The Promise (3 page)

‘Mum, that’s ridiculous. It’s underhand, a lie.’

‘Not a lie exactly. I know what a lie is, I’ve heard enough of them in my time.’ There was a humph of disgust down the line, and her mother launched into the familiar lament that her entire life had been blighted by lies and deceit, and now from her own daughter of all people. Chrissie was saved from answering this charge by the blast of a horn. ‘Sorry, the bus is here, I have to go. I’ll ring later in the week, once I’ve settled in.’

‘Promise you won’t let on who you are,’ Vanessa insisted.

‘All right, cross my heart, not a word.’

It was a promise Chrissie would soon come to regret.

The moment Vanessa put down the phone, she picked it up again and dialled a number. ‘Would you believe she went anyway?’

‘Damnation, you said you could stop her. Have you no control over the girl?’

‘About as much as you have.’

‘We must do something.’

‘Any ideas?’

‘You’re going to have to tell her.’

Vanessa jerked as if stung. ‘Absolutely not. That’s not a solution I could ever contemplate.’

There was a small silence, as they each reflected on the difficulties of their situation. The person on the other end of the line let out a heavy sigh. ‘What alternative do we have?’

‘There must be something you can do. You
owe
it to me.’

‘She won’t listen to me. Anyway, she knows nothing about you and me, about
us
.’

‘So what am I supposed to do? I’m at the end of my tether here.’

‘We’re going to have to think about this problem a bit more. We can at least agree that Chrissie must be protected.’

‘Yes, we can at least agree on that.’

‘And what if she gets to the bottom of this mystery and discovers the truth?’

‘Dear God, I do hope not.’

She’d half hoped to experience a blaze of recognition when she reached the hall, instead Chrissie felt a keen sense of disappointment, as she had no recollection of ever having seen it before. Nothing looked familiar, not the wide sash windows, nor the white-painted storm porch, but she could hear the slap of water against an unseen shore, a sound that kindled a warm sense of anticipation within. Perhaps a five year old would be more interested in the lake than the house, and it was too dark to see properly. She hoped something might nudge her memory in the full light of day.

Despite her eagerness to meet her grandmother and a curiosity to know what sort of person she might be, Chrissie felt oddly nervous as she arrived at the Hall. But there was no sign of her then, or the following morning when the housekeeper showed Chrissie round. The stalwart Mrs Gorran seemed to be very much the person in charge where keys, collecting ration books, and issuing rules and regulations were concerned.

‘The Hall was used as a hospital for the wounded during the war, and you wouldn’t believe the mess they left it in,’ she tartly informed Chrissie, pointedly currying murmurs of sympathy and approval. ‘We’re only just getting it shipshape and in working order again.’

There followed a bewildering list of instructions, starting with breakfast being served at 8.30 on the dot; when the water was most likely to be hot enough for a bath due to the idiosyncrasies of the boiler; how to operate the ballcock in the lavatory if it refused to flush; where the fuse box was, should it become necessary to change a fuse; and where the candles were stored in case of a power cut. The rule which amused Chrissie the most was the one about ‘no gentlemen callers’. It sounded rather like something out of a Victorian novel.

The seventeenth-century house, so far as Chrissie could see, had a faded grandeur about it, but was homely and clearly well loved, smelling of furniture polish and the lingering aroma of bacon and eggs. It boasted five double bedrooms for guests, all of them fully occupied since it was July.

‘Mrs Cowper doesn’t take families, as she does not consider the Hall suitable for children,’ Mrs Gorran informed her. ‘Too many steps, both in the house and the garden.’ Chrissie wondered if it would be more accurate to say that Mrs Cowper didn’t like children, particularly her own.

Behind the house were two tiny cottages which were self-catering, plus the loft above the boathouse which
boasted a small but adequate bedroom and private bathroom, which suited Chrissie perfectly. She liked the idea of being slightly detached from the house, in her own private domain as it were, and felt a contented sort of anticipation about the weeks ahead. Perhaps she would find the fresh start she so craved as well as the solution to a family puzzle. Unless her alleged witch of a grandmother banished her too, simply for being the child of the devil who had married her mother.

She was walking just above the waterline, the light summer breeze moulding her pale lemon frock to a slim figure and long slender legs. On her head was a straw hat which she kept clutching with one hand to stop it blowing away. She looked, Ben thought, like a piece of sunshine fallen from the sky. He watched, riveted, as she picked her way along the shingled shoreline that skirted the lake, sometimes lifting her skirt a little to jump over rocks, pausing to watch a tufted duck make its way through the reeds, or to pick yellow loosestrife and pale-lilac water lobelia before walking on.

Bowness-on-Windermere was one of those small Lakeland towns that clung to the rim of a lake that stretched for ten miles from Newby Bridge to Ambleside, its huddle of stone cottages seeming to lean against each other as if for support against the fickle winds that rattled
up this valley. Here and there, amongst the lush woodlands, were scattered large Edwardian villas, often housing those who had made their fortunes in the industrial towns of the North and retired to Lakeland to enjoy the fruits of their labours.

The lake itself was always a hive of activity, bristling with masts, a couple of public steamers filled with holidaymakers, and a ferry that chugged back and forth taking cars and walkers from one shore to the other, providing a short cut to Far Sawrey, Esthwaite Water and Hawkshead. It was the kind of town where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Ben could happily waste an hour watching young men struggling to row a hire boat as they showed off to their sweetheart, or listen unashamedly to family squabbles as sails were unfurled and small boats made ready to put out on to the water. There was always something interesting to watch. Now he’d found the most fascinating of all.

The screwdriver hung slack in his hand, the door hinge he was supposedly fixing quite forgotten.

‘Pretty, isn’t she?’

He glanced up, shamefaced, as his mother handed him a mug of tea. She was wearing her usual floral print smock, two sizes too big for her diminutive figure, her impish face beaming with mischief.

‘I was only looking.’ For a man who had enjoyed nothing but misfortune with the women in his life he was mad to even do that, but the girl was utterly irresistible. She was climbing the far steps up to the steamer pier now, looking so fresh and appealing he couldn’t prevent a small
sigh escaping. ‘I don’t suppose you know who she is?’

‘She’s the new tenant. Moved in yesterday afternoon, quite late. Taken the loft over the boathouse for a month.’

‘A month?’ Ben felt ridiculously pleased by this bit of news, then filled with guilt at the stir of anticipation he experienced deep in his gut. Don’t even think about it, he sternly warned himself. Wasn’t he already bruised and battered following his recent divorce?

His mother set down a large slice of her finest fruit cake on the wall beside him. ‘Aye, a whole month. Longer than visitors normally stay.’ There was a short silence while she considered this, then returning her attention to her son casually enquired, ‘How long will Karen be away visiting that mother of hers?’

‘I’d prefer you not to speak of Sally in that tone. She may no longer be my wife, but she’s still the mother of my child.’

Hetty Gorran was no fool and knew her son inside out, better than he knew himself at times. Far too easy-going for his own good, which was how he came to get himself married in the first place. Thank heaven he’d finally seen the light. That flighty little madam was never any good for her boy. Hadn’t she said as much to him at the time? Not that he ever listened to a mother’s wisdom. Stubborn to a fault he was, and would stick to his point of view if only to prove he had the right to it, not unlike her employer who owned these holiday cottages.

‘So you’ve had another falling out, eh?’ she slyly remarked as she sipped her tea.

‘Does everyone in this town know my private business?’

‘If you will conduct it at top volume on a telephone in a public place … Anyroad, we Lakelanders like to pride ourselves on caring about our family and friends.’

‘Lot of old gossips, more like.’ Ben sighed, remembering how it should have been a quick call over train times for Karen’s visit, but had found himself embroiled in a row over his ex-wife’s demands that she have sole custody of their child, supported by half the profits from his joinery business. No wonder he’d lost his temper. He’d no intention of losing Karen, nor being left near-bankrupt. Not wishing to relate any of this to his interfering mother, he diligently reapplied his attention to the door hinge.

Hetty Gorran, however, was not one to let things go, once she’d set her mind to something. ‘Wanting another chance, is she?’

‘Something of the sort.’

‘Is this her idea, or Karen’s?’

Ben took a gulp of tea, then picked up the screwdriver again. ‘What do you think?’

Hetty allowed her gaze to drift back to the girl in yellow. ‘The lass will be gone some weeks, then?’

‘For most of July, but you can never be too certain with our Sally.’

‘Long enough, lad.’

Following the direction of her gaze, he quickly responded. ‘Don’t start your matchmaking, Mother. You’re getting as bad as Mrs Cowper, thinking you can organise a person’s life for them.’

Hetty Gorran adopted a wounded air of innocence. ‘What, me? Never! But since that good lady has driven half her family away, maybe I’d best take care.’

‘Aye, maybe you had.’ Ben was smiling now, but as his mother hurried back to her kitchen his gaze searched again for that small portion of sunshine.

The sun was slipping low over the mountains, turning the lake to a molten gold as Chrissie let herself into the loft. She knocked the dust from her sandals, tossed her straw hat on to the sofa and moved instantly to the window to look out again upon the shoreline. Chrissie had been in Windermere for less than twenty-four hours and already knew that she wished to stay for ever. She was in love – with the town, with the woods that clustered the shores of the lake, the circle of brooding mountains, the air that was as pure and sweet as wine, with the whole magic that was Lakeland. How tempting it would be to create a new life for herself here. Was this the place she could follow her dream and open a bookshop, build a new future for herself? Did she even possess the confidence to try?

This journey was mainly about discovering her roots, about finding answers to the mysterious family quarrel that had blighted her mother’s life. If she succeeded, then perhaps Vanessa too could finally put the past behind her and come home. It could be a new beginning for them both.

Chrissie began to set out her ‘treasures’ on the window sill: a pine cone, pebbles and pieces of slate of every hue and colour that had shimmered like jewels beneath the
water. She arranged the buttercups and pink campion she’d picked into a jug and filled it with water. Later she would press them, perhaps stick them on to cards. Maybe she could sell them in this bookshop she might one day own. She smiled at this fanciful notion, not really believing it could ever happen as her mother would never agree to come back here. And Chrissie couldn’t leave her alone in London. It was all a fanciful dream, nothing more.

Was it also a dream that she’d visited the Lakes before, years ago when she was small? Walking along the shore she’d had a sudden image of herself as a small child before the war paddling in the shallows, skirt tucked up her knicker legs, the air filled with sunshine and laughter. Is that why she loved the place so instinctively? Where had all that innocence, that happiness, gone? When and why had those long-ago Lakeland holidays stopped? Who was the shadowy figure she imagined walking with her by the lake, protectively holding her hand? Was that her grandmother? Chrissie’s recollection, if that’s what it was, of this supposedly crabby old woman was decidedly hazy, clouded by her mother’s bitter descriptions.

But what would she be like in the flesh? Not for a moment did Chrissie expect it to be easy to bring about this reunion. Would Georgina Cowper live up to the horror stories she’d heard about her? Why had mother and daughter not spoken, not even seen each other, for most of Chrissie’s own lifetime? Vanessa’s father had apparently died in 1924 as a result of being gassed in the First World War. Maybe things would have been different had he lived. As a young girl Chrissie had envied her friends their
fathers and grandparents, their normal family life. How badly she had longed for one of her own. But would she even like the woman when finally she got to meet her, let alone feel the love and respect she should?

Chrissie rested her chin on her hand and mused on the mysteries of life.

‘That girl, the new guest in the loft, where did she come from?’

Mrs Gorran frowned as, later that morning, she set a plate of sandwiches on the table before her employer. ‘London, I think.’

‘What I mean is, how did she find us? How did she make contact, by letter or telephone?’

‘She rang up a week or two back, said she was desperate to get away for a break and liked the sound of our advert. That was the one you put in the
Westmorland Gazette
, wasn’t it, Sam?’

‘Could’ve been,’ her husband mumbled through a mouthful of ham.

‘What treasures you both are,’ Georgia remarked with feeling. ‘I really don’t know how I would go on without you. But that girl looks so familiar. Has she ever been here before?’

‘Not that I know of.’ Mrs Gorran took a large bite out of a cheese-and-pickle sandwich. The three of them always took lunch together in the kitchen these days, Mrs Cowper not being the stand-offish sort. But then they’d known each other a long time, Hetty having been housekeeper at Rosegill Hall for almost forty years, ever since the twins
were born in 1912. She’d been fourteen then, and this her first job as under-nursemaid. Sam too had been just a lad, a humble apprentice gardener learning his craft. Now he was the only one, also doubling as
handyman-cum-chauffeur.

Apart from a cleaner coming in twice a week, three times in the summer when they were busy, that was the extent of the staff these days. Hetty could remember when there used to be a cook, butler, several housemaids, parlour maids, skivvies and a whole regiment of gardeners back in those glorious days before the Great War, let alone this last one. All gone now.

‘When do you reckon Mrs Cowper herself came here?’ Hetty asked Sam as she washed up the few cups and plates after lunch while he sat on at the table, sharpening his shears. ‘She talks so rarely about the old days, and never gives those sort of details. Was it sometime around 1910?’

‘Mebbe earlier, I reckon.’

‘When exactly?’

‘I dunno, do I?’

‘How did they meet, those two? Did you ever hear?’

Sam shook his head. ‘Mr Cowper never did say, kept things very close to his chest, he did.’

Hetty sighed. ‘They didn’t spoil a pair in that respect. I heard it was in America. Do you reckon that might be true?’

Sam looked up, his old face creased into deep frowns, as he contemplated this notion. ‘Old Mr Cowper did go a-venturing to sea, I do believe, when he was young. I
mind once telling him how, as a boy, I used to catch eels, not that I ever fancied eating them. Then later we lads promoted ourselves to char, pike and perch, and they were real tasty. Said he loved fishing too, that he used to do a bit himself off Fisherman’s Wharf when he lived in San Francisco.’

‘There you are, then.’ Hetty wrung out the dishcloth and draped it over the tap to dry. ‘Mrs Cowper must be American, don’t you reckon, with a name like Georgia? Although she doesn’t sound it, does she? Course, she’s lived here a long time, so the accent will have softened. Was that where they met, I wonder, in America?’

‘You ask too many questions, girl. That’s their business, not ours.’

‘I dare say you’re right,’ she admitted, reaching for a towel to wipe her hands. ‘And how many times have I told you not to clean your tools in my kitchen? The
knife-sharpener
chap will be here next week, wait for him.’

‘I need it sharp today, woman. As sharp as your tongue,’ Sam said with a grin, then popping a kiss on his wife’s cheek, sauntered off, leaving her flushed and smiling.

At a little after five the following afternoon Chrissie was enjoying a quiet cup of tea seated on her little balcony, contentedly watching a few sailors venture out on to the water. A slight mist hung over the lake, shafts of sunlight giving it a golden hue. How lovely it was here, positively idyllic. She couldn’t remember feeling this happy for an age, save for the nudge of guilt at the back of her head over abandoning both her mother and Peter. Chrissie did
wonder what sort of reception she would get when she finally returned home, a worry she tried to ignore. She’d rung Mrs Lawson who said Vanessa was fine, if a little grumpy. Since that was par for the course these days, Chrissie resolved to put the problem from her mind, for now. There were more pressing matters to be dealt with, like meeting her grandmother, for instance.

Finishing her tea, she decided to explore the beautiful gardens and woodland that rose in terraces above the old house. Climbing a short rise of limestone steps she came upon a wide lawned area and suddenly there she was, deadheading the roses.

Despite having no memory of her, Chrissie knew instinctively that this was she. There was something about the tall stately figure that reminded her so much of Vanessa. Save for the clothes. Chrissie had never seen her own mother look anything other than beautiful and stylish, always decked out in the very latest fashion, even when she was playing the invalid. But there was none of her mother’s elegance here.

This woman wore a tweed skirt that had seen better days, a droopy navy-blue sweater with holes in the elbows, topped by a green quilted waistcoat, its pockets stuffed with a pair of secateurs and ball of baling twine. She could see little of her face or hair beneath a large, ramshackle straw hat, but could hear her humming softly to herself. A Vera Lynn number perhaps, or something from Gilbert and Sullivan? More likely
Carmen
.