A Family's Duty (2 page)

When she finally sat down, Mrs Kennard called upon Miss
Rudge to sing a solo, ‘Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill’, and a young mother, whose toddler had been left in the charge of her friend and neighbour, rose to read a poem about a pet cat by a Mr Christopher Smart. Then refreshments were served, cups of tea were handed round, along with the delicious home-baked cake and shortbread biscuits for which Mrs Kennard was renowned.

Councillor Mrs Tomlinson, a widow in her seventies, observed with quiet satisfaction the curate’s wife and the lady of the manor, who presided each week over this social occasion designed to bring the women of the parish together. She listened to the accounts of domestic comings and goings among them, and the gossip, mostly unmalicious, over the cups and tea-plates. She joined in the thanks for Mrs Kennard’s hospitality when that lady ought really to be resting, in her condition, and wondered what the poetry reader would have thought if she’d known that poor Christopher Smart had been incarcerated in a lunatic asylum when he wrote his touching poem in the mid-eighteenth century.

She also kept to herself the anxiety she felt as storm clouds gathered over Europe. Widow of a brigadier killed in the Great War, she heard worrying news from her son in the diplomatic service, now resident in Vienna, and fervently hoped that the recent Anglo-Italian agreement would guarantee that Benito Mussolini would be a firm ally in the event of another war, which heaven forbid. He was in a good position to stand up against this maniac German Chancellor, Adolf Hitler, now seriously persecuting European Jews. She gathered that Mussolini was more of a dictator than a premier, as indeed was Hitler and his Fascists, but he had done a great deal to revive Italy’s prosperity since the dark
days of the war; oh, surely,
surely
, thought Mrs Tomlinson, there could not possibly be a return to those dark days again!

The Ladies’ Hour, which quite often went on for an hour and a half or longer, ended with the singing of ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, but Lady Neville stayed on a little longer to talk with Philip Saville.

‘I’m glad to have the chance of a word with you, Philip,’ she said pleasantly, as if an idea had just struck her, though she had in fact been turning it over in her mind all the afternoon. ‘How is Miss Temple these days? It’s some time since I’ve seen her, and I really should call on her. Is she well?’

‘Thank you. My aunt keeps reasonably well, but the rheumatism is still troublesome,’ he answered with cool politeness.

‘Then thank heaven she’s got you there to do the man’s jobs, bringing in the coal and digging the gard—’ Isabel checked herself, remembering his disability.

He shrugged. ‘We are mutually obliged to each other. Aunt Enid is a very good cook, and sees that I always have a clean shirt to put on.’ A faint trace of a smile hovered over his face for a moment, and Isabel saw her opportunity to put a suggestion to him.

‘The Reverends Allingham and Kennard are very appreciative of your services as church organist,’ she said, ‘and your playing this afternoon was quite brilliant – and tactful,’ she added in a low tone, ‘for the skilful accompanist must be able to cover up the singers’ mistakes and get them back to the right key! You must have a library of tunes in your head.’

He gave the slightest of nods, and she hoped he didn’t think her patronising. It was time to come to the point.

‘One of the grooms at the Manor has twin boys, fine little
fellows, now seven years old, and always singing in perfect tune, though they’ve never learnt music. Miss Rudge at St Peter’s Primary School has recommended that they learn the piano, and I asked them to come with their mother to see how they fared with our piano in the drawing room at Hassett Manor. I tell you, Philip, it was a revelation to see and hear those little boys play simple nursery rhyme tunes, entirely by ear, as they’ve had no lessons, nor is there a piano in their home. It occurred to me today, listening to your expertise, that you could give Charlie and Joe lessons if a suitable time could be arranged. What about Saturdays, or evenings after five o’clock, at the Manor?’

Philip Saville looked dubious. ‘I can’t walk very far without pain in my non-existent leg, and I haven’t actually
taught
music before, nor have I had much experience with children. I’m sure you could find somebody more suitable to teach them – a lady, preferably.’

Isabel noticed that he had not addressed her as
Lady
, neither did he show the deference to her social standing such as she received from the ladies at the Rectory. She found his attitude quite refreshing, for she would rather have been plain Mrs Neville. Daughter of a North Camp carpenter, she had married an eager young curate sent to assist Philip’s father, and moved with her husband to his London parish. After his tragic death she had returned to North Camp with her baby son Paul and a baby girl she had adopted from a desperate single mother. Now married to Sir Cedric Neville of Hassett Manor, Isabel had never forgotten her origins, and was embarrassed at being addressed as Lady Neville and referred to as her Ladyship by North Camp people she saw as her equals, especially in front of her sister, Grace.

She now spoke as an equal to Philip Saville. ‘I hope you’ll be prepared to give it a try, Philip, and see how you get on. I will send the pony-trap to fetch you over to the Manor and take you back, and of course I would pay you, say …’ And she named an amount well in excess of the usual payment for music lessons.

Philip showed no sign of being impressed by her bounty. ‘If I were to meet these boys and assess their skill for myself, then we might come to a decision whether or not it would be worth your while,’ he said, and she had no choice but to accept. It was agreed that he would attend at Hassett Manor on the following Friday evening at five thirty.

She thanked him and said she would take him home in the pony-trap. It would be a pleasure to meet Miss Temple again and commiserate with her over her rheumatism.

The Tradesmen’s Arms had stood in the main street of North Camp before the turn of the century, and was a meeting place for the older men of the village, a refuge from domestic turmoils and the behaviour of the younger generation, the grown-up children of men like carpenter Tom Munday and house painter Eddie Cooper, widowers in their seventies, who still obliged friends with their expertise. They could well remember the Great War that had sacrificed a generation, and for what cause? It had not ended in victory but in an armistice.

‘Nobody who never lived through
that
can ever imagine what it was like,’ said Tom Munday, setting down his glass.

Eddie agreed. ‘Nor the arrangements that had to be made for the girls left behind with babies inside ’em, like my Mary, after Dick Yeomans was killed,’ he said in a low tone, so as not to be heard by other patrons of the bar room.

‘It turned out all right, though, when Sidney Goddard took her over,
and
the farm – by Jove, that was a stroke of luck for everybody concerned,’ replied Tom. ‘Mary and Sid have been happy with a nice little family, and the Yeomanses—’ he hesitated.

‘And the Yeomanses have got their son’s child, our little Dora, even if she’s called Goddard,’ said Eddie with the reminiscent smile of one long resigned to a situation that had caused emotions to run high at the time. ‘And your Isabel’s done better than all of ’em, marrying into the Nevilles and taking Storey’s son with her, as well as the girl she adopted – look how well
she’s
turned out.’

Tom Munday took another long draught from his glass, and Eddie went on. ‘It’s a shame she hasn’t been able to give Neville a kid of his own.’

‘Cedric looks upon Paul and Rebecca as his own, and he’s been a good father to them – couldn’t ask for a better,’ said Tom firmly. ‘Nor could I ask for better grandchildren.’ He set down his glass with a gesture of finality. ‘Another?’

‘Thanks, don’t mind if I do,’ said Eddie, sensing that it was time to change the subject. Unlike Tom who had remained a widower, he had married again, and Annie had given him a son, Freddie, now living up north, married with kids of his own. No doubt
there
about the paternity! He smiled to himself, and then sighed, for Annie had died of cervical cancer only two years ago.

‘How’s Ernest getting on these days?’ he asked. ‘
There’s
one who’s done well after going to hell and back.’

‘Yes, but he’s settled down well with Aaron’s sister, Devora, and Miriam and David are lovely children,’ answered Tom. ‘Old Pascoe looked upon him as the son he lost.’ He paused
for a moment, and then went on, ‘It’s as well, I reckon, that they’re over here and not over there, in Elberfeld, with Aaron’s brother and his family. I don’t care for the sound of what’s going on in Germany these days. This fellow Hitler is very anti-Semitic, and needs watching – if he rises to power, heaven help the Jews.’

‘I shouldn’t worry, old chap. This Hitler makes a lot of noise, but so does an empty drum. Good God, Tom, we couldn’t – we surely
couldn’t
– go through anything like that bloody war again!’

‘As I say, I’m not sorry the Everham Mundays are safely out of the fellow’s reach,’ Tom said gravely. ‘They say he’s out to rule over every country in Europe, and stockpiling weapons as well as training a bigger army than any of ’em.’

‘I think you’re underestimating the opposition he’ll come up against,’ said Eddie. ‘Our Prime Minister has got the measure of him, and we’ve signed that agreement with Mussolini and his Eye-ties, so
he’ll
have a fair-sized army, too. And don’t forget the Empire – they’d be more than a match for a raving loony like Hitler.’

Tom sighed and finished his beer. Perhaps Eddie was right. He’d better be, because a Europe under a German dictator was too terrible to contemplate.

Dora Goddard had a spring in her step as she walked the half mile between Yeomans’ Farm and the sports pavilion, swinging her racquet. She knew how well her white outfit showed off her trim figure: a short-sleeved blouse and matching skirt with pleats all the way round, that flared out as she moved around the court. The North Camp hard tennis courts had space for three games to be played at once; it was conveniently close to the cricket ground with its pavilion, so the North Camp team, under their captain Rob Nuttall, could mix freely with the mostly female tennis players, an arrangement appreciated by all.

Billy Yeomans had not been ready to accompany Dora when she set out. He was the surviving son of his widowed mother, his elder brother Dick having fallen in the Great War at about the time of Billy’s birth, and Billy considered himself the head of the Yeomans family and heir to the farm. He had
lately taken to sprucing himself up when he came in from the milking shed, changing his underwear and washing his feet as well as his face and hands before shaving and slicking his hair back with Brylcreem. A young lady was responsible for this new fastidiousness, and today he had brought her home to meet his mother. Pam Barker seemed a nice enough girl, a giggling trainee hairdresser with no experience of life on the land. ‘She’ll need to get her hands dirty before he takes her on,’ Mrs Yeomans had said, though she had no serious objection to the girl, and thought that at twenty-six it was high time that Billy settled down, whether with Pam or another.

When he was ready to leave, Billy took Pam’s arm and steered her towards the lane that Dora had taken, towards the sports pavilion. He was partly dressed for cricket in a white shirt and his best grey trousers, just as Pam was partly dressed for tennis in a light cotton print dress with white plimsolls and ankle socks. Her racquet was newly bought.

They found Dora playing a knockabout with Barbara Seabrook from the butcher’s, practising their forehand and backhand drives.

‘Both got their eyes looking out for a chap to come along,’ said Billy, and Pam giggled.

Rob Nuttall and his son Jack were out on the adjoining cricket field with two or three local lads, including Robin Seabrook, the butcher’s son. They were joined by Billy, leaving Pam standing at the side of the court, forlornly holding her racquet and hoping that somebody else would arrive to play. She did not have to wait long; Howard and Lester Allingham from the Rectory sauntered down the lane, and as soon as Barbara Seabrook saw them she put down
her racquet and made a bee line for the brothers. Howard, the elder, was a pleasant young man destined for the church, and Lester, good-looking and self-assured, was said to be interested in aviation. Barbara, plump and pretty, looked up at him with big, china-blue eyes.

‘Care for a game, Lester? I’m sure that – er – that nice girl over there will lend you her racquet,’ she said, nodding towards Pam Barker whose eyes were on Billy, practising bowling in the cricket field.

She’s got a cheek, thought Dora, throwing herself at him like that, but Pam was only too pleased to lend him her racquet and hurry over to the cricket field to gaze adoringly at Billy’s rather erratic bowling. When Lester and Barbara commenced playing, shouting and laughing as they dashed from one side of the court to the other, Dora, seething inwardly, tried to appear unconcerned, and flashed a smile at Howard who came over and introduced himself. Dora asked him which he liked best, tennis or cricket; he said he really hadn’t a preference, but congratulated her on her own skill at tennis. When he told her he was soon to start at theological college, she smiled and told him she was attending Everham Commercial College to learn office skills, and perhaps, who knows, she teased, she might one day be his secretary.

‘I think I’d like that,’ he said shyly, and thought how pretty she was, her face flushed and her hair tousled from exercise. They laughed together, and Dora remembered that there might be a couple of old tennis racquets stored in the cricket pavilion. She ran to find out, and returned in triumph waving one in a circle above her head.

‘Right, now we shall see who’s best!’ she said, and, although he protested that he was out of practise, she insisted that they
went onto the second court, starting with a knockabout ‘for you to loosen up,’ she said with a smile, giving herself every opportunity to jump and twist, returning the ball and showing the pleats of the white skirt swirling around her knees. Howard was enchanted, and Dora thought him worth encouraging over the summer months, in the absence of any serious competition.

Meanwhile Barbara and Lester had stopped for a rest on one of the bench seats at the side of the court. He casually flung his arm across the back of the bench.

‘I see you’re an expert at the game,’ he said admiringly.

‘Oh, yes, I suppose that’s why you won,’ she answered, looking away from him, conscious of his arm behind her back. ‘You’ve had more tennis practise!’

‘Who said anything about tennis?’ he murmured, and she looked round, meeting his humorous dark eyes, and for once not knowing how best to answer.

‘That’s meant as a compliment,’ he grinned, ‘though I’ll apologise if you want me to.’

Barbara Seabrook blushed but managed a little smile. He was certainly better looking than his brother, she thought.

‘If I’m forgiven, perhaps I can make amends,’ he continued. ‘That amazing cartoon film,
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
, is going to be shown at the Embassy in a couple of weeks’ time; would you like me to take you to see it?’

Barbara’s mouth opened. ‘What, really? Do you mean that place behind the builders’ yard off Everham High Street?’

‘No, no, that’s the old flea-pit. They’ve got this new place now, the Embassy Cinema. It hasn’t long been open, but it’s the big attraction, and they say the film took America by storm – incredibly good. So shall we go and see it for ourselves – Barbara?’

‘Well, yes, seeing that you’ve asked me, and thank you,’ she replied carefully, while her heart thumped and she tried to stop herself from showing her delight. Now she would be the envy of every girl in North Camp, and Lester was certainly a charmer, even if he
was
the son of that old bore the Reverend Allingham!

The stable yard at Hassett Manor dated from the days of coaches and carriages; now there was Sir Cedric’s Daimler and the useful little pony-trap. Perrin the groom was as proud of the horses as if they were his own, and nodded to Rebecca as she stroked the nose of her grey palfrey, Sunbeam.

‘Seems we’ve got visitors today, Miss Rebecca.’ She turned to see Paul and his friend from Cambridge, who was spending some of the summer vacation at the Manor. The Perrin twins were clamouring to ride Sunbeam.

‘Wait a minute, boys,’ said Rebecca. ‘Let Mr Bannister see her. She’s a beauty, isn’t she, Geoffrey?’ she said, with a smile at Paul’s friend, and of course he agreed, and patted the necks of the two fine stallions, Mercury and Playboy, on which he and Paul had ridden earlier in the day, to the annoyance of Rebecca who would have come with them if she had known of their plan.

‘We’ll go for a gallop tomorrow morning, Becky,’ said Paul, and she nodded.

‘That will be fun, won’t it, my pretty Sunbeam? You’re more than a match for those great big fellows!’

The mare nuzzled her neck, and the twins jumped up and down, begging for a ride.

‘You’d better let them, Perrin, or we’ll never have any
peace,’ said Paul good-humouredly, at which they roared, ‘Look, Mr Saville, we’re going to ride Sunbeam!’

They turned to see that Philip Saville had come into the stable yard, leaning on his walking-stick to counteract the absence of a knee joint in his artificial leg. He nodded to Paul and Bannister, and half smiled at Rebecca.

‘The boys insisted that I come to see the horses,’ he explained.

‘You’re welcome, Saville,’ said Paul. ‘Meet Geoffrey Bannister, the son of the Right Honourable John Bannister, MP, who’s staying with us for part of the vacation – and Geoffrey, meet Philip Saville, veteran of the Great War, and music tutor to these two rapscallions!’

Geoffrey leant forward to shake Saville’s hand.

‘He’s making a jolly good job of it, too,’ Paul went on. ‘The Perrin boys’ll end up as famous concert pianists, I have every hope!’

Bannister was a little surprised that a musician should be teaching the groom’s children, and Paul guessed what he was thinking.

‘All due to Mother; she persuaded Saville against his better judgement! She must have seen – or rather heard how good he was, and snapped him up – not that he was very keen at first, were you, Saville?’

‘Lady Isabel is most kind, and the boys are amazingly quick to learn. I’m most obliged to her,’ said Savillle, a little awkwardly.

‘And so am I, Mr Saville; she’s a great lady,’ added Perrin in a low tone, for he had never been asked to contribute money for the lessons.

When Perrin and Rebecca led Sunbeam away towards the
paddock with the delighted boys seated on her back, Paul asked Philip Saville to come with them back to the Manor.

‘If we’re lucky, Mrs Tanner will give us tea in the garden,’ he said. ‘Come on, Philip, don’t be shy – she’ll put out more scones if you come with us.’

They slowed their pace for him to keep up with them, and sure enough, a light folding table had been set out before the open casement windows, with a checked tablecloth on which Mrs Tanner placed a tray of tea and home-made scones warm from the oven. She smiled at Paul, nodded to Saville, and looked Bannister up and down before leaving them.

‘That was a very suspicious look she gave me!’ remarked Bannister. ‘Who is she, exactly?’

‘Sally Tanner served at the vicarage in Bethnal Green where my mother was wife to the vicar there, my father,’ said Paul. ‘He went out as an army chaplain, and
his
father, a retired clergyman, came to take his place.’ Paul hesitated, looking back on a time that was seldom spoken of. ‘Sally Tanner had lost her husband in the war, and Mother took her in as a sort of housekeeper. She helped look after me as a baby, and practically looks on me as her own, and Becky as well; she saw Mother through my father’s death, which was pretty tragic, really – he’d lost his faith and wasn’t easy to – but this isn’t much of a subject, so have another scone! And you, Philip? Butter? More tea?’

Sally Tanner wiped her hands on her apron and went to Lady Isabel’s study, next to her husband’s but half the size. Isabel looked up from her writing desk and smiled.

‘Have the boys had their tea, Sally?’

‘Of course they have, Isabel, along with poor Mr Saville. I took a good look at that Mr Bannister, and, though it’s a bit
early to say, his face favours him, and he gets a thumbs up.’ She illustrated her words with a thumbs up sign.

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ teased Isabel, ‘though you really ought not to subject our guests to these examinations, Sally! It could be very embarrassing if they ever suspected. I hope you didn’t give Mr Saville the same scrutiny.’

‘’Course I didn’t – stands to reason
he’d
get a thumbs down, what with being a one-legged cripple twice her age!’

‘Oh,
Sally
!’ Isabel shook her head in disapproval, but could not hide her smile. In fact her friend’s judgement was usually right in matters of relationships.

Rebecca’s eyes sparkled with exhilaration as she rode Sunbeam at a gallop, digging her thighs into the mare’s flanks, and bouncing up and down on the saddle as they covered the stretch of heathland that rose above North and South Camp. The clear, cold light of early morning was for her the best part of the day, before the August sun rose above the Hampshire fields and woodlands. Ahead of her two companions, she rode down into the Blackwater valley, across the old pack-horse bridge, returning by the water meadows. With flushed face and windblown hair, she dismounted and patted Sunbeam’s heaving shoulders as she awaited Paul and Geoffrey who were following on. Geoffrey Bannister was unstinting in his praise.

‘Well done!’ he cried, panting from the exertion of the last gallop up from the meadows. ‘That was magnificent, Rebecca, a lesson in horsemanship – don’t you agree, Paul?’

‘Quite good,’ said Paul with a grin. ‘Coming along quite nicely, I’d say.’ He dodged her fist, privately amused at his friend’s raptures; it looked as if a romantic liaison was on the cards.

‘Don’t let her lead you astray, dear boy,’ he chuckled, but Geoffrey scarcely heard. Still breathing rapidly from the cross-county gallop with his eyes fixed upon the girl’s back, he was coming to believe that she was his ideal of womanly perfection: a girl he could love.

Enid Temple raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Are you all right, Philip? Were you held up at the Manor?’

‘I’m fine, Aunt Enid. It was due to the boys – they made me go with them to the stables, to show off the Hassett Manor horses and watch them ride Miss Neville’s mare. They’re a pair of scamps, but Paul Storey’s very good with them, and they got their wish. And then, well, Paul asked me to join him and his university friend for tea in the garden.’

‘Good,’ said his aunt, pleased though rather surprised that he had let himself be drawn into everyday life at Hassett Manor. The piano lessons for Charlie and Joe Perrin were turning out to be a blessing, she thought; there had been a definite brightening of her nephew’s rather lonely life since he had taken up Lady Neville’s suggestion.

‘And was Lady Neville there?’ she enquired. ‘And Miss Rebecca?’

‘Miss Neville was there, but not her mother; I think she was in her office. We were served tea by a lady called Mrs Tanner, and Paul was telling his friend about her history.’

‘Ah, yes, Sally Tanner, she’s devoted to the family, and knew Lady Isabel when she was Mrs Storey,’ said Enid with a sigh. ‘I remember Mark Storey’s determination to marry Isabel Munday, although she was only sixteen. Of course, your parents were in the thick of it, and my sister was very sorry for him. He had to wait another two years, but he got
her in the end and took her off to that rough East End parish just as the war broke out.’