War Orphans (28 page)

Pierre had written!

At first she speed read, noting a few particular words and sentences that leapt out at her.

Sally ran her fingertips over his signature. He was imploring her to write, as though he had not received her previous letters. But Lady Ambrose had assured her she would place both her own letter and Sally's in a parcel she was sending to France.

‘It will get there more quickly,' she had said to her.

The dying embers in the fireplace warmed the back of her legs and she frowned as she considered the implications.

Had Lady Ambrose forgotten to pack her letters to Pierre or was there some other explanation?

Her father interrupted her thoughts. ‘I take it nothing bad has happened to him.'

‘No,' said Sally, folding the letter up and slipping it into the pocket of her skirt. ‘Just a few minor difficulties that he hopes will be overcome.'

‘So what can we do about Joanna?'

‘Has she taken her things from the shed?'

Seb nodded. ‘Yes. The dog and everything of his.'

Sally sighed and hung her head. Her father had changed so much since meeting Joanna. Would he regress now Joanna had left? She hoped not.

‘Joanna was supposed to be evacuated. Her stepmother had booked her on the morning train. She didn't make it. Her suitcase is gone, but she definitely didn't get on the train.'

Her father turned his head so he was looking at the far corner of the room. He was sucking in his bottom lip, a sure sign that he was upset.

‘Dad. What about the dog? Where can she go with a dog?'

‘She will be noticeable,' he said without looking at her. ‘The dog's gone and so is the cold rabbit and pigeon I've been feeding him, but it won't last forever. At some point she'll have to get food for him.'

Sally sat down, her hands folded in her lap. She looked at her father. ‘Her stepmother's gone to the police. You know what that will mean when they find her. And they will find her. You do know that don't you?'

‘Of course I do,' he said, snapping his head round to face her. ‘She'll be evacuated for real.'

‘And if her stepmother gets her hands on the dog . . .'

Seb's face dropped. ‘I know that too, but I won't let that happen!'

Sally strode purposely up Redcatch Hill. In her mind she rehearsed what she was going to say to Lady Ambrose and surmised what her answers might be. One question loomed above all others.

‘My letters haven't been getting through to Pierre. Why is that?'

As for her answer to that particular question? She couldn't begin to guess. What possible reason could she have? There was no animosity between them, in fact Pierre had told her his aunt liked her very much.

It had to be some kind of mistake.

She paused at the gates of Ambrose House, gazing up the drive towards the imposing entrance. Nobody was in sight. Presumably her ladyship was out back with the cats and dogs.

She strained her ears for the sound of barking, but heard nothing. All was strangely quiet.

Sally made her way up the drive. Rather than chance knocking on the front door, she went straight to the kennels.

Lady Ambrose was leaning on the gate at the end of the stable block, staring at the enclosures ranged along either side in the adapted loose boxes.

Disquiet tightened in Sally's stomach. Were the dogs and cats still there or had they been taken away? Had the government's advice caught up with all of them?

‘Lady Ambrose?'

Amelia Ambrose glanced over her shoulder but maintained her position, her gaze returning to the stable block interior and the animals in her care. She held a piece of paper in one hand.

‘I thought I heard you.' She sighed heavily. ‘I'll be as cheerful as I can, but don't expect too much. Today is not a good day.'

Sally frowned and held back what she truly wished to ask. ‘What's wrong?'

Lady Ambrose passed her the piece of paper. ‘The house has been requisitioned by the War Office for use as a convalescent home or billeting for soldiers. I can either move out entirely or confine my living space to two rooms and a kitchen.'

Sally quickly read the directive, which stated that many large houses were being requisitioned to provide troop accommodation and hospital services. Ambrose House was one of them. ‘The main residence plus outbuildings . . . But surely they'd let you keep the stables! The animals have to live somewhere.'

Amelia slid her a sidelong look that said it all. The War Office didn't care what happened to the animals. They were not a priority.

‘They'd probably use them for target practice,' Amelia said grimly.

‘Don't say that, please. Not even in jest.'

Ill-informed as they were, she couldn't believe any civilised government would do that.

Amelia sighed. ‘Humans take priority.'

Sally had to concede that she was right.

Even so, it wasn't like Lady Ambrose to give in so easily. Perhaps a little goading was needed?

Sally chose her words carefully. ‘I understand your ancestors fought beside the first Duke of Marlborough.'

Amelia nodded. ‘True. The first of the Churchills.'

‘Surely that must carry some weight.'

A weak smile crossed Amelia's face. ‘My dear girl, there is no way I can march up to number 10 Downing Street and demand old Winston retract the requisition and give my animals a chance.' She grinned suddenly. ‘If I did I might ask him if he can give a home to an old bulldog. Owners resemble their dogs and a bulldog would suit him fine.' Her smile diminished. ‘Take no notice of me. Pure fantasy, my dear. Pure fantasy. Still,' she said, slapping the top bar as she pushed herself away from the gate. ‘You haven't come here to hear about me and my problems. A good hostess should at least offer tea. Come on.'

The purposeful stride Sally was used to was not quite so purposeful, but there was still an air of command in her ladyship's voice.

Sally followed her into the cave of a kitchen, warm thanks to the Aga and the range of saucepans bubbling away on top. She guessed most of the food being cooked was horsemeat and offal for the animals. Both came from the kennels of a fox hunt in South Gloucestershire.

‘The help's off. But I can make tea. Now. To what do I owe this visit?'

Sally had been about to say it was purely a social call, but Amelia's tone inferred she guessed otherwise.

Eight chairs were set around a scrubbed pine table. Sally dragged one of them out and sat down, her hands clasped in front of her, elbows resting on the table. ‘I've had a letter from Pierre.'

‘Oh. That's nice for you.' Although Amelia smiled, Sally noticed a guarded look in her eyes.

‘Apparently he hasn't received any of my letters.'

Amelia gave the appearance of concentrating on pouring the water into a blue-and-white Wedgewood teapot.

Sally frowned. ‘Did you hear what I said?'

‘Yes. I did. Milk? I worry about bone china cracking so I always pour milk in first.' Her attention became fixed on pouring milk into two bone china teacups.

Sally thought quickly. There was something very telling about Amelia's manner. She didn't sound terribly surprised that the letters hadn't arrived. Could it be that she'd forgotten to send them? Surely she hadn't held them back purposely?

Sally reined in her suspicions, willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. She chose her words carefully. ‘Do you think they got there? I mean, you did remember to put them in with the things you sent him and your own letters . . .'

‘No! I did not.'

Lady Amelia Ambrose had a very high forehead and the sort of skin that shone when caught in the light. It shone now, though it seemed more like perspiration, as though she were nervous or upset. Amelia was not the sort to be nervous and she was already upset about the house being requisitioned.

‘I didn't send the letters because I wanted to split you two up.'

Sally's jaw dropped. ‘What?'

‘You heard me. I wanted to split you up and before you call me a mean old witch with a snobby attitude, there was a very good reason for wanting to split you up. I don't want you being hurt, Sally.'

Tea untouched, Sally sat across from the older woman feeling as though every last drop of blood had been bled from her body. Her throat felt as though she were swallowing thorns and her tongue seemed to be lying dead in her mouth.

When she finally found it, her voice sounded small and faraway. ‘Why would I be hurt?'

Amelia fiddled with her teacup, looking into the pale tan liquid like a fortune-teller looking for the future. Only there was
no future to be found there and she was no prophetess making trite comments about what was and what might be.

‘Pierre is married.'

She took a swift sip of tea, eyes averted, her mouth set in a tight line as though she'd just eaten something particularly unsavoury.

It was as though icy fingers had traced frosty patterns throughout Sally's body – like the ones on the inside of windowpanes in the depths of a very cold winter.

Sally waited for Amelia to explain more. She was met with a silence she couldn't bear.

‘Is she French?'

Amelia nodded. ‘Yes.'

It wasn't enough. Sally's shock was swiftly turning to anger. Would knowing more placate that anger? She didn't know and didn't care. She
had
to know more.

‘Tell me about her. About them. I want to know!'

Amelia's hooded eyelids lifted. Her pale blue eyes studied Sally with both pity and reluctance.

‘I promise not to rant and rave. Nor will I burst into tears.'

Amelia shrugged. ‘If you insist. What do you want to know first?'

‘Her name would be a good start, as well as how they met and why they're apart.'

Amelia looked at her thoughtfully, pursing her lips before finally taking the plunge. ‘Since I've opened the gate, so to speak, I might as well let the horses gallop through. Adele and Pierre grew up together. Their parents regarded them as childhood sweethearts and in a way I think the pair of them moulded themselves to what other people wanted. Anyway, Adele was expecting when they got married.'

Sally swallowed. Her throat felt as frozen as her body. ‘Go on,' she managed to say at last, too shocked to say much else and certainly too far into this explanation to turn back. A child! This was the worst thing imaginable.

‘Adele had a baby girl. Stillborn, I'm afraid.'

‘They must have been devastated.'

‘I assume they were, though Pierre never refers to it. In fact, he rarely speaks of Adele. I'm not sure of his exact feelings because on the occasions when I've broached the subject I've met with a blank wall. He almost told me something once, about Adele's political beliefs and her outlandish behaviour, but he clamed up almost as soon as he started talking. I have my own suspicions about that. Pierre refuses to speak of the baby and refuses to talk about Adele. And before you ask, I've no idea why. It grieves me that they haven't made a go of it. They used to be so close and I liked Adele very much – as much as I like you. Things seemed to fall apart about three years ago, but even before that . . .'

Sally stared down at her entwined fingers, tears stinging her eyes. Pierre meant everything to her and she'd truly believed they'd have a life together. All the dreams she'd built had turned to dust.

‘He should have told me,' she said bitterly, digging her fingernails into her palms. The only folly on her part had been falling in love. As for Pierre, on his part there was only subterfuge. He'd lied to her by omission. She could never forgive him for that.

‘I urged him to tell you. He told me the time wasn't right and that I was not to tell you either. He told me he wanted to see Adele before the German army invaded, before she . . . Well, how he's going to do that now they have is likely to be very difficult indeed. As for letters – well – that isn't going to be so easy from now on.'

Pierre's deceit had made Sally angry, but still she found herself wondering and worrying. Would she ever see him again now that the Germans were in France?

‘He told me he was going to France to help fight the invader when they came. And now France is totally overrun. Our troops had their backs against the sea at Dunkirk. Pierre didn't get
away back in May so God knows where he might be now. He might be waiting to kill himself some Germans. I don't know for sure.'