‘Don’t you go letting it slip I’m local,’ she warned him in a whisper as they sat down with their drinks. ‘I don’t want it to get back to my Adele that I was staying here with a man.’
‘Okay,’ he said, though he looked a little puzzled. ‘But what if someone recognizes you?’
‘That’s not likely,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t much more than a kid when I left here. But should anyone start talking to us, just go along with whatever I say.’
But no one did speak to them, not even the fat girl who waddled over to collect their dirty glasses.
‘We should’ve gone to Hastings,’ Johnny said after his fourth pint. The pub was as quiet as a church, the old men sitting in companionable silence, the only sounds that of the snap of dominoes on a table, the odd cough or a subdued welcome to a newcomer. Even the few dogs lying at their masters’ feet were passive. ‘We could’ve got fish and chips and gone on the pier. I don’t reckon much on this place at all.’
Rose didn’t reckon much on the pub either, even if it was quaint, yet as a child she had thought Winchelsea was wonderful. It consisted of little more than one street, a pub and a couple of shops, but the old houses and cottages were all so different, the gardens so pretty and the people could be relied on to speak to her.
She could remember coming up here on a message, and being excited by the post office which was packed with goods from floor to ceiling. It was very dark, but sold everything from knitting wool, mops and buckets to sweets. She could be in there for over an hour contemplating the many glass sweet jars with their delectable contents, before she finally decided what to spend her penny on.
She used to dream of it being her shop, weighing up the sweets on the big brass scale and putting them in the little paper cones.
But then she’d always wished they lived here too. To be able to swing on a garden gate and chat to people who walked by. Her mother had a friend here whom they used to visit sometimes, and that house had always reminded her of her grandmother’s in Tunbridge Wells. Rose couldn’t remember much about it now, except there was a big piano and a lovely garden. She wondered if she’d be able to recognize it if she walked along the road.
Both she and Johnny got a bit drunk, and before Rose knew it they were ringing the bell for closing time. As they went upstairs to their room Rose considered pretending to pass out so she didn’t have to have sex with Johnny.
Fortunately Johnny became so excited the minute she got into bed beside him that he came before even getting inside her. He fell asleep immediately afterwards and Rose sighed with relief.
She was tired and drunk, but even though the bed was very comfortable, she couldn’t drop off. It was too quiet, the only sound was the soft rustling of the curtains moving slightly in the breeze through the open window, reminding her sharply of summer nights as a child. She remembered how her father always crept into her bedroom before he and her mother turned in. He would tuck the covers round her more firmly, kiss her forehead, and close the window if it was windy or raining.
Rose had guessed her father was dead when they brought the guardianship papers to her in the asylum, as only Honour’s name was on them. She hadn’t reacted at all then, for she could only think of him as he was when she last saw him, a pathetic wretch who could do nothing for himself. She was just glad he was out of his misery.
But now, perhaps because of the memories this place evoked, and her mother’s angry words earlier, she suddenly felt a pang of remorse. She could picture him now as he was when she and her mother saw him off at the station when he went to France. He was leaning out of the train window, smiling and blowing them kisses. He had never been distant or stern like other girls’ fathers. He’d always been so warm, vibrant and loving. An intelligent, kindly man who saw life as something to be enjoyed to the full. ‘My two best girls,’ he used to say as he hugged them. It was sad that he’d spent the last couple of years of his life not knowing where she was.
‘Wotcha wanna do today?’ Johnny said over breakfast the following morning.
The landlady had laid up a table in the bar, and the sunshine was streaming through the open windows. Johnny looked pleased with himself – if he’d had a tail he’d have been wagging it. There had of course been more sex that morning, and Rose was too sleepy to find an excuse. Yet to her surprise she had enjoyed it, he’d taken her mind right off the past, and the prospect of spending the whole weekend with him was looking far more attractive than she’d expected.
‘I don’t think there’s anything to be gained by going back to my mother’s,’ she said as she scraped up the last of the egg yolk with a piece of toast. ‘I’ll try writing to her instead. Let’s go to Hastings, it’s another lovely day and we should make the most of it.’
‘That’s my girl,’ Johnny said with a broad grin. ‘I’ll show you what a crack shot I am on the rifle range.’
‘I think I’d like to take a little walk first,’ Rose said thoughtfully. ‘You know, just look at the place again, see what’s changed.’
‘You go on yer own then,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay here, pay the bill and sit in the sun till you come back. That is, unless you want me along?’
‘No, I’d rather be alone,’ she said. One thing she had always liked about Johnny was that he always sensed when she wanted to be alone. He hadn’t insisted on coming into her mother’s like some men would do. Rose often thought that if all men understood that need in her, she might have kept relationships going longer.
She was transported back in time as she walked along the main street. The roses around the cottage doors, cats basking in the sun on window-sills, the mellow red of old pantiles, and front doors propped open to let in fresh air – everything the same as it was all those years ago when she was a small child. Rye had always seemed such a wide-awake place, full of people, bustle and sounds. Winchelsea was its sleepy neighbour, and even now on a Saturday morning there were only a few people about: a couple of women with shopping baskets making for the shop, an old man with a walking stick taking the air. She could hear a wireless through one open window, and the sounds of children playing in a garden, but it was so quiet she could also hear the birds singing and the buzz of insects.
She recognized the house she used to go to with her mother immediately, and the faded painted sign of Harrington House reminded her of other things. The lady there often gave her mother her own daughter’s outgrown clothes. Rose could remember a blue velvet dress that she had adored. But she rarely got a chance to wear it, not living down on the marsh.
The only thing that was different about the little town was cars. She supposed there must have been some when she was a child, but she didn’t remember any. There were several now, including a sleek black one right outside Harrington House.
She remembered then that the lady there had been called Mrs Whitehouse. She had always jokingly called her Mrs Red House, to her mother at least, because the bricks on the lady’s house were red.
Crossing over, she walked back up the street to buy some more cigarettes in the post office. She was disappointed to find it wasn’t quite the same any more; there were still as many jars of sweets on the shelves, and knitting wool too, but it didn’t have that stuffed-to-capacity look she remembered.
She bought a packet of Woodbines, and for old times’ sake a picture postcard of Winchelsea.
‘You’ve brought the sunshine with you,’ the woman behind the counter said with a smile. ‘They say it’s going to last for a few days yet.’
The woman was about the same age as Rose, fat with a red, jolly face and black hair pulled back tightly. She didn’t have a Sussex accent so Rose was absolutely certain she wasn’t someone she’d been to school with.
‘I used to come here as a child,’ Rose confided. ‘It’s all still exactly the same.’
‘Nothing much ever happens here,’ the woman replied with a slight grimace, as if she held it against the place. ‘My hubby and I bought this shop ten years ago now, and I bet I could tell you every single event in that time.’ She laughed merrily. ‘You’d be bored though, it would only be about who was born, married or died.’
Rose felt like lingering and hearing about people she had once known. ‘There used to be a lady called Mrs Whitehouse in Harrington House. Is she still living there?’ she asked.
‘No, she and her husband died a while ago,’ the shopkeeper replied. ‘Their daughter lives there now.’
Rose realized this daughter must be the one-time owner of the blue velvet dress, and that intrigued her. ‘What’s she like?’ she asked. ‘I seem to remember her as being very beautiful and elegant, but that was a long time ago.’
‘Oh, she’s still that.’ The woman smiled. ‘A bit cuckoo though.’
‘In what way?’ Rose inquired.
The shopkeeper leaned her elbows on her counter, obviously glad to share a bit of gossip. ‘Everyone knows she’s separated from her husband, but she pretends everything’s hunky dory between them. He comes down here from their old home just for the odd weekend, I suppose that’s to make things look better.’
Rose thought if she kept this woman chatting she could maybe ask a few questions about her mother and Adele. ‘Why would a separated couple want to pretend they are still together?’ she asked.
‘Well, Mr Bailey is a barrister,’ the woman said.
The hairs on the back of Rose’s neck suddenly rose at that name.
‘I dare say he’s worried about a scandal,’ the woman continued. ‘Important men are like that, so I’ve heard tell.’
‘What did you say his name was?’ Rose asked. It surely couldn’t be the Mr Bailey she knew. Yet he had been a lawyer, and he did once say he had a relative in Winchelsea.
‘Bailey, Myles Bailey,’ the woman said. Then, perhaps seeing the shock on Rose’s face, she blushed. ‘Oh Gawd. My hubby’s always telling me I should think before I open my mouth. Do you know him?’
‘No. No, I don’t,’ Rose said hurriedly. ‘I used to know another Bailey around here. But it wouldn’t be the same family. I must go now, someone’s waiting for me.’
As she stepped out of the shop into the hot sun, Rose felt sick. She rushed over the road to the pub, and sat down on the bench outside in the shade, opening her handbag with trembling hands to find her cigarettes.
Bailey was a common name, but Myles certainly wasn’t. It had to be him, even though she knew he lived somewhere in Hampshire at the time she met him. When he said he had a relative in Winchelsea she had assumed it was a very distant one. But then she supposed a man intent on seducing a young waitress would hardly be likely to tell her it was his in-laws, when he hadn’t yet admitted he was married.
‘There you are!’ Johnny’s voice from the pub doorway made her jump. ‘’Ad a good look round?’
She nodded, feeling unable to speak.
‘You all right, girl?’ he asked, coming closer and peering at her. ‘You’re as white as a sheet!’
‘I feel a bit queasy,’ she said. ‘That fried breakfast after all the drink last night, I expect. Could you get me a glass of water?’
Chapter Sixteen
Honour smiled to herself as she stood at the sink in the scullery. Michael was with Adele in the garden, sitting on a rug under the apple tree, and she guessed that the tiny parcel he was just giving her held an engagement ring.
It felt like a good omen that the sun had come out again for Adele’s nineteenth birthday. It seemed to have been raining ever since the hot spell in June when Rose had suddenly appeared. Honour had been feeling very low since then, half expecting that her daughter would appear again.
She wished she had managed to establish why and how she came. It must have been by car, the bus had gone earlier, and she surely couldn’t have walked from Rye in those high heels. What did she really want? Was it forgiveness, or something more sinister?
If it was forgiveness she certainly hadn’t made any effort to win it. Perhaps she’d merely been passing in a man friend’s car and felt compelled to call in? But would any reasonable person call at a place where they weren’t sure of a welcome?
Because she couldn’t rationalize why her daughter had called, Honour felt unable to tell Adele about it. Yet neither could she forget about the visit, it was like having a sore place in her mouth which her tongue kept visiting.
Yet Rose couldn’t have been seriously intent on seeing her daughter again or she would at least have sent a birthday card today.
In view of that, perhaps she was right to keep it to herself.
Adele’s cry of delight made Honour cast her more gloomy thoughts aside and look back at the couple in the garden. She thought the sight would make a wonderful picture, Michael kneeling up on the rug, looking so dashing in his new RAF uniform, and Adele as pretty as a May morning in a pink and white print dress, gasping with delight at the ring he was putting on her finger.
Honour wiped a stray tear from her face with the corner of her apron. The engagement ring Frank had given her was made of daisies, as he knew he’d have to ask her father’s permission to marry her before a real one could be bought. They had been at a tennis party and had given the chaperone the slip that afternoon, and if it was found out they’d been lying in long grass kissing each other they would have been in serious trouble.
She had wanted Frank with intense passion from the very first kiss; it was only through lack of opportunity that she was still a virgin on their wedding day. Honour sensed that Adele and Michael felt that way too. She could feel a current flowing between them, they reached out for each other’s hands all the time, their bodies seemed to sway together as they walked. It was going to be hard for them to have a long engagement, but with the threat of war growing each day, getting married quickly was not a sensible thing to do.
‘Granny!’ Adele called out. ‘Come and see!’
Honour glanced in a small mirror and arranged her face in an expression of ‘Whatever now?’
‘I’m busy,’ she said with pretended crossness as she stepped out of the back door.
‘Not too busy to see this,’ Adele thrilled out, her voice shrill with excitement. ‘Michael’s asked me to marry him and he’s bought me a ring.’