Authors: Kate Morton
And although Percy harboured her own grim fears as to the character of their soon-to-be lodger, Mrs Potts’s suggestion was so distasteful that she plucked a cigarette from the case in her handbag and lit it, just to be spared answering.
Mrs Potts carried on undeterred. ‘And I suppose you’ve heard the other exciting news?’
Percy shifted her feet, keen to pursue alternative occupation. ‘What’s that, Mrs Potts?’
‘Why, you must know all about it, up there at the castle. You probably have far more of the details than any of us.’
Naturally at that moment silence had fallen and the entire group turned to regard Percy. She did her best to ignore them. ‘The details of what, Mrs Potts?’ Irritation lengthened her spine a good inch. ‘I have no idea of what you’re speaking.’
‘Why.’ The gossip’s eyes widened and her face brightened with the realization that she was a star performer with a new audience: ‘The news about Lucy Middleton, of course.’
Milderhurst Castle, September 4th, 1939
Evidently there was a trick to applying the glue and plastering the fabric strip without gumming up the glass. The perky woman in the illustrated guide didn’t seem to be having any difficulty reinforcing
her
windows; indeed she looked positively chipper about the whole prospect, tiny waist, neat haircut, bland smile. No doubt she’d be equal to the bombs, too, when they fell. Saffy, by contrast, was flummoxed. She’d started on the windows back in July when the pamphlets first arrived, but despite the sage advice in the Ministry’s pamphlet number two: ‘Do not leave things to the last!’, she’d slackened somewhat when it looked as if war might yet be averted. With Mr Chamberlain’s ghastly announcement, however, she was back at it. Thirty-two windows crisscrossed, a mere hundred left to go. Why she hadn’t just used tape, she’d never know.
She pasted the last corner of cloth into place and climbed down off the chair, stepping back to observe her handiwork. Oh dear; she tilted her head a little and frowned at the skewed cross. It would hold, just, but it was no work of art.
‘Bravo,’ said Lucy, coming through the door just then with the tray of tea. ‘X marks the spot, don’t they say?’
‘I certainly hope not. Mr Hitler should be warned: he’ll have Percy to answer to if his bombs so much as graze the castle.’ Saffy swiped the towel against her sticky hands. ‘I’m afraid this glue has quite set against me; I can’t think what I’ve done to offend it, but offend it I have.’
‘Glue with a mood. How terrifying!’
‘It’s not the only one. Forget the bombs, I’m going to need a good nerve tonic after dealing with these windows.’
‘Tell you what – ’ Lucy was pouring from the pot and she let the phrase hang while she finished the second cup – ‘I’ve taken your father his lunch already; why don’t I lend you a hand here?’
‘Oh, Lucy darling, would you? What a brick! I could weep with gratitude.’
‘No need for all that.’ Lucy fought back a glad smile. ‘I’ve just finished my own house and it turns out I have a way with glue. Shall I paste while you cut?’
‘Perfect!’ Saffy tossed the towel back onto the chair. Her hands were still tacky but they’d do. When Lucy handed her a cup, she took it gratefully. They stood for a moment, sharing the companionable silence as each savoured a first sip. It had become something of a habit, taking tea together like this. Nothing fancy: they didn’t stop their daily tasks or lay the best silver; they just managed to be busy together in the same place at the right time of day. Percy, had she known, would’ve been horrified; she’d have come over all frowns and glowers, pursed her lips and said things like, ‘It isn’t proper,’ and, ‘Standards should be maintained.’ But Saffy liked Lucy – they were friends, after a fashion, and she couldn’t see that sharing tea could do any harm at all. Besides, what Percy didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.
‘And tell me, Lucy,’ she said, breaking the silence and thereby signalling that they might both resume their work, ‘how’s the house going?’
‘Very well indeed, Miss Saffy.’
‘You’re not too lonely there by yourself?’ Lucy and her mother had lived together always in the little cottage on the village’s outskirts. Saffy could only imagine what a gap the old woman’s death must have left.
‘I keep myself busy.’ Lucy had balanced her teacup on the windowsill while she ran the glue-laden brush diagonally across the pane. For a moment Saffy thought she detected a sadness in the housekeeper’s face, as if she’d been about to confess some deep feeling but had thought better of it.
‘What is it, Lucy?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ She hesitated. ‘Only that, I miss Mother, of course. . .’
‘Of course.’ Lucy was discreet (to a fault, the nosier part of Saffy sometimes thought), but over the years Saffy had gleaned enough to know that Mrs Middleton was not an easy person. ‘But?’
‘But I do quite enjoy my own company.’ She glanced sideways at Saffy. ‘If that doesn’t sound too awful?’
‘Not awful at all,’ Saffy said with a smile. Truthfully, she thought it sounded wonderful. She began to picture her own little dream flatlet in London, then stopped herself. On a day when she was pillar to post with chores it was foolish to become distracted. She sat on the floor and set about running the scissors through the fabric, making strips. ‘Things all right upstairs, are they, Lucy?’
‘The room looks lovely; I’ve aired it and changed the linen, and I hope you don’t mind,’ she smoothed out a piece of fabric, ‘but I’ve put away your grandmother’s Chinese vase. I can’t think how I missed it when we were wrapping and storing the precious items last week. It’s safe and sound now, tucked away in the muniment room with the others.’
‘Oh,’ Saffy’s eyes widened, searching Lucy’s face, ‘but you don’t think we’ll get a little wretch, do you? Intent on breaking things and wreaking havoc?’
‘Not at all. I just thought it was as well to be safe rather than sorry.’
‘Yes.’ Saffy nodded as the housekeeper took up a new piece of fabric. ‘Very wise, Lucy, and of course you’re right. I should have thought of it myself. Percy will be pleased.’ She sighed. ‘All the same; I thought we might put a little bunch of fresh flowers on the nightstand. Raise the poor little mite’s spirits? Perhaps a glass vase from the kitchen?’
‘Far more suitable. I’ll find one, shall I?’
Saffy smiled agreement, but as she pictured the child’s arrival her smile staled and she shook her head. ‘Oh, but isn’t it ghastly, Lucy?’
‘I’m sure no one expects you to offer your best crystal.’
‘No, I mean the whole thing. The proposition itself. All those frightened children, their poor mothers back in London having to smile and wave as they watch their babies disappear into the great unknown. And for what? All to clear the stage for war. So young men can be forced to kill other young men in far-off places.’
Lucy turned to look at Saffy, surprise in her eyes, some concern mixed in. ‘You mustn’t go getting yourself all upset now.’
‘I know, I know. I won’t.’
‘It’s up to us to keep morale high.’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s lucky there are people like you willing to take the poor little wretches in. What time are you expecting the child?’
Saffy set down her empty teacup and took up the scissors again. ‘Percy says the buses arrive sometime between three and six; she couldn’t be any more specific than that.’
‘She’s making the selection then?’ Lucy’s voice had caught a little, and Saffy knew what she was thinking: Percy was hardly the obvious choice when it came to maternal matters.
As Lucy shifted the chair to the next window, Saffy scampered along the floor to keep up. ‘It was the only way I could get her to agree – you know how she is about the castle; she has images of some unholy terror snapping curlicues off the banisters, scribbling on the wallpaper, setting the curtains on fire. I have to keep reminding her that these walls have stood for hundreds of years, that they’ve survived invasions by the Normans, the Celts, and Juniper. One poor child from London isn’t going to make any difference.’
Lucy laughed. ‘Speaking of Miss Juniper, will she be in for lunch? Only I thought I saw her leaving in your father’s car earlier?’
Saffy waved the scissors in the air. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. The last time I knew Juniper’s mind was . . .’ She thought for a moment, chin on her knuckles, then released her arms theatrically. ‘You know, I can’t remember a single time.’
‘Miss Juniper has talents other than predictability.’
‘Yes,’ said Saffy with a fond smile. ‘She certainly has.’
Lucy hesitated then, climbed back down to the ground and drew slim fingers across her forehead. A funny, old-fashioned motion, a little like a damsel contemplating a fainting spell; it amused Saffy and she wondered whether she could incorporate the endearing habit into her novel – it seemed just the sort of thing that Adele might do when made nervous by a man . . .
‘Miss Saffy?’
‘Mmm?’
‘There is something rather serious I wanted to talk to you about.’
Lucy exhaled but didn’t continue and Saffy wondered for a terrible, hot instant whether she might be ill. Whether there’d been bad news from the doctor: it would explain Lucy’s reticence and, come to think of it, her recent habit of distraction. Why, just the other morning, Saffy had come into the kitchen to see Lucy watching unseeingly from the back door, across the kitchen garden and beyond, whilst Daddy’s eggs continued to boil far beyond his usual soft preference.
‘What is it, Lucy?’ Saffy stood up, gesturing that Lucy should join her in the sitting area. ‘Is everything all right? You’re peaky. Shall I fetch you a glass of water?’
Lucy shook her head but glanced about for something to lean on, choosing the back of the nearest armchair.
Saffy sat on the chaise longue and waited; and in the end, when Lucy’s news finally burst forth, she was glad that she was seated.
‘I’m going to be married,’ said Lucy. ‘That is, someone has asked me to marry him and I’ve said yes.’
For a moment Saffy wondered if the housekeeper was delusional, or at least playing a trick. Quite simply, it made no sense: Lucy, dear reliable Lucy, who had never once in all the years she’d worked at Milderhurst so much as mentioned a male companion, let alone stepped out with a fellow, was to be married? Now, out of the blue like this, and at her age? Why, she was a few years older than Saffy, surely nearing forty years old.
Lucy shifted where she stood and Saffy realized that silence had fallen rather heavily between them and it was her turn to speak. Her tongue moved around some words, but she couldn’t seem to utter them.
‘I’m getting married,’ said Lucy again, more slowly this time, and with the sort of caution that suggested she was still getting used to the notion herself.
‘But Lucy, that’s wonderful news,’ said Saffy, all in a rush. ‘And who is the lucky fellow? Where did you meet him?’
‘Actually,’ Lucy flushed. ‘We met here, at Milderhurst.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s Harry Rogers. I’m marrying Harry Rogers. He’s asked me and I’ve said yes.’
Harry Rogers. The name was familiar, vaguely; Saffy felt sure she should know the gentleman, but she couldn’t find a face to match the name. But how embarrassing! Saffy could feel her cheeks reddening and she covered her dilemma by planting a broad smile on her face, hoped it was sufficient to convince Lucy of her delight.
‘We’d known one another for years, of course, what with him visiting so regularly at the castle, but we only started walking out together a couple of months ago. It was right after the grandfather clock began playing up, back in spring.’
Harry Rogers. But not, surely, the hirsute little clock man? Why, he was neither handsome nor gallant nor, from what Saffy had observed, remotely witty. He was a common man, interested only in chatting with Percy about the state of the castle and the inside workings of clocks. Obliging enough, as far as Saffy could tell, and Percy had always spoken kindly of him (until Saffy chided that he’d be sweet on her if she weren’t careful); nonetheless, he wasn’t at all the right man for Lucy with her pretty face and easy laugh. ‘But how did this happen?’ The question had risen and bubbled out before Saffy could even think to stem it. Lucy didn’t appear to take offence, answering directly, almost too quickly, Saffy thought; as if she herself needed to hear the words spoken in order to understand how such a thing could have occurred.
‘He’d been up to see about the clock and I was leaving early on account of Mother being poorly, and it just so happened that we bumped into one another on our way out of the door. He offered me a lift home and I took it. We struck up a friendship and then, when Mother passed away . . . Well, he was very kind. Quite a gentleman.’
There fell then a pall of silence in which the scenario played out variously in each of their minds. Saffy, though surprised, was also curious. It was the writer in her, she supposed: wondering at the type of conversation the two might have had in Mr Rogers’s little motorcar; how, exactly, one thoughtful lift home had blossomed into a love affair. ‘And you’re happy?’
‘Oh yes.’ Lucy smiled. ‘Yes, I’m happy.’
‘Well.’ Saffy forced strength into her own smile, ‘Then I’m enormously happy
for
you. And you must bring him up for tea. A little celebration!’