The Wayward Wife
Authors: Jessica Stirling
The Spoiled Earth
The Hiring Fair
The Dark Pasture
The Deep Well at Noon
The Blue Evening Gone
The Gates of Midnight
Treasures on Earth
Hearts of Gold
Creature Comforts
The Good Provider
The Asking Price
The Wise Child
The Welcome Light
A Lantern for the Dark
Shadows on the Shore
The Penny Wedding
The Marrying Kind
The Workhouse Girl
The Island Wife
The Wind from the Hills
The Strawberry Season
Prized Possessions
Sisters Three
Wives at War
The Piper's Tune
Shamrock Green
The Captive Heart
One True Love
Blessings in Disguise
The Fields of Fortune
A Kiss and a Promise
The Paradise Waltz
A Corner of the Heart
The Last Voyage
Born in Glasgow, Jessica Stirling is the author of many heartwarming novels, most of which have Scottish backgrounds. She has enjoyed a highly successful career since THE SPOILED EARTH was published in 1974.
Jessica Stirling
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK Company
Copyright © by Jessica Stirling 2013
The right of Jessica Stirling to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act
1988
.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Ebook ISBN 978 1 444 74461 3
Hardback ISBN 978 1 444 74459 0
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
Contents
Tempting Fate
1
To ease the sting of losing her husband Vivian had invited Susan to lunch at L'Ãtoile
.
In fact, Susan hadn't âlost' her husband at all. Danny wasn't dodging U-boats in the North Atlantic, digging in along the Maginot Line with the British Expeditionary Force or training to fly a Spitfire on an airfield in Kent. Flat feet, indifferent eyesight and a talent for editing had condemned him to a reserve posting with the BBC's monitoring unit in Evesham where the only thing he might die of was frostbite.
It had been a bitterly cold winter so far. The first few weeks of
1940
had brought no respite. Even within the restaurant the air was sufficiently chill to hold a hint of frosty breath mingled with cigarette smoke, a great cloud of which hung over the round table under the skylight where reporters and broadcasters met informally for lunch.
Susan and Vivian were seated at a corner table for two. Vivian had kept on her overcoat and fur hat. Taking a lead from the older woman, Susan too had retained her coat, a tweed swagger, and a pert little hat which, though chic, did nothing to keep her ears warm.
The men who commandeered the round table had checked in their overcoats and scarves and lounged, chatting and laughing, as if they were indifferent to the cold, though one of them, Susan noticed, still sported a battered, sweat-stained fedora that not so long ago would have had him evicted by the management.
âWell,' Vivian said, âthat didn't take long.'
âWhat didn't take long?' said Susan.
âFor someone to catch your eye. Who is he?'
âI've absolutely no idea,' Susan said.
âThey're Americans, aren't they?'
âThe boys from CBS, I think. The slim one with his back to us is Edward Murrow, if I'm not mistaken. And that may be Bill Shirer, though I was rather under the impression he was still reporting from Berlin.'
âAnd the fellow in the awful hat of whom the
maître d'
so clearly disapproves, have you bumped into him in the corridors of power?' Vivian said. âHe's certainly giving you
the once-over.'
âI'd hardly call Broadcasting House the corridors of power,' said Susan. âIn any case, if we had met I'm quite sure I'd remember him.'
Vivian sniffed and slid a menu into Susan's hand.
âYou may have fibbed about your marital status to secure a job with the BBC but it must be all above board now they've removed the bar on hiring married women,' she said. âWhy don't you wear your wedding ring?'
âBecause it's written into my contract that married women will be expected to resign the instant the war's over.'
âThe war,' Vivian said, âhas barely begun. No one's naïve enough to suppose it'll be over soon and, if it is, chances are we'll all be jabbering in German and bowing the knee to Herr Hitler.'
âI'm sure you wouldn't mind that too much.'
âNow, now!' said Vivian. âI may have taken tea with Dr Goebbels and had some of my books published by that Nazi, Martin Teague, but I've completely changed my tune since then, as well you know.'
âMy brother, Ronnie, thinks you're a hypocrite.'
âAt least I stayed in England. I could have fled to the United States like half the literary crowd â well, the fascist half anyway.'
âFish,' Susan said. âI do believe I'll have the fish.'
Vivian peered at the menu. âIn deference to my new-found patriotism, I will forgo the beef and settle for a mushroom soufflé and the
sole meunière
. What about wine: a nice dry Riesling?'
âPatriotism only stretches so far, I see.'
âWe can pretend it's from Alsace,' said Vivian.
For the best part of four years Susan had been employed by Vivian Proudfoot to transcribe the controversial books that had earned Viv a degree of notoriety and quite a bit of money but in the spring of
1939
, with the possibility of war looming, Vivian had urged Susan to apply for a âsafe' job with the BBC.
The interview had been conducted in one of the Corporation's poky little offices in Duchess Street.
âWhere were you born, Miss Hooper?'
âShadwell.'
âYou don't sound like a person from the East End, if you don't mind me saying so.'
âMy father felt it would be to my advantage to learn to speak properly.'
âAnd your mother?'
âShe died when I was a child.'
âYou were raised by a female relative, I take it?'
âNo, I was raised by my father.'
âAnd what does he do? I mean, his profession?'
âHe's a docker; a crane driver to be precise.'
âReally? How remarkable!'
The interviewer's air of superiority had galled her. He was nothing but a middle-aged, middle-rank staffer with a public school accent who clearly disapproved of the gender shift in BBC policy.
âI see from your application that you were an assistant to Vivian Proudfoot until very recently. Do you share Miss Proudfoot's political views?'
âI attended two or three rallies with Miss Proudfoot for the purposes of research. I'm certainly not a supporter of fascism and, may I point out, neither is Miss Proudfoot.'
âForgive my caution, Miss Hooper. One can't be too careful these days. By the bye, I assume you're not married?'
âNo,' she'd answered without a blush. âNo, I'm not married,' and three weeks later had received a contract of employment.
Unfit for army service and thoroughly unsettled, Danny had lost his job in Fleet Street and been coopted on to the staff of the BBC. From that point on their marriage had deteriorated into sharing a bed occasionally and nodding as they passed on the stairs.
Susan was well aware that the chap in the soiled fedora was interested in her. Hat notwithstanding, he was quite prepossessing in an unruly, un-English sort of way, not all stiff and haughty like so many of the young men she encountered in Broadcasting House. He held her gaze for four or five seconds, then, leaning forward, put a question to the men at his table. They were journalists, foreign correspondents, men of the world and far too polite to look round at her.
Vivian covered her mouth with the edge of the menu.
âNow see what you've done,' she whispered. âHe thinks he's on to a good thing. Oh, God, he's coming over.'
He was broad-shouldered and heavy-set but walked with a curiously light step, like a boxer or a dancer. He had the decency to take off the fedora and hold it down by his side. His hair needed trimming and the dark stubble on his chin suggested that he hadn't shaved for days.
Fancifully, Susan imagined he might have stepped off a freighter from Murmansk or, less fancifully, the boat-train from Calais. He certainly had the air of a man who had been places and done things.
She glanced up, gave him the wisp of a smile and waited, a little breathlessly, for him to introduce himself.
âMiss Proudfoot? Vivian Proudfoot?'
âYes,' Vivian said in her West End voice. âI am she.'
âIt's a real pleasure to meet you,' he said and, ignoring Susan completely, offered Vivian his hand.
On the few occasions when Susan had persuaded her brother Ronnie to take her up town after dark she'd been intrigued by the massive cream-coloured edifice in Portland Place that looked more like an ocean liner moored in a narrow canal than a building in the heart of London.
She had wondered then at the magic that the wizards cooked up within: dance bands and orchestras, singers, comedians, plays, talks and interviews with famous people all miraculously transmitted to the wireless in the Hoopers' kitchen in Shadwell. After she'd gone to work in Broadcasting House, though, it hadn't taken her long to realise that the only magical thing about the organisation was that âthe voice of the nation' wasn't smothered by the avalanche of memos that poured down from the boardroom or drowned out by the bickering that went on between controllers and producers.
Now, with the walls painted drab green to fool German bombers, sandbags piled against the porticos and policemen on guard at every entrance, the seat of national conscience had the same down-at-heel appearance as most of London's other monumental institutions.
Vivian said, âWhy the long face? What's wrong?'
âNothing.'
âIt's not my fault Mr Gaines recognised me.'