A Summer Promise (20 page)

Mrs O’Halloran opened her mouth as though to reply, then shut it again as Gran cut across her. ‘Have you lost your sense of humour, girl?’ she asked, her tone aggressive. ‘Of course Eileen’s joking you – coddin’ you as they say in Ireland. It might have been awkward if you’d not sent that telegram, but you give us enough notice to stock up on a few extras. You’ll be in your old room next to mine with your friend, toppin’ and tailin’ it. Where is she?’

‘She’ll be here later,’ Maddy said. ‘She’s called in to see her mother – she’d be staying there for Christmas, only the house is so full of evacuees there isn’t a spare bed in the place, their landlady says.’ She glanced towards Mrs O’Halloran. ‘
Were
you only joking when you said there was no room? It didn’t sound like it, and you looked deadly serious.’

‘What, me refuse to let you stay here in your own home, miss?’ Mrs O’Halloran said. ‘As if I’d dare! It’s just – just that them evacuees takes up all of me time. What with keepin’ them out of the pantry and guardin’ the apple loft from the little demons, I scarce have time to sit down, so you don’t want to take no notice of what I say.’

Maddy turned to Gran. ‘Did Tom ask for my address? I don’t suppose he left a message?’

Gran rooted in her overall pocket and produced a sheet of paper torn from a notebook. She handed it to Maddy. ‘He writes as he’s going abroad but will drop you a line as soon as he arrives at his destination.’

Maddy took the note and after a quick glance at it she thrust it into her pocket. ‘Thanks, Gran. Thank heaven we’ve not lost touch.’ She had thrown down her haversack as she entered the kitchen, but now she picked it up and went over to the stairs. ‘I’ll just take my things up and then come down and have a look round; shan’t be a tick.’

But in fact she was more than a tick, because the moment she got to her room she threw herself down on the bed and began to beat the pillow with her fist. He had thought of her, had wanted to say goodbye before going off to wherever the army was sending him. And she had missed him! If only she had known . . . but of course he had had no address for her, just as she now had no address for him. Why didn’t I write to him at Catterick, she thought despairingly. Oh, dear God, if only, if only! But she had not thought that he might be sent abroad, and now her heart sank into her shoes. What a fool she had been!

Maddy had been lying face down on her bed, but now she sat up. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror on top of the chest of drawers and saw that she was pale and red-eyed, her cheeks still tear-wet. Despite herself, she gave a snuffly little giggle. What a sight she looked! If Tom could see her now he probably wouldn’t even recognise this pathetic creature, and would look around for the cheerful smiling girl he had so cruelly abandoned.

This thought made the sobs rise up again in Maddy’s throat, and she dismissed it quickly. You are a stupid, miserable, whining girl and Tom would be ashamed of you, she told herself. Pull yourself together, Madeleine, and give your face a wash. Forget your grievances and go downstairs; Marigold will be arriving soon and by then all traces of tears must have disappeared.

But, oh, I do wonder what Tom is doing now! I don’t believe he’s a good sailor, so he’s probably leaning over the rail being horribly sick. Oh, poor Tom! But at least he didn’t join the Navy, so once he reaches his destination he’ll have other things to worry about, which will take his mind off his stomach’s behaviour. In her mind’s eye she saw mosquitoes the size of seagulls, snakes the length of the farmyard and many other horrors from which Tom might have to suffer. Seasickness would suddenly seem like the least of his worries though she was pretty sure, even if one did not die of it, it could reduce one to a wreck in a couple of weeks.

Wrecks! Suppose his troubles were already over? Suppose his ship had been spotted by an enemy submarine – the Germans called them U-boats – and had been torpedoed with the loss of all aboard? The thought was almost enough to start her crying again; she could feel tears welling up. Then she chided herself. Mr O’Halloran had been right; she really must learn to control her imagination. Tom might indeed have to become an expert in jungle warfare and learn all about snakes and mosquitoes, but it was too soon to worry about that. She set off for the kitchen, a determined smile on her face, but despite all her efforts to be sensible, Tom’s face, with misery and pain in his eyes, swam before her vision for the rest of the day.

Aboard the troop ship
Beaumaris Pride
, Tom was writing letters – or rather he was trying to, for as he remembered telling Alice, Madeleine and Marigold, he had never been a good sailor. At first he had only felt slightly uneasy, but when the ship got into rougher waters – they had to take the long route round, having been informed that the Med was alive with U-boats and enemy shipping – all hopes of a calm voyage ended. Not that he intended to tell any of his correspondents how he really felt, which was queasy most of the time. Writing, of course, was no help; the minute he bent his head over the page nausea attacked him in waves. But he knew that their first landfall was imminent, so he planned to send his letters off as soon as they docked. The powers that be had not told the troops where they were bound, but word had gradually spread that they would be docking at Cape Town to refuel and, with luck, would not only be able to post mail home but also have some time ashore.

So Tom was writing to his father, who was now serving somewhere, Tom thought, in Egypt; to Alice who would be settled in India by this time, and to Maddy and Marigold who were working in a factory until they were old enough to apply to join up.

At first he had intended to write identical letters to all three girls, but had changed his mind on learning that Madeleine and Marigold shared the same accommodation and would undoubtedly read one another’s correspondence. Alice, however, was now with her father somewhere in Bombay, so he could copy his Alice letter to Marigold without fear of being found out.

Tom sighed, and regarded his pen with loathing. It was a relic from school, old and spluttery, and Tom made up his mind that when they went ashore he would buy himself a decent fountain pen, even if it cost a bob or two.

He was only on the second line of the letter to Alice, however, when someone smote him on the shoulder. ‘Hello, hello, hello, who’s a good little soldier boy then? I thought you’d written to your dad and the girl who lives in the farmhouse with the funny name . . . don’t say you’re playing Miss Letshavealark false!’

‘And I thought I was lucky to find someone I knew aboard the ship,’ Tom said ruefully, glancing up at the face now bending over his correspondence. ‘Gerroff, Ricky Thompson! Don’t you know it’s rude to read other people’s letters?’

‘Not when the letter writer is you, old sport,’ Ricky said. He was a tall, dark-haired young man, handsome, Tom supposed, in a swashbuckling Douglas Fairbanks sort of way. He bent over Tom’s shoulder again.

‘Who’s Alice? You’ll be in trouble when these women discover you’re two-timing them.’

‘And I was so delighted, when I first saw you hanging your hammock next to mine, to find I wasn’t as alone as I thought, that there was another past pupil of the good old school aboard,’ Tom said, blotting his letter with care. ‘Odd that we never really saw much of each other there, despite both being in the OTC.’

‘Ah, but I was a whole year ahead of you, and a good deal cleverer, naturally,’ Ricky said, puffing out his chest. ‘I was one of the upper class and you were just a dirty little fag . . .’

‘Say it louder; someone might actually believe you,’ Tom said sarcastically. ‘I’d like to see the day dawn when any boy at St Oswald’s had, or was, a fag. We left that sort of thing to Eton and ’Arrow, of which you, dear Richard, know nothing. And now go away and let me finish my letters. According to one of the deckhands, we’ll be ashore in a couple of hours and I want to get these ready for posting, so’s the folk back home don’t worry.’

‘You may post them, but that doesn’t mean to say your fan club will ever receive them,’ Ricky said darkly. ‘There’s an awful lot of hostile sea between us and them.’

‘Yes, I know, but if none of us wrote letters because of that there’d be no such thing as a post office,’ Tom said. ‘Anyway, we got here, didn’t we? And now go before I lose my rag and give you a bloody nose.’

Ricky gave a derisive laugh but went away, and Tom got down to the serious business of writing to what his friend had referred to as his ‘fan club’.

He pulled the letter to Alice back towards him and began to describe the voyage, his fellow travellers and those members of the crew with whom he was best acquainted. Rather to his surprise it turned into a three page epistle, writing on one side only of the flimsy paper with which the men were provided. At the end he signed off with a flourish, and turned to the next sheet and wrote
My dear Marigold
. Copying was easy, and as his disgusting pen spluttered out the words he conjured up an image of Marigold’s golden prettiness as he had taken her out of the caverns. He could not recall what she had been wearing, yet every line of her face and the tumble of golden curls was clear as though he had her picture before him. He sighed reminiscently. Ever since the visit to the Christmas market he had wanted to get Marigold alone, but there had been no opportunity until the day of the caves and then what a sweet and cuddly armful she had proved to be! She had not pretended for one moment that his kisses were unwelcome but had cuddled closer, murmuring into his ear how much she liked him and how hopefully she had looked forward to that very moment.

Such thoughts, however, reminded him of a conversation he had had with his father the previous summer. Tom had said he had been thinking of saving up so that some day, far in the future, he might be able to buy a car and take Alice, Maddy and Marigold for a spin; he could drive, after all, and had passed his test, so the girls would be in no danger.

Mr Browning had raised his eyebrows. ‘I always thought you liked Alice best: a good choice. The little blonde – Marigold, isn’t it? – is already measuring up every young male she looks at and will probably be a right little handful by the time you’ve saved up for a car.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Maddy’s still young for her age, but Alice, unless I’m much mistaken, will turn into a delightful young lady once she has to stand on her own two feet.’

Tom had been surprised. ‘Stand on her own two feet? Doesn’t she do that already? I’ve always thought she was quite independent . . . after all, she’s an only child with no parents in this country, and a father pretty well indifferent to her by all accounts.’ He considered, then nodded slowly. ‘Though, come to think, she does tend to get someone else to perform any task which she doesn’t fancy. I suppose you could say she was both spoilt and selfish and you wouldn’t be far wrong. But I do like Alice, and it’s a long time since she’s put on her lady of the manor act with me.’

‘Or with me,’ Mr Browning had agreed. ‘Oh, she tried once or twice, but I soon put a stop to that. I told her that whilst I didn’t object to calling her Miss Alice I would thank her to remember that I too had a handle to my name and would prefer to be addressed as Mr Browning.’ He chuckled. ‘She went as red as a turkey cock, but she never called me “Browning” again. So you see what I mean? Oh, I know she’s a very rich young lady, but after that she always considered my feelings and never tried to ride roughshod over me.’ He grinned at his son. ‘Look, you’re young yet, and no doubt you’ll meet many other girls over the next few years, but you could do worse, when you’re a bit older, than to take up with Alice Thwaite. As long as you never marry for money. Remember, there’s very little warmth in a handful of coins, and money can disappear leaving you with nothing.’

Listening to his father’s words, Tom had remembered life before the Thwaites. Jim Browning had not always been a chauffeur. Once he had been the owner of a thriving business, a small but successful grocery and off-licence, in a small but equally thriving town. They had had a nice flat over the shop and in addition had owned a smallholding which, Tom knew, his father had meant to expand. But then the Depression had begun to bite. Suddenly, the rent on the shop had doubled. Tom had been seven or eight at the time and had not really understood why they had to sell the smallholding, though his father had tried to explain that the money from the sale would be all they had to keep them afloat until he got a job. Later, they had moved out of the flat into what his father had called a bedsit, and it was in that cheap and unattractive room that his mother had died. Tom could remember his father’s tear-stained face and the way he had begged their landlord to let them remain in the bedsit. The landlord had been sympathetic but had pointed out that he could not waive the rent for more than a couple of weeks and young Tom – not so little now – had reproached his father, telling him that though mummies might cry, daddies never did so.

It had made Jim Browning smile, and when his son had won a scholarship to an excellent independent school in the Yorkshire Dales he had truly rejoiced, but there had still followed a series of jobs, a series of bedsits, a series of towns, until the happy day when he had applied for, and been offered, the comparatively well-paid job of chauffeur and general handyman to Mr John Thwaite of Windhover Hall. Tom, too, had loved the place from the first moment, and when he had discovered that there was a girl not very much younger than himself living at the Hall, who appeared to look up to him and take his advice, his happiness had been complete.

His father had been right, to a certain extent; he had liked Alice very much, and had been reluctant to include Maddy in their comfortable little twosome. Maddy had disliked him intensely at first – with some reason, he admitted to himself, remembering how rude he had been to her at their first meeting – but had come round when he had agreed to search for Vendale, even if he could not pretend to search for water babies. And just as he had grown accustomed to their threesome, Marigold had come along. She was quite as sophisticated as Alice and far prettier than either her or Maddy, and she had fitted in with all their plans. But the truth was, Tom had never considered a more permanent relationship with any of his ‘fan club’ and had said as much to his father.