The Linden Walk

‘Then if the Fates allow, his children will be born there, too. And here’s Polly Purvis coming to work for you and the Reverend when you move into this Bothy. It’ll be like coming home to me. All those years I was cook here in the war, and looking after those land girls who lived in it. Happy days. You and me, Mrs Sutton, are two very lucky ladies, all things considered.’

And Julia Sutton smiled and agreed that they were. Very lucky ladies.

FIVE (#ulink_48340f99-b14c-55a8-aa44-34b420e4a065)

A new car, Keth Purvis was bound to admit as he drove to school, was something most men wanted; the more so since manufacturers were at last being allowed to make them again. No more military vehicles. Cars for private use was now a tantalizing pipe dream, the new models being flaunted to the skies, then immediately exported to help the economy drive. Even if the garage in Creesby did manage to get a few to sell to the public, Keth frowned, there would be a waiting list for them a mile long. And what was he bothering about, anyway? He couldn’t afford one – simple as that.

Yet his wife could. Daisy had money, a fact few people were aware of. Not even Lyn knew. All those years she and Daisy had been together as Wrens and knowing the way women chattered, it still amazed him that his wife had been so tight-lipped about her fortune.

They had talked about new cars that morning – or rather, Daisy had. Sitting on the edge of the bath as he shaved, actually.

‘We’ve got to talk, Keth. Seriously,’ she had said. ‘About cars. You know there’s going to be a motor show in London?’

‘Yes. The first since 1939,’ he had said, casually as he could, staring into the mirror. ‘Was talking to Drew about it. I think he’d like to go. Said there’d be some new models on show.’

It had been a mistake, mentioning new cars.

‘So why don’t you go with him, and get one?’

‘Darling girl. New cars are for export. There won’t be any released for the home market.’

‘It said in the paper there’ll be some, and I’m sick of you driving that old boneshaker. It isn’t safe. It needs new tyres, for a start.’

‘But no one can get new tyres. They’re like gold dust.’

‘So get a new car, then. I want you to have one.’

‘Daisy Purvis.’ He kissed the tip of her nose which was tilted dangerously high to match the set of her mouth, and such signs were best not ignored. ‘Look – can we talk about it tonight? Don’t want to be late for school.’

‘I want you to have a car,’ she had repeated, tight-lipped. ‘A new one. And okay, we’ll talk about it tonight, but if you say one word about the money there’ll be ructions.’

The money. Daisy’s money. A small fortune.

‘Tonight,’ he had said. ‘Promise …’

His foot touched the brake. The road ahead was full of children. Watch out for the little blighters, Keth. They could dart in front of you with never a glance to the left or right. Children of all ages who called him Sir and to whom he taught mathematics.

He slowed almost to a crawl, thinking about his own child. A month old and already a dark-eyed, dark-haired beauty who smiled often, now. Mary, more precious than any new motor.

Carefully he parked in his allotted space. The old car had a few more miles left in it yet – but how to convince Daisy? Deliberately he pushed the problem from his mind and thought instead how lucky – how damned lucky – he had been to survive the war, and all at once cars didn’t seem important.

Not until tonight when he got home that was, when it would all start again.

‘I’ll be making bramble jelly today.’ Alice Dwerry-house poured her husband’s ten o’clock drinkings into the large cup that had once been Reuben’s.

‘Came by some crafty sugar, did you?’

‘Indeed I did not!’ Even now, she was apprehensive about black market dealings. ‘It’s the sugar the government allowed for jam-making in the summer.’

Allowed, she thought peevishly. Sugar should have been taken off the ration by now, and butter and lard and bacon. And good red meat!

‘Very nice.’ Tom was partial to bramble jelly. ‘You’ll be over to Foxgloves with a jar for Daisy this afternoon?’

‘No. I’m going to Creesby to look at material. I’ve got eight clothing coupons put by, and I want to make myself something nice for Drew’s wedding.’

‘But lass, it’s months away! Next summer!’

‘I know it, but I don’t want to be all last-minute rush. I might have to look around quite a bit before I find something that goes with my best hat.’

The Best Hat. A magnificent creation and very expensive. The one she had worn to Daisy’s wedding and would be brought out many more times if Alice was to get her value out of it.

‘Aye. The hat.’ Alice had looked a treat in it. ‘I suppose Polly will be wearing her wedding hat, an’ all – if she’s asked.’

‘Of course she’ll be asked. Oh, Tom, I’m so looking forward to it. Can’t wait to see my lad married.’

Her lad, Tom brooded. Born when Alice was wed to Giles Sutton, then left at Rowangarth for Julia and Lady Helen to rear, Drew being of substance and title before he’d hardly drawn breath. But Alice had come to love her son in the end; had forgiven his getting.

‘Your tea is going cold. You were miles away.’

‘Mm. Thinking about the birds in the far cover,’ he said offhandedly. ‘They’re thick on the ground, this year. Won’t be long to the first.’

The first day of October when pheasant shooting would start. No need to remind a gamekeeper’s wife. Mind, it wasn’t the same as in the old days, Alice thought longingly, when there had been weekend shooting parties for Sir John’s friends. Giles, who took over the running of Rowangarth estate when his father died, hadn’t been one for pheasant shoots; didn’t hold with killing. Never had. Yet he’d enlisted in the Great War for all that, but as a stretcher-bearer because stretcher-bearers and ambulance drivers and medical orderlies weren’t called on to fire guns, take life. Life had been sacred to Giles Sutton. All life. Pheasants included.

‘I said I was thinking about game birds in the far cover, and you didn’t hear a word of it.’

‘Sorry, Tom. I was miles away. In France, if you must know.’

‘Lass, that war is over. We’ve had another since. They’re even calling them World War One and World War Two now.’

‘So they are.’ But that first war, hers and Tom’s, would always be the Great War to those who had fought in it. Great only because it was obscene and bloody and uncaring. Patriotic slaughter. Alice Dwerryhouse knew, because she and Julia had been there. ‘I was a young nurse at the Front and now I’m a grandmother. Things change.’

‘Aye, they do.’ Tenderly he touched Alice’s cheek. ‘They do, thank God. And you’re still my lass.’

‘And I love you Tom Dwerryhouse, but I’ve got things to do, so drink up that tea and be out of my kitchen from under my feet!’

Alice, Tom thought contentedly as he made for the far end of Brattocks Wood, dogs at his heels, who regularly ordered him out of her kitchen with a sharp word, but who loved him with her eyes every time she looked at him. Dear, precious Alice, his first and only love. How much better could life get?

Lyn Carmichael smiled at the ring on her left hand, then at the letter that lay on the table in front of her. It had been the first thing she saw when she opened her front door, last night. An envelope bearing an airmail sticker and a Kenyan stamp. From darling Blod; Blodwen Carmichael, who for years had been her aunt and was now her mother. Her real mother; birth mother. The news of it had shocked, amazed and delighted Lyn. When she had given it time to sink in, that was; when her father had written to tell her that her mother – the woman she thought was her mother – had been killed in a car accident. It was only then Lyndis learned the truth; that she really belonged to the dear person she called Aunt Blodwen and had been given to her twin sister to rear in Kenya, half a world away. Given to Myfanwy, who spoke with an English accent and had never, Lyn supposed, completely forgiven her husband and sister.

Lyndis looked at the generous, rounded writing and was glad that everything had come right for Auntie Blod and her father; glad they had married the minute the war was over and sailings to Kenya available to civilians once more.

… Can’t wait to see you again, and talk things over with my girl, Auntie Blod had written. In fact, your dad and me got a sudden yearning to spend Christmas in Wales. You could put us up if we decided to come, couldn’t you? I said to your dad that I couldn’t wait to see that little cottage again and he said that was all right by him and anyway, we’d both have to meet Drew’s family and talk about the wedding because your dad is determined to pay for the lot, he said, and you are to let him, because he isn’t short of a pound or two as well you know. Lovely girl, I’m so happy for you. I know I have said it twice already in this letter, but I shall go on saying it, because your happiness is all that matters in this world to me – apart from your dad’s, that is.

Christmas in the little house near Llangollen and the three of them together as a real family for the first time in her life, Lyn realized with delight. So long since she had seen her father. She had been a schoolgirl of twelve when they said goodbye the day she sailed alone for England, and boarding school. Stay with your Aunt Blodwen for your holidays, they said, with no mention made about when she would go back again. And anyway, the war had prevented her return to the country she was brought up in.

Maybe they would all be asked to Rowangarth for Christmas. A good idea, that, because sooner or later the parents would have to meet and there was room enough for twenty Christmas guests in the house she was soon to share with Drew.

Lyn Sutton. Lady Lyndis. Mistress of Rowangarth, and she not knowing the first thing about belonging to the aristocracy and living in a big old house where money was no problem and everything she could see when she looked out of any upstairs window, belonged to the Rowangarth Suttons.