Podge grinned and let himself out of the back door without further comment, shutting it firmly behind him, but Dickie, sitting by the fire knotting a length of net, made a rude noise.
‘Fancy not bein’ able to mek up your mind ’cos you din’t like the hat, an’ the stockin’s made your legs look skinny,’ he crowed. ‘In’t that jest like a gal?’
‘Mind your manners, Dickie Thrower,’ Tess said. ‘Do I’ll give you a ding acrost the lug.’
Dickie crowed again, then ducked as Tess made for him. Mrs Thrower was dividing her dough between half a dozen tins now, and she looked up and shook her head at both her son and her guest.
‘Dickie, you’re no gentleman, and you in’t much better, Tess, talkin’ rough like that. Now settle down, the pair of you. Read us what it say about the WRNS first, Tess, and then what it say about the WAAF, then we’ll talk it over.’
But Tess had scarcely done more than take the leaflets out of the envelope when someone knocked hard on the door and the handle began to turn. Quickly, she stuffed the leaflets into her skirt pocket and went across to the door. Cherie stood there. Tess stared, registering that Cherie wore a blue woollen dressing-gown and wellington boots and that she looked terrified out of her mind, but before she could open her mouth to ask Cherie what she was doing, coming outside in weather like this in her night things, Cherie had grabbed hold of her with shaking hands.
‘Oh Tess, I thought you’d be here,’ she gabbled. ‘Can you come home? Maman’s having hysterics, it’s awful, she just sort of screamed and threw herself on to the floor and kept biting at the tiles . . . I think she’s gone mad. Do come – she won’t even look at me and when I threw water over her – it said to do that somewhere, I’m sure it did – she rolled her eyes right up until only the whites showed and screamed louder than ever.’
‘Yes, of course I’ll come . . .’ Tess was beginning, when she found herself pushed to one side. Mrs Thrower, in print apron, faded skirt and slippers with holes in the toes, was going up the garden as fast as she could, disregarding the snow which her every step dislodged.
‘Put Dickie’s coat round the kid,’ Mrs Thrower shouted back over her shoulder. ‘She’ll catch her bloomin’ death, else. I’ll see to Mrs Delamere.’
Tess plucked Dickie’s coat off the hooks and forced Cherie’s trembling arms into the sleeves, then buttoned it briskly and dragged her sister outside.
‘At least you had the sense to put your wellies on,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, love, we’ll soon be there and Mrs Thrower will know what to do. We’ll get your maman right in no time!’
‘She’s ill,’ Cherie said. ‘Ill or mad. I’m so frightened, Tess. Do let’s hurry.’
‘Sure,’ Tess said. ‘Give me your hand.’ She grabbed her sister’s small, cold paw and they set off up the lane at the best pace Tess could manage and presently they drew level with Mrs Thrower, whose speed had been slowed to a breathless plod by the depth of the snow and the harshness of the cold.
‘Had Marianne opened the post, got bad news from France?’ Tess suggested presently, as they battled onwards. She remembered the letter with the French stamp. She was truly grateful, now, that she had dug a path for herself earlier and not simply fought her way through. Now at least there was a path to follow, though in places the wind had already blown snow over her shovelling. ‘She can’t have behaved like that for nothing.’
‘I don’t know,’ Cherie said breathlessly.
‘You don’t know? But surely . . .’
‘I’d only just come down,’ Cherie said. ‘I heard a thump and then an awful scream, like vixens give in the spring. So I ran downstairs . . .’ she broke off and a shudder shook her small frame.
‘Don’t worry, love,’ Mrs Thrower put in, slowing her onward progress for a moment and addressing Cherie over her shoulder. ‘Soon be there. Ah, the path’s widened out here – take my arm, and your sister’s . . . that’s it, that’s better. Now we shan’t be long!’
And they were not long, considering the time it had taken Tess to traverse that same length of lane, earlier. It could not have been more than five minutes after they set out that Tess was throwing open the back door and shouting cheerfully: ‘Marianne, we’re back!’
There was no answer. No one came to the door or called out.
‘She’ve gone upstairs,’ Mrs Thrower said briskly. ‘I’ll go up. Cherie, put you that kettle on, we’ll have a nice cuppa. Tess, poke the fire up and make a hot water bottle. Mrs Delamere’s likely needin’ a good warm through.’
Glad to be given a job, Cherie filled the big kettle and carried it over to the Aga, whilst Tess riddled the fire and put more coke on. She listened as she worked, for the reassurance of voices, but she heard none. Only the chilly moan of the wind, the rattle of the fuel falling on to the glowing coals, Cherie’s gasping breath as she handled the heavy kettle.
Then the sounds of heavy footsteps descending the stairs. Tess raised her brows as Mrs Thrower came into the room.
‘Is she up there?’
‘No, not as I could see. She must ha’ gone along the lane a ways, to the Rope place. She’ll need a doctor, from the sound.’
‘She’d have telephoned . . .’ Tess began, then remembered. The wires had been down for forty-eight hours, dragged into useless loops by the weight of the snow. ‘Oh, she couldn’t, of course. Is her coat missing, then?’
‘I’ll look,’ Cherie said. Her voice was squeaky but she was calmer here in her own home, with Mrs Thrower’s comforting bulk and her sister’s presence. ‘Oh, d’you think she went out after us? If she went round by the Broad . . .’
‘That’ll likely be the answer,’ Mrs Thrower said comfortably, but her eyes were deeply worried and she glanced at Tess as Cherie went out to search the hall cupboard for her mother’s coat, and gave a slight shake of the head. She did not think that Marianne had gone searching for her daughters and had somehow managed to miss them. Nor, for that matter, did Tess. She ran into the hall and returned to the kitchen with the letters. Two had been opened, but the rest were still in their envelopes. The letter from Peter was a cheery account of a trip round a warship which, it seemed, he had very much enjoyed. The other was a note from Garlands, about a fashion show they were about to hold. Tess riffled quickly through the rest of the envelopes. The one with the French stamp was missing.
‘Well?’ Mrs Thrower said impatiently. ‘Anythin’ there to gi’s a clue where she’s gone?’
‘No-oo. There’s a letter from Daddy, very cheerful, and another from Garlands, about a fashion show on make do and mend, whatever that may mean. But – but I noticed one envelope particularly, with a foreign stamp; French. That’s missing. Not there.’
‘Dear Lor’, bad news,’ Mrs Thrower said at once. ‘D’you reckon it sent her over the top, like?’
‘Must have, I suppose,’ Tess said rather doubtfully. ‘Only where’s she gone?’
‘Best take a look outside,’ Mrs Thrower said in a breathy whisper. ‘Keep it quiet to the kid though, Tess. I reckon Mrs Delamere’s gone off up to the Ropes’ or to the Millers’. She might even have tried to get to the shop.’
‘The
shop
? But why on earth would she want to do that?’
‘To send a telegram, acourse,’ Mrs Thrower said. ‘To tell them Frenchies she were goin’ to do what she could. Oh no, she couldn’t send a telegram I suppose, wi’ the war an’ all. I wonder now, hev she left you and Cherie a note? So’s you’d know where she’d gone, like?’
‘No,’ Tess said positively. ‘We leave notes on the cork board, and there’s nothing there.’
Mrs Thrower started to reply but was cut short by Cherie returning at a trot to the kitchen. ‘All Maman’s coats are hanging up in the understairs cupboard,’ she announced. ‘Where would she go without a coat, Tess? Unless someone called for her, Uncle Phil or someone?’
‘That’ll be it,’ Mrs Thrower said before Tess could open her mouth. ‘But we’ll just tek a look round, in case. How about you gettin’ us some breakfast, young lady? Tess an’ me’ll jest tek a look outside.’
‘Right, Mrs Thrower,’ Cherie said importantly. ‘I do lovely scrambled eggs, don’t I, Tess? And I’ll make a pot of coffee. Maman likes coffee better than tea at breakfast.’ Her composure faltered a little. ‘Why would she go off and not tell us where?’ she asked querulously. ‘I’m frightened, Tess.’
‘Don’t worry, Cherie,’ Tess said quickly. ‘We’ve worked it out, Mrs Thrower and me. There was a letter from France, I noticed it when George gave me the post. It’s missing, so Marianne must have it with her. Mrs Thrower thinks they’ve written to ask for help and Marianne’s flown off down to the post office to send a telegram. Something like that, anyway. So we’re just going to go down the road a bit, see if we can catch her up.’
‘Oh, right,’ Cherie said. ‘I’ll start cooking brekker right away, then. You’ll be hungry when you get back and so will Maman.’
Despite what she had told Cherie, however, Tess was very worried. There wasn’t a coat missing, which must mean that Marianne had left the house in a real rush, probably in skirt and jumper, with her ordinary walking shoes on. Not having been outside for days, she probably had no idea of how appalling conditions were, and not being interested in her neighbours’ affairs, she might well not have realised that all the telephone wires were down in Barton, including the Millers’ and the Ropes’. And her stepmother was no countrywoman, used to walking. It wasn’t far to the village, but it would take forty minutes at least, and where the snow had drifted it was dangerously deep.
She confided her fears to Mrs Thrower, who said rather sharply that Mrs Delamere was far too fond of her own comfort to risk a wetting.
‘But from what Cherie said she’s gone a bit barmy,’ Tess pointed out. ‘She’s awfully highly-strung, you know. And I suppose she’s very fond of her parents, though she doesn’t talk about them much.’
‘Yes, well you stop jabberin’ an’ use the eyes God give you,’ Mrs Thrower said irascibly. ‘Now that
is
odd.’
Tracks, presumably Marianne’s, led straight from the back door, across the long lawn, through the orchard, and down to the edge of the Broad. The oddness, Mrs Thrower pointed out, was that Marianne had skirted the cart-shed and gone round the potting shed and the summer house, heading straight for the Broad. She hadn’t even deviated to where the boat’s small bulk could be dimly seen through the frost-encrusted reeds. So why come down here at all? But they doggedly followed the footprints right down to the reedbeds, though there they were stymied. The ice was really thick and patchily sown with snow, but even as they watched the wind blew a great veil of snow across the ice, completely oblitering any footprints which might have been visible seconds before. And then, as though repenting of its kindness in stopping for a few hours, the storm began again, the flakes coming down so fast that they could barely see the outline of the house. If Marianne had decided to get to the village across the frozen Broad then her footprints were obliterated now.
‘Only I can’t see her doing that – it’s far too dangerous,’ Tess shouted as they slogged their way across the orchard and up the lawn once more. ‘If she took a look at it and then retraced her steps though, which seems the obvious thing to do, why didn’t we find her there when we got back? Unless she went round the house and out the front, of course.’
‘We’d best check,’ Mrs Thrower shouted. ‘Our tracks lead down to the staithe – what about goin’ up Deepin’ Lane?’
They went back to the front gate and were immensely cheered to find definite tracks; Marianne had clearly gone to the Ropes’ or the Millers’. But then Tess remembered that the postman had come down that way earlier and gone the same way, too. Marianne
could
have left the house, run down the drive and turned left outside the gate, but they would not be able to track her across the churned-up snow.
‘We’ll try the Ropes,’ Mrs Thrower decided. ‘Wish I’d got my coat . . . I’ll borrow one of yours, gal Tess.’
‘Right,’ Tess said. ‘You go back and grab my old burberry from the downstairs cloakroom, and a hat and a scarf or something. I’ll start out.’
‘That you will not! ’Tis treacherous weather, my woman. We’ll go together or not at all.’
‘What’ll we tell Cherie?’ Tess said uneasily as they approached the back door once more. ‘The more I think of it the less certain I am that she’d have gone into the village on foot and without a coat. I’m getting scared, Mrs Thrower. Where on earth can she be?’
‘Not far off, I dessay,’ Mrs Thrower said, but Tess could hear the uncertainty in her voice. ‘Dear God, what a day to clear orf on!’
But when they got back to the house they found Cherie both busy and happy. She was breaking eggs into a bowl with a prodigal hand and whisking them into a froth.
‘Any luck? I knew she wouldn’t be in the garden in this weather, but I did wonder about the cart-shed or the summer house,’ Cherie said. ‘She must have gone to send that telegram, I suppose. Don’t be too long, eggs are nicest fresh.’
Outside once more, though now both stoutly booted and with their coats buttoned right up to the chin, the two women stared doubtfully at each other through the whirling flakes.
‘Marianne doesn’t care for the rector, not on a social level,’ Tess said finally. ‘But she quite likes the Ropes and the Millers. I know they’re off the phone but she probably didn’t; we’ll try there first, shall we?’
They followed in George’s footsteps and only took about fifteen minutes to reach the Ropes’ pleasant farmhouse but they drew a blank there, as Tess had feared.
‘Mrs Delamere? No, she hasn’t been near nor by since the snow come down,’ Mrs Rope said cheerfully. ‘Do you want a cup of tea? I’ve just made one.’
They declined, both too desperately anxious, now, to stop.
‘If you hear any word of her, come down to the Old House, would you?’ Tess pleaded. ‘We’re most awfully worried, she seems to have disappeared!’
‘Oh, she won’t be far,’ Mrs Rope said. ‘Try the Millers’.’
They tried the Millers’ and drew a blank there, then the rectory, then the shop, then the blacksmith’s. No Marianne.
‘We’ll hev to get back to the child,’ Mrs Thrower said at last. ‘’Sides, there in’t nowhere else to search. Oh, when I see Mrs Delamere I aren’t half goin’ to give her a piece of my mind! Scarin’ us like this.’