Tall Poppies (7 page)

Livia told her, ‘I like Florence. She does more than her share of the work, and she's not frightened to cheek off Mrs Mortimer. I hope she's allowed to stay on.'

‘Not if Mrs Mortimer has her way. The only reason Florence is still here is because Doctor Elliot recommended her, and he's acquainted with the major.'

‘So it's up to the major.'

‘Mrs Mortimer has already got her claws into him. It's not decent  . . . what with his wife hardly cold in her grave.'

Livia only half-listened to Connie's gossip, since it was really none of her business what people got up to, besides, she had troubles enough of her own. Despite the cold wind there was a restless feeling of spring in the air, though it was only halfway through March, and just a couple of weeks since a thin layer of snow had covered the ground.

But the sap was rising. The buds on the hawthorn exposed a tender and secretive tracery of green, while the periwinkle embroidered a twisting curtain of blue and white through the hedgerows to hide the nests of song thrushes and their young. An occasional early daffodil spread its yellow bonnet to the wind.

‘With a bit of luck she'll go back to London with him.'

Livia jerked back to the present. ‘What if the major decides to close the house up?'

‘He won't do that, not until Master Richard comes back from the war. The house belongs to the son under the Sinclair legacy, don't forget, and he'll need staff.'

‘But what will happen if he doesn't come back?'

‘He will,' Connie said fiercely. ‘He told me that army food was terrible, and the first thing he'd want when he got back was a good dinner. Nothing fancy mind, Connie, says he. I'll have good old roast beef and potatoes, with Yorkshire pudding, peas and carrots and lashings of gravy.' She gave a bit of a smile. ‘He wants apple pie and custard afterwards. He always liked his apple pie and custard, did young Richard.'

They slipped in the back door, surprising Florence with her feet up in front of the fire sipping a glass of brandy.

‘I knew I'd catch you at it one day,' Connie said, the satisfaction she felt at the thought spreading over her face like a dollop of melting lard. ‘Mrs Mortimer will dismiss you for sure if she catches you with that,' Connie told her.

‘She'll dismiss you and all if I tell her I got it from your pantry disguised as a bottle of Phillips' Milk of Magnesia.'

‘I keep it there for medicinal purposes,' Connie said hotly.

‘Of course you do, and thankful I am for it too, since I felt quite ill a moment or two ago.' Tipping the glass up, Florence downed the liquid in one long swallow, sighed, and said, ‘I had a backache caused by Mrs Mortimer sticking her knife between my shoulder blades. The brandy has relieved the pain no end.'

This time Livia began to laugh.

Connie couldn't hide her grin. ‘Have you set the table out like I asked you to, Florence? They'll be home before too long.'

‘Don't you fret, it's all ready, and I've stoked up the fire so the drawing room is good and warm. Oh yes  . . . and while you were all out a gentleman from London rang. Couldn't hear him very well because he whistled, as though he had false teeth that were a bit loose in his head. But he spoke really posh, and said his name was Sturgeon. He wants the major to telephone him as soon as he comes in.'

‘Livia can pass the message on to the major while she's supervising the table. Better go and get your apron on, love. I want to inspect the table, because the major can be very particular. Florence, you go up to the landing on the stairs and keep a look out for them. Let me know as soon as you see them come down the driveway. I'll make the tea in the big teapot then, and carry it through, so it doesn't get stewed. You can bring the hot water jug.'

It wasn't long before the drawing room was thronged with people, all dressed soberly and talking in hushed tones. Most of them had come from the church and had traipsed dirt across the hall from their boots. Livia had a glimpse of Florence with dustpan and brush rushing to-and-fro so it didn't get trodden in.

When the major approached to get something to eat, his blue eyes gazed into hers. He smiled. ‘It's Livia, isn't it? I've been given to understand that my late wife thought very highly of you.'

‘She was a nice woman; a real lady. We got on well together, and I'm going to miss her.'

‘Quite. You've grown into a beautiful young woman since the last time I saw you. '

A faint blush rose to her face and she didn't know what to say. She remembered the message with some relief. ‘There was a telephone call for you when you were out, Major. It was from a Mr Sturgeon in London. He wanted you to call him as soon as you were able.'

‘Sturgeon  . . .?' He shrugged. ‘I can't recall anybody by that name.'

Livia hoped she didn't give offence when she told him, ‘Florence said the gentleman had a distinctive voice  . . . an
impediment
. He lisped.'

His brow cleared and he gave a low chuckle. ‘I imagine Florence meant Sir John. Thank you, young lady. I'll go to my study and ring him from there.'

He left, threading his way through the crowd and stopping for just a moment to speak to Mrs Mortimer.

She crossed to where Livia stood, frowning. ‘You should have given me the message to pass on to the major. Do you know what it was about?'

‘No, I don't, Mrs Mortimer. Perhaps the major will tell you if you go and ask him.'

She was the recipient of a hard look.

Dr Elliot edged Mrs Mortimer out and filled his plate with sandwiches, giving her an apologetic look. ‘I'm sorry if I appear to be greedy. I've been flat out all morning and didn't have time to eat. Everyone who is suffering from spring fever imagines that they've caught the Spanish flu. How are you, young lady?'

‘How do I look?'

‘As lively as a flea on a dog. I heard from Denton yesterday. He asked me to say hello on his behalf if I happened to run into you, and he said that he hopes you found your sister and brother in good health.'

‘You can tell him you nearly ran into me with your car.'

He chuckled at that.

Mrs Mortimer hovered nearby, clearly eavesdropping. Without the major by her side, nobody approached her.

Livia lowered her voice. ‘As for my sister and brother, I'd wish for better than an overcrowded orphanage, but there are so many homeless children in London I should be grateful they have a roof over their heads. It was kind of Denton to enquire.'

‘He also said to tell you that the pheasant's feather is his constant companion.' A dark eyebrow lifted in a query.

She laughed. ‘He stole a pheasant's feather from my hat to take with him. He thought it would bring him luck.'

Dr Elliot grinned, and said over the muted conversation of the other guests, ‘You're blushing, Miss Carr. Did my son flirt so very much with you? He has an over-abundance of charm on occasion.'

Like father, like son, she thought, and said, ‘I am
not
blushing.' But nevertheless, her hands went to her cheeks and she lowered her voice. ‘Actually, he did flirt a little  . . . but I didn't take any notice. I'm a housemaid with two orphaned siblings to support, so I can't allow myself to harbour romantic notions about any man, especially someone of his standing.'

‘That's very sensible of you, my dear, but war is a great leveller, and you can never tell what's around the corner. Is that some of cook's apple cake over there? A large slice please, Livia, since I can't resist it  . . .'

His wife joined him. ‘Behave yourself, Andrew. Give him a small piece of cake, dear; he's of an age where he must watch his waistline.'

‘This is Livia Carr, Helen. I was just passing on Denton's message.'

A smile lit up her face. ‘Andrew has told me a lot about you, so I'm pleased we've finally met. I understand that you're George and Eloise Carr's daughter.'

‘Yes, Mrs Elliot.'

‘Such a coincidence; I attended the same school as your mother, though we were in different boarding houses. Eloise James, she was then. I attended her wedding to George Carr. And met them again at a party in London. It was a long time ago, about fifteen years. They were a very popular couple, I recall  . . . always entertaining.'

If they hadn't worked so hard at being popular they might have left something to help support their children, she thought, and vowed that she'd never be irresponsible with money if she married and became a mother.

Helen Elliot reached out to squeeze her hand. ‘I'm sorry, that was insensitive of me  . . . especially since you find yourself in such difficult circumstances. You would have led a very different life if they'd lived, I imagine.'

Livia shrugged. ‘It's been six years, Mrs Elliot. Moping about it won't bring them back.'

‘That's the ticket,' Dr Elliot said, and ambled off.

Helen Elliot lingered. ‘I understand you have a brother and sister to support?'

Livia nodded. ‘They've just turned eight, and they can't remember our parents, which is a blessing. When I have time, I'm hoping to find them somewhere near here where they can stay, so I can see them more often.'

‘You must come and visit us one day, so we can have a proper chat.'

‘I'd like that.'

Mrs Mortimer cut in, her smile so thin it could have skinned a tomato. ‘You'll have to excuse the maid, Mrs Elliot, she has work to do. Go to the kitchen and fetch some hot water, Carr.'

‘We have hot water.'

After Helen Elliot moved off, Mrs Mortimer frowned. ‘You're being paid to work, not to stand and gossip. It was a good job the major wasn't here to see what was going on.'

As if on cue the major entered, looking shaken. ‘You'll excuse me please, everyone. I've just received word that my son has been injured. Sir John didn't have much information, but it's a head wound apparently.'

Dr Elliot moved to the sideboard and poured him a brandy. ‘Here, drink this. How bad is he  . . . did they say?'

‘No  . . . just that he's being shipped back to England and will spend some time in the City Hospital before he's sent to a convalescent centre. I'm glad his mother didn't live to see this.'

So was Livia. Margaret Sangster had adored her son.

Sympathetic murmurs filled the room at the thought of this double tragedy. The guests' condolences were offered again, and they began to drift away, leaving their host with this extra trouble in his life, glad it hadn't happened to one of theirs, and hoping it never would.

Livia began to remove the dishes and leftovers, though most of the funeral feast had been consumed. Florence joined her and they soon put the room to rights.

Just before the Elliot couple left, the doctor said, ‘Don't give up hope, Henry. If they're shipping him home there's a possibility that he's strong enough to survive the journey. And people do recover from head injuries.'

‘Yes, of course  . . . I'll go up to London right away  . . . use the Rolls, since there won't be a train until morning. I'll be there for him.'

His gaze went to Rosemary Mortimer and his lids hooded sleepily as he contemplated her, the nature of his relationship close to the surface, despite his shock over his son becoming a casualty. ‘You'd better come too, Mrs Mortimer. I'll need someone to look after my household while I sort out the legalities of my wife's estate. My London housekeeper has left my employ.'

Smug-faced, Rosemary Mortimer left instructions that the house was to be spring-cleaned from top to bottom. ‘I'll leave you in charge, Livia. That way I'll know who to blame if the work's not done to my satisfaction.'

They watched the couple go, the major at the wheel and Mrs Mortimer by his side, her face snuggled against the blue velvet collar of a coat that had belonged to the late Mrs Sangster.

‘Brazen  . . . the pair of them,' Florence murmured, for the maid had soon winkled out the household situation. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.'

‘Don't crow too soon. She'll be back, and I wager there will be a ring on her finger,' Connie commented gloomily.

To save any further speculation, Livia began to make plans for the task she'd been left with. ‘We'll start at the top and work our way down. We'll clean the main bedrooms first, except for Mrs Sangster's rooms. We'll leave them until last  . . .'

But as soon as the car drove off the three of them held hands and danced around the hall until they were dizzy and delirious with laughter.

Five

April arrived clad in soft showers, a fluttering of peacock butterflies, wood anemones and primroses. The pond was full of tadpoles, the birds sweetly sang their melodies, and, on high, a watchful hawk circled on silent wings.

The house had been scrubbed and polished, and Mr Bugg and Florence had washed the windows – one standing on the outside, the other on the inside. There was very little left to do, so they'd put dustsheets over the furniture in the main rooms, and could now relax.

On the very last day of the month, a letter arrived for Livia.

‘Joseph Anderson and Simon Stone. It's from a solicitor,' she whispered, turning it over in her hands. ‘I expect it's for the major.'

‘Since when has the major's name been Miss Olivia Carr?'

‘But why would a solicitor be writing to me?' Fear stabbed her. ‘I hope my sister and brother are all right.'

Connie rolled her eyes. ‘Stop thinking the worst. There's only one way to find out  . . . open the damned thing!'

Livia used the sharpest kitchen knife and carefully prised open the flap, since it would be sacrilege to damage such an important and official-looking envelope. The letter was crisply typewritten on pale cream paper, the signature a crouching spider of a scribble that looked as though it might unfold its legs and sprint from the page. Simon Stone was typed underneath, in case his writing didn't do his signature justice.