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‘There's something I should tell you, Alice,' Ralph was saying to her now. She heard the dull thud of her heart. She put her fingers over his lips.

‘Not now, Ralph. I can't take one more little thing right now. Please? Let's just get some sleep.' She clicked out the light and lay very still, as if by remaining unnoticed the thing that was approaching might pass over her.

It had taken her years to realise she'd never really know what was going on inside that head of his. Not really. And lying in the sudden dark she felt how isolated their house was, perched on the hill at the edge of the village, nothing before them but miles of wind and distant fields under the darkness.

She could feel Ralph silent but awake beside her.

How easy it was to wreck a life, with a careless word, with a lack of resolve; it only took the space of a day to send a whole existence skittering down a path you'd never intended.

CHAPTER 17

Buxton, 1941

Each morning Peter collected the post from the coir mat and looked through to see if there were any letters for Alice. If he recognised Ralph's writing he'd run up to her room, tap on the door and leave the letter outside. Moments later she would appear in a wrap and tear the envelope open, letting the door fall shut again.

When Ralph had arrived at the Hanburys' in his new army greatcoat, dropping his long kit bag in the hallway, Peter had been minded to feel resentful towards him now that he was Alice's official boyfriend. But it was hard to dislike Ralph, and if he had to choose someone to take care of Alice well then Ralph was a pretty good bet, genial and bumbling and evidently surprised to find himself in army fatigues. He always produced chocolate for Peter from his NAAFI rations and was happy to sit in the kitchen playing a game of cards with him and Maudey if Alice was out on some other errand.

Over the summer Ralph was sent away to various training camps and they saw little of him. Alice decided to do her bit by helping Peter dig for victory in the Hanbury gardens.

Peter had turned over the top two terraces to make neat beds of carrots, cabbage and orderly runs of potato plants. The tomatoes on the top terrace were ripening so fast that Maudey had had to start bottling them. She'd declared it was champion, his garden. And even Mr Hanbury had looked at the mounds of produce on the kitchen
table as he passed through and said it was splendid, Peter, a splendid effort for the war.

Alice wore old jodhpurs, a cotton turban to keep her hair out of her eyes. Sometimes she brought the wind-up gramophone out, and they dug side by side, Alice humming along to Glen Miller or some show tune, since a taste for love songs had arrived along with Ralph. Or she quizzed Peter on his English texts and spun dreams of him going to Oxford – one day.

He did want to go to Oxford, or at least to university; he wanted to be a doctor or a teacher or a lawyer. Alice thought a teacher, but he might have to do something to correct some of his vowels, she mused, looking at him critically as she rested her hands on the top of the hoe. She stroked the perspiration away from her forehead, tucked some wisps of fair hair back under the turban. ‘Just the way it is,' she explained to him. ‘If you're a doctor or a teacher people expect the Queen's English, you do see.'

Alice made him practise saying things like: ‘The water in my bath is awfully hot.' And they spent some time saying ‘gas mask', rhyming the right vowel with ‘pass' and laughing at the people who got it wrong, because he could hear it now, it did sound funny if you got it wrong.

They were hoeing around the leeks, leaving a wake of cleared soil, singing along to ‘Little Brown Jug', when Peter noticed someone else in the garden, looking up at them from the bottom terrace. He shielded his eyes. It was a woman with yellow hair. She was wearing a striped dress and clutching a toddler in her arms, the child struggling to get down.

Alice straightened. Peter watched her take in the girl's little hat, the tight, striped dress. ‘No one I know. Pop down and see what she wants, would you, Peter? See if Maudey's there.'

Peter placed his hoe on the grass and rubbed the grit from his sticky hands. The young woman glared at him as he came down the
steps. The child had finally managed to kick free and drop to the ground. She grabbed his arm and held tight.

‘Can I help you, miss?'

‘I've come to have a word with Mr Hanbury.'

‘I don't think he's in.'

‘I'll just have to wait here till he's back then.' She looked around for somewhere to sit down. Her face was bright red with the heat. The child had started crying.

‘Would you like to wait inside, out of the sun?'

She thought about it for a moment, glanced around the garden and decided that yes, she would like to wait inside. She didn't see why not after all, she said, as she walked in haughtily.

There was no Maudey in the kitchen to ask what to do with her.

‘Is it about business?' He wondered if she worked in one of Mr Hanbury's shops. ‘About shoes?'

‘Shoes?' she echoed. ‘I was at that factory right enough, time was. But it's about a lot more than shoes, lad.'

He had a bad feeling that she didn't look like someone who would be shown in to sit and wait in Mrs Hanbury's drawing room. He'd seen tradesmen waiting on the chair inside Mr Hanbury's office, their hat on their knee. He decided, since she was from the factory, that she should wait in Mr Hanbury's study. As he led her through the hallway her head turned to examine everything, and everything she saw seemed to make her displeased.

‘And I'm supposed to manage on what I get given,' she said as he left her on the study chair. ‘You might offer a body something to drink on a day like this.'

While he fetched two glasses of barley water he tried to think where he'd seen her before. Was it at the factory that day, one of the girls at the bench who had teased him? As he carried the tray through to the study he had it: it was the girl who lived over the butcher's
shop. She looked more worn down and sour now, but it was the same girl who had run out and banged on the car window as Mr Hanbury pulled away.

He put the tray on a side table and glanced down at her feet. She was wearing them. They were scuffed, worn-looking round her feet, but it was the same pair of red shoes. He began to feel uncomfortable about having asked her about who she was; there was a horrible worry creeping over his shoulders that he'd done something wrong.

‘Is there anything else I can get for you?'

‘Is she home, his missis?'

‘Mrs Hanbury? No. I think she's having her hair done.'

‘Is she indeed? Well, it's all right for some.' She sipped and glared around at the bookshelves. She slapped the little boy when he spilled his barley water on the rug. Peter decided he'd better stay and play with the little boy, save him from causing any more damage.

It wasn't so long afterwards that they heard the sound of the front door opening, and voices in the hallway. Mr and Mrs Hanbury were back. The little boy shouted something and Mr Hanbury stepped directly into the room to see what the noise was.

From where he was, lying on the floor to help the little boy colour in a drawing, he saw Mr Hanbury's face cloud over with fury and panic. He lunged into the room, grabbed Peter by the back of his shirt and hustled him out into the hall. Holding the door shut behind him Mr Hanbury checked along the hallway in both directions. Mrs Hanbury's hat was on the stand, but she was gone.

‘What the Dickens is she doing here? Was it you invited her into this house?'

‘She said she wanted to see you.'

‘Don't let Mrs Hanbury know she's here. D'you hear me?'

He had never seen Mr Hanbury look so furious. Peter nodded, relieved when he let go of his shirt. Mr Hanbury disappeared into
the study, closing the door firmly behind him. But Mrs Hanbury was coming back down the stairs.

‘Did William just go into his study?' Peter shook his head. She frowned and called out, ‘Are you there, dear?' She headed towards the closed study door, turned the handle and half opened the door, peeking inside. ‘Oh, we've got visitors,' Peter heard her say cheerfully, and then the room fell silent. He could hear the little boy begin to sing some nonsense.

‘Dear, this is Louise, come to ask about . . . about a job.'

‘Is that what you call it then?' the woman said.

There was another long silence. Peter stood still, not daring to move. Mrs Hanbury came out of the room, quietly reclosing the door, her face drained of colour.

‘I'm sorry. I should have took her in kitchen,' Peter offered. But Mrs Hanbury didn't hear. She looked straight past him and walked up the stairs, like a ghost in her own house.

Peter was glad to get back in the sun. He rejoined Alice and picked up the hoe. He began to chip away at a patch of chickweed.

‘Who was it?'

‘It were someone from your dad's works, miss.'

‘It
was
someone, Peter. I thought so, from the look of her.'

He nodded. ‘Miss, I don't think your mam's too well. I think maybe you should go see her.'

Startled, Alice put down her hoe. ‘Well, what is it?'

But Peter wasn't sure himself. He shrugged and shook his head.

‘Oh, you should have said straight away.' And she hurried inside.

A cloud had fallen over the house. Mrs Hanbury stayed in bed, clutching a green satin bed jacket round her shoulders, staring bleakly at the wall. When Peter took up tea she held it in both hands but the
cup rattled in the saucer. He wasn't sure what to do. He took it from her and placed it on the side table.

Mr Hanbury was in a foul mood, of a kind that Peter had never seen before. He felt afraid when he came across him in the house, the man's face thunderous, the way he snapped at any question. He stayed in his study, endlessly smoking. But he wasn't working at his desk. Peter could see him walking up and down in front of the lace-curtained bay window, or sometimes standing still, staring out with his hands in his pockets.

On Sunday morning Mrs Hanbury came downstairs. She was dressed and her hair was immaculately swept up in a pleat. She fetched her hat from the stand and set it on her head. She knocked on the study door where Mr Hanbury had retreated to read the paper.

‘You need to bring the car round if we're not to be late,' she said.

Subdued and silent, all the Hanburys gathered in the car, as they did every Sunday morning to go to eleven o'clock matins. Peter set out on foot as usual; he would catch up with them in the church and sit in the row behind.

If anything Mrs Hanbury stood straighter than ever that morning, singing the hymns with careful precision, kneeling deeply as she left the pew. She made her way down the church aisle, shaking people's hands, stopping to chat.

Phillip was off to see friends after the service, so Alice said Peter would ride back in the car. On the way the car was filled with an odd silence. Mrs Hanbury leaned against the window with her eyes closed, a sheen of moisture breaking through her face powder. When it stopped in front of the house she seemed to take a while to find the will to sit up and get out as they all filed inside. The family sat round the table for Sunday lunch, still in silence, waiting for Maudey to serve.

Alice and her brother began some banter about a friend, trying to infuse the meal with their cheeriness. Mrs Hanbury got up and left
the table and returned to her room before dessert was even served. Peter carried the plates of Apple Charlotte back through to the kitchen almost untouched.

‘Well may he lose his appetite after what he's put that poor woman through,' said Maudey.

‘Put her through what?' Peter wanted to know. His heart was knocking against his ribs, waiting to hear Maudey confirm what he already knew. Lewd imaginings tumbled in his head: his idol, the immaculate Mr Hanbury, behaving like the barmaid at the Rose and Crown back in Manchester. Famous for her shameful ways she brazened out being the butt of whispered jokes – though she had always been nice to Peter when he and Bill had gone in there to fetch Dad home.

‘Never you mind what,' Maudey said sharply.

Later that afternoon Alice knocked on his door. He welcomed her into his room. She walked around examining the prints on his wall, as if this inspection was the reason for her visit.

‘Peter, the lady who came the other day, the lady with the little boy, you'd seen her before, hadn't you?'

He nodded, his heart going fast. He remembered Mr Hanbury's threatening tone. But this was Alice.

‘I did, miss.'

‘Where? At Daddy's factory?'

‘Not there, no.'

‘Well?'

‘It were a while back, when I first came here. Mr Hanbury stopped by to drop off some shoes for her, at her place outside Derby. He was gone a good hour or so, and then she came out after, talked to him through the car window.'

‘He went to visit her?'