скачать книгу бесплатно
‘They did. The house was very beautiful. I didn’t realise how beautiful. I should have enjoyed it more. Now this is all I’m left with.’ She waved her hand at the sitting room and the narrow hallway beyond, while Beth jumped to her feet to rescue the tea. Undeterred, Alice went on. ‘You see, I was brought up at Amberley, and it was always Amberley where I wanted to be.’
When Beth made no reply, she said, ‘Do you know it?’
Amberley was Gilbert Fitzroy’s home. ‘I know of it. It’s the estate that adjoins Summerhayes.’
‘It belonged to my parents,’ she said fiercely, as though Beth’s description had somehow disputed its ownership. ‘And then to my brother, Henry.’
‘And now to your nephew.’
Alice looked blank. ‘Gilbert,’ Beth said gently.
‘Inheritance knows no distinction,’ she muttered.
Beth had no idea what she meant, but she was concerned that at any moment the conversation would lead back to Elizabeth. ‘Talking of Amberley, these flowers are from their greenhouse. Gilbert must have asked his gardener to pick them especially for you.’
The old lady sniffed. The subject was evidently closed. ‘Can I pour you another cup?’ She thought the pot would just about run to it, though the liquid looked more like straw than tea.
‘You make a good cup of tea, Bethany. Better than Ivy, she never managed to cope with rationing.’
‘Now that she’s married to a farmer, it will be less of a problem.’
‘But Higson isn’t a farmer. Not any longer. He sold the farm – the military paid a good price for it, I believe, and that decided him. He bought a bungalow in Devon, on the coast. A place called Solmouth, Sidton…’
‘Sidmouth?’
‘That’s it. He asked Ivy to marry him before he left. She’d been a good girl to him ever since his wife died.’
‘So a happy ending?’
It didn’t seem that happy to Alice. She gave a long sigh. ‘I miss her. She was with me for so many years. Not that I’m not glad for her. Mr Higson is some compensation. She lost her first love, you know. Poor Miller – such a tragedy. He was our chauffeur, but they found him in the garden at the bottom of the estate. Drowned.’
An uncomfortable tingle started in the nape of Beth’s neck and slowly spread the length of her spine. She had walked that way once and been startled how uneasy she’d felt. There had been a kind of darkness to the place that had sent her scurrying. Afterwards she’d scolded herself for being foolish, but was it possible that the garden still held fast to a bad memory?
‘I’m glad for her,’ Alice repeated. ‘She did well for herself. And May Lacey, too. Girls from humble families. Whereas my daughter threw herself away on an Irishman without a shirt to his back. It’s a different world these days.’
Beth agreed, but she’d been only half listening. She should go in search of Ralph. She was already beginning to regret her agreement with Gilbert. The war had closed the boy’s school last year and he was woefully behind with his studies. It might have been better if his father had looked for a full-time tutor. Teaching at the same time as caring for Alice was proving a challenge, and she’d had to cancel the last two lessons. Ralph had been happy with the chance to escape since he had far more interesting things to do than sums and composition, but she couldn’t let it happen again. Today she’d told herself that she would have at least two hours with him and here was Mrs Summer, trying for an outward calm, but still deeply upset. She could see how disturbed the old lady remained from the way she was holding her cup, rattling it badly in its saucer.
Alice had an inner toughness, Beth had discovered, and she wouldn’t like it that she’d been found crying. She was trying hard to put on a brave face, but the letters had caused damage. The first one had arrived a month back, shortly after Beth had come to Summerhayes. She’d been stunned when she’d learnt the tragic history of this otherwise unremarkable woman: a husband and son prematurely dead and a daughter who seemingly had disappeared from the face of the earth at just nineteen years old. That first letter had brought all the sadness that Alice carried struggling into the light.
The letters were anonymous, but from the beginning they’d indicated that the writer, whoever they were, was bound for Summerhayes. The first one had been postmarked Southampton, suggesting a traveller from abroad, but then the second and third had come from London. In each letter the unknown writer had claimed to be drawing nearer to Summerhayes, promising Alice a loving reunion. Until today. Today the promise had been withdrawn; hence the old lady’s cries of despair. But if the writer were honest in seeking Alice, why had they gone to London? Why not travel directly to Summerhayes from Southampton? But they weren’t honest, were they? Otherwise they would have signed the letters, along with their protestations of love, and Alice would know for sure who would call and when. For a short while, the old lady’s iron certainty that the letters came from her daughter had made Beth question if, in fact, Alice were right, and that perhaps the writer was an unstable woman, disturbed enough to contact her mother anonymously. But there was too much deliberation in the pattern of the letters; that suggested a calculating mind determined to cause the maximum pain. Alice was being played with, Beth thought, but why and to what purpose, she couldn’t tell. All she could do was try to protect the poor lady as best she could.
She rescued the rattling cup and cast around for a way to soothe her elderly charge. ‘Shall I start another illustration?’ Alice loved to watch her draw, no doubt because the lost daughter had been an artist and in some small way Beth’s sketch pad reminded her of happier days.
With an effort, the old lady agreed. ‘That would be nice, my dear. What is it to be?’ She pulled herself upright and arranged her face to appear interested.
‘Let me see… we’d reached the point where Izzy is lost.’ Beth brought her companion up to date with the progress of the story. ‘If you remember, she escaped from the cottage when she was told to stay there, and now she can’t find her way out of the Tangled Wood.’ Izzy was the naughty heroine who one day, Beth hoped, would entrance a young audience. She found her pad and a handful of sharp pencils, and settled herself in the chair opposite. A forest scene would make an interesting subject. For a while, the only sound in the room was the slight scratching of pencil on paper. Then Alice spoke into the silence. ‘You do know we have an artist’s studio here? It’s in one of the attics, so the military won’t have taken it over.’
Sometimes Alice’s mind was as sharp as it must have been twenty years before. She was aware of the army’s presence in the building, aware of how much space they occupied. Beth hoped she wasn’t aware of the damage several changes of military personnel had caused to the splendid house she had once called home.
‘I know about the studio, Mrs Summer, but a sketch pad and pencil is all I need. I’m not a genuine artist – just a writer and illustrator. It’s a hobby for me.’ But one day, it might not be. One day, it might be a serious undertaking and earn sufficient money to bring her true independence. In the meantime, it was useful in deflecting Alice from her obsession. Though apparently it wasn’t going to deflect her today.
‘Elizabeth was an artist,’ she announced. ‘I have the pictures she painted – somewhere.’
‘There’s one in your bedroom, I think. And very good it is, too.’
The old lady looked gratified. ‘There are others. Lots of them. Maybe in the old studio?’
Beth had been there once and found it a chaotic jumble of mouldering furniture and broken boxes. She’d had to push past thick, furry cobwebs to get into the room and when she did, had seen immediately that part of the roof must have lost tiles because a steady drip of water had found its way through and was pooling the floorboards. She’d got Mr Ripley to fetch a bucket and asked him to remember to empty it whenever it rained. But she’d said nothing to Alice of the state in which she’d found the place. Fortunately, the old lady never went further than her own few rooms – a sitting room, a bedroom and a bathroom. Beth herself slept in what at a stretch could be described as a box room and Mr Ripley bravely inhabited one of the spare attics.
‘Let me see.’ Alice leant forward. ‘The trees are beautiful.’ She pointed to the tall, slender columns of birch that Beth had drawn, fingering their outline on the page. Their delicate leaves shadowed the winding path that the small girl would tread. ‘It is such a pity that you don’t paint. Colour would bring the image to life.’
She feared the mention of paint and colour would bring Elizabeth into the conversation once more. ‘Shall I draw Izzy into the picture? I think she’ll be happy on her adventure – to begin with at least.’
‘Yes, do that.’ Alice’s voice was weary now, her eyes heavy-lidded, and before Beth had finished the illustration, the old lady was breathing heavily. She fetched a blanket from the bedroom and tucked it around the sleeping woman. She should just have sufficient time to find Ralph and haul him up the stairs for his lesson. He was bound to be in the grounds somewhere, though finding him amid the mayhem of a military arrival could prove difficult. But if she knew the boy, he would most likely be sitting on the largest tank or questioning the gun crew on their stock of ammunition. She edged the front door shut and sped down the stairs.
Chapter Four (#ulink_be5787a2-ae77-50f4-b8ae-68c5bd9e900f)
The small boy had emerged from the thicket of grass, but he was inches away before Jos could see his entire person: his hair a thatch of light brown, his smile engaging, and his bare knees scratched and muddied.
‘I’m Ralph.’ He held out his hand.
‘Jos Kerrigan.’ They exchanged a solemn handshake. ‘You seem to know your way around this wilderness,’ Jos said. ‘Do you live here?’
‘Not here but next door – at Amberley. It’s much more fun here though. We don’t have any soldiers at Amberley.’
‘So can you show me how to get out of this darn place? Or is it all like this?’
Ralph considered the question judiciously. ‘This is the worst bit, I think, but the whole estate is pretty run down.’ That seemed an understatement to Jos. ‘I can take you to the main camp, if you like?’
‘I’d like that fine. Do you spend a lot of time there?’
‘When I’m allowed to,’ the boy said simply. ‘There’s been a camp for ages, but this week there’s been loads going on. And I’ve made a special friend.’
He was intrigued. ‘And who’s that?’
‘His name is Eddie. Eddie Rich.’
‘Is that so? He just happens to be my special friend, too.’
Ralph’s grin spread across his face. ‘He’s the bee’s knees, isn’t he?’
Jos’s deep blue eyes lit with amusement. ‘He sure is.’
‘It’s getting hot out here.’ The boy patted several stalks of grass away from his face. ‘Shall I take you to him?’
‘I’d appreciate that, Ralph.’
‘C’mon then.’ He turned round and traced a path along what Jos thought must be the thinnest line of flattened grass he’d ever seen, just wide enough for a nine year old’s feet but way too narrow for his own size twelves.
‘I’m crushing a heck of a lot of grass here,’ he called to Ralph, a few steps ahead. ‘Will it matter?’ Why it would, he couldn’t imagine.
‘It doesn’t matter at all. No one comes here except me, and it will make it easier the next time I go to the secret garden. That’s what I call it. It’s where you came in. It will make it easier for you, too, if you want to go back.’
He had no intention of ever returning to this maze of heat and bother. The grass tickled at his nose and infiltrated his ears, and on occasions he had to sway to one side to avoid a giant fern or be knocked uncomfortably into the rough trunk of a palm tree.
‘So why aren’t you at school?’ he asked conversationally, more to distract himself from the discomfort of the journey, than from any real desire to know.
‘My school’s been closed. It was just outside London, and they said it was too dangerous for us to stay.’
‘You lived at the school?’
‘Of course. I was a boarder.’
He’d heard that English families often sent their young children away to school but he’d never really believed it.
‘And now?’
‘The school moved up to Cheshire. At least, I think it was Cheshire. I don’t really know where that is.’ Neither did Jos, but it seemed strange that the child hadn’t moved with it. He must have felt settled in the school, had friends there. It seemed like a lonely life for him here.
‘My father didn’t want me to go,’ Ralph explained. ‘When I was at school near London, I could come back at weekends, you see, but Cheshire was too far. I don’t think he wanted to be on his own at Amberley all the time.’
He didn’t like to ask about the boy’s mother, fearing there had been some kind of wartime tragedy, but then Ralph said, ‘My mother’s a long way away. She’s in New York. She’s American.’
‘So it’s just your dad and you?’
‘That’s right. Well,’ Ralph said over his shoulder, ‘there are other people. Quite a few actually. There’s the butler, and the footman, and the parlour maid, and cook and a kitchen maid, and the gardener and the chauffeur…’
‘I get the picture.’
‘I could have gone to the village school, but Daddy didn’t want me to. He was going to hire a tutor and then Miss Merston came and she’s teaching me instead. It’s heaps better.’
‘And who is Miss Merston?’
The ground had gradually been sloping upwards, but in the last few yards it had taken on an even steeper incline. Beneath the weighty backpack, he was beginning to puff slightly and that didn’t please him. He’d thought himself fit enough, but he’d need to be a good deal fitter come invasion day.
‘Miss Merston is great. She rescued a bird’s nest with me last week and I’m helping the eggs to hatch. She’s a school teacher.’ Ralph sensed a little more explanation was needed. ‘She doesn’t have a school any more either, and she looks after my father’s aunt. That’s my great-aunt. Her name is Alice and she’s very old.’
They had finally emerged from the jungle of long grass and reached a gravel path. Jos breathed a sigh of pleasure, feeling solid ground beneath his feet again. He allowed himself a short stop and looked around. He was standing in what had once been a vegetable garden, he could see. Vegetable gardens, he corrected himself. The area was immense and bounded to the south by a circular brick wall against which some dessicated fruit trees still clung to a semblance of life. Vegetables had not been grown here for many a year; the soil was untilled and broken canes, rotting wooden staves and remnants of netting were strewn across its surface. In the distance, to the right, stood what was left of a string of greenhouses, their glass long shattered. Nearer to hand, a tarpaulin covered the unknown. He’d put his life on it being ammunition. It was a dismal picture and made him keen to walk on, but once through the brick arch the view was no improvement. More tarpaulins, more mounds. Several trees had been toppled and lay spread-eagled where the wind had blown them, others had brambles up to ten feet high climbing their trunks. He passed what he thought must be one of the oldest trees in the garden, stoic in its lost grandeur. A fig tree, he was sure of it. Scattered in its branches was shrivelled fruit, unharvested year on year. The gnarled trunk was punctured by bullet marks and when he looked around, he saw that nearly every surviving tree in this part of the garden was similarly afflicted. Someone had been using them for target practice. Whatever devastation had existed before the war, a succession of military occupations must have made it worse.
‘This place is in poor shape,’ he said.
Ralph looked puzzled. It was evident that for him the Summerhayes estate was fine as it was. ‘I s’pose,’ he admitted cautiously. ‘It used to look different. I saw an old photograph once. But that was a long time ago.’
The boy was still ahead of him, walking beneath the pergola that connected fruit and vegetables with the upper reaches of the garden. The pergola had once been covered by roses and its wooden structure was more or less intact, but what plants remained had grown wild, their thorns a danger to passers-by. Dodging between waving suckers, he could see lying ahead another huge open area, once a vast lawn, he presumed. At its far end was a semicircular flight of steps leading up to a flagged terrace. He could imagine the ladies of the house taking a stroll on that terrace, tripping daintily down the steps to the rolling grass. Now, not a blade was visible. The lawn had been covered in concrete and a row of trucks parked tidily across its expanse.
Noise and bustle were all around. Troops were still arriving, each truckload of men making their way to an adjoining farm where they’d pitch the tents that would be their home. Given the vagaries of the English weather, it wouldn’t be a particularly comfortable home, and he hoped that his own billet was nearer to hand – in the gardens, perhaps, despite their dilapidation. The closer he was to the house and offices, the less wading through mud he’d have to do if it rained hard.
Ralph had stopped and was looking back at him. ‘Eddie’s this way.’
He was a smart kid, Jos thought. It was a new camp with a completely different configuration from the previous one – the forward party had arrived only three days ago – yet the boy already knew his way around. Several young soldiers saluted as they passed and he managed a ragged salute in reply. The backpack was to blame.
Ralph looked up with another big smile. ‘Are you an officer then?’
‘A very junior one, kid. Eddie is too.’
‘I know. He told me. He’s in the outbuildings. We have to go this way. Have you known him long?’
‘A fair time. We joined up together when we weren’t much older than you – we’re both from the Toronto area. That’s eastern Canada.’
‘I know where it is. I’m good at geography. Well, sometimes,’ he added, evidently remembering his problem with Cheshire. ‘Have you been together ever since?’
‘We’ve been posted to different regiments in between time, but when Canada joined the war we ended up in the same battalion again.’
‘Have you been fighting together as well?’ The boy’s face sparked with excitement.
‘Oh yeah, fighting too.’ And that was some fighting. Italy. Monte Cassino. He’d been so very glad to have Eddie alongside.
A young man was shambling towards them, blond hair glinting in the spring sunshine and his gold flecked eyes warm with welcome. ‘He’s here!’ Ralph forgot his dignity and jumped up and down as Eddie came into view.
Eddie Rich wore his uniform as though it were something he’d found by chance while rummaging through a forgotten trunk, but when you looked again, Jos thought, you noticed the straight back, the sinewy arms and an expression that didn’t quite disguise a sharp intelligence.
‘Well, Ralphie, just look who you’ve found.’
‘He was lost.’
‘If he’s walked up from the depths, I bet he was.’ Eddie put his hands on Jos’s shoulders and gave him a quick hug. ‘Great to see you, pal. But what were you doing in the badlands?’
‘That’s what he calls the bottom of the estate,’ Ralph explained.
‘I was dropped off at what must have been the rear entrance, though I guess it’s not been used for a century. I tried walking up from there.’
Eddie pulled down the corners of his mouth, but his eyes laughed. ‘Not so great. Ralph to the rescue, eh?’
‘Ralph to the rescue,’ Jos agreed. ‘So when did you get here? How are things going?’
‘I came with the advance party, but the rest of the guys arrived today. They made pretty good time from Winchelsea, but as always, it’s chaos. You know the drill. How about you? How was that jewel of a town?’
‘The same as when we left it four years ago. And a completely wasted journey. Someone – God knows who – had already ordered what was left of our equipment to be sent on here. Has it arrived yet?’
‘Not that I know of, but it’s early days. So you didn’t hang around?’
‘We’re talking Aldershot, Ed. Mind you, this place doesn’t look much better.’
‘It’s seen grander days, for sure, but it’s okay. The house is kinda nice, or it was once. The colonel gets to sleep there, of course. We’re over here. I’ll show you the way. We’ve been given the Head Gardener’s office, would you believe?’
‘No tent? How did you pull that one?’
‘Don’t get too excited. We’re sharing with Wilson and Martel. And the office is twelve by twelve.’
