Home for Christmas (2 page)

Mrs Gander was first to notice Lydia, jerking upright like a wooden doll. ‘Oh, Miss Lydia. You startled me.’

Doris heard and let the curtain drop, pretending to dust the window ledge before moving aside.

Curious to see what all the fuss was about, Lydia took her place at the window and looked out. Her breath caught in her throat. ‘Oh, my word!’

The car’s burgundy bodywork gleamed almost as much as the brass headlights perched like birds of prey on either side of the windscreen.

‘It’s got a roof,’ she murmured in a voice full of wonder. ‘How splendid! Whose motor car is it?’

‘It belongs to Sir Avis Ravening. It’s been sent to fetch your father,’ declared Doris. She said it imperiously whilst flicking at pretend dust and sweeping away a scuttling house spider.

Lydia took one more look at the car before heading for her father’s study.

Her father was closing the study door behind him. Mrs Gander had gone ahead of Lydia, holding his hat, scarf and Gladstone bag as he shrugged himself into his coat.

‘Is it true?’ she asked, breathless with excitement. ‘Are you going to ride in the motor car?’

He looked into the striking face of his daughter, wincing because he could see so much of Emily in her. He coughed as though clearing his throat. The loss of his wife cut deeply at this time of year.

‘The prime purpose of the motor car is to take me to the man who owns it. Sir Avis Ravening is getting on in years and not feeling too good. He’s also very rich and very modern minded – a little eccentric some say – to the extent that he sold off his horses and carriages and bought one of the very first motor cars. I believe this one outside is his third.’

‘It’s a fine car. Does he live far away?’ Lydia asked.

‘Belgravia.’

‘Will it take long to get there?’

He shook his head as he attempted to sidestep his daughter and reach for the door.

‘I’m not sure. Not too long I think.’

‘Quicker than by carriage?’

‘So I am told, but noisier. A bit smellier too.’

When Mrs Gander opened the front door, Lydia took the opportunity to peer at the beast waiting outside.

‘It smells dreadful,’ she said wrinkling her nose. ‘Not so nice as a horse. And it is noisy. Still, it looks like fun.’

‘I don’t like it,’ said Mrs Gander. ‘It’s shaking the windows enough to make them fall out of their frames.’ She shook her head as if she were as shaken as the windows.

Lydia’s father laughed at his housekeeper’s comment. ‘If that happens I shall add a little extra to my bill to cover the cost of replacing them.’

Lydia dogged his footsteps all the way to the front door. ‘Is Sir Avis very ill?’

‘I won’t know that until I get there.’

‘Do you think it advisable for a trainee nurse to be in attendance?’

Eric couldn’t help grinning. His daughter certainly had a way of getting round him.

‘Do you by chance happen to know any?’

‘She comes highly recommended,’ said Lydia brightly. ‘And she speaks German. Just like her father, the doctor.’

‘Does she now?’ said her father, still smiling while in the process of donning his hat.

‘And she’d love a ride in a motor car. She’s never been in one before.’

He looked down into the dark grey eyes. His face was serious, his voice a dark brown timbre.

‘They frighten some people.’

‘They don’t frighten me,’ she said with a confident jerk of her chin. ‘I think they’re going to replace horses, so we might as well get used to them. Don’t you agree?’

‘Wait and see.’

He was no prophet, but even he could see that the streets of London were changing. Electric trams running on rails had already replaced those pulled by horses and people who could were buying horseless carriages.

Lydia had inherited the creamy skin, dark grey eyes and brandy brown hair of her mother. She’d also inherited the same stubborn streak, the same laugh, the same liveliness. When she wanted something, she persisted until she got it. At this moment, she was determined to have a ride in the motor car.

‘I’ve never been in a motor car,’ she repeated.

The words hung in the air, pleading without really asking. Those dark grey eyes looked up at him, willing him to say yes. Her voice was as pure as silver.

Eric felt something inside crack open. Suddenly he wanted to indulge her and the black mood that usually descended on him at this time of year receded. He couldn’t control the twitching at the corners of his mouth.

Lydia was astute enough to sense he was weakening. Now, she decided, was the time to persist.

‘I needn’t accompany you into the house. I could sit outside and wait in the car; or on the pavement if I have to.’

‘You would stay shivering in the cold outside?’

She tossed her head so that her hair fell exactly as her mother’s in the picture Aunt Iris had given her. ‘Well, only if you brush your hair back from your face,’ he said with a frown. ‘It looks untidy. Extremely untidy. Moreover, wear a hat. A big one that hides all that hair.’

He turned his back abruptly, busying himself with his gloves and seeing that all was in order in his Gladstone bag.

Lydia swiftly pulled her hair back, tucking the long strands behind her ears.

‘I need a hat,’ she yelled at Mrs Gander, excitedly. ‘I’m going for a ride in a motor car.’

On arriving at the elegant house in Beatrice Square, Belgravia, Lydia tilted her head back so she could see all the way up the front of the building. It looked very grand; the pillared portico twice the width of their own house. The broad front door, with eight panels of gleaming black paintwork, opened as they both alighted from the car.

The wind sent a flurry of crisp brown leaves dancing along the pavement. More leaves blew down from the trees standing behind green-painted railings in the middle of the square. The bare branches creaked and scraped against each other, the sound attracting Lydia’s attention.

Beneath the trees, a flower seller sang out that she had ivy, mistletoe and snowdrops for sale.

‘Can we buy some snowdrops?’

‘No.’

‘We have time. I can run over there and …’

‘I said no. I meant no. I am here to be of service to a sick man and you are here as a nurse. Remember?’

Lydia recognised this as one of those times when her father was focusing entirely on his work. When he did that, nothing else mattered.

The door of the house opened. The man who appeared had clearly once been taller than he was now. Age had bent his back, and whitened his hair, a pair of bushy white eyebrows almost meeting over a prominent nose.

‘Doctor Miller, I presume?’ He bowed stiffly from the waist, his head lowered so that his firm jaw scraped the starched collar of his shirt. ‘My name is Quartermaster and I am Sir Avis’s butler. I’ve been asked to give you every assistance.’

His kindly gaze moved from the doctor to the girl at his side.

‘My daughter, Lydia. She’s training to be a nurse and sometimes assists me.’

‘Really? How very nice to meet you, Miss. Perhaps you might like to wait and see if you are needed; I have strict instructions to admit only the doctor. Sir Avis is very protective of his privacy.’

Lydia was not looking forward to waiting outside.

Her father knew that. ‘I would prefer if my daughter is allowed into the house – if possible. I hardly think it safe for a young girl to be left outside and unsupervised even if she were to wait in the car.’

The butler’s response was courteous as well as generous. ‘I quite understand, Doctor Miller. A young woman should not be left unchaperoned. Might I suggest that your daughter waits in the kitchen? I did hear that Cook has just made some coconut biscuits. Perhaps your daughter would like to try some. And if you should need her, then she could be fetched in a trice.’

Doctor Miller shot him a grateful smile.

‘Your kind offer is accepted. I’m sure Lydia would love to sample some of those biscuits.’

‘Then if you would like to come this way, Doctor? Miss Lydia, if you would care to make your way down the steps you will find the kitchen entrance at the bottom. Just open the door and enter.’

He indicated a set of steps leading down to the basement area.

Doctor Miller watched his daughter go down the steps thinking – not for the first time – how like her mother she was, how fortunate she had been to survive.

Turning away from her and his thoughts, he sighed and followed the butler into a splendid hall. A gilt-framed mirror dominated one wall above a white marble fireplace. The mirror reflected a chandelier hanging from a high ceiling, the crystal alone catching the light. He noticed something else. The most modern type of lighting.

‘Am I mistaken, or are those electric light bulbs?’

‘Yes, Sir. Sir Avis is a very forward-thinking man.’

‘He is indeed – electricity! The wonder of the twentieth century.’

‘Excuse me, Doctor Miller, while I send a message to the kitchen. We have an internal phone you see. The kitchen maid will open the door to your daughter.’

‘Amazing!’

The butler gave a wry smile. ‘The master is very progressive.’

‘He certainly is – and not just as the owner of a motor car. I must say I’m impressed.’

The butler rang down by turning a handle at the side of a wooden box, picking up an earpiece and talking into a matching mouthpiece – very much like the telephone the doctor had had installed only two weeks before.

‘You have not purchased a car yourself yet?’ Quartermaster asked amiably as they made their way along a magnificent passage.

‘Shortly. A man named Austin has been recommended to me. I understand he used to be a coachman, and then turned to making bicycles, but is doing very well supplying and mending motor cars instead. We are indeed living in a wonderful age. I have heard that a man named Henry Ford is producing motor cars faster than anyone else. His aim, I believe, is that everyone should be able to afford one. I dread to think of the increase in traffic. Whatever next, I wonder? We already have flying machines and I myself have a telephone.’

‘Indeed. When Sir Avis heard you had a telephone, he decided at once that you were the doctor whose opinion he would value.’

Doctor Miller nodded. The statement satisfied him very much. ‘A wonderful age indeed.’

Quartermaster stopped outside a pair of double doors, solemnly shaking his head. ‘I cannot see the devilish contraptions ever replacing horses. What will we do with all the unwanted creatures?’

‘I’ve no idea, but it’s the price of progress,’ said Doctor Miller, gratified that he had had the foresight to purchase a telephone. In doing so, he had acquired a very illustrious patient indeed.

The kitchen door was a miniature edition of the grand front door only having six panels instead of eight. It was also not so wide.

Seeing no doorknocker, Lydia rapped on the door with her fist, very hard, because her fist was small. Even the matron at the hospital where she trained had remarked on the delicacy of her hands.

‘Excellent for rolling bandages,’ she had remarked.

Lydia had grimaced at the prospect of rolling bandages for the rest of her life just because her hands were small. Surely, she could do more than that.

‘Hello Miss,’ said the maid who opened the door, a plain-faced girl with large brown eyes and a turned-up nose.

‘I didn’t think you heard me.’

‘I didn’t need to hear you, Miss. The butler phoned down to say you were here. Even if he hadn’t you could have pressed the bell,’ she said chirpily.

Lydia looked round for a bell pull. She could not see one.

‘There,’ said the maid, pointing to a white button sitting like a mushroom in a polished brass surround. ‘You press that. It’s electric. This house is all electric.’ She was amiable and confident, as though she knew all there was to know about electricity and how to use it.

Lydia followed the maid past the scullery and into the kitchen, a warm, glorious place full of good smells and sounds.

‘There you are. Miss. Cook will be with you in a minute,’ said the maid. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got potatoes to peel for tonight’s dinner.’

The girl disappeared through a doorway, closing the door behind her.

The smell of things cooking drew Lydia further in. A leg of mutton sizzled and spat on a spit in front of the glowing coals of a traditional range. A kettle and a number of saucepans boiled above bright blue flames on a gas range next to it.

Copper saucepans gleamed from hooks along one wall; a dresser full of meat platters, cheese and butter dishes, tea plates, breakfast plates and dinner plates took up another wall, the crockery so shiny it reflected the light from the window opposite.

The clattering of pots, pans and dishes came from the scullery where a young woman was up to her elbows in soapy water.

‘It’s a gas range in case you didn’t know.’

Lydia started. Sitting at the far end of the kitchen table was a girl of around her own age. She had been so engrossed in admiring the kitchenware she hadn’t noticed her.

The girl was quite striking, her look forthright, her eyes a startling amber. A plate of biscuits and a glass of milk sat on the table in front of her.

Lydia stood at the opposite end of the table and introduced herself. ‘Hello. My name is Lydia. I came here with my father.’

The girl said nothing but took another bite of biscuit, her amber eyes never leaving Lydia’s face as she chewed. A mass of dark blonde hair framed a face as pale as porcelain.

Lydia shifted her weight from one foot to another. The girl’s eyes were disconcerting, her attitude intimidating. She felt like an intruder.

She wondered who she was: perhaps the daughter of Sir Avis? No. He was old. Her father had said so. A servant’s child perhaps or a ward like in
Jane Eyre
, a story she had read where a mad woman lived in the attic and a young girl married a much older man.

She discarded the idea; things like that only happened in books.

Whilst the girl chewed and drank, her eyes stayed fixed on Lydia. She did not introduce herself. She just sat and stared.