Philippa Carr Read online

  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 p
lace. 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.

  I well remember listening to that speech. It did not contain lists of our triumphs. It came over as stark reality, and I think it was what we needed at the time. I still remembered parts of it through the years to come.

  “You say, what is our policy? It is to make war by sea, land and air with all the might and strength that God can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime.”

  Then I was transplanted to that room in the schloss, and I remembered the look on the face of the young man who had led in his band of ruffians. It was dark, it was lamentable; it had never been surpassed in the catalogue of human crime.

  “And what is our true aim?” went on the Prime Minister. “It is victory … victory at all cost. Come, let us go forward in our united strength.”

  It was a taste of that inspiration which was to hold us up and give us courage through the dark years to come.

  But at least now we were prepared for bad tidings which might come. And we needed to be. The news went from bad to worse. The Germans were advancing through Flanders while the sun shone brilliantly and the countryside seemed more beautiful than ever before.

  In the first six months the war had taken on a meaning for us which we would never have believed to be possible. We ourselves were in acute danger and we could not evade the possibility that our precious island might be threatened.

  And Jowan and Edward, all those who were in the thick of the fight, what of them?

  Each day increased our gloom.

  I felt an urge to be alone. I often took out Starlight, the mare I had ridden in those days when I used to go and meet Jowan.

  I wanted to escape from the present. I liked to ride to those places I had visited with Jowan. I remembered our first meeting so well, when I had trespassed on Jermyn land. I rode to the field where I had fallen. There we had walked to an inn called Smithy’s into which Jowan had insisted on taking me for a brandy to steady me. The inn was so called because it was next to the blacksmith’s shop.

  How I longed to be back in those days!

  As I was about to ride past, Gordon Lewyth came out of the blacksmith’s shop.

  “Good morning,” he said. “What are you doing in this part of the world? No trouble with Starlight, I hope?”

  “No,” I replied. “’Twas just riding past.”

  “I’ve taken Samson in. He’s cast a shoe.”

  “Are you going back now?” I asked.

  “I thought I might have a light lunch and wait for him. Why not join me?”

  I was poignantly reminded of that other occasion, only it was Gordon who sat opposite me now in place of Jowan. Mrs. Brodie, the wife of the landlord, came to us just as she had on that other occasion. I remembered how interested she had been. The visitor who was the sister of the new Mrs. Tregarland and Jowan Jermyn! A meeting of the enemy families! She would know now, of course, of my engagement to Jowan. Such matters would be frequently discussed in this place.

  She said: “Good day to you, Miss Denver, and Mr. Lewyth. There’s meat loaf. I can recommend it. They tell me it is one of my best. The best you can hope for these days, I’m afraid.”

  “Would you like wine or cider?” asked Gordon.

  I asked for cider.

  “Any news of Mr. Jermyn, Miss Denver?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, they’ll have their hands full over there, I reckon. They’ve got to send them Germans back where they belong to be. It won’t be long now, you mark my words.”

  I smiled at her. Gordon’s eyes met mine and I was aware of his sympathy.

  “She must notice the changes these days,” I said when Mrs. Brodie had gone.

  “As we all do.”

  I could see the sadness in his eyes and for the moment I was back to that night in the nursery when Nanny Crabtree and I had prevented his mother from carrying out her obvious intention to murder Tristan. I remembered how, when we had called him in, he had stood there, stunned by the revelation.

  I felt a deep sympathy for him, and I remembered with admiration how he had recovered from the shock and quickly taken charge of the situation, how stoically he had done what had to be done, how tender he had been towards his poor demented mother.

  I heard myself saying: “And how was she when you visited her?” before I realized we had not been speaking of her; but he showed no surprise. I supposed she was rarely out of his thoughts.

  He replied: “Her condition does not change much, though there are times when she knows me and at others…”

  “I am sorry. I should not have spoken of it. It is very upsetting for you.”

  “It does no good to keep silent,” he went on. “It is something which is on our minds whether we talk of it or not.” He smiled at me. “I can talk to you, Violetta. In fact, it helps in a way.”

  I was a little taken aback. I had not thought of his needing help. He always seemed so self-sufficient. But how upsetting it must be, even to the most self-reliant person, to discover that his mother is a murderess.

  “It is hard to see her so,” he went on. “Her poor lost mind wandering, trying to grasp reality. And, Violetta, I can only hope that she never does. It is better for her to go on like this than remember the truth.”

  I nodded. “And she did it all for you, Gordon. All that plotting … all that obsession grew out of her love for you.”

  “I do not forget it,” he replied. “I never shall. If only she had confided in me. I hoped, with her, that my father would recognize me. It was true that I had improved the estate, that I was the one who cared for it. But my mother was not his wife, and there was Dermot … and then Tristan. I wanted a place of my own. I could have found something, I suppose. It would not have been an estate like Jermyn’s or Tregarland’s, of course. But there is something about a place of one’s own, however small.”

  “You are part of Tregarland’s, Gordon. You love it. It has been your life.”

  “If only…”

  I touched his hand lightly.

  “It is no use looking back. We have to go on, and we are in the midst of this dreadful war. None of us knows from one day to the next what is going to happen. It isn’t going very well, is it?”

  “Grim,” he said. “The Germans are flooding into Holland and Belgium. Next it will be France.”

  “They seem to be succeeding all along the line.”

  “They were prepared. We were not. All during that decade when the Labour and Liberal parties were preaching disarmament, Hitler was laughing at our blind folly and building up his weapons, waiting for the moment to attack. It came. They were ready and we were not.”

  “But we are preparing now.”

  “Ever heard of shutting the stable door after the horse has run away?”

  “Yes. But we are going to fight now.”

  “We shall succeed in the end, and I believe that, now we realize the danger, we are of one mind. But we have to suffer for the blindness of people in the past. But for them, there might not have been a war at all. If only we could go back and do it all again! What we can do is face the facts. If only I had been wiser, I might have seen what was happening to my mother. Alas, the power to see into the future is not given us. I think we should always be ready to look at the truth and not delude ourselves to gain a little comfort temporarily.”

  “Is it really very bad, do you think?”

  “As bad as it could be, short of defeat, I imagine. But there is a fine spirit in the country, no doubt of that, and when we have our backs to the wall we can stand up as well as any. But let’s face it. The Germans have trumped up a story that Britain and France intend to invade Holland and Belgium, and Germany is going to
‘protect’ them. The Dutch and Belgians have different ideas and are standing out against them, but, of course, they are small and unprepared and the Germans are well equipped and disciplined. One can have no doubt that with little difficulty they will soon subdue them.”

  “Our men are over there,” I said with a shudder.

  Gordon’s eyes did not meet mine.

  “Oh, Gordon, what can be happening?” I asked.

  “Those people are fighting for the homeland. That gives them extra strength,” he said. “The tide will turn one day. Sometimes I feel I should be there, but we need to keep the estate going. Some of us have to stay. You will know, of course, that there is a fear that Germany might not only subdue the Netherlands, but France as well.”

  “There is the Maginot Line.”

  “That has not been tested yet, but the situation looks very bad. You know there is an organization being formed to protect our own country?”

  “Is it the Local Defence Volunteers?”

  “Anthony Eden is the new Secretary of War and he was talking about it the other day. You know what it means?”

  “To protect us against invasion?”

  “If France falls …”

  “Surely that can’t be!”

  “As you say, there is the Maginot Line. But Belgium and Holland, in spite of the bravery of their people, cannot be a difficult conquest, and as France, like ourselves, was not prepared beforehand … we must be ready for anything.”

  “Surely Hitler could never succeed in invading England?”

  “It would not be easy. There is the Channel.”

  “Thank God for the Channel.”

  “Well, we are preparing now. That is why the Local Defence Volunteers are being formed. You know how I feel about being at home, so … I have joined.”

  “I do know. But you could not have been spared, Gordon.”