Authors: Philippa Carr
“What do people think about me? They must suspect.”
“They don’t think much about you. They are concerned with more important matters. What is happening on the Continent, for instance. Where will Hitler turn next? We are at war. The actions of Mrs. Dermot Tregarland with a French artist are trivial compared with the affairs of Europe. They are prepared to accept your story of loss of memory, implausible as it is, because they are not really greatly concerned.”
“You are right,” she said. “You are always right. And, best of all, you are here. You are going to marry Jowan Jermyn and the star-crossed lover of a hundred years ago can rest in peace. My dear sister Violetta came to Tregarland and set it all right.”
We laughed and sat in silence for a while. I drew comfort from her and I know she did from me. It is wonderful to have another human being who is so close to you as to be almost a part of yourself. It had been so from the beginning of our lives and would remain so.
She knew what I was thinking, as she often did. There had been few periods in our lives when we had been apart—the longest being when she had eloped with the French artist and had staged an “accident” to cover up the truth.
I was convinced that she would never do anything so foolish again. I think it had taught her that she should never allow us to be parted again.
“Let’s go in to breakfast,” she said at length.
Breakfast at Tregarland’s extended over two hours so that we could take it according to our plans for the day. James Tregarland rarely appeared for meals nowadays. He had been greatly shaken by the death of his son and what had happened to his mistress-housekeeper. He was well aware that he shared some blame for that bizarre affair. It had affected us all, though it appeared to have the least effect on Matilda’s son, Gordon. He was practical in the extreme and on him depended the prosperity of the Tregarland estate. He carried on as though little had changed. I had always known he was a remarkable man.
However, we rarely saw him at breakfast, and on that morning Dorabella and I were alone.
The post was brought in by one of the maids. There were letters from my mother—one for each of us. She always wrote to us both, even though the contents were similar.
We opened them and I read:
My dearest Violetta,
Life is uncertain here and I am a little anxious about Gretchen. It is a miserable time for her. She is so anxious for her family in Germany. Goodness knows what is happening to them, and with Edward going overseas soon … Well, imagine, he will be fighting her fellow countrymen. Poor Gretchen, she is most unsettled and unhappy. You can imagine how it is with her. Of course, she has little Hildegarde. I am so pleased about that. The child is such a comfort to her.
She has been staying with us. It is not easy being in a country which is at war with her own.
I was wondering whether you would ask her down to Cornwall for a spell. I am writing of this to Dorabella, as it will be for her to give the invitation. Gretchen was always so fond of you two, and it would be good for her to be with people of her own age. Of course, it is difficult traveling in these days of black-outs and all that
—especially with children—but if you could have her and little Hildegarde for a while, I am sure that would cheer her up.Hildegarde would be company for Tristan, of course, and I am sure Nanny Crabtree would be delighted to cope.
Poor Gretchen! People know she is German. Her accent, of course, and with Edward away … well, you can see how difficult it is.
Talk it over with Dorabella. I do hope you will have her.
I was sorry, and so was your father, that we could not be there for the engagement party. We are so happy about it. Both of us are so fond of Jowan. Your father thinks he is an excellent manager and we both know that you and he will be very happy together. It will be so nice for you to be near Dorabella.
With lots of love from Daddy and me,
Mummy
Dorabella looked up from her letter.
“Gretchen,” she said.
I nodded.
“Of course she must come,” she said.
“Of course,” I echoed.
Gretchen arrived about two weeks later. Dorabella drove to the station to meet her and I went with her.
I could see that Gretchen was a little distraught. She was as anxious for Edward as I was for Jowan, and neither of us could get any news of what was happening on the Front. Moreover, she had the additional anxiety of her family in Bavaria, of whom she had heard nothing for a very long time.
Little Hildegarde was an enchanting child. Tristan would be three years old in November and Hildegarde was about five months younger. She was an only child, dark like her mother and with none of Edward’s fairness.
Nanny Crabtree pounced on her with glee, and, as for Tristan, he was obviously glad to have her company.
Nanny Crabtree was at this time in a state of mild rebellion because of what she referred to as “them imps upstairs.”
Because it was feared that the enemy would attack from the air, children throughout the country had been evacuated from the big towns and billeted in country houses. Two of these children had been assigned to us, and they were Nanny Crabtree’s “imps.”
Above the nursery were the attics, some of which were occupied by servants. They were large rambling rooms, oddly shaped with sloping roofs. Two of these were used as bedrooms for the young evacuees, who were two brothers from London’s East End, Charley and Bert Trimmell, aged eleven and eight. Nanny Crabtree kept an eye on them, supervising their meals, making sure that they washed regularly and went to school in East Poldown with the others who had been billeted in the Poldowns or the surrounding neighborhood. As the school in Poldown was not big enough to accommodate all the children, some rooms in the town hall had been given over to the schoolmasters and -mistresses who had accompanied their pupils; and all the newcomers could go to school with their friends.
We were sorry for these children, who looked very forlorn when they arrived with labels bearing their names and gas masks over their shoulders.
Gordon had gone down to the town hall where they were all assembled and came back with the Trimmells.
Nanny Crabtree’s rebellion was only on the surface. Where children were concerned, she would be the first to care for them; but she always disliked change, so it was only a natural reaction.
“Poor little mites,” she said of the evacuees. “It’s no picnic for them being taken away from their homes. Still, they’ve got to learn the way we do things here and the sooner the better. I could murder that Hitler.”
When Charley came home with bruises on his face and a torn jacket, she was most displeased—particularly when he stubbornly refused to tell her how he had come to be in such a state.
“We don’t have that sort of goings-on down here, you know. You have to behave. You’re not in the back streets now.”
Charley remained silent, giving her that look of veiled contempt which she had seen before and was the easiest way to irritate Nanny Crabtree because she could not complain of insolence when the boy had said nothing.
She told me about it afterwards.
“‘Charley Trimmell,’ I said, ‘you’ll have to learn, that’s what you’ll have to do.’ And there he stood, defying me … without raying a word.”
“It must be dreadful for those children,” I said. “Just imagine, being taken away from your home and family and sent to strangers.”
Nanny nodded. “Poor mites, but they’ve got to learn life’s not all beer and skittles.”
I think she was rather contrite when she heard the way in which Charley had acquired his scars.
She heard it through Bert, with whom it was easier to communicate. He told her how the boys in East Poldown had set on him, teasing him. They were going to throw him into the river because he couldn’t swim like they could, and he talked in a funny way. They were all round Bert, who shouted for his brother, and then Charley appeared—stalwart Charley—who dashed into the crowd of jeering boys and, according to Bert, gave them such a going-over that they all ran away, but only after inflicting some battle scars on the noble defender.
“Why didn’t he tell me what it was all about,” demanded Nanny Crabtree, “instead of just giving me that look of his?”
“Children don’t always act reasonably,” I said.
After that there was a truce between Nanny and Charley. No. There was more than that. They were both Londoners; they shared a knowledge of the metropolis, and that special shrewdness and the unshakable belief that, because they were citizens of the greatest city in the world, they could only feel a certain pity for those who did not share that privilege.
In due course, Charley talked to Nanny about his home. He would sit in her room with his brother Bert, for Bert never liked to be far away from Charley, and Nanny discovered that the boys’ father was at sea. He had been a sailor before the war and had been away from home most of the time, a fact which had given the boys little cause for regret; their mother worked as a barmaid and, as she was out late at night, Charley had to look after Bert.
“They’re not a bad pair,” said Nanny. “There’s a lot of good in Charley, and of course Bert thinks the sun, moon, and stars shine out of his eyes. I’m not sorry we got them two. Could have done a lot worse.”
So, with Tristan and Hildegarde in the main nursery and the Trimmells in their attic rooms above, Nanny Crabtree, as she said, “had her work cut out,” and we all knew that her occasional murmurings against her lot were not to be taken seriously.
Meanwhile, the weeks were passing. The campaign in Norway was not going well and there was no news of Jowan. One day was very like another. Dorabella, Gretchen, and I would take the children onto the beach and watch them building sandcastles. They liked to build close to the water and watch the incoming tide make moats in the channels round the edge of the piles of sand. It was pleasant to hear their shrieks of laughter.
When we went into Poldown the streets seemed crowded. We had a much greater population now. It was amusing to hear the mingling of the Cockney and Cornish accents. At first the children had some difficulty in understanding each other, but the original antagonism and suspicion of strangers, I fancied, had disappeared to some extent.
There was change and I often thought of the days when I had first come here before Dorabella’s marriage, how quaint it had all seemed, and how my mother and I had laughed at the old Cornish superstitions. Then there had been my meeting with Jowan … I always came back to Jowan.
Sometimes Dorabella did not come to the beach and Gretchen and I would take the children. We could talk to each other freely. There was no need to hide our fears because we shared them.
Often I would catch her looking across the sea with that look of sadness in her eyes. Gretchen had suffered so much in her life that she expected disaster. It had been different with me. I had been brought up by doting parents in an atmosphere of love and tenderness. Life had gone smoothly until that visit to Bavaria. That had been the key that had opened the door leading to the drama.
How different everything might have been if we had never gone there! I might have known Gretchen, because Edward had already met her and been attracted to her; but Dorabella and I would never have met Dermot Tregarland. I should never have seen this place. I had to remember, too, that I should never have known Jowan.
It was hard to believe that it was only five years ago that we had sat in the cafe near the schloss and Dermot had sauntered by. An Englishman in a foreign land meets fellow countrywomen—and, of course, he stops to talk. That might have been the end of it. But then there was that fearful night when the Hitler Youth had invaded the schloss and tried to wreck it and insult its owners because they were of the Jewish race. It was horror such as I could not have believed existed. It was my first experience of mindless cruelty and bestiality. Never, never would I forget it.
Gretchen put her hand over mine suddenly.
“I know what you are thinking,” she said.
I turned to her and said: “I wish we could get some news. What do you think is happening over there?”
She shook her head. “I cannot guess. I just hope they will be all right. Perhaps we shall soon hear something.”
“I was thinking, if they fall into the hands of those people … those who were in the schloss that night.”
“They would be prisoners of war. My family is Jewish. That was what that was all about. Dear Violetta, you can never forget it, can you?”
“No,” I said. “Never.”
“I fear I shall never see my family again.”
“You have Edward now, Gretchen—Edward and Hildegarde.”
She nodded.
But the sadness stayed with her and I realized afresh that, because so much tragedy had touched her, she would always be fearful that she would lose the happiness she had gained.
We both sat for some time looking at the sea, thinking of our loved ones, until Tristan came up. He was near to tears because the handle had come off the pail of his bucket.
“Auntie Vee make well,” he said.
I took the pail and saw that all that was needed was to slip the wire back into the loop. I did it with ease and Tristan smiled broadly, accepting my cleverness as something he had never doubted.
If only our problems could be so easily solved!
May had come. The weather was perfect. The Cornish countryside was at its best at this time of the year. The sea, calm and benign, seemed to caress the rocks as it crept up the beach at high tide. The peaceful scene was in contrast to the apprehension in our minds. There was no disguising the fact that the war was not going well. There was no more talk of its being over in the next few weeks.
We had been driven out of Norway and it was clear that the storm was about to break over Western Europe. The Prime Minister, Mr. Neville Chamberlain, had resigned and Mr. Winston Churchill had taken his place. The retiring Prime Minister made a stirring speech in which he asked us to rally round our new leader. But when our newly appointed Prime Minister spoke, he told us that he had nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat, and that we had a grievous task before us and months of struggle and suffering.