Her hands were shaking when she set the dining room table. It was quarter to nine, almost time for breakfast. The food had to be served on covered platters on a side table so people could help themselves. She returned to the kitchen and put the strips of bacon in a frying pan on the simmering plate of the Aga, then fried the eggs on the hot plate. All the time, the leg of lamb stared at her balefully from the draining board.
At nine o’clock promptly, Mrs Corbett and her friends came down for breakfast. The bell rang almost immediately, as Rose knew it would. The yolks had broken on five of the six eggs and she was in for a scolding.
‘You seem to have forgotten something, Rose,’ Mrs Corbett said cuttingly when she went in. ‘Although you have provided us with butter, jam and marmalade,
there’s no toast to put it on. And why is your hair all wet, girl? You look very untidy.’
‘It must’ve got wet when I fetched the coal, madam.’
‘Did you not think to wear a scarf ? You’re obviously having trouble waking up this morning.’
‘I’m afraid the bread still hasn’t been delivered.’ It wasn’t her fault, but she felt as if it was and the panicky feeling spread to her entire body. Her legs were threatening to give way.
Mrs Corbett rolled her eyes. ‘Please hurry. We’ll just have to do without toast, though it isn’t very satisfactory. My previous cook wasn’t exactly cordon bleu,’ she remarked as Rose went out the door, ‘but she was vastly superior to this one.’
Rose didn’t have time to eat. She hastily cleaned the drawing room, while waiting for the bell to ring when the eggs with the broken yolks were discovered and she’d be subjected to another dressing down. But Mrs Corbett must have decided she’d had enough that morning and the bell didn’t ring again.
She was in the laundry, stirring the washing with the dolly, when the bread arrived, delivered by the baker himself in his van. ‘Won’t be doing this much longer,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to get it from the shop. Petrol’s being rationed soon. I say, you look moidered. I reckon they’re working you too hard. ’Bye, love.’
She hardly heard a word he’d said. She transferred the washing to the sink and rinsed it, then fed each garment twice through the mangle. It was no use hanging the things outside today, so she let down the rack. When everything had been spread as neatly as possible to minimise the ironing, she pulled it back up, something she always found difficult, but it had only gone halfway when she found she could pull it no further. All the
strength had gone from her arms. She tried frantically to cling to the rope, but could feel it slipping through her hands, burning the flesh, and the next minute the rack, full of clean clothes, was on the floor.
Rose fainted.
When she came to, she was on the bed in her room and Tom Flowers was bending over her.
‘Just found you lying on the floor, so I carried you up here,’ he said gruffly, his brown eyes puckered with concern. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I don’t know.’ Her body felt as light as air and her head was swimming. She remembered the washing and tried to sit up, but Tom pushed her down again.
‘Stay there,’ he commanded. ‘You need to rest. You’ve been looking fair worn out lately. Mrs Corbett’s a good woman, but she’s expecting too much. There was a time when someone came in to do the laundry and all the maid had to do was clean. Now Mrs Denning’s gone and you’re doing the cooking an’ all. I’ll have a word with the mistress later.’
‘Please don’t,’ Rose implored. ‘She might give me the sack.’
‘Never in a million years, young lady,’ he assured her with a smile. ‘She’d never find a more willing worker than you.’
Rose burst into tears. ‘But I don’t know what to do with the lamb,’ she sobbed. ‘And how do you make suet pudding?’
‘You’ll learn eventually. All women should know how to cook.’ He patted her hand. ‘I’ll get someone to fetch tea.’
The Clayburn sisters brought the tea, full of sympathy and apologies. ‘We’re sorry about the washing,’ Dolly said, ‘but we were so busy packing and shutting down
the house, that we hadn’t done the laundry for days. Evelyn, Mrs Corbett, said to put it in the basket and you’d do it.’
‘And I’m sorry I asked for marmalade this morning,’ Daisy put in. ‘When you brought it, you looked rushed off your feet. It’s just that it made such a lovely change, being waited on in bed. We don’t have a maid at home. As from tomorrow, me and Dolly will do the cooking in return for our keep.’
‘Thank you,’ Rose whispered.
‘Evelyn’s quite a kind person, but she’s a bit of a bully – she was at school. Remember, Daise?’
‘I do indeed,’ Daisy said in a heartfelt voice. ‘A terrible bully.’
Later in the day, Mrs Corbett put her head around the door. ‘You should have said you were over-worked,’ she said sourly. ‘It was foolish to just try and keep on until you dropped. From now on, I’ll send the washing to the laundry and the Clayburns will take over the cooking. I’ve just had a phone call from Harker’s. They won’t be delivering groceries any more, so you can start doing the shopping. There’s a bike in the garage. I’ll ask Tom to do it up and get a basket for the front.’
At first, she was rather wobbly on the bike, but soon got the hang of it. It was lovely cycling along the country lanes early in the morning, whatever the weather, a shopping list in her pocket, always hoping Mrs Corbett had forgotten something, which happened occasionally, and she’d be asked to go again.
Dolly and Daisy Clayburn were without side and had no qualms about being friendly with a servant. Rose was almost glad she’d fainted. Since then, everything had changed out of all proportion for the better. In May,
when she turned sixteen, the sisters made her first birthday cake, a chocolate sponge with her name on in white icing. It tasted wonderful.
Nowadays, there were only the two of them when Tom Flowers came in for lunch. She couldn’t remember being carried upstairs, but knowing that she had lain in his arms made her think of Tom as someone she could always rely on if ever she was in trouble again. He was the first person to show her any tenderness and she felt grateful.
Sometimes he came bearing a letter from Colonel Max, who was still in France and always asked after her. She’d give Tom a message to send back. For a long while, the colonel had had little to do except drink wine in the local cafés until the awful day came when Hitler invaded and he was caught up in the vicious fighting. Mrs Corbett was bad-tempered with everyone until, in June, the colonel arrived home to convalesce, having been rescued with a bullet in his shoulder in the great evacuation of Dunkirk.
‘Ah, this is what kept me going during the worst of the fighting, the thought of an angel bringing my tea,’ the colonel sighed blissfully when Rose entered his room on his first morning back. ‘I’ve missed you, Rose.’
‘I’ve missed you, Colonel. We all have.’
‘Yes, but you’re the only one that matters, my dear.’ He sighed again. ‘If only I were younger or you were older! God can be very cruel, Rose.’
‘He can indeed, Colonel.’ She had no idea what he was talking about.
A few weeks later, Mrs Corbett threw a party to celebrate her son’s safe return. Tom Flowers was invited. He was the only man present not wearing a dinner jacket, just a dark suit and tie, and a dazzling white shirt.
Rose, whose job it was to take the drinks around the crowded room, thought he looked incredibly handsome, if a trifle uncomfortable, in such exalted company. She stopped in front of him. ‘Would you like something to drink?’
‘No, ta. I only drink beer.’
‘There’s some in the kitchen. Shall I fetch it?’
‘They’ll start dancing any minute. I’ll come and help myself.’
The tray quickly emptied and she returned to the kitchen for more. Minutes later, Nelson Eddy began to sing ‘Lover Come Back to Me’. It was one of the records the Clayburns had brought with them and she knew the words off by heart. She sang along at the top of her voice, knowing she would never be heard above the din in the drawing room.
‘You have a lovely voice, Rose. Though I should have known. Everything about you is lovely.’ Colonel Max was standing in the doorway, watching her with a sober expression on his plain little face that always reminded Rose of a lovable monkey. He looked just a little bit drunk. The gay atmosphere had made her feel a tiny bit drunk herself, though not a drop of wine had passed her lips. ‘Dance with me,’ the colonel pleaded. ‘It’s something else I dreamed about in France when things got unbearably bad.’ He seized her about the waist and began to whirl her around the table.
‘I can’t dance,’ she gasped.
‘Neither can I, my dear, and this shoulder doesn’t help.’
She laughed out loud as she attempted to keep in step. ‘You’re mad, Colonel.’
‘Mad about you, Rose. Mad about you.’
There was a loud cough and a voice said stiffly, ‘Excuse me.’ Tom Flowers entered the room.
‘Go away, Tom,’ the colonel cried. ‘Can’t you see Rose and I are busy?’
‘Your mother is asking for you, sir. There’s someone she’d like you to dance with.’
‘He only calls me “sir” when he’s annoyed,’ the colonel said gaily. ‘What’s the matter, Tom? Are you jealous? Tell my mother I’m otherwise engaged.’
Rose stopped dancing and pushed him away. ‘If you don’t mind, Colonel, I think it’d be best if you went.’ Mrs Corbett’s anger would be directed at her, not her son, if she discovered what he was up to.
Sniffing tragically, the dejected colonel went to do his mother’s bidding. For a long while, Tom Flowers stayed where he was, just inside the door, not speaking. Rose was uncomfortably aware of his dark, brooding face and burning eyes.
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ she said when the silence had gone on for too long.
‘What wasn’t?’ Tom growled.
‘That Colonel Max asked me to dance.’
‘I know that.’
There was another silence, then Tom said in a strained voice, ‘You’ve never seen my house, have you?’
It was the last thing she’d expected him to say. ‘Yes, I have. I’ve passed it loads of times.’
‘I’d like you to see it proper.’
‘That’d be nice,’ she said politely.
‘Come tomorrow, after lunch. About two o’clock.’
‘All right, Tom. Thank you.’
Disraeli Terrace consisted of ten whitewashed houses with gardens front and back, the only properties in long,
winding Holly Lane, about a mile from Ailsham. The houses had been built a hundred years before by the Corbett family for their farmworkers, Tom informed Rose the next day. Anthony Corbett had been a Conservative Member of Parliament and a friend of Benjamin Disraeli, the Prime Minister, hence the name of the terrace.
At the turn of the century, Tom said, the farm land was sold to a local farmer, along with the houses – all except one. When Anthony Corbett died, he had bequeathed the end property, number ten, to his gardener, Ernest Flowers, as a reward for a lifetime of loyal service. The land had been extended, so that the plot of number ten was three times as big as the other nine. Two years before his death, when Colonel Max’s father had had electricity installed in The Limes, he had insisted his gardener’s house be in receipt of the same facility.
‘It’s the only one in the row,’ Tom said proudly.
‘And it’s actually
yours
.’ Rose was greatly impressed.
A glorious sun shone out of a clear blue sky, exactly the same shade as her best frock, as he showed her around the garden; a velvety lawn surrounded by a wide border of magically scented bushes, flowers and small trees comprising every colour of the rainbow. He told her the names. ‘Them’s hydrangeas, that’s broom, the tree in the corner’s lilac and that one’s cherry. They’re begonias, my favourite. They last till the summer’s almost out.’
‘It’s a nicer garden than The Limes,’ Rose said admiringly. ‘More colourful, more . . . ’ She searched for the right word. ‘More haphazard.’
Tom looked pleased. ‘Mrs Corbett likes things to be neat and regular. I prefer them a bit wild, haphazard, like
you said. I used to grow all my own vegetables until Mother passed away five years ago. The vegetable patch has been lying fallow ever since, but there’s still plenty of fruit. Do you like strawberries?’
‘Yes,’ Rose breathed.
‘Well, you can eat the lot come next June.’
‘Those flowers around the back door are very pretty.’
‘Them’s clematis.’ He pointed to a sturdy garden shed. ‘That’s where my dad used to smoke his pipe – Mother wouldn’t allow it in the house. Let’s go indoors, see what you think about the kitchen.’
Children were playing in the other gardens, their cries and laughter oddly muted in the heat and stillness of the afternoon air. She couldn’t remember a child having been near The Limes and the sounds made her smile. ‘I love it here,’ she cried.
Tom was watching her delighted face. ‘It’s lovely having you.’
They went inside and she said she much preferred his kitchen to the one in The Limes. It had the same red tiled floor, but was only a fraction of the size, as was the table and the dresser with its flower patterned china.
‘It’s just right,’ she said. ‘Not too big and not too small.’ The electric stove had four hotplates and an oven and appeared much easier to use than the Aga. A long window over the sink looked out on to the garden. It needed lacy curtains and a bowl of flowers on the sill, she thought.
‘The parlour’s through here.’ He showed her into a cosy room full of dark furniture and a comfortable leatherette three piece. The wallpaper was patterned with swirling red roses. There was an attractive maroon tiled fireplace with a matching rug in front.
‘You’ve got a wireless,’ Rose exclaimed. ‘And a piano.
I’ve always wanted to play.’ She sometimes played the piano in her dreams.
‘It’s never too late to learn,’ Tom said gruffly.
‘Chance’d be a fine thing.’ She laughed. ‘Mrs Corbett wouldn’t let me near her piano.’
‘You can play that one whenever you like.’
‘Thank you, but I wouldn’t know where to start.’ She thought it a very peculiar offer. She touched the gleaming lid, which had recently been polished, and couldn’t, for the life of her, imagine him with a duster. ‘Who keeps everywhere clean?’