Last Letter Home Page 7

  Sarah saw that every room bore the marks of a vigorous family of children and animals. The Watsons – Mr Watson a writer of detective novels – had had four boys as well as several dogs. The wallpaper was marked by grubby hands and the wheels of toy cars, and most of the doors showed evidence of scrabbling claws. One of the sofas in the drawing room had collapsed on one side and splashes on the wooden floor near the writing desk suggested that a bottle of Royal Blue ink had been dropped on it from a height.

  All these things Aunt Margo pointed out as they toured the house, Ivor having been despatched to buy some urgent supplies. Their mother appeared annoyed rather than cast down, however, but Diane’s expression was dismal. ‘I didn’t think it would be as bad as this,’ she whispered, shocked by the mould on the bathroom ceiling, but Sarah wasn’t listening. She was already beginning to see the house’s possibilities.

  She liked the large and light-filled rooms. The walls were thick enough to imagine it snug once they got fires burning in the grates. She left the others admiring a view of the church from a bedroom window and returned downstairs to explore on her own. One door off the hall had revealed a gloomy formal dining room. The kitchen and a good-sized scullery she had found more cheerful, but the room she had liked best was a sitting room at the back, which she went into now. Its windows looked out onto a snow-covered terrace with a lawn beyond. Something else, though, had roused her curiosity: through a French door a conservatory had been built onto the side of the house.

  Sarah listened to the voices and footsteps overhead, before trying the handle. The door was locked, but a heavy iron key on a nearby shelf fitted and turned easily enough. The door swung away and she stepped down into the grey light of a stoutly built wooden garden room with a snow-covered glass roof and windows all round. A grapevine spread like a delta up the wall of the house, its branches clutching the beams overhead. Doors either end led into the garden. Despite its cloak of snow, or perhaps because of it, the room felt less icy than she’d expected. Yes, she thought, this might be the place. For the moment, anyway.

  She slipped back into the house and from the hall collected her shoebox and returned with it to the conservatory, where she set it on a potting shelf and addressed her attention to the string, unpicking the knots impatiently. Then she eased open the lid and lifted the layer of straw beneath. Thank heavens. The row of tiny plants inside were undamaged in their pots and, when she prodded with a finger, the earth felt damp still from this morning’s drenching. She bent and sniffed the exotic smell: India in a box. She’d guarded these cuttings safely on their long voyage across the sea. They were flowers from their garden in Kashmir, her father’s favourites. She had no idea if they would survive here in English earth, but she was determined to try. She transferred the pots to a narrow stone trough under the vine and was still considering whether this would be the best place for them, when Diane’s heart-shaped face appeared around the door, its expression impatient.

  ‘There you are, Saire. Come and choose a bedroom. It’s the one with the washbasin I like, but I shan’t care if you want it.’

  Diane’s tone indicated that she would very much care and Sarah, knowing Diane would have to have her way but not really minding, rose to follow her, taking a lingering look back at the long-suffering plants in their new home.

  As she prepared for bed that night, in the bedroom with its view of the church tower through the trees, she saw that the snow was coming down once more in thick, tumbling flakes. It fell on and off for days, burying the sleeping garden, overlaying the newly cleared path. It covered the village of Westbury, its old stone church, the mediaeval bridge over the frozen stream. It coated the handsome statue of the Great Dane on the gateway of Westbury Hall and piped the chimneys and crenellations of the manor house itself. Across the whole of Norfolk it fell, on towers and steeples, on fields and woods and the mysterious Broads, on desolate marshes and the icy North Sea. Under the snow everything lay silent, holding its breath, perhaps, for what was to come.

  Nine

  On Christmas morning, Sarah woke to find her bed bathed in an eerie light. She rose, shivering, pushed aside the curtains and rubbed at the window to look out. It seemed that a cloud had descended on them in the night, for all she could see was dense fog from which fluffs of snow floated against the glass. She whisked in and out of the bathroom and dressed warmly, choosing her thickest woollen skirt and jersey, then pulled her dressing gown on over the top for good measure and padded downstairs in her slippers. There she found the new maid, Ruby, hunched over the range, measuring oats into a pan for porridge. Next to it a kettle was sighing into life.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Miss Sarah. Proper white one, isn’t it?’ Long-lashed eyes sparkled out of a pinched face that put Sarah in mind of a malnourished kitten. Little Ruby was fifteen, the eldest daughter of the Martin family who populated one of the estate cottages at the other end of the village. The girl had been glad to leave off helping her mother look after her numerous brothers and sisters in order to work for the Baileys, but she wasn’t used to sleeping alone.

  ‘Happy Christmas to you, too, Ruby. I hope you were warmer last night?’

  ‘Them extra blankets and the hot brick worked a marvel, Miss Sarah. I shouldn’t have got out of bed at all this morning, ’cept I were desperate for the privy.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Don’t worry, I’ll make myself tea. I can see you’re busy.’

  Sarah carried her cup through to the drawing room, where Ruby had already opened the curtains and lit a fire. There she stood sipping her tea, warming herself by the crackling wood and staring dreamily out of the window. The blizzard seemed to be easing. The room wasn’t exactly cosy, but it was getting that way.

  She had decorated the downstairs rooms with the bright holly that the gardener had left. Hartmann, as the Richards family referred to him, had visited every day since the Baileys had moved in, to clear fresh snow from the path and fix a window that wouldn’t shut. Yesterday, unasked, he had arrived humming a German carol and bearing a slender fir tree in a pot, which now occupied a corner of the room, decorated with candles that the new cook, Mrs Allman, had discovered in a cupboard. Next year they’d have proper glass baubles, the Bailey women agreed, but for now Sarah felt a deep thrill at the simplicity of this country Christmas with the snow and the intriguing little pile of gifts bought in London, carefully wrapped, under the tree, and the anticipation of a candlelit church with a wooden nativity scene, to which today a carved swaddled Christ Child would be added.

  In India, Christmas had never felt real to her. The colours and the climate were all wrong. But at least – and here she was pierced by the memory – there had been Daddy.

  It was nearly eight o’clock now, so she carried a tray of tea upstairs for Mother and Diane. Diane had to be called twice to wake and drink it. Later, Ruby served porridge and toast in the dining room, which was freezing, for all the heat from the fire there went straight up the chimney. As the snow came down outside, they worried about the depth of it, for it was banked up almost to the level of the window.

  ‘At least we won’t have to go to church,’ Diane said, cutting her toast into dainty pieces. ‘Bung over the marmalade, Saire.’

  ‘We still ought to make the effort,’ their mother said. ‘If we could convey a message to the Richards, they would surely send someone to clear the path.’

  ‘Mother, it’s Christmas morning.’ Sarah sometimes found her nearest and dearest appalling. ‘We can’t ask people to leave their families.’

  ‘Then I simply don’t know how we’ll manage to go up there for luncheon.’ They were due to spend the day with the Richards. Mrs Allman had departed the day before to stay with her sister in Ipswich and Ruby would go home to her family once she’d completed her morning tasks.

  After breakfast Sarah helped Ruby clear the table, leaving the bowls to soak in the sink for Ruby’s return that evening, then joined the others in the drawing room where the fire was dancing merrily. Diane had lit the c
andles on the tree and was gathering up the pile of presents from under it.

  ‘I think, perhaps, the snow might be stopping,’ Sarah said brightly, peering out of the window, and, indeed, the fog was lightening and the flakes coming down more sparsely. ‘And, look, someone’s come.’

  She watched eagerly as a bulky figure clutching a shovel emerged from the misty lane like a yeti from a storm. Its gloved hands pawed at the garden gate and when this didn’t budge, it simply lifted one leg and stepped clumsily over the top. Then, brandishing the shovel in a gesture of greeting, the creature waded up the path.

  ‘It’s Mr Hartmann. Thank heavens, we’re saved,’ Sarah said, wresting open the window. ‘Hello,’ she called out into the dead air, her breath billowing. ‘Happy Christmas. It’s jolly good to see you.’

  ‘And Happy Christmas to all of you.’ His eyes sparkled though his words were muffled by his scarf. ‘I thought you might need digging out.’

  ‘We certainly should, or we won’t get our Christmas dinner.’

  He laughed and sank his spade into the snow. ‘I’m building up an appetite for mine.’

  ‘Sarah, do close the window or we’ll perish,’ her mother snapped behind her.

  ‘In a moment, Mummy.’ She called, ‘I’ll make you some tea, Mr Hartmann. Would you like a drop of brandy in it?’

  ‘That sounds wonderful. I’ll clear by the front door first, so you can bring it out to me.’

  ‘Give me a moment,’ she said and refastened the window, shivering.

  ‘I knew they’d send someone,’ her mother said, drawing her chair nearer the fire.

  ‘I suppose this means we must go to church now,’ Diane grumbled.

  ‘I’ll see to Mr Hartmann’s tea,’ Sarah sighed, and went out to the kitchen where she found Ruby gobbling chocolates from a garish box that Cook had given her all to herself.

  The morning service was poorly attended – of the Richards family there was no sign – and the wooden pews were almost as cold as the stone pillars, but Sarah enjoyed singing the traditional carols and the vicar’s voice had a quiet musicality that whispered round the ancient walls. She felt part of a worship that had been going on in this place for hundreds of years. Cut off in this little village by the snow, it was difficult to believe that there was any world beyond Westbury. Never had their old life in India seemed further away.

  The Reverend Tomms was as round as the sound of his name, a short man whose moon face was wreathed in smiles. He shook hands very firmly with each of the Baileys and welcomed them to the parish. Outside, the girls couldn’t help giggling at the memory of his rubber boots peeping out from beneath his cassock. How rare it is that we hear Diane laugh, Sarah observed, brushing at the light snow falling on her face.

  At Flint Cottage the path was clear, and the only trace of Hartmann, his empty mug in the porch. Ruby had gone, too, but the house felt invitingly warm. Over coffee, the women opened their gifts to one another. Mrs Bailey unwrapped an engagement calendar from Diane, and an evening stole of dove grey which Sarah had seen in Harrods and had spent a large part of her monthly allowance on. She loved giving presents, really thinking about what people would best like. She’d found a pair of soft kidskin gloves for her sister there, too, which Diane exclaimed over, pulling them on immediately and testing their suppleness. Their mother gave them gold necklaces that had once belonged to Colonel Bailey’s mother, embroidered evening bags and some money for treats.

  When she unwrapped her gift from Diane, Sarah was amazed at the rightness of it. The chunky dark green book, with its title embossed in gold, read, The Culture of Vegetables and Flowers. She sampled the pages eagerly. ‘Amaryllis,’ she said. ‘Oh, asparagus, I must try that now we’re in Norfolk.’

  ‘Do you like the book?’ Diane wasn’t used to such an enthusiastic response to her presents.

  ‘I love it, thank you,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s so clever of you to have found it.’

  ‘I couldn’t think what to get you, then I saw it in the window of Bumpus’s while you were searching for Mummy in Liberty. It looks just the thing for this garden, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Just the thing, and you’re a dear. While I read it I’ll dream of spring and the things we’ll grow.’

  Diane gave one of her faded little smiles that were as much as she could ever manage. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do till then,’ she said in a small, wan voice. She fingered the new evening bag in her lap with her gloved hands.

  ‘Oh nonsense,’ said her mother. ‘We’ll find you other young people. I’m sure Ivor Richards will make some introductions.’

  ‘Winter will be fun, Di. Perhaps there’ll be skating on the stream, that’s what Ruby says anyway. We’ll borrow some skates from somewhere. And our boxes will be arriving soon. Think how we can make this house lovely with all our things.’

  ‘Won’t that be strange,’ Diane said in a bitter voice. ‘They’ll remind us of India and Daddy. I don’t think I’ll be able to bear it.’ And for a moment they were silent, hearing only the snap of the fire and the distant cooing of wood pigeons in the trees.

  Ten

  It was a small party that gathered later that morning at the Richards’ handsome, white-painted Georgian cottage. Sited in woods at the edge of the Westbury Hall estate, the Baileys reached it by walking along a sheltered footpath leading off the main drive to the old manor house itself. Including Major Richards’ elderly widowed mother, an austerely dressed leftover from the Victorian era with a face set in permanent distaste at the modern one, seven souls sat down to a splendid luncheon of roast goose and all the trimmings.

  It was the first time the Baileys had met Major Richards since arriving in Westbury, and Sarah’s youthful memory of him as an unsmiling, highly strung military type of strong opinions but few words proved to be an accurate one. She was able to observe him closely during luncheon because she’d been seated next to his place at the head of the table. Powerfully built, he clearly liked his food. He took plenty of everything from the dishes presented by their long-suffering maid. No, she could never manage to call him Uncle Hector.

  ‘Amen and tuck in,’ he said after rushing the brief grace, and Sarah was all too aware of him working his way through his meal, sorting and turning the different components as he loaded his fork then chewed each mouthful noisily. At the draining of each replenishment of claret in his glass his face grew more flushed, and oily strands of greying hair began to fall over his forehead.

  For a while the conversation was desultory as everybody tucked in.

  ‘How much leave do you have for Christmas?’ Mrs Bailey, who was sitting opposite Sarah, asked Ivor, who sat between the girls.

  Ivor swallowed his mouthful and looked eager. ‘I’m to report back tomorrow evening.’

  Major Richards cleared his throat and Sarah noted the wary way that Ivor glanced at him before continuing. ‘There’s a big exercise planned, Father, but with luck I should get away again at New Year.’

  ‘Does anything amusing happen in Westbury at New Year?’ Sarah asked and Diane looked up with interest. She’d no more than picked at the fatty slices of meat on her plate, Sarah noted.

  ‘The Kellings are in London unfortunately,’ Aunt Margo remarked with a sigh. ‘They usually throw such a splendid party for the hunt on Boxing Day.’

  Sir Henry and Lady Kelling had chosen to stay in their Belgravia residence this Christmas. Their daughter, the Hon. Robyn, had come out in society earlier in the year, and Lady Kelling, it was always said, preferred London society to anything Westbury had to offer. This, Aunt Margo had already told the Baileys. She was very interested in the Kellings’ lives. Too interested, Belinda Bailey used to say snidely after reading any letter from Aunt Margo, but Sarah’s father would put in mildly that the interest was natural. The Kellings lived in Westbury Hall and were, after all, Major Richards’ employers.

  ‘I was going to say,’ Ivor chipped in. ‘The Bulldocks are putting on a do. Perhaps I could snaffle an invitation. If y
ou girls should like to go, of course.’

  ‘The Bulldocks,’ Major Richards sneered as he jabbed a roast potato, but he failed to add anything to explain this comment.

  ‘Jennifer Bulldock is a very nice girl,’ Mrs Richards ventured.

  ‘Of whom do we speak, may I enquire?’ asked the Major’s mother, rook-eyed and with one hand cupping her ear.

  ‘The Bulldock children, Mother.’

  ‘Oh, the Bulldocks.’

  ‘If you will go,’ Major Richards addressed his son, ‘find out, will you, what the old man’s up to now.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘What is the matter with the Bulldocks?’ Sarah’s mother asked. ‘Should the girls be going to this party?’

  ‘Of course they should, darling,’ Aunt Margo said. ‘Don’t take any notice. They’ll have a marvellous time.’ She rang a small bell and the maid bustled in to clear the plates.

  Sarah hated Major Richards’ offhand manner with his son, as though Ivor were a dog to be kept on a tight leash. She reminded herself of the trials the older man faced and tried to feel charitable. It had been a matter of revulsion to her as a young child that Major Richards had lost his right foot to a hidden mine during the last days of the Great War. Now she was older she saw how the artificial replacement gave him discomfort, for he used a stick and the lines of pain etched into his face made him appear a decade older than his fifty-two years. And the wound had been more than physical. Soldiering had been his profession, her mother had once explained, but when he’d eventually left hospital in 1919 he’d found himself on the scrapheap as far as the Army was concerned, on civvy street with a small pension, a wife and a young son to support, and competing with thousands of others for the handful of jobs available that were suited to his station. After two years of bitter disappointment, the colonel of his old regiment wrote out of the blue advising him to apply to Sir Henry Kelling, whose estate manager was retiring and to whom Colonel Battersby had mentioned Richards’ name. The family had moved into Westbury Cottage and had lived there ever since; Major Richards being competent at his job as far as anyone knew.