Only a Mother Knows (40 page)

‘That’s as maybe, Olive,’ said Archie, his face etched with concern, ‘but don’t you think that is her choice? I know you are doing this with the best of intentions but …’

‘It is for the best, Archie,’ Olive cut in. ‘She isn’t old enough to fight her heart’s desire.’

‘It’s a good thing she is old enough to fight for her country, then,’ Archie said, unusually sharp as he stood up and retrieved his waterproof from the stand by the door. ‘It would be something to take her mind off matters of the heart.’ Archie made his way towards the canteen door but before he left he turned.

‘She’s a big girl now, Olive, you must sever the apron strings.’ And with that he saluted the other WVS women and left Olive wondering if she was doing the right thing after all?

‘They looked nice and cosy,’ Nancy Black, who had come in for a cup of tea and a bit of a warm to save her own coal rations, said to Audrey. ‘It’s all right for some hobnobbing with the local constabulary with free cups of tea. Since the shortages there’s no chance of getting anything unless you’re in the know.’

‘Mrs Black, has it never occurred to you to have a little compassion for the plight of others? Olive must be out of her mind worrying about Tilly.’ Audrey was in no mood for Nancy’s insinuations.

‘She’s only billeted in Whitehall,’ Nancy exclaimed, ‘not exactly a hive of danger!’

‘That is one of the most dangerous places in England, I should imagine.’ But their observations were cut short when Olive returned to the counter.

‘Mind how you go with that sugar, Nancy,’ Olive said. ‘You’re shovelling it like sand, don’t you know there’s a war on?’

‘You’re telling me,’ Nancy said as she quickly scooped another half a teaspoonful into her cup before Olive removed the basin.

‘My nephew’s in the desert,’ said Audrey, taking the coppers from Nancy and putting them into the wooden drawer they used for a makeshift till.

‘The desert, you say?’ asked the soldier who was next in line. ‘A friend of mine was there but he was brought home injured. As a matter of fact I believe his sister lives around here somewhere, and I’ve got a message for her.’ Looking grim, he paused momentarily. ‘I promised I would deliver it but I’ve gone and lost the address.’ After glancing around the cosy, steamed-up canteen he said in a low whisper, ‘You don’t happen to know where Dulcie Simmonds lives, do you?’

‘Her name isn’t …’ But Nancy was quickly cut off by a glare from Olive.

‘Why, who wants to know?’ One couldn’t be too careful these days, she thought.

‘I’ve got a message for her from her brother Rick, who says he’s coming out of hospital next Thursday and he’ll call in on her.’

‘Oh, that is good news.’ Olive clattered the large teapot onto the counter and could have jumped for joy, knowing Dulcie had been so worried when her brother was taken into hospital with suspected pneumonia. Since his stint in the desert with the eighth army he hadn’t been quite the same and although his sight was slowly improving he’d had no such luck with his chest now winter had set in. ‘If we see her, who shall we say is asking?’

‘I’m Raphael Androtti,’ said the soldier, whose dark good looks were attracting attention from several of the WVS volunteers. ‘It would mean a lot to Rick if you could pass on his message.’

Poor Dulcie, thought Olive, she had been so downhearted since her brother had been taken back into hospital, not her old self at all, even though she did make a real effort when she came to visit, which was often.

And with that thought in mind Olive decided she could not wait until Dulcie’s next visit which might be tomorrow or maybe even next week, nobody knew; she just dropped in unannounced and always brought something nice, such as a bag of sugar or tinned stuff; things that were practical and always welcome. Obviously Olive asked no questions – well, nobody did any more, it seemed. However, she knew she couldn’t wait for Dulcie to call into Article Row. Instead she’d go to Gray’s Inn and give the young woman the good news just as soon as she finished in the canteen.

‘Oh, David, Rick’s coming out of hospital, thank God!’ Happy tears streamed down Dulcie’s face as David clasped her hand and hugged her to him.

‘Who told you this?’ David asked.

‘Olive called around this afternoon.’ Dulcie was thrilled.

‘Oh, that is good news, I’m so happy to see you more cheerful, darling.’ David gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘That was very thoughtful of Olive.’

‘But that’s the type of woman she is, my love, always thinking of others. The world would be a better place if we were all like Olive,’ Dulcie said as she took off his wool and cashmere Crombie overcoat and removed the silk cashmere scarf she had given him for Christmas. ‘She stayed for a cup of tea, it was lovely, and I told her all about Edith’s nasty scare at New Year and how she has now settled down to the idea of living with us until the baby is born …’ However, she didn’t tell David that she knew the man who had delivered the message to Olive.

‘Darling, are you all right?’ David looked most concerned as he urged her to sit down on the sofa and Dulcie could only nod enthusiastically, hoping he would not fret about her so much.

How could she tell her wonderful husband that Raphael Androtti, one of the most handsome men she had ever met in her life, and who always had a ‘thing’ for her, was here in Holborn, and he had been trying to find her? David would be disheartened to hear that one of her old flames was back on the scene, even if it was completely innocent, and she couldn’t put him through that after all that had happened to him.

‘I’m fine,’ said Dulcie, feeling anything but fine, knowing she had found it extremely difficult to resist Raphael’s charms in the past. Although now she was a respectable married woman she knew that she would have to put those feelings behind her. If that was possible.

Only a Mother Knows

Near the middle of February Agnes was on her way to visit Mr Carlton, her father’s lawyer, after she received a letter telling her he had news for her and requesting she attend his office at ten o’clock on Tuesday morning. Sitting in the outer corridor on a straight-backed chair Agnes took in the austere atmosphere. The main office, through the opaque window, was nothing special, just a room, three flights up in an Edwardian villa, crammed with dusty files. When she was called in she could see that behind a huge mahogany desk sat the rotund, bespectacled man who spoke so softly it was difficult to hear his voice.

‘Mr Weybridge wanted me to give you this,’ said Mr Carlton in respectful tones, passing her gave her an envelope. ‘I’m afraid I have some grave news for you. Your father has died peacefully in his sleep. He left specific instructions that I was not to give you this until after the funeral.’

‘He didn’t even want me at his funeral?’ Agnes felt as if she had been struck; she had found her father after twenty years and now she had lost him again – this time forever. She could not read the words of the letter as her tears were blurring her vision and as one dropped onto the envelope Mr Carlton gently enquired if she would like him to read it to her instead.

Struggling to gain control, Agnes could only nod.

Taking the parchment paper from the envelope the solicitor explained to Agnes that everything Mr Weybridge had owned now belonged to her. When he finished reading, the solicitor pulled down his dark-framed spectacles and looking over the rim asked in almost reverential tones, ‘Did you understand what I said, Miss Weybridge?’

For a moment Agnes, whose head was bent as she played with the skin on her fingers, didn’t realise he was talking to her as he had used her true name – the one she had only heard for the first time a few short weeks ago. With some difficulty she forced herself to respond.

‘He has left me the farm.’ Agnes felt sick. She was dreaming. She must be. Things like this didn’t happen to people like her … Foundlings, abandoned and brought up in an orphanage. ‘He’s left it to me. His farm. He’s left it to me.’

She walked back to Article Row in a kind of daze and if anybody had asked she couldn’t have recalled the journey at all. Somehow she managed to get back to the house and find the door key. It was pure instinct that led her into the kitchen and to the enquiring glance of her landlady.

‘It’s true; I’ve inherited a farm from Mr Weybridge! But what about Ted, what will he say?’ Agnes said as they sat at the table, cradling cups of tea in their hands.

‘I’d say you both have to talk about it, Agnes,’ said Olive. ‘There is a lot to consider and it is right that he has his say.’

‘I wish he could have met … my father.’ The term ‘my father’ was foreign to her but Agnes felt proud saying it aloud. ‘But what do we know about farming? I don’t know one end of a cow from another.’

‘Maybe the old man, Darnley, will stay on and help you both,’ Olive said with a hint of sadness, knowing that if Agnes had inherited a farm it was her duty to go and work on it as the land girls had learned to do.

‘But that would mean … leaving here …’ Agnes gasped, suddenly realising the enormity of her inheritance. Slowly it began to sink in that she was no longer free to come and go as she pleased in Article Row. She had responsibilities now. Huge responsibilities. And she wasn’t sure she was capable of fulfilling them. Quickly she jumped up from the chair she had been sitting on and hugged Olive as she would have done to her own mother.

‘I don’t want to leave here to live on a farm, Olive.’ There was a muffled crack in her voice as she buried her face in Olive’s shoulder and fresh tears began to flow.

‘We all have to do our bit, my dear,’ Olive said as a cold wind whistled around the house. ‘It is our duty to king and country whether we like it or not.’

Olive knew things were going to be very different from now on. Despite her words, she knew she would hate to lose the quiet presence of Agnes around the house. Although she was so shy, the girl had become a real companion and Olive was afraid she would miss her dreadfully. Slowly she rose from the table and cleared the cups, turning to the sink so that her young lodger could not see the look of anguish on her face.

Tilly was pleased that she had been posted to London and was billeted with the rest of the girls near Whitehall where she was stationed. She was able to fix the lorries she proficiently drove and was also skilled in clerical work thanks to her time in the Lady Almoner’s office at Bart’s hospital where she used to work before joining the ATS. Her most frequent duty was that of a messenger, her knowledge of her native city making her invaluable for the task.

One of the advantages of this posting was that she had been able to visit Rick at his new lodgings in the East End where his family used to live, something her mother would never have allowed her to do. She thought it only right that she made the effort to try to cheer him up through his convalescence, since Dulcie could not be exposed to any infection as she was so heavily pregnant, and most of his old friends were now fighting abroad. She had only managed the occasional visit so far, but, she reflected, she must have said something right as he sent a letter to say he would be coming to the West End soon, so would she like to go to a dance or to the pictures? She was glad his eyesight had improved enough for him to get around without his white stick as he had been so self-conscious about it – but he did need to wear spectacles and on the rare occasion when the sun shone he had to wear dark glasses. But there was no doubt that he was returning to his old irrepressible self.

Tilly loved her new-found freedom as well as her new responsibilities and although she loved her mother very much, she did not relish the idea of returning to Article Row and allowing herself to be comfortably tucked under Olive’s ever-protective wing again. Tilly knew that her mother would have had a near heart attack if she saw half the things that she now got up to. Grinning, she remembered the story one of the girls who’d been posted to the Home Office had come back with, keen to share it around their billet. Mr Churchill was at first adamant conscripted women should not be involved in armed combat suspecting that they would have a demoralising effect on the nation – but one of the Home Office girls had spoken up and said women were already doing extremely dangerous work and decreed that ‘a fit woman could fire a rifle far better than an unhealthy man’. This had been met with a rowdy cheer – for which they were all severely reprimanded.

Removing her leather gauntlets, goggles and steel crash helmet Tilly, now an accomplished dispatch rider who rode a 350cc Triumph motorcycle, would have filled her mother’s heart with dread had she been witness to her haring across London with urgent messages.

Not only London, Tilly smiled, having just returned from France after delivering a very important package. She knew these things had to be done in wartime and she loved it. And if she’d plumped for billeting at home in Article Row her mother would have had no choice but to worry about her and tell her constantly that only a mother knows what is right for her offspring.

Reaching for the top button of her jacket, Tilly’s fingers automatically sought the place where Drew’s Harvard ring still nestled against her heart. Had he ever finished his book? Did he ever think of her still? She consoled herself with the realisation he would always be a treasured friend, and firmly vowed not to think of him as anything more. Those days were over; besides, wartime changed everybody. Perhaps she would let Rick know that she would take up his offer of a night at the pictures. She didn’t think he was quite ready for the frenetic jiving in the dance hall just yet even though …

Pushed under her door she found a letter from her mother and, throwing her gauntlets aside, Tilly hurried to open it. Olive said she hoped Tilly would be home for Easter, which was late this year and maybe a lot warmer than past holidays even though the winter had been relatively mild. Mum told her everybody had promised to try and get back to Article Row for the Sunday, which wasn’t until the twenty-fifth of April this year, one of the latest on record apparently.

Life was all so exciting right now, Tilly thought, and it would be fantastic if everybody could be together again all catching up and talking over each other in their eagerness to tell of their exploits – just like the old days. She laughed to herself – since when did she start thinking about ‘the old days’? She was still only twenty years old, but now she was sounding like Nancy Black!