Home for Christmas (26 page)

Lydia nodded. ‘Just the two of us.’

‘Right.’

Agnes released the clutch, took off the brake and eased the car out into a gap behind a horse and cart.

‘Have you seen him?’ Agnes asked.

Lydia shook her head. ‘I may have done.’

She told Agnes about the flying machines she’d seen from the window of the hospital.

‘I hope he’s not in France just yet. Not yet, not until we’ve had the chance to at least say goodbye.’

‘At least,’ agreed Agnes, sounding as though she were swallowing something, a cough, a sigh, or perhaps a sob. ‘I would have liked to say goodbye to him too.’

They drove in silence for a while, Agnes supposedly because she was concentrating on driving, though in actuality her heart felt like lead. She would never get over Robert; there would never be anyone else.

Lydia was silent, buttoning down her seething resentment for Robert’s cousin.

‘Sylvester brought me the message,’ she said to Agnes.

‘Oh! How was he? His usual gluttonous, selfish self?’

‘All of those things and looking well. He’s a captain now.’

Agnes grabbed the horn and gave it a good blast. A startled delivery boy on a bicycle veered into the kerb.

‘I got the impression he tried to force himself on you. You’re not the only one. It happened in the library when my mother and I were still at Heathlands. I was dusting some of the old books. Sylvester found me there and threw himself at me. I fought like an alley cat, which seemed to surprise him. Told me I should be grateful that such as he was interested in the daughter of a cook as he was kind enough to point out. I bashed him with a copy of
The Peloponnesian Wars
. It was quite heavy.’

Lydia laughed. ‘Well, there’s a coincidence! He tried something similar in the library at the hospital. I threatened to hit him with a copy of
Modern Medicine for the Nursing Profession
.’

Pedestrians stopping to watch the car go past looked amazed to see two young women, laughing and waving as they drove past.

‘He’ll never forgive you,’ said Lydia once the laughter had diminished.

‘I think he might. I laughed afterwards and told him not to be such a fool. Did he really want to get his brains bashed out because of a cook’s daughter? He seemed to see the funny side at first, and then he said something about me having missed my chance to be respectable. He went on to say that if I didn’t end up as a domestic servant, I would end up as a whore. I told him that would be better than ending up like the fat barrel of lard he was likely to become.’

Two hours later, after getting some directions in the village of Melton Wendell, they came to a halt outside Rose Cottage.

Even if she hadn’t noticed the name etched on the gate, Lydia would have guessed it was the right one. Pink, red and white climbing roses tumbled over a trellis fence and petals fluttered along the grass verge.

‘It is so pretty,’ Lydia exclaimed as she got out of the car. ‘And that perfume!’

Agnes took a deep breath. ‘It smells wonderful, not as good as roast beef and vegetables, but good all the same. I’m going to enjoy staying here.’

Lydia didn’t voice her disappointment that Robert wasn’t here. Although she hid it well, she knew Agnes must be hurting. I’ll not mention Robert, she decided. Best not to mention him at all.

‘It’s a shame that Robert couldn’t make it,’ said Agnes, taking Lydia unawares. ‘Let’s hope he’s all right.’

Lydia paused at the gate, her hand resting on the rough wood.

‘I shouldn’t have brought you, Agnes. Knowing how you feel about Robert, it was thoughtless of me.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Agnes, who was facing the cottage, her expression hidden behind the bent brim of her yellow straw hat. ‘Someone had to act as chaperone – or gooseberry – however you want to look at it. If I hadn’t agreed, your father would have locked you in your room. Come on. Let’s explore this place.’

Pushing through the gate ahead of Lydia, she marched up the path to the front door.

A thick thatch frowned over whitewashed walls and square windows with green painted frames. Half hidden beneath a canopy of wisteria that hummed with the sound of bees was a solid front door painted the same shade of green as the windows. A handwritten sign of welcome, in a childish scrawl, hung on a black chain beneath the knocker. Above that, lodged firmly into the upper right-hand corner of the door surround, hung a cast-iron key around which somebody had tied a red ribbon.

Lydia, being the taller, reached for it. ‘Well! Let’s see if the three bears are at home.’ The key grated but the door didn’t budge.

Agnes pushed Lydia aside. ‘Let me do it.’

Lydia accepted that Agnes could work wonders with anything metal or vaguely mechanical. The door lock fitted into the latter category.

‘Open Sesame!’

There were three rooms on the ground floor plus a scullery. The main living room had a huge inglenook fireplace. An oak Welsh dresser, dark with age but shiny with copper and brass and blue and white crockery, took up one wall. A sofa with squashy cushions and chintz upholstery matched comfortable chairs to either side of the fireplace.

‘I love this room,’ exclaimed Agnes. ‘I love this cottage in fact. Time to make myself at home!’

Off came the yellow straw hat, Agnes’s hair flying around her head in tangled skeins as she whirled around the room.

Lydia laughed and clapped her hands. Agnes was so spirited, so full of life. If this was an act to hide her feelings, it was a good one.

Lydia went to the small square window deep set into the thick wall of the cottage. After a short struggle with the window catch, she opened the casement. ‘Let’s have some of that perfume in here,’ she said and breathed deeply.

Beyond the garden, she could see houses in the nearby village plus the grey tower of a Norman church. The sky was mostly blue, but beyond the village, grey marbled clouds were rolling in from the east.

From the east, where war had finally begun.

The bedrooms were a good size and they had one each. A pretty washstand with flower-patterned tiles graced each room and someone – possibly the woman who looked after the cottage for the family – had placed a cut-glass bowl full of roses on each bedroom windowsill.

The clouds were visible through these windows too, though closer now.

‘Lydia? What are you looking at?’

‘Clouds. Over to the east.’ Lydia’s voice cracked with emotion.

Agnes reached out to touch Lydia’s cheek. It was quite cold and the look in her eyes had nothing to do with the weather.

‘He’ll be all right,’ she said calmly. ‘The war may not come to anything, and everyone is saying that they’ll all be home for Christmas.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Lydia with a huge sigh. ‘I do hope you’re right.’

With Lydia feeling only slightly reassured and Agnes burying her pain beneath her natural exuberance, they scuttled back down the stairs and outside.

Agnes undid the straps holding their luggage in place on the car, passed Lydia her shiny brown suitcase and lifted down her own more scuffed affair.

‘I’ll come back for the hamper,’ said Agnes.

‘I bought a new dress,’ said Lydia, decanting a pale pink lace dress from beneath wads of crisp white tissue paper. ‘I thought Robert would like it.’ She bit her lip. It shouldn’t have slipped out, but it had. She looked to see if Agnes had noticed.

‘Sorry, but there’s only me to impress. In fact as your chaperone this weekend, I might not have let you wear it if Robert had been here. Much too revealing!’

Agnes laughed and Lydia laughed with her, relieved that they were still friends despite both of them loving Robert.

At the bottom of the stairs, Agnes paused to bite back the aching in her throat. Muffled by carpet, her footsteps sounded hollow within the narrow stairwell, as she went upstairs. Everything had been manageable up until Lydia showed her that beautiful dress, a dress she could never afford. The dress she had bought for her meeting with Robert underlined the fact that she, Agnes, was of a different social class. Her love for Robert had been in vain. Robert loved Lydia. They would get married but would still be her friends and she should be grateful, but she wasn’t.

‘I’ll fetch the hamper,’ said Agnes, and dashed outside, tears stinging her eyes.

Sunlight peering from behind a silvered cloud caught the chrome of the car headlights, making them glint as though they were exploding with light.

Gladdened by the sight of the car, Agnes sniffed back the threatening sobs. She had achieved so much in her short life; she had trodden where other women feared to tread, venturing on to male territory.

With the failing sunlight warming her bare head and shoulders, she swore an oath, repeating it in her mind until the power of her oath replaced the pain she’d been suffering.

I’ve lost Robert and there will never be another man in my life. I will achieve wonderful things, but marriage and having children will not be one of them.

Heaving a sigh big enough to send her shoulders almost up around her ears, she went to the car, opened the door and found … nothing.

The hamper! Her mother had baked cakes, bread, cooked ham, sliced cheese, and made all other sorts of delectable things, wrapping everything in red and white check cloth before placing it all in the hamper. The hamper had been sitting on the kitchen table, ready to place on the back seat of the car. She’d taken her luggage out first. She’d forgotten the hamper.

Agnes covered her eyes and groaned. Behind her hands she could see the honey-coloured basket weave of the hamper and smell the delicious aromas, could even visualise what she should have done and what she hadn’t done; she had left it behind.

Lydia was filling up a copper kettle from the outside pump when Agnes returned.

‘I thought you might be more successful getting the range working than …’ On seeing Agnes’s glum expression, her blood ran cold. ‘What? What is it? What’s happened?’

Agnes sucked in her bottom lip and said tearfully, ‘I forgot the hamper. We’ve got no food.’

Lydia shook her head. ‘Is that all? The world will not end, Agnes. We’ll just have to go into the village to buy food. Unless you want to go home?’

It had occurred to Lydia that forgetting the hamper might not be true but only an excuse to go home seeing as Robert wasn’t here.

Agnes was adamant. ‘We’ll go into the village.’

The car decided to be temperamental about restarting.

‘It probably thinks it’s gone far enough already,’ commented Lydia.

‘Cars do not think,’ said Agnes, sweat dripping from the end of her nose as she once again heaved on the starting handle in an attempt to turn the engine over. ‘They’re just stupid lumps of metal!’

Agnes’s legs left the ground as the starting handle kicked back, catching her in the ribs. The engine rumbled into life.

‘That hurt,’ said Agnes. She frowned as she rubbed her ribs with one hand and wiped smears of oil from her face.

‘You shouldn’t have called it a stupid lump of metal,’ Lydia remarked.

‘Get in,’ scowled Agnes.

The village shop sold everything from buckets to bacon. Buckets piled one inside the other obstructed the door, just as they did in the corner shop at Myrtle Street. The bacon, a slab with yellowing fat and meat only a shade or two above purple, was slammed against the side of the slicing blade with its sharp teeth and easy action.

The woman behind the counter was a typical country person with pink cheeks and brown hair turning to grey. Her eyes lit up at the sight of them.

‘Visitors are ye? Oh, that is nice. Visitors are always welcome,’ chirped the woman behind the counter, her speech bubbling with subdued laughter. ‘I do like ’aving strangers to serve. Bacon is it?’

Her pink face stilled whilst her strong hands patted the bacon, as though placating it before slicing off a few rashers.

The woman asked one question after another as she weighed bacon and cheese, counted eggs and slapped a loaf of bread on the counter.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘How long for?’

‘Any relation to the Ravenings?’

Agnes blurted out that Lydia was informally engaged to Mr Robert Ravening.

‘Ow!’ said the shopkeeper, her whole face seeming to form a solid circle of amazement.

Lydia blushed. ‘Agnes!’

Agnes was unrepentant. ‘It’s true.’

By the time they got outside, their purchases packed into a cardboard box, the first drops of rain were falling.

Agnes caught a penny-sized droplet in her outstretched hand.

‘I think we’re going to have a thunder storm.’

Lydia gasped. ‘Oh no. I forgot to close the windows. Quick. We have to hurry.’

Once the box of groceries was sitting on the back seat, Agnes hurried round to the front of the car to do battle with the starting handle.

‘Now, you beast!’ she muttered, gripping the starting handle with both hands.

Lydia wasn’t sure exactly what happened, but the starting handle gave an almighty jolt. Agnes flew through the air, landing ignominiously in the centre of the dusty road where she lay sprawled, her eyes closed and blood trickling from her temple.

‘Agnes!’

Lydia ran into the middle of the road where she fell to her knees beside her friend, checking her pulse, feeling her face, ultimately concluding that Agnes was not dead, just unconscious.

The woman from the shop had seen everything and came running out, her apron flapping around her body.

‘Is she dead?’

‘No,’ said Lydia, her expression strained, eyes wide with mute pleading. ‘But she does need a doctor.’

The doctor examined her and then advised that Agnes should go to the cottage hospital, which turned out to be exactly that. It had six beds in the women’s ward and another six in the men’s ward. Four of those in the women’s ward were empty; one woman asleep, the other an elderly patient with twinkling blue eyes that followed their every move.

‘You don’t have many patients,’ Lydia remarked.

The doctor seemed offended. ‘That’s why it’s called a cottage hospital. It’s mostly pregnant women and injured farm labourers who come here. Rest assured, your friend is only concussed, but I’ll keep her in until she wakes up. It doesn’t hurt to be careful. You go on back to wherever it is you’re staying.’