Legacy of Greyladies (11 page)

The last one, a dark-green dress with a lace overlay that looked like a jacket, was so new she had never worn it. To do so now seemed to be signalling to the world that this was the new independent Olivia, coming out of mourning.

The dress was a bit old-fashioned, because skirts were shorter these days and much fuller. Fashions had changed quickly once the war started, becoming more practical than hobble skirts and draped skirts, which were narrower at the ankle. She studied the hem of her dress and nodded. If she got up early she could shorten it, and as the skirt became fuller a few inches above her feet, though not as full as many of today’s skirts, that would seem slightly more fashionable.

It was a long time since she’d cared about how she looked socially. She felt pleased to have found such a pretty dress, but it made her sigh, too, and murmur, ‘Oh, Charles! I do miss you, my darling.’

She might never have worn mourning for him, but her heart still felt wounded and she was still learning to live without her husband.

Alex felt like an intruder as he let himself into his mother’s house. That was ridiculous when he and Mildred owned it now, but there you were, he couldn’t help how he felt. It was icy cold inside and since no one else was now living here, he could do what he wanted about where he slept.

He took off his hat, but kept his overcoat and scarf on as he walked round the lower floor, noting with approval the signs of packing and clearing out by the couple he employed. The Townleys were very good at their job and there didn’t seem to be much left to do downstairs now.

This couple, in their late fifties, had fallen on hard times financially till he met them when they came into the shop to sell a piece of silver. They knew exactly what it was worth, which was unusual. He’d got chatting and realised he might be able to use their skills.

They were, as always, meticulous about staying in touch, sending him a note each evening to be delivered by first post the following morning. In them they’d explained what they had done that day and before they went home for Christmas, and they’d apologised that the house was taking longer to clear than expected. The old lady had been a hoarder, but among the clutter were quite a few objects of value so they didn’t want to rush things.

The rooms looked like a warehouse now, with furniture pushed into groups of like items, boxes neatly labelled and stacked according to their contents. The mantelpieces and windowsills were bare of his mother’s motley collection of
ornaments and someone had taken the trouble to dust them.

On the first floor, he found a bedroom that was being used by the Townleys, but like the other rooms, it had been stripped of everything except the bare necessities they needed.

The house felt even colder upstairs, and some rooms had not yet been touched. But he didn’t fancy sleeping among the dusty clutter. He decided to use the kitchen, where he could light a fire in the big stove to boil a kettle on and keep warm.

If he remembered rightly from his childhood, there was a small room off it where Cook had slept. He went down and yes, he’d remembered correctly. It too had been cleared out, but the bed still had a mattress and seemed quite comfortable, so he decided to sleep there.

After lighting a fire in the kitchen range, he went upstairs to hunt for bedding. It felt eerie, walking through the shadowy spaces. He had to use his electric torch because it was now nearly dark. And while the rooms at the front of the house were partly lit by the street lamps, the ones at the rear were dark, looking out only on to the large garden.

There wasn’t even gas lighting upstairs. His mother had preferred oil lamps in the bedrooms, not caring that they gave the servants a lot more work or that other people found them inconvenient and old-fashioned.

Mildred deserved a medal for living here with the old termagant.

‘Ah!’ He found some blankets, a pillow and a sheet, and took them downstairs, spreading them on an old wooden clothes horse in front of the stove to take the damp chill off. They would be well aired by the time he got back. He would only be here for one night, after all.

As he warmed his hands in front of the stove, he glanced automatically at the kitchen clock. It was still there on the wall, but below it on a side table was a collection of clocks from all over the house. Of course they had all stopped and needed rewinding.

Not one of the clocks in the house was particularly valuable, though he would be able to sell the clock from the sitting room and the grandfather clock from the hall in his antique shop. The others would bring a pound or two each in his second-hand shop.

He didn’t want to be late, so took out his pocket watch to check. He was fond of this gold hunter because it was one of the first luxuries he had bought when he started earning decent money. He could afford a much better watch now, but he wouldn’t bother to change this one, which kept excellent time and reminded him of how far he’d risen in the world.

He flipped the lid of his watch open with one finger. Yes. He must set off soon.

He was looking forward to spending more time with Olivia. He ought to stop thinking of her as Olivia, had no right to use her first name. But it was a pretty name and she was a strikingly attractive woman. Not pretty exactly. Elegant, lively or charming were better words to describe her.

He laughed at himself for mentally quibbling over such unimportant details and for thinking about her in that way. She was still in mourning for her husband, he could tell.

But he did like her.

Probably, after the festive season was over, he’d not see her again, whatever Babs said about them all becoming good friends. It wasn’t as easy as she seemed to think to make good friends, especially when you were rather shy in company.

He wished he had even a tenth of Babs’s confidence when dealing with people socially. He wished a lot of things about himself were different, which just showed what a fool he was. You couldn’t change the body you’d been born with.

The Belgians lodging in Olivia’s house didn’t stand on their dignity at meals. They spoke in a mixture of languages: English, French and Flemish. They gesticulated wildly and interrupted one another as they talked about their day, and no one seemed to notice that Alex was rather shy.

The Belgians’ main aim tonight seemed to be to bring their hostess up to date with what had been happening in Swindon during her absence.

One of the four men had independent means and didn’t need to seek paid work. Two others worked in the Great Western Railway workshops, helping to turn out carriages for the military. One of them had found a weekend job as well, tutoring a lad of twelve who was often ill and had missed a lot of schooling. He had grown fond of the child that reminded him of a nephew who had gone on to America after the family fled from Belgium. One day he’d join them, perhaps, but not with empty pockets.

They all paid Madame Vermeulen a weekly sum for acting as housekeeper and for their food. She managed her own expenses out of that, but wanted to set up a lodging house after the war was over. And she very much wanted to stay in England, if that was allowed.

‘I would like the sea to remain between myself and the Germans for ever,’ she said. ‘It feels so much safer here. You English are lucky to live on an island.’

She was delighted when Alex enjoyed his meal and
complimented her on her cooking. Nothing she’d served was expensive; everything was exquisitely cooked.

The other man, who had come over to Britain early in the war, wasn’t strong enough to work in a factory. He had intermittent work in a bookshop and was finding it hard to manage on his earnings.

During a lull in the conversation, he asked Alex quietly whether he bought antique jewellery.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Perhaps I show you some pieces later and you give me an idea of their price?’

‘My pleasure.’

‘
Merci bien
.’

But Alex could see the sadness on the man’s face and guessed he didn’t really want to sell the items, which were probably all he had left after fleeing from Belgium. He’d seen this dilemma before, particularly agonising when the only thing left to sell was a woman’s wedding ring.

Because he didn’t enjoy taking away an object a seller loved, he’d evolved a way of dealing with it that satisfied his conscience and he would offer the same choice tonight.

As everyone left the table to go into the sitting room, Claude tugged at his arm. ‘M’sieur? It will not take long, I think. I do not have much to show.’

He hated to see that anxiety and embarrassment on his companion’s face. ‘I’m happy to do it now.’

‘
Un moment, s’il vous plaît
.’ He ran up the stairs.

Olivia came to the door of the sitting room. ‘Ah. I wondered where you were, Mr Seaton.’

He explained quickly what he was doing.

She nodded. ‘That’s kind of you. Join us for a while
when you’ve finished speaking to Claude.’

The man returned carrying a leather drawstring pouch. He waited till she’d left to tip several pieces of jewellery out of it, each wrapped in a small piece of silk. Moving the last pieces of crockery aside, he set out the pieces in a row, only five of them.

Alex studied the jewellery carefully. They were fairly ordinary pieces, but one was of much better quality than the others. It was easy enough to name a price for each. He offered fair prices, which he knew would be slightly higher than other dealers might pay. This was not to get the custom at all costs, but because he had been short of money in his younger days. He knew only too well how hard it could be to manage, so was content with a small profit from such people.

The man looked puzzled. ‘I show them to another gentleman and he tell me much less.’

Alex bit his lip, trying to formulate a tactful version of the truth. ‘I am perhaps more generous than he can afford to be, because I am not short of money. What is more, if you wish me to, I’ll keep any piece you sell to me until one year after the war ends. If you can raise enough money by then, I’ll sell it back to you at the same price.’

The man stared at him, his face twisted as he tried in vain to stem his tears. Alex got up. ‘You may need a few moments to consider it.’ He pretended to examine the contents of a small bookcase near the window to give Claude some semblance of privacy.

When the muffled sobs had stopped, Alex risked a quick glance round.

‘I am sorry to be so … weak,’ his companion said. ‘But you give me hope. These are all I have left from my family.’

‘I’m glad to give you hope.’

‘Can I sell you this and keep the others?’ He held out the most expensive piece.

‘Yes, of course.’ Alex took out his wallet and counted out the money on the spot, then found one of his business cards and put it on top of the small pile of five-pound notes. ‘You can find me at this address if fortune favours you.’

The man took Alex’s hand in both his and said in his heavily accented English, ‘I shall pray for you, m’sieur. You have a deep sadness in you. I can see these things. But you are a kind man and I think fate will deal more generously with you from now on.’

Then he put the money carefully in his wallet, wrapped the other pieces and slipped them back into the leather pouch, and left the room.

Alex stood for a moment, surprised at what the man had said. He didn’t believe in foretelling the future, but Claude had been right about his feelings. He did feel sad sometimes, mostly to be so alone. He’d have loved to marry and have children.

Fate hadn’t dealt generously with him in this respect and why that should change now, as Claude had said, he couldn’t imagine. It was, he had found, better not to hope for too much for himself.

He heard a sound and turned to see Olivia standing in the doorway.

‘I have to confess that I eavesdropped,’ she said. ‘I was worried about poor Claude. People have tried to cheat him before with low prices. But I needn’t have worried. You were very generous in your payment.’

He could feel a betraying heat in his cheeks. ‘We should all help one another when we can. And I would still make a
small profit if I sold that brooch. They’re very fine diamonds and the workmanship is exquisite.’

She too came and clasped his hands. ‘Thank you for being so kind to my friend.’

Alex could feel the softness and warmth of her hands on his even after she let go. ‘If you don’t mind, I shall take my leave of Madame and your other lodgers now and go home. It’ll be a busy day for me tomorrow. I’ll come for you as soon as I can.’

He walked home through the dark streets, feeling happier than he had for a good while. Perhaps Babs was right. Perhaps she, Olivia and he would all become friends. Such a friendship would definitely brighten his life.

But Olivia was a lovely woman, and if fate had made him a better specimen of manhood, he’d try to be more than friends.

He’d never met a woman who attracted him as much as she did.

After an excellent night’s sleep, Alex nipped out to the local bakery and bought himself a buttered roll, still warm from the oven. He took it home and ate it with a cup of tea without milk.

He waited until ten o’clock, pacing round the house, staring out at his car, impatient to get this puzzling matter over and done with.

At half past ten he muttered, ‘Hang it! I can’t bear to wait any longer.’ He carried his single piece of luggage out to his car, glad to be leaving the dark and oppressive house.

It seemed to take longer than usual for the engine of the car to catch as he cranked it and he was beginning to worry that
something had gone wrong. It would spoil everything if he had to find a mechanic, or worse still if his car needed repairs. He was looking forward to seeing Mrs Harbury again.

Suddenly the motor started up. ‘Well, thank goodness for that!’ he muttered, adding, ‘And I’ve got to stop talking to myself.’

He drove to Edwin and Mildred’s house, telling himself it was far too early for them to have returned, and he’d probably have to find a tea shop to wait in. But that would be better than the chilly, echoing rooms. To his huge relief, however, the curtains at Mildred’s were drawn back, so they must have returned.