A Christmas Promise (13 page)
Read A Christmas Promise Online
Authors: Annie Groves
‘Not half as upset as she will be when I tell her I suspected her of …’
‘Of what, Archie?’ Agnes asked. Surely he didn’t think Olive would stoop so low as to succumb to black market merchandise?
‘Don’t fret about it, Agnes. I will make things right with Olive.’ Archie’s face was flaming now. ‘It was what Dulcie said, in that knowing way she has …’ Archie looked very shame-faced indeed ‘… and tapping her nose like she was in the know … Oh, Agnes, I’ve been so stupid.’
‘I’m sure Olive will understand when you explain,’ Agnes said, knowing Archie was going to have a lot of explaining to do when he got back.
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come into the farm with you?’ Archie asked as he stopped the police car near a five-bar wooden gate a short distance from the farmhouse.
‘No, thanks, Archie, I’ll be fine here.’ Agnes smiled, her stomach jumping like a box of frogs. ‘I have to stand on my own two feet sometime.’ Her nerves were singing now and she wanted to get into the farmhouse and start her new life. Working on the land was just as important as working on the railway, she thought. They were all part of Britain’s fight for victory.
‘Well, you know where we are if you need us.’ Archie looked a little uncomfortable now. ‘Don’t hesitate to get in touch. You’ve got the telephone number of the police station – I can always pass a message to Olive for you,’ Archie said in a kind, gentle voice that brought a lump to Agnes’s throat and almost made her tell him to take her back to London. But Agnes only nodded as he leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek in the fatherly manner she had never known before.
‘Thank you, Archie. I will be in touch …’ Agnes could say no more as she pushed down the handle and opened the car door, gently refusing his offer to carry her suitcase to the farmhouse. She was still waving as the black police car rumbled down the lane and out of sight.
Looking around the wide expanse of fields that met a calm cerulean sky, echoing to the sound of chirping birds, Agnes soaked up in the breathtaking woody scent of golden, autumnal leaves that carpeted the winding country lane, knowing the determination that had fired her up in London had now dissolved into nothing.
What was she doing here? She had thought long and hard about coming here since Ted died, but she realised that she was alone, totally on her own now.
Standing in the middle of the lane wide enough to allow only one vehicle to pass through, Agnes clenched both hands around the handle of the cardboard suitcase and held it in front of her as if shielding herself from the uncertainty to come. Looking about her now at the vast spread of winter vegetable crops, she imagined her return might be sooner rather than later.
She wondered how long it would be before Sergeant Dawson came back this way. Last time he brought her out here, the day she met her father, he had been gone about two hours. She wasn’t sure if that was to give her time to get to know her father or because the village policemen, Sergeant Hannigan, and his wife made him so welcome; eager to know everything they could glean about the day-to-day living in the huge metropolis of London, according to Archie.
‘Are you lost?’
Agnes felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She didn’t dare turn round, knowing the deep, male voice was not English. If she was not mistaken it was most certainly Italian!
‘Excuse me, are you lost?’ The voice was inquisitive, not demanding or hysterical like the foreign accents she had heard on the wireless and on the Pathé News at the pictures. Slowly turning, Agnes expected to see an army of guns pointed in her direction – she had heard the rumours about foreign spies and soldiers hiding out in remote farms and attacking unsuspecting, defenceless women in country lanes. She imagined the stories were wildly untrue – but now she wasn’t so sure.
Her imagination ran amok until she saw, dressed in the dark brown corduroy trousers of a country workman, a solitary unarmed man. On the back of his dark, muddied jacket, which was slung over his arm, she caught sight of the orange circle that told her he was a prisoner of war.
‘Don’t be afraid. I will not hurt you.’
There was something so apologetically convincing in his voice that Agnes could not help but believe him, but she said nothing. At any other time, she might have found him handsome, and her common sense told her that if he was planning to take her prisoner now he would do it with a revolver and not the broom he was now carrying.
‘Are you looking for somebody in particular?’ His deep voice was almost musical as, wiping his mud-covered hand on this trousers, he held it out to her. ‘My name is Carlo. Please don’t be alarmed … I am … how you say … working here on the farm.’ His impeccable enunciation of the English language impressed Agnes, who was sure that many Englishmen in a foreign country would not have a clue about the native language.
‘Get back in the field, Eyetie!’ An aggressive, male voice split the quietude of the countryside and Agnes turned quickly to see a man a little older than herself hobbling towards the farm gate, a terrier at his heels. He was supported by a pair of crutches as his right foot was heavily bandaged. ‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage!’ It was an accusation, not a question, Agnes realised, watching the malicious distortion of his face. His eyes narrowed as he glared at her. ‘And you are … ?’ He asked Agnes, whose hand was on the wide wooden gate she had been about to open when his unexpected question stalled her.
‘My name is Agnes and—’
She didn’t get the chance to finish speaking when he interrupted in a low menacing voice. ‘You don’t look strong enough to pull strawberries, never mind work a plough.’
‘I haven’t come here to work a plough or pull strawberries.’ She felt aggrieved at the way this man had spoken to the Italian worker, and it enabled her to overcome her natural reserve. Her small chin jutted forward defiantly. ‘Then why are you trespassing on our land?’ The man surged forward from the dry, mud-covered pathway and slammed the gate shut, cutting off any access and leaving Agnes standing in the lane. ‘If you’re from the War Ag, you can buzz off!’ He waved his hand about as if swatting a fly and Agnes felt she was being dismissed. Turning away, he moved from the gate, but then stopped and added, ‘We’ve filled in the forms, crossed the Ts, dotted the Is – now just leave us be to get on with it … Ruddy pen-pushers!’ With that he leaned heavily on the crutches and swung himself back round. With the flick of his head he summoned the terrier, who had gone sniffing in the hedgerow. ‘Come ’ere, boy.’ The man was almost pleasant when he spoke to the dog, Agnes noticed. Wondering why he couldn’t be like that with humans, she drew herself up to her full height. She wasn’t going to let this obnoxious man see any sign of weakness.
‘I have come to see Darnley,’ she said in low, measured tones as he turned his back to her. Pen-pusher indeed! She had rescued people from underground shelters after bomb blasts. She had seen carnage and destruction first-hand – and she had nursed one of Olive’s egg-bound chickens! How dare this hobbling pip-squeak treat her in such a way!
He turned again slowly and said high-handedly, ‘It’s
Mr
Darnley to you.’ His equally measured tones matched Agnes’s and she made up her mind that a guard dog would be a waste of good meat with this oaf around. She had come a long way since her days in the orphanage and, in a heartbeat, she realised that those days were well behind her now. She had come to claim her inheritance, to take what was rightfully hers, but she was going to have some fun with this overbearing man who, by the arrogant look on his face, thought she was beneath him.
‘
Mr
Darnley it is then, if you would be so kind.’ She hadn’t realised that Darnley was the
surname
of her father’s old retainer; she had assumed it was his Christian name, but no matter, he was going to be in for a surprise for sure.
A warm glow of colour rose to her face under the scrutiny of the upstart on the other side of the gate and Agnes knew sparks were going to fly, but she had to keep her nerve. This man didn’t look as if he was going to accept a woman in charge. However, she would start as she meant to go on, and she wasn’t going to show anyone how terrified she actually was. A new Agnes had emerged; one that had no masters.
‘Tell him Miss Agnes Weybridge is here to see him … please.’ The ‘please’ was an afterthought to show she did have better manners than the man balancing on the crutches.
‘Agnes
Weybridge
?’ He looked dubious.
Agnes, feeling braver now, smiled and said, ‘Yes, that’s right.’
She waited as her latest piece of information sank in before he said, ‘I don’t believe you.’ He looked Agnes up and down as if searching for a clue.
‘And I don’t care what you believe,’ Agnes answered with more conviction than she actually felt.
Drew made his way to Southampton dockyard by cab. He could see now that there was no point in hanging around London hoping that he and Tilly could be reunited. He had been a jerk for not letting her know what had happened to him when he’d gotten back to the States. He should have gotten word to her that he couldn’t make it back to London – but then when he did get to London he had sworn everybody to secrecy until he was able to walk again.
He was wrong to presume she would still be sitting at home pining for him. The wolves would have been circling before he even left, he knew that now. His mind flashed back to the scene where Rick, with his hand on the small of Tilly’s back, escorted her to the taxi-cab before getting in beside her. Drew could feel his heart thumping in his chest and he couldn’t concentrate on anything around him. As he looked out of the misty, rain-lashed window his mind was in sun-drenched Hyde Park with Tilly’s head on his lap, secure in the knowledge that she was his girl and always would be … What an arrogant son-of-a—
‘Here you go, guv!’ the cab driver called over his shoulder. ‘Where would you like me to drop you?’
‘This is fine, thank you.’ Drew blinked and realised that he didn’t recall one thing about this journey except that he was miserable as hell. He paid, giving the flat-capped driver a tip that made his eyes widen, and, picking up his suitcase, made his way to the dockyard.
‘Are they asleep?’ Olive asked as Dulcie pulled the expensive, coach-built pram up the step and into the hall. Dulcie would never leave the children on the step like mothers were encouraged to do so the babies could enjoy the afternoon air.
‘Only just,’ answered Dulcie, sighing, and Olive marvelled at the way she still looked so glamorous with two babies to look after, although, Olive mused, having someone to look after them while she got ready must be a big help. ‘Anthony’s teething now, and Hope is coming out in sympathy with him – every time he cries she thinks she has to join in.’
‘They are so close,’ Olive whispered, and, smiling, she looked into the twin pram at the sleeping babies, ‘just like brother and sister.’
‘And that’s another thing …’ Dulcie said, leading the way to the kitchen while Olive quietly closed the front door leaving the babies to sleep in peace in the hallway. ‘I said to our Edith, this child thinks I’m his mother – not that I mind because I don’t; I love having Anthony and so does David – but we have to know where we stand … And not only that, what about the boy? He won’t know if he’s coming or going if our Edith just ups and takes him without a by—’
‘Well, she certainly has no right to expect—’
‘You’re so right, Olive!’ Dulcie said, nodding, leaving Olive wondering what she was right about as her former lodger didn’t give her a chance to finish before she hurried out to the garden to let Alice show her the chickens. Olive, dizzy with Dulcie’s energy, was relieved when Sally came into the kitchen carrying a few letters.
‘The postwoman gave me these,’ she said. ‘It looks like you have one from Tilly.’ Sally smiled, holding on to a blue envelope, which Olive presumed was from Callum. He and Sally had been writing regularly since he left hospital, and now he had gone back to his base in Portsmouth the letters were delivered most days. ‘And there’s this one too.’ Sally looked grave. ‘It has an American address on the back – Drew?’
‘I’ll leave it on the mantelpiece,’ Olive said, putting it behind the clock. ‘I’ll send it on through the Forces’ Post Office.’ The weight of guilt still lay heavily upon her shoulders. Then she said quietly to Sally, ‘Or maybe I’ll save it for when she gets home.’ Olive didn’t want to stir any dormant feelings in Tilly that may still be hung over from her courting days with Drew. When she was home on leave three months ago for her birthday, her daughter seemed very happy courting Rick. They evidently enjoyed each other’s company, although, Olive was surprised Tilly hadn’t mentioned him in letters since then. Although, she reasoned, they were both based in different places, Tilly in Whitehall, where she was working all hours, and Rick in Italy with the Eighth Army, so it was possible they didn’t get to communicate very often. Not only that, but her daughter, going by the letters she sent to her mother, was a lot more independent than Olive had been at that age. Tilly had no child to consider and, as long as she stayed safe, the world was hers to discover. However, that wasn’t the only thing playing on Olive’s mind right now; she knew that a letter from her one-time American sweetheart could cause Tilly all kinds of complications. Thinking about that, Olive decided she wouldn’t send the letter to Tilly. Instead, she would put it in her bag with last year’s Christmas card for safekeeping and give it to her daughter when she came home on Christmas leave –
if
she came home on Christmas leave …
‘Don’t you think it would be wise to let Tilly make up her own mind, Olive?’ Sally was not too sure her landlady should still be treating her daughter like a helpless schoolgirl who needed protecting from her own finer feelings.
‘If it’s in my bag I can’t forget to give it to her.’ Olive gave Sally a tight smile and silently willed her lodger to keep out of her business – although she would never say so. Sally was a very good friend as well as a level-headed nurse who was not given to flights of fancy, but sometimes, Olive thought, it would be nice if people allowed her to sort out her own affairs – without interference.
In a bid to change the subject, Olive asked Sally, ‘How is Callum coming along?’
‘He’s definitely got a soft spot for you, Sally. You can see it in his eyes when he looks at you,’ Dulcie said, back in the kitchen. She loved coming to Olive’s house on Saturday afternoons after browsing around Petticoat Lane market. It didn’t matter if her husband did have plenty of money, she wasn’t going to give up her Saturday morning rummage and then coming here to catch up on the week’s gossip – there was always something going on at number 13. Sally’s face was a tinge pinker after Dulcie’s observation. Always a girl to say what she thought, Dulcie didn’t hold back, but Sally chose to ignore the remark.
‘He’s in wonderful shape now after they gave him that penicillin,’ Sally answered, pouring tea. ‘He’s shore-based in Portsmouth until the doctor says he can go back on board.’
‘That’s nice for him,’ Dulcie said. ‘What’s penicillin, then?’
‘It’s a fungus and it has miraculous effects on infection. You wouldn’t believe the thousands of servicemen who have been saved because of it – and if the boffins can manage to make enough of it then it could go to the general public.’
‘Blimey,’ said Dulcie, her eyes wide, ‘if it had been around when David was injured he might still have his legs.’
‘That is a possibility, Dulcie. It’s being hailed as a miracle cure-all – and we are seeing the results within days of it being administered.’ Sally put her hand to her mouth and tried to suppress a yawn but it didn’t work.
‘I must say, though, Sal,’ Dulcie sounded concerned, ‘your eyes look like buttonholes. You look dead on your feet.’
‘If you don’t mind I’ll just take this tea upstairs,’ Sally said, her voice groggy after a busy night and even busier morning after a bomb went off on the debris of a bomb site where, nearby, munitions workers were playing football on the makeshift pitch. But sleep wasn’t the only thing on her mind right now: there was Callum’s letter, of course.
‘You go up, love – what time shall I call you?’
‘I’m not on duty tonight, Olive, so I may sleep the clock around.’ Sally made a good stab at being upbeat. ‘If I look miserable it’s because I just haven’t got the strength to put an expression on my face …’ She laughed, and moments later she was gone.
As her dry, gritty eyes tried to focus on the words that Callum had written, Sally could feel her eyelids growing heavy and she decided to close them, for just one moment so she could clear them and see the beautifully written words more clearly …
Olive settled herself down for the evening after putting Alice to bed. Sally was fast asleep and Barney was up in the room Olive now thought of as his own so, as she’d got a new accumulator for the wireless, she was looking forward to listening to Tommy Handley. But before then, she had time to wash her hair with that new shampoo Dulcie had brought this afternoon. She needed something to cheer herself up and take her mind off the gnawing guilt that was snarling her insides. The leaden feeling was even encroaching on her sleep of late: her worry that Tilly might have been happier with Drew. Not only that, her only daughter may even have stayed at St Barts, working in the Lady Almoner’s office. Olive sighed, thinking Tilly might have been promoted to Lady Almoner herself. Who knew what could happen in these strange times when promotions were given out all the time, and Tilly certainly had the brains to go far.
But it was no use worrying about what might have been. If she was taking that route she might have wondered why Archie hadn’t been calling as often for his late night cocoa and their usual catch-up on anything and everything. There was no use worrying about what didn’t happen, though, Olive mused, as she went to the kitchen and took from the cupboard the small bottle of shampoo that Dulcie had brought this afternoon.
Olive marvelled at Dulcie’s ability to be able to purchase a whole bottle of shampoo. Usually, Olive washed her hair with green soap, which had no perfume. Olive smiled as she opened the bottle and inhaled the floral fragrance of the shampoo. This was the real stuff and not some make-do concoction that had been mixed in secret and sold for five times the normal price.
She poured hot water from the boiling kettle into an enamel bowl and topped it up with cold water from the tap, then took the galvanised jug from the cupboard. Humming a song from the Deanna Durbin film she had seen earlier in the week, she decided that she would be daring, go the whole hog and have a facial, too.
Dulcie had told her this afternoon that women were expected to keep themselves nice.
‘It’s our duty, Olive – I read it in
Woman’s Own
– we have a duty to our country to keep up the morale of our menfolk … And did you know hairdressing is a reserved occupation? That’s to keep the spirits of the women up while the men get on with it,’ Dulcie had said, and, remembering, Olive smiled again. Not a vain woman, she still liked to keep herself neat and tidy. She recalled Dulcie saying that the white of an egg, smeared onto the face and allowed to dry, pulled out any little lines that may be creeping in around the mouth or forehead.
At the time, Olive had said if there were any eggs going spare, they would be given to the neighbours. However, she had been in the doldrums since Tilly had gone back after her birthday nearly three months ago … And she was desperately in need of something to cheer her up since Archie had stopped calling in … What harm could it do? She would give up her own boiled egg for tomorrow’s breakfast …
After shampooing her hair and wrapping it turban-style in a towel, Olive proceeded to crack an egg and poured the white gloopy insides into a small basin, keeping the yellow in a handy cup and covering it with a saucer; she would use the yolk in a pancake tomorrow. However, knowing the egg would be put to good use didn’t prevent the little voice inside her head telling her that wasting good food caused the deaths of many sailors.
‘I will go without an egg for a week,’ Olive said, knowing most people were rationed to one egg a week anyway. ‘Surely I can do as I please with my ration?’ she told her reflection in the mirror that hung over the mantelpiece. But as she smeared the egg white onto her skin, Olive knew the joy had been taken from the beauty treatment and she felt a little foolish. She decided against the oatmeal and honey face mask that would make her complexion glow – she only had to remember how she had wasted an egg to bring a blush to her cheeks.
And what in heaven’s name made her think she could ever look as desirable and modern as Dulcie? She had the money and the high-flying husband to help her. Annoyed with herself, Olive took strands of hair and brutally twisted them around her index finger before flattening the pin curls to her scalp with much treasured hairgrips. After she completed her rows of flat curls, she went out to the kitchen where she intended to sluice off the dried, crisp egg white with cold water …
It was late when Archie got back. Article Row was deserted and in darkness, due to the blackout. He had left the squad car back at the station for night patrol and made his way from the station on foot. Walking past his own house now, he could smell the freezing smog descending and knew it was going to be a busy night, especially for the ambulance brigade, who would be called out to accidents in the thick fog.
He had done Olive a massive discourtesy believing that she would ever do anything that was not straight up and above board. She wasn’t that kind of a woman. He was certain of that now and hated himself for ever doubting her. The last weeks had been more miserable than any he could ever remember – almost as bad as losing his first wife.
Of course Olive wouldn’t have anything to do with the black market! It had taken every inch of coaxing to persuade her to accept the tray of eggs sent from Agnes’s father last Christmas.
His thoughts raced along like a late locomotive as he put his hand on the gate of number 13. He knew what he had to do now. He had to go and apologise to Olive for neglecting their friendship because of some imagined transgression she didn’t even know about .
Of course she wouldn’t accept stolen goods – he knew that now – and if he was honest he’d doubted it even when he
thought
he’d heard the proof for himself. He had no idea of the time but realised it must be late, much later than he had intended to call. Maybe it was too late to knock now. Olive might be in bed. He might wake the children. But he would have to come clean and apologise. Maybe it would be better to do it tomorrow. He didn’t want to disturb Olive tonight. She would be settled by now.
Taking his hand off the latch, Archie turned from Olive’s gate and, head down, he made the lonely journey back to his cold, dark house. He would explain everything tomorrow.
When Sally opened her eyes again, the room was freezing cold and she shivered in the half-light, still clutching Callum’s letter tightly to her chest. She scrambled to retrieve her woollen dressing gown as the cold seeped into her stiff bones. Quickly clambering into the equally cold confines of her dressing gown, Sally tried to contain the teeth-chattering shivering that was making the bed shake. She must have nodded off, she thought blearily; it was almost night-time.
Her throat was dry as she blinked in the gloom, just able to make out the shape of the wardrobe and the dressing table where all of Callum’s letters were now piled. She was glad they were back on speaking terms, knowing that he had suffered just as much as she had. Of course he had! Callum had lost his sister and there was nobody he could confide in, nobody who knew her as he did – except herself. And she was too full of her own misery to let him in or to give him support and comfort in his hours of need. She was more ready to help a stranger than she had been to help the man who at one time she imagined would be the only man she would ever love. When George died, she had cut Callum off without a word because her guilt would not let her continue communicating with a man she had once felt she was in love with and who still made her feel as if she was the only person in the room when he was talking to her.
Her toes made figure-of-eight patterns on the icy linoleum under the bed as she searched for her slippers, and when she found one she hooked it onto her foot. The icy inner sole of the slipper felt wet, it was so cold, and Sally shivered as she stood up, knowing her feet would soon get used to the inside of the slippers if she moved around. She was dying for a cup of tea and to greet little Alice. She hadn’t seen Alice for two days; the child would think she had left her too.
