Tall Poppies (2 page)

‘The major married Mrs Sangster for her money, and expected to gain control. But all he got for his trouble was an allowance. The Sinclair family didn't consider him to be good enough for Margaret Sinclair. She was engaged to a titled gentleman, you see. But then along came big bad Henry, with his charm and his wicked ways.' She lowered her voice to a hush. ‘The wedding had to be a hurried affair.'

‘Why was that?' Livia asked.

‘On account of Master Richard, of course.'

‘You mean  . . .?' Livia clapped a hand over her mouth.

Connie nodded. ‘They reckoned he arrived early. Anyway, that's water under the bridge. When Mrs Sangster dies everything will become the property of their son. And if Richard dies without issue, which is quite possible with the war going on and him away fighting, and all, it will go to some remote Sinclair cousin in Scotland.'

‘How do you know all this, Connie?'

‘Henry confided in the chauffeur, who told me. 'Sides, I keep my ears open.' Connie Starling's plump arms wobbled as she kneaded the bread dough angrily. Setting it aside to rise, she muttered, ‘I'll see to Mrs Sangster's tray.'

Livia went back up, heavy brass scuttle in one hand and jug of water in the other. She was still shocked by what she'd learned. She'd thought Major Sangster was such a nice gentleman, too. To hide her disquiet she chatted as she got on with the job of making Mrs Sangster comfortable. ‘I'm going to see my little sister and brother tomorrow.'

‘That's nice. You must miss them.'

‘Yes, I do. I can't help thinking I've become a stranger to them. They were very young when they went to the orphanage, and it's a year since they last saw me.'

‘You should go more often.'

Easy to say, when you had time and money to spare. All the men had gone about the business of war, and the house was short-staffed. Even women didn't want to work in the big houses; they could get much more exciting and better paid jobs doing the work that men used to do before they went off to fight.

They'd heard that the former gardener had died on a beach without firing a shot at the enemy. The chauffeur had become an ambulance driver and had gone off to war, leaving his pride and joy, the gleaming Rolls Royce that belonged to the family, to gather dust in the garage.

Major Henry Sangster was in London doing something important in the war office. He got home sometimes, but rarely used the car.

The son of the household was at the front. At least, she thought he was. Livia glanced at his photograph. Richard Sinclair Sangster was handsome, with eyes as blue as his mother's and a devil-may-care smile like his father. She remembered him as being tall, strong and full of fun, and he'd made her giggle with his silly jokes. When she'd first come here she'd fallen in love with him a little, though it was more hero worship. But he was several years older than her, and had hardly known she'd existed, which was just as well considering her age then. She missed him now he'd gone overseas. The house no longer rang with his laughter, and seemed to have settled back into a staid middle age without his presence.

With Mrs Sangster settled comfortably in front of the window, Livia helped the woman eat her breakfast and drink her tea. Afterwards, she placed the bell in her lap. ‘I've got to get on with my work now, but I'll drop back in later, in case you need anything. Don't forget, you can ring the bell if you need something in the meantime.'

‘Thank you, dear. You're very kind.'

Livia inwardly sighed. She didn't feel kind. She felt harassed and run off her feet, and to tell the truth, trapped. But she'd felt that way for a long time now. Only God knew how Mrs Sangster felt, being almost bedridden. At least she had her own health and strength, so she couldn't really complain.

‘Livia,' Mrs Sangster said when she turned to walk away, ‘there's a bar of Cadbury's milk chocolate in my bedside table; the reverend brought it for me. Take it to share with your sister and brother.'

Now who was being kind? Tears pricked her eyes as she slid the chocolate into her pocket. ‘Thank you, I'm sure they'll love it, because I doubt if they get any treats in the orphanage.' Impulsively, she kissed the woman on the cheek.

She had a thousand tasks to do before she went to bed, and she'd better get on with them if she wanted to visit her sister and brother tomorrow. She wouldn't put it past Mrs Mortimer to cancel her day off if she didn't get everything done.

As it was, Connie found time to do the ironing for her. ‘I've made some gingerbread men for your sister and brother  . . . a little treat for them.'

‘How can you, when everything is rationed?'

‘I have my ways. I skim a little bit off here and there, and hide it for special occasions. I'll pack you some lunch to take with you. Don't tell Mrs Mortimer, though  . . . and come down early, before she gets up  . . . though the nurse might be up then.'

The next morning Livia threw a long jacket over her grey, ankle-length skirt, which had been purchased from a used clothing shop. She'd learned which fabrics were durable at her mother's knee, for she'd been a designer as well as a dressmaker. Livia knew the outfit would last her for some time when she bought it. The collar was trimmed with a narrow strip of fur, and had a hat with a turned-up brim, which she'd decorated with two pretty striped pheasant feathers she'd found in the garden.

As she hooked up her boots she noticed how shabby they looked, even though she polished them with beeswax each time she put a shine on the long dining room table. The sole of the left one was worn through, so she hoped it wouldn't rain as she pressed a piece of cardboard over the worn patch – though it looked as if it was going to be a cold, dry day. They would have to do, because they were all she had, but she must ask the gardener to repair them for her when he had time. He was good at doing things like that.

Connie had packed the lunch in a square tin, along with the gingerbread men for the children. She must carry it carefully. Slinging her bag over her shoulder she set out, feeling glad to be alive on such a day.

Though cold, the sun was just peeping over the horizon. Mist rose from the hedges and hovered in a head-height cloud before it curled off into the air and evaporated. It was as if the earth was breathing as it began to wake. The hedges were brown and peppered with orange hips of rambling roses. Daisies dotted the fields, waiting for the touch of the sun to open their petals. Catkin flowers drooped from winter-bare branches and blue-tits had already begun to quarrel with the great-tits over territorial rights. It seemed that everything in nature went to war at one time or another.

Livia reached Creekmore Halt station and bought a ticket to London. She was the only passenger waiting for the train, and she stood on a platform of wooden railway sleepers until it came steaming into the station. The last carriage was empty, and she took a corner seat facing the engine.

The whistle had just sounded when she heard a shout, and footsteps pounding. It was a soldier, almost level with her window. She managed to throw open the door as the train lurched forward. His kit bag came in first and she staggered backwards with it clutched against her body. Her reverse momentum was interrupted by the edge of the seat, which effectively tipped her over backwards. The door slammed, the train gave another couple of jerks and picked up speed.

The bag was hauled off her and a pair of brown-flecked, dark-green eyes gazed down at her. Amusement fought with concern in his expression. ‘I'm awfully sorry  . . . are you all right? I cut that a bit close.'

‘I'm just a bit winded, so you can laugh if you wish,' she said, scrambling upright.

The chuckle he offered her was a pleasant, low rumble. ‘I'm relieved to see I didn't squash you completely.'

‘How on earth did you manage to run carrying that bag? It's so heavy.'

He tossed it into the rack with a certain amount of pânache, as though it weighed nothing. ‘Necessity. If I'd missed this train, my superiors would have stood me against a wall and shot me.'

The colour drained from her face at the thought of such a horrible fate for this handsome young man, and her eyes widened. ‘How frightful.'

‘Hey, you look quite pale  . . . you're not taking me seriously, I hope. They won't shoot me, I promise.'

Now she blushed a little. ‘You must think I'm silly.'

‘I think you're rather sweet for caring. I'm actually a very good liar, and on the strength of it was offered the leading role in the pantomime in my last year at Cambridge. I turned it down, of course.'

‘Why, of course?'

‘It was Cinderella.'

When she laughed he leaned forward and held out his hand. ‘I'm Captain Denton Elliot  . . . you may call me Denton if you wish.'

‘I'm Olivia Carr, though most people call me Livia.' An imp of mischief lodged in her mind. ‘You may call me Miss Carr if you wish, Captain Elliot.'

‘Your wish is my command, Miss Carr.' His glance went to her hat. ‘One of your feathers is bent.'

They both laughed as she took the hat from her head to examine the damage.

‘I found them in the garden and sewed them on. Vanity, I suppose.'

‘It's natural to want a feather in your hat. It always amazes me that a bird can fly on such fragile supports.'

‘I read somewhere that their bones are hollow, which makes them light. Why did you say it was natural to want a feather in your hat?'

‘To see what your answer would be, of course.'

His eyes came up to hers and they gazed at each other for a moment. A slow, beautiful smile lit up his face. ‘So, you're intelligent as well as everything else. The shaft of this is broken so you'll just have to fly on one feather. You have pretty hair, you know. I like the shiny golden reddish bits amongst the brown colour.' He pulled the broken feather from her hat, snapped off the end and stuck it into the band of his army cap, which he'd placed on the seat next to her tin of food. ‘I'll take this one with me if you don't mind. It will remind me of home  . . . and of a girl called Livia.'

He'd probably forget her the moment the train reached his destination. ‘Home? Do you live far from the station?'

‘A couple of miles. My father has a medical practice  . . . I'll be joining him after the war, I expect. You?'

‘Foxglove House.'

‘I know the Sangster family. I was at Cambridge with Richard, and we joined up together. We were sent in different directions though, and I haven't seen him since. How is he?'

‘I don't know  . . . he's away you see,' and she shrugged. ‘France, I think.'

For a moment his eyes held an expression of such suffering that she caught her breath. ‘Ah  . . . yes, I suppose he would be there, considering. I don't envy Richard that. And the rest of the Sangster family, how are they holding up?'

‘Mrs Sangster is still an invalid after an accident.'

‘I remember it  . . . such a sad thing to have happened. Margaret was such a lovely woman and didn't deserve that.'

‘Does anyone? The major does something at the war office.'

Denton Elliot nodded. ‘Give Mrs Sangster my best wishes, if you would be so kind. Tell her I'll call in on her next time I'm down this way. I should have done so this time, but you know how it is  . . . the war has changed everything. Now I'll have you to visit as an extra incentive.'

He would have a shock when she served him tea, she thought wryly, and wondered if she should tell him she was the maid. But no  . . . she wasn't a maid today. She was Livia Carr, on the way to London to visit her sister and brother.

Gradually they picked up people at every station. The carriages quickly filled so they were packed end to end, mostly with soldiers and sailors.

She watched with curiosity as they stood in a fug of pipe and cigarette smoke, exchanging badinage and talking of this and that; avoiding the war; giving occasional hearty bursts of laughter, and mindful of their language and manners. But it was all in a self-conscious manner that drew attention to the fact that they were on their best behaviour in the company of a female.

Most were tall, young men, some just of an age to fight for their country. The veterans could be recognized by their gaunt cheeks, and by hollow eyes that had seen too much. They carried with them all the despair, and all that was brave in the world. But they didn't mention the war that was going on barely more than twenty miles across the English Channel. Some of them just stared out of the window, watching the countryside go past, lost in a world of their own making. What were they thinking  . . . of what had gone past, or of what lay ahead? Of loved ones they might never see again? How courageous they all were. How sad they made her feel.

Most of them disembarked at Southampton, including Denton Elliot. They were probably destined for the drab grey troop ship, of which she could glimpse the upper structure with its sinister smoking funnels.

A little shiver ran through her and she reached out and touched his face, saying gently, ‘Goodbye, Denton Elliot, it was nice to meet you, and good luck.'

He took her hand in his. ‘Let's make that
au revoir,
because I enjoyed meeting you and intend to do so again, Livia. In the meanwhile I have my lucky feather to keep me safe.' He leaned forward to lightly kiss her mouth, laughing when she blushed and called him a rogue  . . . but she couldn't be cross with him.

The next time she saw him was when the train pulled out. He was speaking to another officer on the platform, but he turned and his eyes sought hers and he blew her a kiss, smiling when she blew one back.

The encounter left her feeling strangely happy.

Two

It was obvious that the orphanage suffered from the same food shortages as the rest of England. From where she stood she saw that the twins were dirty, thin and wore ill-fitting clothes. Chad's wrists protruded from his jacket sleeves like bones and he had bruises; Esmé's light brown hair was matted. And their eyes were dull. Both of them had runny noses.