The Promise E-Book

Freda Lightfoot

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

Seitenzahl: 518

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

San Francisco, 1904. Georgia Briscoe is unwillingly betrothed to businessman Drew Kemp when she falls for handsome British sailor Ellis Cowper. Drew has the charm to dazzle everyone around him, but once the couple are married, it transpires that Drew's charm is only skin-deep - he is a greedy gambling addict with a penchant for other women. London, 1948. When Chrissie Kemp travels to the Lake District to visit her grandmother Georgia, she is not prepared for the shocking revelation that is about to throw her family into turmoil. As the truth unfurls, the passion, emotion and astounding love that blossomed in San Francisco forty years earlier is revealed, and three generations of one family are tested to their limits.

Leseprobe

The Promise

FREDA LIGHTFOOT

Contents

Title Page1948Chapter OneChapter TwoChapter Three1904Chapter Four1948Chapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeChapter Twenty-FourChapter Twenty-FiveChapter Twenty-SixChapter Twenty-SevenAuthor’s NoteBy Freda LightfootCopyright

The Promise

San Francisco, 1926

I write in some distress to inform you that I am again in financial difficulties. Not for the first time, I know, but I fear on this occasion I may not recover without your help. I mention no names but iniquitous charges are to be brought. Bankruptcy looms and my situation has become intolerable. I would not ask otherwise.

You may already feel that you have paid too high a price, but I disagree. Weren’t you always so much luckier than I? Don’t I deserve the same luck in life? I know you will understand why I chose this particular messenger to carry this letter. He will act as a salutary reminder about how much power I have.

I trust you will not hesitate to assist in my hour of need. If not for the close relationship we once enjoyed, then because if you do not, the consequences could be dire, not least for yourself. I’m sure your children would be most interested to hear the whole story.

I look forward to hearing from you, and to receiving a large banker’s draft with all due speed. You owe me this, Georgia, in return for the promise I’ve kept all these years, a state of affairs you no doubt wish to continue.

1948

Chapter One

A shaft of sunlight slanted in through the open window of the flat, together with the usual city sounds: the constant hum of traffic, the klaxon of a police car going about its business, a child indulging in a noisy tantrum. It also brought dust, a stifling summer heat, and an intense feeling of claustrophobia to the young woman patiently pouring tea into fine china cups.

Chrissie Kemp set a small mahogany table close to the invalid’s side, covered it with a lace doily, then carefully put two ginger biscuits on a plate and placed them upon it with the teacup so that her mother would only have to put out her hand to reach them. The older woman eyed the result of her daughter’s efforts with disdain.

‘No cake again? And do close the window, dear. It’s creating a dreadful draught round my neck.’

Chrissie stifled a sigh as she reluctantly did as she was told, feeling even more trapped by the stuffy room. Her mother was not a patient woman, but she seemed even more crotchety than usual today. ‘I queued half the morning, hoping to find some dried fruit or ground almonds, even a few cherries, since you’re tired of plain sponge, but there were none to be had. And we can’t afford to waste too many eggs in cake-making, Mum. Sorry, but there it is.’ She tried a smile, but received only a frowning response.

‘It is absolutely appalling that the government dares to continue with this iniquitous rationing. What did we win the war for, I wonder?’

‘Don’t let your tea get cold,’ Chrissie gently chided, not wishing to go over this old ground for the hundredth time.

‘Oh, do stop fussing, girl. Where are my pills? I’m getting one of my heads. Don’t sit there looking stubborn. I need one now.’ From an array of small bottles on the tray, Chrissie dutifully tapped out the required dose into a small cup to set beside the biscuits. She watched with sadness in her eyes as Vanessa greedily swallowed them with a slurp of tea. Though what good they would do, she couldn’t imagine. Chrissie was quite sure the doctor only prescribed them in order that he may continue to call and add another fee to his steadily growing bill.

Nor would the introduction of the new health service this month make the slightest difference. Vanessa Kemp had no truck with anything that was free. If something did not cost a considerable sum then it was worthless in her eyes, a philosophy that had cost her dear throughout her life, and was really rather ironic when you considered the pittance they now lived on.

There was only Chrissie’s small wage coming in, as her mother had never quite acquired the knack of working for a living, apart from the occasional foray selling handkerchiefs or perfume in Harrods or Harvey Nichols. She’d grow bored after a few months and walk out in a huff, although the last time Chrissie suspected she was dismissed for sneaking one too many shots of gin behind the counter.

Now they were behind with the rent, and would be out on the street were it not for Chrissie constantly dipping into her precious savings, and sweet-talking the landlord into allowing them a little longer to catch up. Not that these efforts on her part prevented him from sending out a constant stream of eviction notices, which any day now he would be sure to act upon.

The doctor too would be lucky if he ever got paid, although Chrissie did wonder if perhaps he took payment in kind from his still-beautiful patient. With her chestnut-brown hair, hazel-green eyes, porcelain complexion and deep-red lips there was no denying that her mother had lost none of her sex appeal, despite being past the dreaded age of forty. The pair were certainly very cosy, and there was nothing Vanessa loved more than being the centre of attention, particularly where men were concerned.

Chrissie did her best to cope but hated the idea of squandering every penny she possessed on attempting to pay off a huge unmanageable debt. It was rather like putting a finger in a dyke to stop a flood. But she lived in hope that she could stir Vanessa out of her depression, stop her drinking, and bring back the woman she’d once been.

Chrissie dreamt of escape, of release from this straitjacket of a life she inhabited. She longed to have a life of her own, to start her own business, perhaps a small bookshop. If she were ever allowed the opportunity.

Feeling bored and slightly irritable at having spent a precious Saturday afternoon once again confined to the house doing domestic chores, Chrissie picked up a newspaper, a copy of the Westmorland Gazette, and flicked idly through the pages while sipping her tea.

Her mother had been born in Westmorland, and despite her absolute refusal to speak of her birthplace or her family, still insisted on having the paper posted to her in London. Being a local newspaper there wasn’t any mention of the Olympic Games, due to take place shortly in August, or the recent dock strikes. As if the outside world did not exist, it was largely concerned with the price fat lambs made at auction, the weather, a report of a man charged with poaching, and advertisements for home helps and farmhands. But then an advert a page or two in caught Chrissie’s eye. It read:

Why not pay a visit this summer to Rosegill Hall in the beautiful English Lake District, a charming old house with spectacular views of the Langdales. It even boasts its own boathouse and jetty on Lake Windermere. This historic property, set in its own woodland gardens, has been converted intodelightful holiday cottages and bed & breakfast accommodation. The owner, Georgia Cowper, offers a warm welcome to guests.

There followed a telephone number and postal address for bookings. The thought flitted across Chrissie’s mind that she couldn’t remember when she’d last had a holiday. Before the war, probably, as a young girl, when they used to go down to Brighton for a week each summer.

‘I suppose you’ll be going out later?’ Vanessa remarked in self-pitying tones, interrupting her thoughts.

‘We might go to see Katharine Hepburn in Song of Love. It’s showing at the Alhambra.’

‘Does Peter like musicals? How very odd for a man.’

Chrissie gave a rueful grin. ‘Probably not, but he’s happy to let me choose. He’s very obliging.’

Perhaps too obliging at times. Peter would indulge any choice she cared to make, in particular a date for their wedding, if only she would accept his proposal. He repeated his offer almost on a weekly basis, in case it had slipped her mind. The trouble was Chrissie wasn’t even sure if she loved him. She was fond of him, but was that enough?

Admittedly there wasn’t exactly a stream of suitors paying her calls, but then when did she ever find the opportunity to meet new men? And surely she wasn’t entirely unattractive? She was slim with long legs and a reasonable figure, soft brown hair and eyes, if a rather pale complexion and unflattering nose. There were creases between her eyes, so Chrissie was making an extra effort not to frown too much. Her mouth was perhaps a touch wide and didn’t smile anywhere near enough.

Marriage, even to dull, boring Peter, might be infinitely preferable to spending her life waiting upon a hypochondriac mother. Had she not experienced both true love and marriage, however briefly, it might have been easier to come to terms with second best. But at only twenty-one it seemed rather young to admit defeat and marry simply to escape her mother’s tyranny.

‘Holy matrimony, dear girl, is not all it’s cracked up to be,’ Vanessa warned, as if reading her thoughts. ‘You would be foolish to risk it a second time. Not that anyone would look twice at a mouse like you.’

Chrissie said nothing. She had learnt long since not to engage in pointless arguments with Vanessa. And since her parents’ marriage had not turned out to be quite as happy as her mother had hoped, Vanessa’s opinion was somewhat jaundiced, to say the least. But then Aaran Kemp had walked out on his wife when Chrissie had been but a small child, leaving his non-grieving wife with a legacy of debt, one there seemed little hope of ever paying off.

The moment tea was over Chrissie quickly cleared away the cups and plates, hoping for a short walk in the park, then an hour’s quiet read in her room with the windows flung wide. After a week stuck in an office, filing and typing, and her weekends devoted to domestic duties, she snatched any spare moment that offered privacy, fresh air and freedom. But just as she was hanging up the tea towel to dry, the doorbell rang and Peter arrived, predictably early.

* * *

The evening at the cinema followed the usual pattern of all the other evenings they spent together. Peter would steer her down the aisle to their seats with his hand protectively glued to her elbow, almost as if he thought her incapable of walking unaided. He always insisted on paying for the tickets, and would buy her an ice cream in the interval without even asking if she wanted one. Then there would be the usual fumble under cover of darkness with him surreptitiously pressing her knee, or sneaking a hand around her shoulder which somehow lodged itself on her breast. Chrissie would be so preoccupied keeping track of his wandering hands that she would frequently lose the plot on what was happening on screen.

Afterwards he would walk her home and steal a brief goodnight kiss. That was all she did allow him, even after twelve months of walking out.

‘Would you like a stroll in the park?’ he offered. ‘It’s a clear moonlit night.’

The prospect of more tussles beneath the trees or on a park bench was more than Chrissie could contemplate this evening. ‘I’m rather tired, sorry. Saturday is always a busy day for me, with the washing to get done and various other chores.’

His eyes gleamed. ‘It would be so much easier for you if we were married.’

Chrissie wondered how that could be possible since she’d then also have a husband to care for, as well as a mother. ‘Let’s not talk about that tonight, shall we? You know I feel it’s far too soon for us to be talking of marriage. I’m not ready for all of that yet.’

‘I don’t see why,’ he said, in that small peevish voice he adopted, rather like a small boy denied a toffee apple. ‘You wouldn’t have to work at all if we were married.’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘You’d have no need to work, since I can perfectly well afford to keep a wife.’ Rather as he might say he could afford to keep a dog.

Chrissie turned away and slotted her key in the lock, thankful to see the flat was in darkness, which meant Vanessa had gone to bed, so there would be no grilling about what she’d got up to. Her mother loathed the idea of Chrissie ever marrying again, no doubt for selfish reasons. Not that she had any inclination of doing so. One day it might be nice to find a good man, a kindred spirit, but not yet.

All Chrissie really wanted was to be free of duty and responsibility, to find some contentment and a purpose to her life. To make her own choices.

Peter was still talking. ‘I’ll call on Tuesday, shall I? Seven o’clock as usual. I thought we might try the new Italian restaurant that’s opened on the high street, or we could go down the West End, if you prefer. Whatever you wish.’ He was as predictable in his habits as night following day, turning up at her door regular as clockwork every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. Chrissie had never quite worked out why these particular days and no other.

There were times when she had to stifle the desire to tell him what she’d really like was for him to go away and never call again. But that would have been unkind. Peter could be good company, and, apart from the odd grope in the cinema, never anything but a perfect gentleman. She hated the idea of being sucked into a routine, and every now and then a small spark of rebellion would light within and Chrissie would make a feeble bid for freedom. She’d complained once that she’d no wish to be taken for granted, and Peter had showered her with flowers, chocolates and gifts for weeks, till she’d insisted he stop.

Now she said, ‘Let me check my diary. I rather think Rosie, my friend from work, asked me to go out with her.’

Disappointment seemed to drain the life from his thin angular face, and Chrissie was instantly filled with pity and guilt, a feeling that seemed to mark the nature of their relationship.

‘You should put me first, not Rosie; you’re my fiancée, after all.’

‘No, Peter, I’m not,’ she told him, with exemplary patience. ‘We aren’t engaged, remember? How many times must I remind you that I have no wish to marry again, not now, maybe not ever.’

‘Don’t be silly. Every pretty girl wants to be a wife and mother. You’ll change your mind, and I can wait till you’re ready.’

As always, Chrissie gave up. Where was the point in arguing with him? ‘I’ll give you a ring from the office on Tuesday, or pop in the bank to see you,’ she cheerfully informed him as she let herself into the flat, determined to stick to her guns for once. Didn’t she too often allow other people to make decisions for her? Ever the good girl trying to please. It really had to stop.

* * *

It was barely ten o’clock but the flat felt empty and eerily quiet as Chrissie plumped up cushions, and folded away newspapers and magazines her mother had left lying about, tidying them away into the understairs cupboard before going to bed. One glance in the cocktail cabinet told her Vanessa had retired early with a half bottle of gin.

Chrissie had taken to removing bottles from the cocktail cabinet, or pouring the contents away. A pointless exercise, as the next day another would have appeared in its place. It was amazing how fit and capable this ailing woman could suddenly become when needing to replenish her supplies. Chrissie had tried many times to gently point out to her mother how she was ruining her life with drink, and popping pills she didn’t need, and by shutting herself indoors for every hour of the day. But Vanessa would only weep and say that Chrissie didn’t understand.

‘You don’t appreciate how hard my life has been – an endless trail of bitter disappointment.’

Chrissie had agreed that life was indeed full of disappointments, that she too had suffered, losing the one man she could ever love back in 1945, just as the war ended. ‘How cruel was that?’ she had asked her mother.

‘Ah, but you were only eighteen, far too young to know what love truly is,’ Vanessa had scorned.

Now, as she drew back the curtains on to the night sky, collected used cups and glasses, she noticed that her mother had been looking through old photo albums, as she so loved to do. She lived in the past, constantly recalling some golden era when she’d been happy, but then would launch into a diatribe about how badly her family had treated her. How they had cast her off because she’d married a man her mother didn’t approve of. Chrissie had vague memories of holidays in the Lakes when she was small; other than that she knew little, if anything, about Vanessa’s family. She’d once asked why there wasn’t a single picture of Vanessa’s own mother in the albums, and had got a sharp response.

‘Why would I want a picture of that dreadful, unfeeling woman? She never did anything but lie to me.’

She absolutely refused to talk about it, speaking only of some fond romantic image she carried of the early years of her marriage, before Aaran Kemp, the love of Vanessa’s life, had so callously deserted her. The albums largely comprised pictures of a father Chrissie could barely remember. Had he loved her? Chrissie held a precious memory of being cuddled on his knee, of him tossing her in the air. Or was that because she’d seen fathers do these things in films?

If he had loved her, why had he walked away and left her, never to be seen again?

He’d visited them once, she seemed to recall, about the time he was called up at the start of the war. She must have been eleven or twelve at the time. He’d felt like a stranger to her after all those years of silence, and Chrissie knew she hadn’t exactly been very friendly towards him. Young as she was, she hadn’t been prepared to forgive him for deserting them. Now, knowing he’d been killed at Dunkirk, she felt guilty, as that was the last time she’d seen her father.

Chrissie slid the albums back into the sideboard drawer, not even bothering to look at them. She’d given up showing any interest in their yellowed contents years ago, when she’d failed to get any answers to her youthful questions. It was as she was closing the drawer that she realised a folded sheet of paper had come loose and was sticking out from the pages.

About to tuck it back into place so that it didn’t get torn, her curiosity suddenly got the better of her and she opened it.

It was nothing more exciting than her mother’s marriage certificate.

Chrissie shook her head in sad resignation. How dreadful that the loss of this man, a runaway husband, had so blighted both their lives. What a tragic waste. Yet Vanessa must still be passionately in love with him as she’d never remarried, despite her many amours. She complained about the debts she’d been left with, but never once had Chrissie heard her mother utter a single word against Aaran. She was undoubtedly a bitter woman but her venom seemed to be directed entirely against her own parents, as if they were the ones at fault. Perhaps she hated them for being proved right in their assessment of a straying husband. But despite his betrayal, Vanessa had remained steadfast in her loyalty to him. How blind is love?

Chrissie’s eyes filled with tears as she thought of her own love for Tom, a passion she did not expect to ever experience again.

But this was the first time Chrissie had set eyes on evidence of her parents’ marriage and she smoothed the certificate out, staring at the names: Aaran Richard Kemp. Again she desperately tried to recall her father’s face. Occupation – businessman, and an address in Chelsea. No doubt the art gallery he owned, of which Chrissie had no recollection. That was back in the halcyon days of her mother’s youth. No occupation was listed for her mother, who was given the usual description of ‘spinster’, and the same address in Chelsea. Good heavens, were they living together? How deliciously sinful. Chrissie glanced then at her mother’s full name: Vanessa Margaret Cowper.

Cowper?

But wasn’t her maiden name Shaw? Chrissie was almost certain that was what she’d been told. Frowning in puzzlement she began to look for something to prove her theory. She searched everywhere, including the little bureau, but nowhere could she find evidence of any birth certificate. And then Chrissie found the rental agreement for the flat. And there it was: Mrs Vanessa Kemp, née Shaw. How extraordinary!

Folding the marriage certificate and carefully replacing it within the leaves of the album, Chrissie closed the drawer and went to bed. Although not to sleep.

For some reason she found it oddly disturbing to discover that her mother wasn’t whom she claimed to be. And if her maiden name was Cowper and not Shaw, as she’d always believed it to be, then who did that make Chrissie herself? Yet there was something vaguely familiar about the name Cowper. Where had she heard the name recently?

It was sometime in the early hours of the morning that she remembered, and sat bolt upright in shock. Of course, it was in the advertisement for Rosegill Hall in her mother’s copy of the Westmorland Gazette.

What had it said? Ah yes, The owner, Georgia Cowper, offers a warm welcome to guests.

Vanessa had been born in the Lakes, where this Hall was apparently situated. So if she carried the same name as this woman, one she had apparently denied and kept hidden for half a lifetime along with all details of her family, were they in some way related? Was this reminder of her hometown the reason she was in a particularly sour mood today? And what was this woman to Chrissie?

Chapter Two

Her mother wept when Chrissie confronted her with what she’d discovered. ‘All right, it’s true. My maiden name wasn’t Shaw. I changed it because I never wanted Ma to find me.’

Georgina Cowper had apparently objected so strongly to the man her own daughter had chosen to marry, she’d cut her off completely only a few years into the marriage, banishing her for ever from her life.

‘Whatever did my father do to deserve such treatment? A lifetime of silence for not agreeing with her own daughter’s choice of husband was surely somewhat excessive?’

‘Nothing. Aaran did nothing at all. The woman is heartless.’

‘But why has this family feud, this estrangement, lasted so long? What gives your mother, my grandmother, the right to consider herself the oracle when it comes to choosing a spouse? There must be more to it than simple disapproval. And did we never visit? I’m sure I have a vague memory of holidays in the Lakes.’

‘Nonsense, you’d be far too young to remember such things.’

‘Then tell me the whole story. I want to know all about this grandmother I can’t quite remember.’

Vanessa firmed her lips and stubbornly shook her head. ‘There’s nothing to tell. I believe she was born in America, but I’m not certain. Isn’t that sad? My own mother and I know virtually nothing about her. If there’s one thing Georgina, or Georgia, as she likes to be called, hates, it’s someone who attempts to pry into her private affairs. And she has to be the one in charge, you can’t tell her anything. The woman is quite impossible.’

Rather like you, Chrissie thought, hiding a private smile.

But she knew at once what she must do. Perhaps it was an unrealistic dream but Chrissie resolved to bring about a reconciliation between these two women, or at least attempt to start the healing process. She leant forward, suddenly excited. ‘We could visit her now. Why don’t we both go to the Lakes and see this place? When did we last have a holiday? We could go and stay at this Rosegill Hall and start building some bridges. Wouldn’t that do us both good? Cheer us up no end.’

Vanessa was appalled at the very idea. ‘After so many long years of silence, any sort of reconciliation would be impossible. I refuse to set foot in that place ever again.’

The cause was lost before Chrissie had even begun, and when she responded by saying she would go alone, her mother was horrified and begged her not to even try.

‘You don’t appreciate how difficult that woman can be, how arrogant. She showed not the slightest compassion when Aaran and I fell in love, practically threw me out of the house, and I’ve had no proper relationship with her since. I forbid you to have anything to do with her.’

‘Mum, I have to try. You’re a widow, a woman alone, still with huge debts to pay off, no income and about to be evicted from your home. We have to do something!’

‘Leave me some remnants of pride,’ her mother snapped. ‘That woman has never lifted a finger to help me throughout my entire marriage, and I’m certainly not going to ask for it now!’

‘No, I am. She’s your mother! She has a right to know how things stand with you. We can’t let pride get in the way of practicalities, or a possible rapprochement.’

The older woman’s cheeks were stained red with anger. ‘Listen to me, Chrissie, this is one particular Pandora’s box I do not want opening. Ever! Is that clear?’

They quarrelled for hours, Vanessa stubbornly refusing to accept Chrissie’s idea as a possible solution to their difficulties. Probably because she hated to admit to the fact that Georgia had been right all along, that she never should have married Aaran Kemp.

In the end, weary of the argument, Chrissie let the subject drop. But not the plan. Without any further discussion on the matter, since she was a grown woman, after all, and surely capable of making her own decisions, she resolved to go ahead with it on her own. A holiday would do her good, and give her the time and space she needed to think properly about her own future, and whether Peter was the man to share it.

There would be no problem in getting time off from work as she hadn’t taken a fraction of the leave due to her. Chrissie went straight downstairs to ask Mrs Lawson, their neighbour, if she would cook and clean for her mother while she was away.

‘Course I will, chuck. Do you good to have a bit of a holiday. You’ve been looking a mite peaky lately. Go and get some sunshine and fresh air. I’ll see to madam.’

‘Bless you. I’ll bring you back a stick of rock … oh no, Kendal mint cake, I suppose, from the Lakes. I really do appreciate this, and I’ll pay you, of course.’ They both knew she couldn’t afford to, but Mrs Lawson simply smiled.

‘Ooh, don’t you worry about that none. What are neighbours for if not to lend a hand when folk are a bit down?’

‘No, I insist. I have a bit put by, I’ll see you don’t lose out.’

Concerned that the summer holidays were almost upon them, Chrissie decided a booking by post would take too long and rang Rosegill Hall from the public call box at the end of the street. The housekeeper informed her that they were fully booked, but the loft over the boathouse was nearing completion, if she was prepared to take the risk that it would be ready in time. Chrissie was, and just ten days later, leaving a note for Vanessa on her dressing table, she quietly left.

The adventure had begun.

The train was late leaving Euston, constantly stopping and starting, once spending two hours sitting in a siding near Crewe in temperatures well into the seventies. And since it was July it was also packed to the doors with families going on holiday, screaming children, mothers fretting, soot and smoke and noise everywhere. The entire journey was a complete nightmare. Chrissie didn’t even feel able to eat the sandwiches she’d so carefully prepared, robbing her mother of precious eggs, mixing them with even more scarce butter, crusts neatly cut off as Vanessa insisted upon. Yet the sight of those curled triangles filled her with a strange nausea, and she gave them to an old soldier who looked half starved.

The juddering and rocking of the train made her bones ache and she leant her head against the dirty window, tears blurring her vision. When he asked if she was all right, Chrissie blamed it on the smoke and pulled on the window strap to shut out the soot-encrusted air, but still the tears trickled over her hot cheeks.

This should have been a joyous moment, the start of an exciting journey of discovery, an adventure. Perhaps it was being on a train again, with its inevitable connection to painful goodbyes, but all Chrissie could think of was Tom, and the pain of losing the man she’d truly loved. It felt as raw as if it were only yesterday and not over three years ago.

She’d stood on the platform at Paddington one bright sunny morning in May 1945, kissing him and thinking he would be demobbed in a matter of months, and they could then start to put the horrors of war behind them. Tom had been granted compassionate leave and a special licence so they could be married. They’d known each other less than a year but had felt instinctively it was love at first sight, and believed they would be together for ever. The wedding had taken place at the registry office with only her disapproving mother and a couple of witnesses present. Their honeymoon had comprised one night in a cheap hotel close to the station, but it had been utter bliss. Not for a moment did Chrissie regret that night. Her last sight of Tom was his cheery grin, arm waving, as the train curved around the bend as it left the station.

Days later, Chrissie had heard that one of the V2s had hit his billet. All her dreams and hopes had ended in that moment.

Could Peter ever replace him? Could any man? Ten years older than herself, she’d met Peter Radcliffe while attending an evening class, either the one on pottery or pressed flowers, she couldn’t quite remember. Peter was doing one on politics, or something equally dry. He’d pestered her for months before she’d finally agreed to go out with him on a date. Perhaps she’d given in out of pity, or desperation over the claustrophobic life she led. Seeking any excuse to get out of the house it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Now he was making it very clear he was anxious to regularise their relationship with marriage, and Chrissie was stubbornly refusing to agree. He’d been upset, angry even, when she’d told him she was going away for a whole month. Not only that, but she was leaving without giving him the answer he so longed to hear.

‘It’s too soon. I’m not ready,’ she’d told him for the hundredth time. ‘Although please don’t take that as any cause for hope. I really can’t see myself marrying again, not ever.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, of course you must marry. You’re far too young to spend your entire life alone. But this sudden decision to go off on holiday is so very selfish, not at all like you, Chrissie. What am I supposed to do while you’re gone, twiddle my thumbs? And what about your poor mother? Deserting her in this way, leaving her in the care of a total stranger, is callous in the extreme.’

‘Mrs Lawson is a kind neighbour who is glad to be useful because she’s rather lonely herself, and I’m not being in the least callous. I wanted Mum to come too, but she refused.’

‘I’m not surprised. The journey alone will be horrendous, and no doubt cold and wet in those northern climes.’ As if they were going to the Arctic.

Chrissie had said no more. She certainly had no wish to mention the real reason for the trip. For one thing it was none of his business, but also she did feel a certain guilt over having kept Peter dangling for so long, and promised faithfully to consider his offer and give him a final answer just as soon as she possibly could. She knew that he too had suffered in the war, like many others coming back a changed man, although, unlike Tom, he had at least survived. Did he even love her? Or did he simply see her as good wife material, a useful helpmeet and prop to help him put the agonies of war behind him?

The train thundered through a tunnel and, pushing these thoughts from her mind, Chrissie decided there would be time enough later to make such decisions. First she needed a proper rest, and to bring about a family reunion.

After a while they left the hustle and bustle behind, and the countryside grew greener, the pale hint of mountains in the distance. Chrissie felt again that stir of excitement she’d long ago experienced when coming to the Lakes as a child for the summer, before the war changed everything.

Mother would close up the house in Chelsea, presumably leaving her father to cope alone throughout August. The move always demanded a great deal of fuss and bother, one minute Vanessa saying they needed very little in the way of luggage as everything was already there for them, and the next declaring she really couldn’t go without her new silk frock, or that delicious pair of shoes.

She could afford to be extravagant in those days.

Nanny, of course, had been much more practical, studying railway timetables and supervising the packing of a hamper large enough for them to survive for a month, let alone the few hours it would take them to reach Windermere. And with the promise of four weeks of idyllic fun on the lake, Chrissie would excitedly collect together favourite books and teddies, plimsolls and shorts, wellington boots and waterproofs, for it often rained, even in August.

Chrissie couldn’t help wondering what else she might remember, once she reached her grandmother’s house.

She lost count of the number of changes as they headed north. Now it was quite late in the evening, almost dark, and raining, as the train drew into Lakeside station. Calling Peter was not high on her list of priorities. He could wait until she was in the right frame of mind for what would undoubtedly be a severe grilling, but Chrissie decided she couldn’t avoid her mother, or the issue of her hasty departure, a moment longer, and made use of the public telephone on the railway platform while she waited for the bus.

Vanessa’s tone was icy as Chrissie brightly offered reassurance of an easy journey. Pure fiction to stop her mother from worrying. ‘When did we stop coming to the Lakes?’ she went on to ask. ‘It’s not quite true, is it, that Grandmother cut you off completely after your marriage? I was right, I do remember coming here as a child, travelling in the train, messing about in boats, enjoying picnics by the lake. How old would I have been? Four? Five?’

‘That must be your vivid imagination, darling. It can’t have been more than two or three occasions. You certainly shouldn’t be there now. I thought we’d agreed—’

‘So why did the visits stop?’ Chrissie interrupted, not wishing the argument to start up again.

‘I really can’t remember. Chrissie, it was very naughty of you to sneak off like that.’

‘I didn’t sneak. I’d made it perfectly clear what I intended to do, you just didn’t agree, that’s all.’

‘I forbade you to go.’

Chrissie almost laughed, but managed not to as that would have been cruel. ‘I doubt you can do that anymore, Mum. I’m a big girl now. Twenty-one, remember? Nearly twenty-two.’ Free and single, and intending to stay that way. Stubbornly she returned to her original question. ‘Was it because of the war that the visits ended?’

‘What? No, it was long before then,’ Vanessa snapped. ‘Look, I don’t remember. I expect Ma was being even more difficult than usual. Not that she ever made things easy for me, which is why …’

Chrissie gave a little chuckle. ‘I don’t expect she’ll make things easy for me either, judging by how you describe her.’

‘What name did you use?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘When you booked in, what name did you use? Did you use your maiden name?’

‘Of course not. I used my married one, as always.’

‘And not your first name, Susan?’

‘No, what is this? Why do you ask?’

‘I want you to promise me that you’ll remain incognito. Get to know your grandmother a little, if you must, but don’t ask too many questions and don’t tell her who you are. She hasn’t set eyes on you since you were five years old, so there’s no reason why she would recognise you. And she has no idea you started using your second name. Do that for me, at least.’

‘Mum, that’s ridiculous. It’s underhand, a lie.’

‘Not a lie exactly. I know what a lie is, I’ve heard enough of them in my time.’ There was a humph of disgust down the line, and her mother launched into the familiar lament that her entire life had been blighted by lies and deceit, and now from her own daughter of all people. Chrissie was saved from answering this charge by the blast of a horn. ‘Sorry, the bus is here, I have to go. I’ll ring later in the week, once I’ve settled in.’

‘Promise you won’t let on who you are,’ Vanessa insisted.

‘All right, cross my heart, not a word.’

It was a promise Chrissie would soon come to regret.

The moment Vanessa put down the phone, she picked it up again and dialled a number. ‘Would you believe she went anyway?’

‘Damnation, you said you could stop her. Have you no control over the girl?’

‘About as much as you have.’

‘We must do something.’

‘Any ideas?’

‘You’re going to have to tell her.’

Vanessa jerked as if stung. ‘Absolutely not. That’s not a solution I could ever contemplate.’

There was a small silence, as they each reflected on the difficulties of their situation. The person on the other end of the line let out a heavy sigh. ‘What alternative do we have?’

‘There must be something you can do. You owe it to me.’

‘She won’t listen to me. Anyway, she knows nothing about you and me, about us.’

‘So what am I supposed to do? I’m at the end of my tether here.’

‘We’re going to have to think about this problem a bit more. We can at least agree that Chrissie must be protected.’

‘Yes, we can at least agree on that.’

‘And what if she gets to the bottom of this mystery and discovers the truth?’

‘Dear God, I do hope not.’

She’d half hoped to experience a blaze of recognition when she reached the hall, instead Chrissie felt a keen sense of disappointment, as she had no recollection of ever having seen it before. Nothing looked familiar, not the wide sash windows, nor the white-painted storm porch, but she could hear the slap of water against an unseen shore, a sound that kindled a warm sense of anticipation within. Perhaps a five year old would be more interested in the lake than the house, and it was too dark to see properly. She hoped something might nudge her memory in the full light of day.

Despite her eagerness to meet her grandmother and a curiosity to know what sort of person she might be, Chrissie felt oddly nervous as she arrived at the Hall. But there was no sign of her then, or the following morning when the housekeeper showed Chrissie round. The stalwart Mrs Gorran seemed to be very much the person in charge where keys, collecting ration books, and issuing rules and regulations were concerned.

‘The Hall was used as a hospital for the wounded during the war, and you wouldn’t believe the mess they left it in,’ she tartly informed Chrissie, pointedly currying murmurs of sympathy and approval. ‘We’re only just getting it shipshape and in working order again.’

There followed a bewildering list of instructions, starting with breakfast being served at 8.30 on the dot; when the water was most likely to be hot enough for a bath due to the idiosyncrasies of the boiler; how to operate the ballcock in the lavatory if it refused to flush; where the fuse box was, should it become necessary to change a fuse; and where the candles were stored in case of a power cut. The rule which amused Chrissie the most was the one about ‘no gentlemen callers’. It sounded rather like something out of a Victorian novel.

The seventeenth-century house, so far as Chrissie could see, had a faded grandeur about it, but was homely and clearly well loved, smelling of furniture polish and the lingering aroma of bacon and eggs. It boasted five double bedrooms for guests, all of them fully occupied since it was July.

‘Mrs Cowper doesn’t take families, as she does not consider the Hall suitable for children,’ Mrs Gorran informed her. ‘Too many steps, both in the house and the garden.’ Chrissie wondered if it would be more accurate to say that Mrs Cowper didn’t like children, particularly her own.

Behind the house were two tiny cottages which were self-catering, plus the loft above the boathouse which boasted a small but adequate bedroom and private bathroom, which suited Chrissie perfectly. She liked the idea of being slightly detached from the house, in her own private domain as it were, and felt a contented sort of anticipation about the weeks ahead. Perhaps she would find the fresh start she so craved as well as the solution to a family puzzle. Unless her alleged witch of a grandmother banished her too, simply for being the child of the devil who had married her mother.

Chapter Three

She was walking just above the waterline, the light summer breeze moulding her pale lemon frock to a slim figure and long slender legs. On her head was a straw hat which she kept clutching with one hand to stop it blowing away. She looked, Ben thought, like a piece of sunshine fallen from the sky. He watched, riveted, as she picked her way along the shingled shoreline that skirted the lake, sometimes lifting her skirt a little to jump over rocks, pausing to watch a tufted duck make its way through the reeds, or to pick yellow loosestrife and pale-lilac water lobelia before walking on.

Bowness-on-Windermere was one of those small Lakeland towns that clung to the rim of a lake that stretched for ten miles from Newby Bridge to Ambleside, its huddle of stone cottages seeming to lean against each other as if for support against the fickle winds that rattled up this valley. Here and there, amongst the lush woodlands, were scattered large Edwardian villas, often housing those who had made their fortunes in the industrial towns of the North and retired to Lakeland to enjoy the fruits of their labours.

The lake itself was always a hive of activity, bristling with masts, a couple of public steamers filled with holidaymakers, and a ferry that chugged back and forth taking cars and walkers from one shore to the other, providing a short cut to Far Sawrey, Esthwaite Water and Hawkshead. It was the kind of town where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Ben could happily waste an hour watching young men struggling to row a hire boat as they showed off to their sweetheart, or listen unashamedly to family squabbles as sails were unfurled and small boats made ready to put out on to the water. There was always something interesting to watch. Now he’d found the most fascinating of all.

The screwdriver hung slack in his hand, the door hinge he was supposedly fixing quite forgotten.

‘Pretty, isn’t she?’

He glanced up, shamefaced, as his mother handed him a mug of tea. She was wearing her usual floral print smock, two sizes too big for her diminutive figure, her impish face beaming with mischief.

‘I was only looking.’ For a man who had enjoyed nothing but misfortune with the women in his life he was mad to even do that, but the girl was utterly irresistible. She was climbing the far steps up to the steamer pier now, looking so fresh and appealing he couldn’t prevent a small sigh escaping. ‘I don’t suppose you know who she is?’

‘She’s the new tenant. Moved in yesterday afternoon, quite late. Taken the loft over the boathouse for a month.’

‘A month?’ Ben felt ridiculously pleased by this bit of news, then filled with guilt at the stir of anticipation he experienced deep in his gut. Don’t even think about it, he sternly warned himself. Wasn’t he already bruised and battered following his recent divorce?

His mother set down a large slice of her finest fruit cake on the wall beside him. ‘Aye, a whole month. Longer than visitors normally stay.’ There was a short silence while she considered this, then returning her attention to her son casually enquired, ‘How long will Karen be away visiting that mother of hers?’

‘I’d prefer you not to speak of Sally in that tone. She may no longer be my wife, but she’s still the mother of my child.’

Hetty Gorran was no fool and knew her son inside out, better than he knew himself at times. Far too easy-going for his own good, which was how he came to get himself married in the first place. Thank heaven he’d finally seen the light. That flighty little madam was never any good for her boy. Hadn’t she said as much to him at the time? Not that he ever listened to a mother’s wisdom. Stubborn to a fault he was, and would stick to his point of view if only to prove he had the right to it, not unlike her employer who owned these holiday cottages.

‘So you’ve had another falling out, eh?’ she slyly remarked as she sipped her tea.

‘Does everyone in this town know my private business?’

‘If you will conduct it at top volume on a telephone in a public place … Anyroad, we Lakelanders like to pride ourselves on caring about our family and friends.’

‘Lot of old gossips, more like.’ Ben sighed, remembering how it should have been a quick call over train times for Karen’s visit, but had found himself embroiled in a row over his ex-wife’s demands that she have sole custody of their child, supported by half the profits from his joinery business. No wonder he’d lost his temper. He’d no intention of losing Karen, nor being left near-bankrupt. Not wishing to relate any of this to his interfering mother, he diligently reapplied his attention to the door hinge.

Hetty Gorran, however, was not one to let things go, once she’d set her mind to something. ‘Wanting another chance, is she?’

‘Something of the sort.’

‘Is this her idea, or Karen’s?’

Ben took a gulp of tea, then picked up the screwdriver again. ‘What do you think?’

Hetty allowed her gaze to drift back to the girl in yellow. ‘The lass will be gone some weeks, then?’

‘For most of July, but you can never be too certain with our Sally.’

‘Long enough, lad.’

Following the direction of her gaze, he quickly responded. ‘Don’t start your matchmaking, Mother. You’re getting as bad as Mrs Cowper, thinking you can organise a person’s life for them.’

Hetty Gorran adopted a wounded air of innocence. ‘What, me? Never! But since that good lady has driven half her family away, maybe I’d best take care.’

‘Aye, maybe you had.’ Ben was smiling now, but as his mother hurried back to her kitchen his gaze searched again for that small portion of sunshine.

The sun was slipping low over the mountains, turning the lake to a molten gold as Chrissie let herself into the loft. She knocked the dust from her sandals, tossed her straw hat on to the sofa and moved instantly to the window to look out again upon the shoreline. Chrissie had been in Windermere for less than twenty-four hours and already knew that she wished to stay for ever. She was in love – with the town, with the woods that clustered the shores of the lake, the circle of brooding mountains, the air that was as pure and sweet as wine, with the whole magic that was Lakeland. How tempting it would be to create a new life for herself here. Was this the place she could follow her dream and open a bookshop, build a new future for herself? Did she even possess the confidence to try?

This journey was mainly about discovering her roots, about finding answers to the mysterious family quarrel that had blighted her mother’s life. If she succeeded, then perhaps Vanessa too could finally put the past behind her and come home. It could be a new beginning for them both.

Chrissie began to set out her ‘treasures’ on the window sill: a pine cone, pebbles and pieces of slate of every hue and colour that had shimmered like jewels beneath the water. She arranged the buttercups and pink campion she’d picked into a jug and filled it with water. Later she would press them, perhaps stick them on to cards. Maybe she could sell them in this bookshop she might one day own. She smiled at this fanciful notion, not really believing it could ever happen as her mother would never agree to come back here. And Chrissie couldn’t leave her alone in London. It was all a fanciful dream, nothing more.

Was it also a dream that she’d visited the Lakes before, years ago when she was small? Walking along the shore she’d had a sudden image of herself as a small child before the war paddling in the shallows, skirt tucked up her knicker legs, the air filled with sunshine and laughter. Is that why she loved the place so instinctively? Where had all that innocence, that happiness, gone? When and why had those long-ago Lakeland holidays stopped? Who was the shadowy figure she imagined walking with her by the lake, protectively holding her hand? Was that her grandmother? Chrissie’s recollection, if that’s what it was, of this supposedly crabby old woman was decidedly hazy, clouded by her mother’s bitter descriptions.

But what would she be like in the flesh? Not for a moment did Chrissie expect it to be easy to bring about this reunion. Would Georgina Cowper live up to the horror stories she’d heard about her? Why had mother and daughter not spoken, not even seen each other, for most of Chrissie’s own lifetime? Vanessa’s father had apparently died in 1924 as a result of being gassed in the First World War. Maybe things would have been different had he lived. As a young girl Chrissie had envied her friends their fathers and grandparents, their normal family life. How badly she had longed for one of her own. But would she even like the woman when finally she got to meet her, let alone feel the love and respect she should?

Chrissie rested her chin on her hand and mused on the mysteries of life.

‘That girl, the new guest in the loft, where did she come from?’

Mrs Gorran frowned as, later that morning, she set a plate of sandwiches on the table before her employer. ‘London, I think.’

‘What I mean is, how did she find us? How did she make contact, by letter or telephone?’

‘She rang up a week or two back, said she was desperate to get away for a break and liked the sound of our advert. That was the one you put in the Westmorland Gazette, wasn’t it, Sam?’

‘Could’ve been,’ her husband mumbled through a mouthful of ham.

‘What treasures you both are,’ Georgia remarked with feeling. ‘I really don’t know how I would go on without you. But that girl looks so familiar. Has she ever been here before?’

‘Not that I know of.’ Mrs Gorran took a large bite out of a cheese-and-pickle sandwich. The three of them always took lunch together in the kitchen these days, Mrs Cowper not being the stand-offish sort. But then they’d known each other a long time, Hetty having been housekeeper at Rosegill Hall for almost forty years, ever since the twins were born in 1912. She’d been fourteen then, and this her first job as under-nursemaid. Sam too had been just a lad, a humble apprentice gardener learning his craft. Now he was the only one, also doubling as handyman-cum-chauffeur.

Apart from a cleaner coming in twice a week, three times in the summer when they were busy, that was the extent of the staff these days. Hetty could remember when there used to be a cook, butler, several housemaids, parlour maids, skivvies and a whole regiment of gardeners back in those glorious days before the Great War, let alone this last one. All gone now.

‘When do you reckon Mrs Cowper herself came here?’ Hetty asked Sam as she washed up the few cups and plates after lunch while he sat on at the table, sharpening his shears. ‘She talks so rarely about the old days, and never gives those sort of details. Was it sometime around 1910?’

‘Mebbe earlier, I reckon.’

‘When exactly?’

‘I dunno, do I?’

‘How did they meet, those two? Did you ever hear?’

Sam shook his head. ‘Mr Cowper never did say, kept things very close to his chest, he did.’

Hetty sighed. ‘They didn’t spoil a pair in that respect. I heard it was in America. Do you reckon that might be true?’

Sam looked up, his old face creased into deep frowns, as he contemplated this notion. ‘Old Mr Cowper did go a-venturing to sea, I do believe, when he was young. I mind once telling him how, as a boy, I used to catch eels, not that I ever fancied eating them. Then later we lads promoted ourselves to char, pike and perch, and they were real tasty. Said he loved fishing too, that he used to do a bit himself off Fisherman’s Wharf when he lived in San Francisco.’

‘There you are, then.’ Hetty wrung out the dishcloth and draped it over the tap to dry. ‘Mrs Cowper must be American, don’t you reckon, with a name like Georgia? Although she doesn’t sound it, does she? Course, she’s lived here a long time, so the accent will have softened. Was that where they met, I wonder, in America?’

‘You ask too many questions, girl. That’s their business, not ours.’

‘I dare say you’re right,’ she admitted, reaching for a towel to wipe her hands. ‘And how many times have I told you not to clean your tools in my kitchen? The knife-sharpener chap will be here next week, wait for him.’

‘I need it sharp today, woman. As sharp as your tongue,’ Sam said with a grin, then popping a kiss on his wife’s cheek, sauntered off, leaving her flushed and smiling.

At a little after five the following afternoon Chrissie was enjoying a quiet cup of tea seated on her little balcony, contentedly watching a few sailors venture out on to the water. A slight mist hung over the lake, shafts of sunlight giving it a golden hue. How lovely it was here, positively idyllic. She couldn’t remember feeling this happy for an age, save for the nudge of guilt at the back of her head over abandoning both her mother and Peter. Chrissie did wonder what sort of reception she would get when she finally returned home, a worry she tried to ignore. She’d rung Mrs Lawson who said Vanessa was fine, if a little grumpy. Since that was par for the course these days, Chrissie resolved to put the problem from her mind, for now. There were more pressing matters to be dealt with, like meeting her grandmother, for instance.

Finishing her tea, she decided to explore the beautiful gardens and woodland that rose in terraces above the old house. Climbing a short rise of limestone steps she came upon a wide lawned area and suddenly there she was, deadheading the roses.

Despite having no memory of her, Chrissie knew instinctively that this was she. There was something about the tall stately figure that reminded her so much of Vanessa. Save for the clothes. Chrissie had never seen her own mother look anything other than beautiful and stylish, always decked out in the very latest fashion, even when she was playing the invalid. But there was none of her mother’s elegance here.

This woman wore a tweed skirt that had seen better days, a droopy navy-blue sweater with holes in the elbows, topped by a green quilted waistcoat, its pockets stuffed with a pair of secateurs and ball of baling twine. She could see little of her face or hair beneath a large, ramshackle straw hat, but could hear her humming softly to herself. A Vera Lynn number perhaps, or something from Gilbert and Sullivan? More likely Carmen.

Chrissie instantly suffered from an attack of nerves. What should she say? Hello, I’m your long-lost granddaughter, the one you’ve never even been interested in seeing. No, that wouldn’t do. Far too abrupt and confrontational. Perhaps her mother had been right to insist she not reveal her true identity, as she’d no wish to give the old dear a heart attack.

Taking a breath, Chrissie stepped briskly forward. ‘What a wonderful view of the lake you have from here,’ she said, sticking out a hand. ‘Good morning, I’m so pleased to meet you. You must be Mrs Cowper?’

The eyes that turned upon her were steel grey and took her measure slowly through narrowed slitted lids. No effort was made to take the proffered hand and at length Chrissie dropped it, a flush of embarrassment touching her cheeks. Perhaps she’d got it all wrong and this was just the gardener, after all. She cleared her throat. ‘I’m your new guest, Chrissie Emerson. Sorry if I’m being a bit presumptuous and pushy. Tend to act first and think later. Ever a fault of mine.’