbusby.com

Copyright © 2009 by Susan Wooldridge

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Extract on page 307 from The House at Pooh Corner by A.A. Milne © The Trustees of the Pooh Properties. Published by Egmont UK Ltd, London, and used with permission.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ISBN 978-0-7490-0763-8

Digital conversion by Pindar NZ

For Andy, without whom this book couldn’t have been written.

Contents

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Part Two

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

About the author

Prologue

Clear as clear she hears whispers from behind the half-open door.

‘Wait, the hat’s not straight. Now!’

With hands obediently over her eyes, she glimpses the drawing-room door swing wide and a small pair of feet comes pattering in.

‘Now, Mummy, now. Open your eyes!’

Clear as clear she sees… A little clown. White pointy hat, red pom-poms the size of dahlias, baggy white suit, a gleaming face. Up to this point the memory is perfect. But a new voice, a man’s voice, spoils it all and she freezes. Even in the memory.

‘Stop hiding behind closed doors.’

Mother and child stand very still. The man arrives in the doorway. She moves in front of the child to shield him.

The man speaks. Quietly. Almost a whisper. Seductive. ‘You can’t seriously be thinking of dressing the boy like that.’

She tucks her hand behind to the boy. He clutches it.

The man turns to leave the room.

She cries out without thinking, ‘But it’s his party—’

She stops. The man is turning back.

‘Get those clothes off him,’ he whispers. ‘I won’t say it again.’

The boy runs. The door slams.

The man roars after him, ‘Nicholas!’ Then he turns slowly back to her. ‘You bitch! My God, you’ll pay for this!’

Her cry is cut off by the first slap, the sound cracking through the stillness of the day. She gasps, winded. Tries to keep the terror from her face, doesn’t want to anger him further.

He stands swaying slightly. She struggles for breath and sees his hand swing back a second time. ‘Oh no! Please, don’t—’

He delivers the second slap to the side of her head, catching her ear. The pain is precise, crystal clear. All is silent except for the ringing, singing pain – and a far-away knocking.

‘My lady, my lady, open the door! Oh, my lady!’

The man leans over her, slowly raising his hand. He doesn’t strike. ‘Get rid of her!’

She opens the door.

Her maid’s face is white, tears in her eyes.

‘Go away, Mary. Please!’

From behind, the man shoves her and slams the door shut.

‘You’ve made the child a pansy-boy!’ She feels the spray of his spit on her face, smells the drink on his breath.

He pushes her to the ground.

‘You revolt me!’ There is extraordinary loathing in his voice.

He leaves, banging across the hall, slamming the front door.

She lies still, huddled on the carpet, ashamed, terrified at the enormous anger she has provoked.

Everything is quiet.

Part One

Chapter One

SS Etoile. Friday morning, 3rd March 1933

Across the third-class day room the children tore back and forth, skipping and hopping, thrilled with their new outfits of limp velvet and torn taffeta. As she watched them, Lily thought, It’s the smell of camphor that’s always so extraordinarily intoxicating.

Mothballs and camphor, the scent of dressing up.

Into her mind came Nickie and clearly she saw her son, her darling Nicholas – the only child she really wanted to see playing and dressing up. Her darling boy, dressed as a little clown. How happily he would have joined in with these children here, she thought. These children who play so freely. How he would have loved to dress up with them…

As she sat on the ship crossing the Atlantic, such a long time since Nickie’s Pierrot fancy-dress party, Lily suddenly felt overwhelmingly sick, her imagination painting pictures that left her trembling. Always the memory of him dressed as a little clown brought a fear that grew and grew and flooded her entire being.

Enough. She turned away from the children.

Slowly the nausea ebbed.

She stretched. She’d been momentarily distracted by the bustle created by the arrival of two huge wicker dressing-up baskets. She’d attempted to focus on a large woman, a tumble of skirts and shawl, at the centre of the room, trying to tempt a pale plump little girl into a frowzy frock and bonnet. Dear Lord, what a dreadfully unappealing child – what must its mother feed it on? Mind, the fat woman herself can hardly move.

She turned away. These thoughts didn’t hold her; she was too restless to concentrate. Since the previous evening a storm had been threatening. Ropes had been rigged to imprison wooden benches and trestle tables; tablecloths dampened to hold sliding cutlery and tea-urns. But the storm had not arrived. Now a trio of sailors on the edge of the large communal room stood ravelling up the storm ropes, skillfully flipping and coiling them to avoid the excited children, all pulling out shirts, skirts, bonnets and caps from the big old baskets. Through the portholes, Lily saw the lumpy clouds unroll and slip away, and the weather, as if to apologise for its former bad behaviour, suddenly beamed bright and clear, the sunlight dancing through the swirls of dust that heralded each newly discovered costume.

She felt removed and out of place in this sea of clatter and banter, and having chosen a bench in the far corner, she clung here to the vestiges of quiet. All she wanted was to be left in peace, to be completely unnoticed. Leaning back against the wall, she closed her eyes. Her apricot hair, she knew, caught attention, but for this trip she’d decided to keep her so-called crowning glory discreetly hidden, the curling waves pulled back into a bun of puritan severity. Nothing otherwise, she prayed, distinguishes me. I’m just a tired middle-aged woman in an old tweed skirt and beige cardigan.

She stared down at the acres of dreary linoleum upon which so many feet were drumming, drumming…and caught sight of her shoes. Chocolate suede lace-ups with a small heel. They were old but expensive and hand-made, thin leather ties neatly threading through the eyelets, and in some ways the shoes were even more elegant in their battered state. All her maid’s clothes had fitted her, the tweed skirt and the coat, Mary’s dusty-pink crepe blouse – a bit on the big size but better that than the other way around. No, it was Lily’s large feet that had let her down; she’d had to resort to an old pair of her own shoes. Mr Mancini’s – and she suddenly had an image of her wooden lasts lined up with dozens of others in the backroom of the smart shoe shop in Bruton Street. So, so far away.

Perhaps, she thought, they are the one item that will give me away: my shoes. Some eagle-eyed snooper will catch sight of them and, putting two and two together, report me to the captain. She tucked her feet hastily under the bench as the absurd thought made her heart beat irrationally, a sudden skim of sweat breaking out on her forehead. She pulled her hanky from her sleeve, held it to her brow and, making herself breathe evenly, stared on, unseeing, at the sallow green linoleum.

Three days at sea and already the trip seemed interminable. Oh, how she longed for the hush of first class high above her. Down here, the constant mayhem was proving such a terrible torment after the many sleepless nights that had preceded her trip. Though she had to admit, steerage was not quite as tiresome as she’d feared. Having always hitherto travelled first class, she’d wandered through the third-class smoking rooms and day rooms, surprised to find them open and spacious.

No, it was the cabin itself that was proving such a trial. Not that the spartan berth was uncomfortable, just so tiny. And always the endless heavy churning of the engines making any sleep or rest impossible, so that however much she longed to be away from these rowdy crowds and their endlessly drumming feet, the claustrophobia of her cabin was, today, much worse than this boisterous chaos. She had survived two days cooped up but the need for space and distraction had driven her into this, the third-class day room.

And then, as if in answer to her prayers, the noise in the large room fell into a lull and the most wonderful peace descended. With a sigh of relief, Lily stirred herself upright and turned with resolve to the journal on her lap. But the relief was short-lived for all at once there started into life the whine and hum of a pair of bagpipes.

Oh Lord, this is too much – it must be stopped! She spun round.

Instantly any word of complaint died on her lips. Beside her, hitherto unnoticed, sat a group of people tightly huddled round a table, concentrating on the whining noise spooling from a hidden centre. As the pipes warmed up, the huddle uncoiled, revealing a dozen people, their faces gnarled and tanned; citizens of a far-away life. At their heart sat a large square blond man swathed in a tartan shawl. The player of the bagpipes, chief of his tribe, his cheeks were full-blown as he massaged the bag of sound.

A whoop, a cheer, clapping hands.

Lily stared, caught by the unexpected sight and sound, the chief’s muscular hands drawing forth the trembling haunted music of mountains. Now, from the midst of the shawled group, an old woman rose up and, cupping a hand to her ear, turned her tanned beaten face to the ceiling and started to ululate the meandering cry of minarets. The mystical sound coiled round and round the room. On and on. Lily sat entwined.

‘You like our music, lady?’

The music had stopped and, on a whine, the swollen bag was deflating.

‘You smile, you like our music?’

Lily, stung into life, found the blond man looking straight at her. Expecting a Scottish voice to go with the bagpipes, she was instantly thrown into confusion – not so much by the man’s rough incomprehensible accent but by his jet-black eyes, glittering, full of life… She scrabbled for something to say, unsettled by the sensual power of his gaze.

‘I beg your pardon?’ (Oh heavens, I sound such a stuck-up fool!)

Unable to think of anything more, she was left smiling helplessly like a child as, around their chief, the women chirruped a spiral of chattering sounds. Perhaps from the Balkans, she thought, all their dark eyes now upon her.

‘Our music, lady. You like?’

He held the tangle of pipes high above his head. Trusting the pipes were the subject under discussion, she nodded eagerly. ‘Very good.’ With a faltering smile, all she could muster under the circumstances, she lifted her hands, gesturing a clapping motion, childishly eager to please these new acquaintances.

The shawled heads of the women danced and bowed in gusts of laughter and, in her confusion, Lily found herself laughing along as well. Then, just as suddenly, their attention left her. With much relief, she realised she no longer held any interest for them; the man had started singing and all eyes turned in on him once more.

Agitated, she glanced to and fro to see who had witnessed this embarrassing interlude and her subsequent abandonment. Then the fear caught her again. Had she been seen? Had someone glanced across, alerted by the music, and recognised her sitting there, so that even now a purser was being told of her presence on board? She tentatively scanned the vast room.

But no one was looking at her; no one was in the least bit interested. She was alone again.

In the middle of the vast room, Mrs Webb’s spirits were seriously flagging. Having polished off cock-a-leekie soup, a couple of grilled mutton chops and apple meringue for her midday meal, all the large woman really wanted was a nice little nap on the comfy bunk in her cabin. But ever game – especially under testing circumstances (that apple pudding was sitting very heavy) – Mrs Webb rallied herself. ‘Keep going, lass, this boat trip’s nearest thing to ’oliday that family’s gonna get.’

And, everything considered, she had to admit it was turning out to be a right good ‘do’ – fresh air, free food a-plenty, a champion tug-of-war on deck that morning and tomorrow’s fancy-dress parade to look forward to.

She felt a feeble tug at her skirts and looked down. ‘I’ll not tell thee again, our Anthea,’ she snapped, ‘stop thy pulling.’

‘But I’m tired, Gran,’ wheedled the child, her pasty face hidden by a fat little fist, the thumb buried deep in her mouth. ‘I want to go ’ome.’ The thumb popped out and popped in again. The child was dressed in a faded lemon-yellow cotton dress. Once her best – it had been smocked by Mrs Webb herself – it now strained tight over the puffy little girl, its colour sour and unforgiving.

Mrs Webb chose to ignore her grandchild. She knew Anthea wanted nothing to do with any fancy-dress competition but she was determined not to let the child slump into yet another sulky fit. Aye but to that end, she feared, it’d take a deal more than fresh air and free food.

‘Get cracking, me duck,’ she admonished, gesturing towards the big old wicker baskets, ‘else all big boys and girls’ll take best fancy dress.’ And wiping her face with a sparkling white handkerchief the size of a picnic cloth, she sank gratefully onto a large wooden chair that creaked loudly as it received her.

‘Gran?’

Mrs Webb looked down. The little girl was holding up a battered straw bonnet trailing a mould-spotted ribbon.

‘Go on, me lovely, that’ll be Bo-Peep.’

‘But Gran—’

‘Come on now, let’s see what else we can find.’

Aware that all Anthea wanted was to run away and hide every inch of her wobbly body, as the two of them searched through the mounds of musty material, Mrs Webb tried to shield the child from view by means of her own corpulence.

Ten years old and she should be such a pretty little girl, she thought. Her mam was right bonny at that age. And, of course, Mrs Webb knew that that was the real reason for the child’s despair – five empty years without her mother. Poor little mite, no wonder the girl was sullen and fractious; her mam’s shocking death was enough to smack away any child’s pep and charm. No, little Anthea had never really had a chance.

‘Gran, where’s me sheep?’ asked the child in a tiny voice and, sinking onto the floor, tears very near, she sat utterly defeated by her struggle to become a shepherdess.

Her grandmother looked at the miserable girl. A new start’s what this child needs if she’s to survive: a new start to make her forget. Make us all forget.

‘Nay, lass, you’re right,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It won’t do, it won’t do a’ all.’

And never one to be brought down by Fate’s travails, the large woman levered herself back onto her feet and started to rummage in the wicker basket as though her life depended on it.

Ten years later, sitting in a garden, Anthea would say, ‘And that was the beginning, that day on the boat. The beginning of what I can remember of my life. I’d been asleep, like, since my mam’d died, five years before, and I couldn’t remember anything – still can’t, not from those five years. And then that day on the boat, I woke up – I s’pose from when me and Gran met you. It was the start of the adventure. And now I have memories. From our trip all together.’

And Lily had smiled.

Lily looked down at her journal. At the top of the page she had written the day’s date. Friday, 3rd March 1933. But besides that, what was there to write after all?

She screwed up her eyes in an effort to drown out the screams and the endless banging noise of the children, and tried to compose her thoughts. At her side her neighbour’s insistent singing vied with the whirl of childish cries. She put pen to paper.

Nothing appeared; her fountain pen had dried up.

For heaven’s sake. Lily shook it. Still nothing. She tried the little lever on the side only to be rewarded by a large inky blob swelling from the nib, which hovered over the snowy-white page and then firmly plopped onto her tweed skirt.

‘Oh no, this wretched pen.’

‘A tomato’s what you need for that.’

Surprised not only by the proximity of the voice but also at the eccentricity of the suggestion, Lily swung round to find the large dressing-up woman at her elbow. If she had hoped to make a reply of some kind, it was now washed aside in a torrent of advice from the large woman, who settled herself comfortably on the bench next to her.

‘A tomato. Rub it well into the wet ink-mark then rinse it out wi’ water. Never fails. Mind, they say if you put red ink over black ink, it dissolves the iron in your black ink so that when you wash it, it’s gone – t’ stain, I mean. But I don’t think it’s as – efficacious.’ Lily caught the echo of an ‘h’ before the word. ‘Anyway, love, where we gonna find red ink down ’ere?’

The big face was creased and smiling. Lily, stunned by this ebullient volley of information, managed only to mutter, ‘Quite,’ before the lecture was confidently concluded: ‘Then there’s milk, o’course. Aye, that might be best.’

Swiftly rising, gathering the layers of shawl about her, the woman called out to the tubby child still half-heartedly looking into the wicker basket. ‘Now, Anthea, where’s milk bottle?’ No doubt fully expecting the child to stay put, she crossed herself to one of the trestle tables – for a portly woman, she had an impressive turn of speed – and collected a small half-full milk bottle with a straw. ‘Milk takes up stain,’ she said pouring a tiny amount of milk onto the ink-mark, which immediately darkened the white liquid.

Lily sat dumbstruck. She was vaguely aware that, in her present state of tension, there was a luxury in being ministered to by this stranger who conveyed her advice not only with confidence but also with warm kindness. She stared down at the woman as more liquid was dribbled with all the precision of a scientist, and her eye was caught by the most beautifully starched blouse, a little cameo brooch nestling amidst the folds of shawl and jowl. At such close quarters, Lily noted that the harshness of the woman’s iron-grey hair pulled back, seal-sleek atop the vast tumble of clothes, detracted from an open wise face. How often bulk is wrongly equated with stupidity, she thought, and saw that although the woman’s face was battered and lined, a high unhealthy colour on each cheek, the eyes, grey-blue, held a sweet softness and the fleeting glimpse of a once-pretty girl.

‘Now, let’s go and rinse it off in’t cloakroom. We’ll finish with a little more milk if needs be.’

The woman set off at her impressive speed and, like a good girl, Lily ran to catch up only to find, walking beside the short stout woman, she felt absurdly tall, her limbs all sharp-angles. Added to which, her new companion’s ceaseless chatter in a dense North Country accent, meant Lily lurched along, bent sideways, in an attempt to catch what was being said. Behind them, silently, padded the dour fat child.

It was this circus-like trio that stared back from the wide mirror in the cloakroom where, sure enough, after a judicious dab of water, the dark mark on the tweed skirt vanished. ‘There,’ said the woman triumphantly.

Lily stared. It was a magic trick.

‘I’m Mrs Nellie Webb. How’d you do?’ With a big red hand, the woman clasped Lily’s and shook vigorously.

‘Oh…um…Lily Valley. Hello.’ She managed to say the name in a hurried mumble but saw the woman, unsure as to what she’d heard, about to question her. Lily sped on. ‘I can’t thank you enough, you’ve saved my skirt. That was very impressive.’

‘Should be, my love. Run me own laundry this last thirty years, I have. Haven’t I, Anthea? This is me granddaughter,’ she introduced proudly.

Lily stared at the gormless child in the mirror and saw, with a shock, the child’s heavy little face was aged, the eyes vacant and dull. ‘Hello,’ she said and held out her hand. But the child wasn’t having any of it; she backed away and dawdled out of the cloakroom.

The two women followed and Lily found herself hoping to bring matters to a close. But the other woman took control. ‘So, where’ve you been hiding yourself then?’ With a job well done, it was all the excuse the woman needed to nestle into a nice chat.

Lily hesitated. A new acquaintance and a lot of dangerous questions were the last thing she wanted. ‘Oh…um…I’m afraid my husband and I have rather fallen victim to seasickness. It’s my first day up.’

‘Yes, well, you look pale enough but it should pass, ’specially since last night’s storm never ’appened.’ The woman appeared to wink. ‘Mind yer, I’ve known the calmest waters cause the greatest problems but don’t tell yer ’usband, eh?’

At that moment, Lily was distracted by a tall man appearing on the other side of the room, a huddle of people moving aside to let him through. Involuntarily she flinched and then saw, to her horror, Mrs Webb turning to see what had caused her reaction. ‘Here is my husband,’ she said quickly and was surprised to hear her voice sounded unstrained, almost calm. Please, God, protect us, she prayed.

The man made his way towards them and although middle-aged, his hair thinning on top, as he cut across the room, there was almost a buccaneer dash about him.

‘Everything all right, darling?’ Lily asked as he arrived. Again her voice sounded light and easy.

‘Fine, fine.’ The man smiled comfortably. ‘Just felt like a spot of lunch. Do you think I’m too late?’ He put a light hand on her shoulder.

‘Well, that’s a good sign; appetite back. Any more trouble and a little Mothersill’s Remedy should do’t trick.’ Mrs Webb beamed at him; a bemused expression crossed the man’s face. ‘Your wife’s told me all about it,’ she concluded.

Hastily, Lily took the man’s arm. ‘Darling, this is Mrs Webb. I told her all about our seasickness.’

‘Oh, I see. Johnnie Valley. Hello there.’ He leant forward and cheerfully shook the woman’s hand. This time Lily knew she’d heard the name.

‘Enjoying your trip otherwise?’ asked Mrs Webb.

‘Very much, thanks,’ Johnnie replied.

‘Mrs Webb’s been extraordinarily clever with a milk bottle and some water, and saved my skirt.’ She could hear her manner social and gracious as she smoothed the damp tweed material for him to inspect. A moment hung in the air. Nothing was said.

‘Well, very nice to meet you both. But that’s enough from us, in’t it, Anthea?’ Mrs Webb gustily gathered her grandchild to her. ‘See you later, Mrs Valley.’

The relief Lily felt was enormous; the ordeal was nearly over. She heard Johnnie take his cue. ‘And we’d better go and find some lunch, darling. Before it’s all finished. Cheerio for now, Mrs Webb.’

Putting an arm round her, he started to steer her away but she hesitated, looking back over her shoulder. ‘Bye bye, Anthea,’ she called. For a second, the little girl glanced at her. Lily felt their eyes lock – an instant flicker of recognition between them, a joint compact of pain – and then, as quickly, the child looked down at her sandals. They were old, brown and scuffed almost grey as she stood wiggling her toe into a point on the lino.

‘Come along now, our Anthea, let’s go and find that brother of yours. We’ll sort y’ fancy dress out later.’

Lily and Johnnie watched as the large woman drew the reluctant child through the knots of people and vanished between the swing doors.

‘She wouldn’t stop talking. Nosey old boot.’ Lily sank down onto the bench; she felt wretchedly tired. ‘And she saw my face when you came towards me. I was just so worried something had happened—’

‘Hush, darling. We knew we’d have to talk to someone eventually. And she seems harmless enough.’

Lily shrugged; the constant terror made her want to sleep and sleep…

‘Hello, “Mrs Valley”,’ he said.

The sound of the new name almost made her smile. She looked up at him.

He pointed to the bench beside her – ‘May I?’- and holding her eye, grinned so that, despite herself, she was forced to chorus with him, ‘No hat there!’

He sat and wrapped his arm through hers.

Momentarily, the shared memory of the hat that Johnnie had once so fortuitously sat on stilled her anxiety. She felt an echo of contentment and put her head on his shoulder. She knew what they must look like, a tired middle-aged couple. But she was glad. They were of no interest to anyone. Nobody was taking any notice of them.

Melsham, England. 1931

The hat sat on the marble-topped hall table. Robin-red, made of felt, it had a small bunch of cherries pinned to the side of the crown. Alongside the hat lay a pair of delicate red suede gloves and a small red and black clutch bag. Lily lifted the hat and, looking in the hall mirror, put it on. She adjusted it to the right angle with no delight nor particular interest in her appearance but out of a sense of duty and good manners for the day to come. Against her wan skin she knew the robust red material was too strident, the cherries too frivolous, serving somehow to emphasise her thin face, making it seem longer. She caught herself staring warily back, her tired eyes gleaming glassily, their honey colour unnaturally bright, her so-called aristocratic nose, boney and shiny. Why was it when she was unhappy her nose went sore and red? She pulled a powder puff across it but it made no difference. Her lipstick, also, was too stern a shade but she continued dutifully to paint it on and, with a final attempt at softness, fluffed the short waves peeping from the side of her hat. The little rolls of copper hair chose to remain as stiff as brandy snaps. Damn it, it would have to do. She stood very, very still.

The thick silence filled the high wide hall. If Nickie were here now, she thought, there’d be so much noise. We’d run up the little wooden backstairs and get Mary to make bread-dipped-in-egg, and then we’d rig up a ghost’s house in my bedroom and…

She stopped. Such daydreams only made her heart feel emptier, empty. She stood trying to untangle the pain. It’s the first Saturday of term and I’m only allowed to visit him on the second Saturday. Seven whole days more. And anyway, Mary’s no longer here; today she’s getting married – and I have someone new to train. A new maid after all this time—

For goodness sake, Lily, stop. Don’t think; do.

She set off across the wide black-and-white tiled hall and, without allowing herself to hesitate, opened the study door.

Her husband sat as usual at the big heavy desk. The curtains half drawn, a lop-sided standard lamp supplemented the morning light which, despite the heavy curtains, fell across numerous papers scattered untidily over the desk’s surface. A whisky and soda by him, the amber-coloured liquid twinkled as his large hand slowly rotated the cut-glass tumbler.

‘Charles, you’re not even changed and we’re going to be late enough as it is.’ She started pulling on her gloves in an attempt to hide her fear. Even in the half-light she could see how unnaturally ruddy the man’s skin had become, his nose taking on a pitted coarseness. And although his brown-black hair was still thick, the shine had gone, the texture now emphasised by the flicker of grey around his temple and ears and the ever-stern white parting.

‘I won’t be coming.’ Without looking at his wife, the thickset man took up his fountain pen and started to write.

She knew to all intents and purposes the subject was closed but for once she was not prepared to abandon it. ‘But Mary will be so disappointed—’

‘For goodness sake, Lily, don’t be so sentimental. The way you’ve been fussing on, getting all dressed up, you’d think it was the Princess Royal and not some servant’s wedding.’ He graced her with a cursory glance and took a swallow from his glass.

She tried to keep her voice calm and even. ‘Mary is not some servant. I need hardly remind you she has been with us for over fifteen years, indeed, all our married life. I would have thought you of all people would have had the decency to realise that it is simply not done to ignore her on her wedding day.’

Charles looked up and coolly asked, ‘Have you quite finished?’

She remained silent.

‘Frankly, I shall be glad to see the back of her – the two of you gossiping in corners like a couple of washer-women.’ He returned to his document.

Though ever vigilant to the unstable electricity of his temper, she could feel her own anger steadily rising. ‘It would have been courteous if you could have told me earlier.’ With right on her side, she felt impelled to add, ‘I think it’s extraordinarily unkind of you not to put in an appearance.’

‘Don’t be so pompous; it doesn’t suit you.’ He smoothed a blotter over the page. ‘And I’ve decided to go up to Town later. I’ll be staying the night. Tell Benton I wish to catch the midday train.’

She knew this to be his final word and she stood impotent with rage. But, although motionless, she held herself alert; she knew from experience that the heavy man, if he chose to move upon her, possessed a whiplash speed.

Charles looked up. She held her breath but all he said was, ‘You’d better run along, Lily, or you’ll be very late.’

She didn’t slam the door, she closed it; fifteen years of their marriage had taught her to submit. She stood once more in the vast hall, in a fury and yet so relieved to have escaped. A small figure, all alone.

Through the open doors she heard the stable clock chime eleven. She shot forward into the bright day and, dazzled by the sudden loud sunshine, blinked as she looked across the drive to where a chauffeur was standing by a gleaming Daimler. At the sight of his mistress, George Benton’s polishing cloth hastily disappeared into the pocket of his uniform.

‘George, Sir Charles has decided to catch the midday train up to Town so I’m afraid that means you and Mrs Benton will have to miss the actual wedding service. But once you’ve dropped him off at the station, why don’t you use the Daimler to get you both to the reception. I can drive myself in my car.’

‘Thank you, my lady.’

‘I’m sorry for the inconvenience.’ She moved off towards a smaller car, a Standard, becoming aware of the chauffeur scampering after her.

‘Tell Mrs Benton I’ll only need something cold for this evening.’

Benton arrived at her side with a puff, handed her in and, as she went to turn on the petrol, remarked, ‘May I say, my lady, that’s a very fine hat.’

Lily looked up, surprised. ‘Oh, thank you, George.’ Fury at her husband now conflicting with unexpected delight at the compliment, to cover her confusion she found herself checking the clock on the instrument board. ‘Now I am going to be late.’

It was all the excuse she needed to drive very fast along the little lanes away from Melsham House. Repeatedly hitting the steering wheel, she struggled with tears as her anger at Charles welled–up again. ‘Bastard, don’t you dare make me cry. You selfish bastard! And that’s right, run away up to Town to your prissy little mistress and her prissy little dress shop.’

Not that in a calmer frame of mind she cared about the presence of a mistress in her husband’s life, a mistress whose arrival two years previously had proved a blessed distraction. However, although Mrs Thelma Duttine had followed in the footsteps of many others, this time the telephone line had hummed.

‘Lily, my dear, that Duttine woman whom Charles has chosen to take up with has been seen purchasing the entire contents of the lingerie department! And in Sutton’s of all places – Charles’s own department store. It’s too vulgar. And such a common-looking woman. How could Charles let you down so?’

But Lily didn’t care. Charles could give Thelma Duttine the run of his department store; he could set her up in a discreet dress shop off Bond Street, then they could both play at shopkeepers. What did it matter? All she felt now was unbelievable relief that his violent temper was directed elsewhere and that their sexual forays, however sporadic, Charles often so unbelievably drunk, had stopped.

Had he always got so drunk? She couldn’t remember. She thought back to the young bride dazzled by his sporting prowess and boundless energy, and saw herself as a distant figure, inhabiting another life, a life full of hope and playfulness. Charles and Lily. This match, this joyful union, the envy of all her girlfriends. Sir Charles Sutton. He’d been the pick of the bunch, glorious in his uniform. Not much conversation but rugged and handsome. A different class maybe, family money made in trade, but he had wooed Mother and drunk with Father. And how she had secretly anticipated an all-enveloping response on her wedding night, a response to quite what though, she hadn’t been sure.

As she drove, she found herself unexpectedly smiling at the memory of her innocence and wedding-day fears. Woozy from no breakfast, she’d been escorted up the aisle by her father, exuding elderly brandy fumes – the stale alcohol vying with the strongly perfumed lilies and drifts of elegant roses that wreathed the church, the floral wealth of Father’s precious greenhouses. After all, the sacrificial lamb had to be seen to be properly served upon the altar of convention – with decorum and good taste, of course.

And Mother’s contribution? Even now Lily laughed. Her mother stoutly sitting on her eiderdown the night before the wedding and shouldering her duty, in a hush, as Mother of the Bride. ‘I must warn you, Lily, of the great gulf between a lady and a prostitute.’ She had spat out the last word. ‘Let me tell you that a prostitute feels passionate about a man; a lady does not.’ Lily had sat frozen, suffused in embarrassment at the mention of such matters. That Mother, of all people, should know about these things! But, oh, if her mother ever guessed her delicious dreams, her passionate desires. To be held at last in Charles’s arms, to allow him… But Mother was steaming on relentlessly. ‘And anyway, I have it on good medical authority, my girl, that no woman is capable of feeling passion.’

And then the wedding night was over, a bafflement of drunkenness, and in so little time the delicious desires had dissolved into confusion and disappointment, feelings that slowly metamorphosed further into dread and then terror…

Now, thank God, with the arrival of Thelma Duttine, there appeared to be the permanent sanctuary of separate beds in separate rooms. A separate room to make a ghost’s house for Nickie and me. A separate bed to make a pirate’s galleon to set us out to sea… Oh, my Nickie, my love, my joy, why aren’t you here with me now on our way to Mary’s Big Wedding Day? Why do you have to be away at rotten old school? It was always so perfect, wasn’t it, you, me and Mary? Your father away in London – and Melsham all ours to play in. But even through this sweet memory, Lily felt the perpetual fear, the dread of Charles’s unexpected return from London at any minute – and with the memory came a sudden gust of sickness.

She pushed the memories from her mind and concentrated on driving fast. The lanes curled away before her unseen; the sunny spring light that glanced through the high hedgerows unnoticed. Long years of surviving had taught her to numb her mind, make it blank, but even so, today, the trick wouldn’t work. She pushed her mind on and on, in search of solace. I suppose, in the end, I must concede that boarding school has protected the child from Charles’s insane rages, I must take comfort in that.

But what spare comfort she found brought no glimpse of joy. For with Nickie so far from her, her loneliness was now hounded by despair; her despair, a terrible private secret, imprisoned by the rigours of her upbringing. ‘It’s not done, Lily, to reveal one’s feelings. It is, frankly, bad manners.’ Though one person did know. Mary, her maid and her true friend. Mary, the keeper of all secrets; Mary, the confidante; Mary, who had watched the carefree bride turn into a sad despairing middle-aged woman whose only passions now were anger and disappointment. And today Mary was getting married. Lily felt dazed by the abyss of loneliness that yawned before her, she felt sick and frightened.

She stopped the car and got out. She lit a cigarette and, inhaling deeply, leant back, one foot on the running board, and looked across the string of open fields towards Melsham Woods.

She tried to think back to a more contented moment in her marriage. Had it ever been? She tried to remember the Charles of her wooing, her wedding. Charles before he had hit her that first time, when she had finally known the marriage was over. Five years before. The terrible memory, old and wretched, hovered, ever ready to rear into life…

She made herself breathe in the lovely young spring air and forced all thoughts of Charles from her mind. And watching the golden light, bright against the dark sturdy trees, the green wheat, frisky as it danced in a playground of breezes, she slowly felt the fear and fierce chaotic anger leave her. It was the perfect day for a wedding. Dearest Mary, you have won the heart of your Sam, your prayers have been answered.

She thought of Nickie, laughing, lying in the long grass, buttercups tickling him, glinting under his chin. ‘Nickie loves butter, Nickie loves butter.’ And she caught the moment her breath came at a calmer pace. She got into the car and, very sedately, drove into the town of Freston.

The bustle of market day pulled her from her thoughts and she became aware that, up ahead, the road was crammed. A delivery van trying to overtake a wide bullock cart filled with a flock of beige woolly sheep had resulted in both vehicles becoming wedged amidst the Saturday-morning shoppers. Lily sat waiting, her engine ticking over.

Everywhere people thronged the little pavements, ambling and chatting. On this bright sunny day all along the High Street, striped awnings, flapping and cracking in the sharp breeze, were pulled down over the shop windows. At the far end, she could see the market place equally teeming: pens packed with cattle and pigs, an auctioneer’s bidding rising on the air. And high above the roofs stood the stone turret of the Norman church, square and sturdy. With no hope of moving further towards it, Lily pulled across to the pavement and parked.

Suddenly with so many people around, she became aware of her tear-stained face and, looking in the tiny car mirror, encountered her rather extravagant hat. She removed it and realised to her relief she was parked opposite the Crown Hotel. Collecting her hat, gloves and bag, she quickly crossed the road.

A hush greeted her as she entered the elderly inn, a strong scent of dusty tobacco enveloping the low-beamed rooms of the bar. She looked around for help, placed her things on a chair and became aware of the only sound: the stately ticking of a grandfather clock. Half past eleven. Damn, now she was too early.

‘May I get you something, madam?’

She jumped. ‘Um…yes, why not? A gin and French, please. Oh, and where’s the ladies’ room?’

It was while she was repairing her face that she suddenly realised she’d left her hat and gloves in the bar. Returning, she was greeted by an anguished cry and the sight of a smartly dressed man holding her squashed hat, an aghast expression on his face.

‘I’m most terribly sorry – I didn’t know it was there – and I’m afraid I must have sat on it.’

He looked so stricken, holding the damaged hat as if it had just done him the most terrible injury, that Lily burst out laughing.

‘It’s all right. Very little harm done.’ She took the hat from him and, with a quick smooth movement, remoulded the crown. ‘Look, see? Good as new.’

‘I’m so sorry. You see I was so busy ordering a drink—’

The waiter appeared, a glass on his tray.

‘I think you’ll need that now, rather more than ever.’ Lily grinned at him.

The man sank down into the chair. ‘I’m very glad I ordered a large one.’ Despite himself, he was smiling. ‘Rather a shock – oh, I’m sorry, forgive me.’ He pointed to a drink already on the table. ‘Is this yours?’

‘Yes, I’d completely forgotten— Oh, my goodness – what time is it?’

‘Twenty to.’

‘I must be going.’ She gathered her handbag and hat. ‘I’m actually on my way to a wedding.’

‘St Joseph’s?’

She nodded.

‘Well, perhaps I might escort you. I’m on my way there too.’ He waved at the waiter. ‘And please, as reparation for nearly ruining your beautiful hat, may I stand you that drink?’

‘Done.’

Lily crossed to the mirror and, putting on the hat, caught the man watching her. Tall and slender, perhaps in his early forties, he was dressed in a dark blue double-breasted suit, which he wore with casual ease. An elegant man, she thought, and had an image of an Elizabethan courtier in doublet and hose. Beneath the brown thinning hair, cut short, she saw his face was tired and lined, and she would have thought his expression cynical, weary of life, had not deep creases served to emphasise his eyes. It was these eyes that made her glance a second time. Soft laughter eyes, eyes that made you want to smile back. (Dear God, I had such a hangover that morning, Johnnie told her much, much later.)

Turning to him, she questioned her appearance with a look.

‘Despite my best efforts,’ he said, ‘you look delightfully damage free.’

Walking up the High Street, she said, ‘I’m Lily Sutton, by the way.’

He stopped. ‘Of course! I knew I recognised you. I met you and Sir Charles at the County Fair; two years ago I think it must be now – a memorable occasion for me as my piglets won the Blue Ribbon. Probably not such a memorable occasion for you.’

The memory, like a dancing wave, rippled across her mind and came to rest. ‘But I know exactly who you are! You’re a friend of Dolly Barton. And the piglets, if I remember rightly, were enchanting. Are they well?’

‘Adorable. Though I’ll be the first to admit I’m biased, having witnessed their birth and the progress of their somewhat undramatic lives. Is Sir Charles not with you?’

‘No, he was suddenly called up to London. Why have we not met more often?’

‘I’m a miserable old recluse, I’m afraid. Happy only when I’m immersed in my books and talking to my pigs.’

‘And what has got you away from such pleasures today?’

‘My good friend, Sam. I’ve been roped in as his Best Man.’

‘Mary’s Sam?’ She stopped.

‘Of course, how stupid of me,’ said Johnnie, stopping also. ‘Mary works for you and Sir Charles, doesn’t she?’

‘Though sadly not after today – and oh, I’m going to miss her so terribly, she’s been such a good friend. But,’ she said to distract herself from the dark shadow wilfully hovering at the side of her mind, ‘she does seem to be wonderfully happy, don’t you think?’

A large woman dipped out of a shop door backwards and nudged into them, sending up a flurry of apologies. Johnnie tipped his hat. They moved on.

‘And how do you know Sam?’ Lily asked.

‘We farm together.’

‘Well, as they say, what a small world! Of course, Mary’s told me all about your farm. She’s brought Sam over to us quite often, with Melsham being just down the road.’

They flattened dutifully against a shop-front as a lingering line of boy scouts passed in front of them, the scout master obsequious in his bobbing manner. Waiting, Lily carried on, ‘How do you and Sam come to farm together?’

‘Do everything together – have done. The war, y’know. Sam was in my Company. Then after Armistice, we were both at a loose end, so we joined forces, read a few books and, bingo, we became pig farmers! Though truth be known, Sam’s the expert.’

‘They’re going to live in one of your estate cottages, aren’t they?’

Johnnie nodded.

‘Mary doesn’t want me to come over just yet. Not until it’s quite finished.’

‘It was a bit spartan but she’s cheering the place up no end. I’m sure you’ll be invited to tea very soon.’

They crossed the road, Johnnie skirting behind her to take the outside edge. The church and a small crowd came into view.

‘I have to confide I’m rather nervous.’ He smiled awkwardly and her attention was caught by a pair of front-teeth, crooked, a tiny chip in one. He looked like a schoolboy and the wearied look had vanished. ‘I’ve got to do a bit of a speech later on and, to be quite honest, at this moment I’d rather be in the thick of battle, about to go over the top.’

‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘And there was I going to slip away after the service. Now I shall have to stay and see how you do.’

‘Just keep wearing that hat and fingers crossed, I might even get through it in one piece.’

They arrived at the cluster of people and immediately Johnnie greeted an elderly gentleman distinguished by a gleaming pair of brown gaiters and a bright yellow stock.

‘Hello, how nice to see you again. Lady Sutton, may I introduce the father of the groom?’

‘How do you do,’ said Lily. ‘Isn’t it a lovely day?’ And suddenly she realised she meant it.

Chapter Two

Kent. 31st December 1914

The dark room was sliced in half by a shaft of pale orange light shining through from Nanny’s sitting room. It did nothing to dispel the gloom as Nanny still insisted on gas-lamps, not wanting anything to do with electricity and its ‘new-fangled habits’.

‘I knew I’d find you here,’ said Lily.

Her brother stirred in the gloom of the empty nursery. He was dressed in evening clothes though his white tie was still loose and his black jacket slung over the brass bedstead. She stood and watched him from the doorway.

Hugh sat, a tall lanky form, untidily hunched on a little stool, his knees almost to his ears. He was stirring a small enamel saucepan on a Primus stove and, without looking up, he invited, ‘Bovril. Come and join me.’

‘Nanny asleep?’ She nodded towards the open door.

‘No fear. She’s up to her eyes in khaki wool. Talk about knitting for England.’

Lily stepped into the nursery – even in the darkness she knew every inch of the room – and made for the old armchair at her brother’s side. She sank into it. Her evening skirt billowed up and a childhood memory of a similar nest of fluffy chiffon, her feet encased in bronze dancing pumps with elastic crossed over her ankles, stirred at the back of her mind.

Through the open door, she caught sight of Nanny, a shiny-black bombazine bun. The old woman sat with her eyes half-closed, needles smoothly clicking, her stumpy veined fingers moving with swift delicacy; cocooned in her deafness, she was unaware of Lily’s arrival. On a small table beside the old woman there were neatly stacked piles of newly knitted balaclavas and socks.

‘Ears and feet, always Nanny’s prime areas of concern.’ Earmuffs and gloves on elastic and thick woollen stockings. Now grown-up, there was no longer the cheering comfort of being bossed and tucked into layers of scratchy mufflers and bonnets, the treacherous cold, in Nanny’s opinion, always there ready to kill and maim.

She turned back to her brother and saw him staring intently at the little saucepan. In the half-light his young face was as stern and aquiline as a church carving, his fair hair strictly greased, parted and combed, at odds with his dishevelled evening suit and tie.

He poured some Bovril into an enamel mug. ‘Want some?’ The salty aroma wafted towards her.

‘Mmm, don’t think it really goes with Moselle cup.’

‘So Father’s serving the guests German wine this year. Well, good for him.’

Lily nodded. ‘Dinner’s in twenty minutes. Are you coming down?’

‘You been sent to find me?’

‘No, course not.’

The window rattled; the wind was up.

Lily looked round the room. Here, all the familiar shapes of childhood were wrapped in a cosy orange glow from Nanny’s room, so that in the half-light, she could only just glimpse the large world map commanding one whole wall, the British Empire gleaming, vast and rose-pink. Endless lessons… ‘Where is Timbuctoo? Who is the king of Siam?’

Across the window, black against the purple night sky, the old rocking horse, ears cocked, nostrils flared, stood sentinel between the two single beds, neatly made. On hers, Baz, an old furry owl; on Hugh’s, a tangle of legs and arms: Koko, his over-stuffed monkey.

And in the furthest corner, the faint ghostly outline of her doll’s house, its front-door firmly closed on what she knew to be a tiny world of Georgian chaos.

‘Why does Nanny keep all these things?’

‘She’s not done yet,’ said Hugh. ‘She may be eighty-one but she’s determined to bring up at least one more generation of brats.’

Far below, a faint gust of laughter rose up from the party, followed by a ripple of bright curt piano music.

‘Mendelssohn, eh.’ Hugh nodded down at the music. ‘So the old man’s decided to turn a blind eye to German music and