The Angel Tree (6 page)

‘Maybe he thought he could bend the rules if you were engaged to be married,’ he suggested lamely.

‘I thought Max loved me, really. If he hadn’t proposed, then I’d never, ever have—’

Greta’s voice dried up in shame and embarrassment. He reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘I know you wouldn’t,’ he said gently.

‘I’m not like Doris, really. Max . . . he was the first.’ Tears appeared again in Greta’s eyes. ‘Why does my life always seem to go wrong?’

‘Does it, Greta? Do you want to talk about it?’

‘No,’ she answered quickly. ‘I’m just being self-indulgent, feeling sorry for myself because I’ve made such an awful mistake.’

As he watched Greta force her features into a smile, Taffy wondered what had led her – a girl who was obviously educated and whose accent told him she was well bred – to the
Windmill. Greta was a cut above the rest of the girls, which, if he was frank, was the reason he’d been drawn to her. However, now was obviously not the moment to ask, so he changed the
subject.

‘Do you want the baby, Greta?’

‘To be honest, I don’t know, Taffy. I’m confused and frightened. And ashamed. I really believed Max loved me. Why did I ever . . . ?’ Her voice trailed off miserably.
‘When I was in that dreadful house waiting to see Doris’s Mr Fix-it I didn’t run away just because I was frightened of the procedure. I kept thinking of this little thing inside
me. Then, on my way home, I passed two or three mothers wheeling their babies in prams. And it made me realise that, however tiny, it’s alive, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Greta, it is.’

‘Then can I really commit murder for a mistake I’ve made? Deny the baby its right to life? I’m not a religious person, but I don’t think I’d ever forgive myself for
killing it. On the other hand, what future can there be for either of us if I bring it into the world? No man will ever look at me again. A Windmill Girl in the club at the age of eighteen? Hardly
a good track record, is it?’

‘Well, what I suggest you do is sleep on it. The most important thing is that you’re not alone. And . . .’ He voiced the thought that had been slowly brewing as he listened to
her story of woe. ‘I may well be in a position to sort something out, put a roof over your head if you do decide to go ahead with the pregnancy. This Mr Fix-it really doesn’t sound too
good, does he? You might end up killing both of you, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?’

‘No, but I’m still not convinced I have any choice.’

‘Believe me, Greta, there is always a choice. What about going to see Mr Van Damm? I’m sure he’s had to deal with this kind of thing before.’

‘Oh, no! I couldn’t do that! I know he’s kind, but Mr Van Damm expects his girls to be whiter than white. He’s terribly protective of the Windmill’s image.
I’d be out on my ear tomorrow.’

‘Steady on, it was only a thought,’ he replied, getting up to pay the bill. ‘Now, I’m going to put you in a taxi. Go home and get some rest. You look exhausted,
Greta.’

‘No, really Taffy, I can take the bus.’

‘I insist.’

Hailing a taxi outside the café, he pressed some coins into her small hand and put a finger to her lips as she began to protest again. ‘Please, I’ll worry if you don’t.
Pleasant dreams, Greta, and don’t worry, I’m here now.’

‘Thank you again for being so kind, Taffy.’

As David waved after the taxi, he asked himself why he was trying to help Greta, but the answer was simple. No matter what she’d done, he’d known from the moment he’d set eyes
on her that he loved her.

The next morning the two of them were once again sitting in the café across the road from the Windmill. Greta had slipped out of the morning’s rehearsal to meet
David, claiming she was feeling faint and needed some fresh air, which wasn’t far from the truth.

‘You look awfully pale,’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’

Greta took a big gulp of her watery tea and added another lump of sugar. ‘I’m tired, that’s all.’

‘I’m not surprised. Here, have half of my sandwich.’

‘No, thanks.’ Just the smell of it made her feel nauseous. ‘I’ll eat something later.’

‘Mind you do. Well then?’ He looked at her expectantly.

‘I’ve decided I can’t go through with the . . . procedure, so that leaves me no choice. I’m going to have the baby and suffer the consequences.’

‘Right.’ David nodded slowly. ‘Well, now your mind’s made up, I’m going to tell you how I may be able to help. What you need is a roof over your head and a bit of
peace and privacy until the baby arrives. Yes?’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘Hush, and listen to what I have to say. I have the use of a cottage in Monmouthshire, on the Welsh borders. I was thinking you could go and stay there for a while. Have you ever been to
the area before?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Well, then you won’t know what a special place it is.’ He smiled. ‘The cottage is on a big estate called Marchmont. It’s near the Black Mountains, in a beautiful
valley not too far from the town of Abergavenny.’

‘What a funny name.’ Greta managed a half-hearted smile.

‘I suppose you get used to the language when you’re brought up there. Anyway, with me working in London, I don’t need the cottage at the moment. My mother lives on the estate,
too. I telephoned her last night and she’s prepared to keep an eye on you. A lot of the land is farmed, so there’s enough fresh produce to feed you during the coming winter. The cottage
is small, but clean and cosy. It would mean you could leave the Windmill, have the baby and if you wanted to, come back to London without anyone even knowing. Well, there it is. What do you
think?’

‘It sounds lovely, but—’

‘Greta, all I can do is offer you an alternative,’ he said, seeing the doubt and fear in her eyes. ‘And yes, it’s very different from London. There are no bright lights,
there’s nothing to do in the evenings and you may be lonely. But at least you’ll be safe and warm.’

‘This – er – estate is where you were brought up, is it?’

‘Yes, although I was at boarding school from the age of eleven and, after that, university. Then the war came and I was away with my regiment, so I haven’t been back as often as
I’d have liked. But Greta, you’ve never seen anything more lovely than a sunset over Marchmont. We have over five hundred acres, the house is surrounded by woodland that’s home to
endless plant and bird life, and a salmon river runs right through it. It really is a very beautiful place.’

A glimmer of hope for her hitherto devastated future began to glow in Greta’s mind.

‘You say your mother has said she won’t mind if I stay? Does she . . . does she know about the baby?’

‘Yes, she does, but don’t worry, Greta. My mother is unshockable and very broad-minded. And, to be honest, I think she’d enjoy the company. The main house on the estate was
used as a convalescent home in the war and, since all the staff and patients left, she misses the activity.’

‘It really is very kind of you, Taffy, but I wouldn’t want to impose. I have very little money to pay rent. In fact, none at all.’

‘You don’t have to pay anything. You’d be there as my guest,’ he confirmed. ‘As I said, the cottage is empty and it’s yours if you want it.’

‘You really are very generous. If I did take you up on your offer,’ she said slowly, knowing that whatever this cottage was like, it had to be preferable to an unmarried
mothers’ home, ‘how soon could I go?’

‘As soon as you would like to.’

Two days later Greta went to tell Mr Van Damm that she was leaving the Windmill. When he asked her why, despite strongly suspecting that he already knew the reason, Greta
merely said that her mother was unwell and she had to return home to care for her. She came out of the office apprehensive, but feeling better that she’d made a decision. Later that day she
informed her landlady that she’d be vacating her room at the end of the week, and spent her last few days at the theatre trying not to worry about the future. All the girls signed a card for
her and Doris hugged her goodbye, at the same time discreetly handing her an envelope containing a tiny pair of bootees.

It took Greta no time at all to pack her few belongings into two small suitcases. She paid her landlady and said goodbye to the room that had been her home for the past six months.

David accompanied her to Paddington Station on a foggy December morning to see her off on the long journey to Abergavenny.

‘Oh, Taffy, I do wish you were coming with me,’ she said, leaning out of the window as he stood on the platform.

‘You’ll be as safe as houses, Greta. Trust me. I wouldn’t do wrong by you, now would I?’

‘Your mother will be there to pick me up from the station?’ Greta asked anxiously for the third time.

‘Yes, she’ll be there. And one word of warning – try and remember to refer to me as David. She won’t be very impressed with my Windmill nickname, I can assure you,’
he said with a chuckle. ‘And I’ll come and visit as soon as I can, promise. Now, here’s a little something for you.’ He pressed an envelope into her hand as the guard blew
his whistle. ‘Goodbye, sweetheart. Safe journey and take care of the both of you.’

Kissing her on both cheeks, David thought Greta resembled a ten-year-old evacuee being billeted out to an unknown location.

Greta waved until he was a tiny speck on the platform, then made her way to her carriage and sat down amongst a group of demobbed soldiers. They were smoking and talking excitedly about friends
and relatives they hadn’t seen for months. The contrast between them and her was almost unbearably poignant – they were returning to their loved ones and she was on a journey into the
unknown. She opened the envelope David had put into her hand. It contained some money and a note telling her it was for emergencies.

As she watched London’s familiar buildings give way to undulating fields, Greta’s fear began to grow. She comforted herself with the thought that if David’s mother turned out
to be a madwoman and the cottage no more than a chicken shed, she now had enough money to return to London and rethink her plans. As the train travelled west, stopping at numerous stations, the
soldiers gradually disembarked to be greeted on the platforms by joyful parents, wives and girlfriends. There were only a handful of passengers left by the time she’d changed trains at
Newport, then, eventually, Greta was alone in the carriage. She began to relax slightly as she stared out of the window at the unfamiliar Welsh landscape. As the sun began to set, she became aware
of a subtle change in the scenery; it was wilder and more dramatic than anything she’d seen before in England. Snow-capped mountains appeared on the darkening horizon as the train chugged
nearer to Abergavenny.

It was past five o’clock and already pitch black when the train finally drew in to her destination. Greta pulled her suitcases from the rack above her head, straightened her hat and
stepped out onto the platform. A chill wind was blowing and she pulled her coat closer to shield her body. She walked uncertainly towards the exit, glancing around for anyone who might be expecting
her. She sat on a bench outside the tiny station as her fellow passengers greeted those there to meet them and subsequently departed into the night.

Ten minutes later, the narrow forecourt was almost deserted. After shivering on the bench for a few more minutes, Greta stood up and walked back into the relative warmth of the station itself.
The clerk was still working behind the window, and she tapped on it.

‘Excuse me, sir.’

‘Yes,
fach
?’

‘Can you tell me what time the next connecting train to London leaves?’

The clerk shook his head. ‘No more trains tonight. The next one’s tomorrow morning.’

‘Oh.’ Greta bit her lip, feeling tears pricking the back of her eyes.

‘I’m sorry, miss. Have you anywhere to stay tonight?’

‘Well, someone’s meant to be meeting me to take me to a place called Marchmont.’

The clerk rubbed his brow. ‘Look you, that’s a good few miles from here. Not walking distance. And Tom the Taxi is over in Monmouth tonight with his missus.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Don’t panic yet, see. I’ll be here for another half-hour or so,’ the clerk said kindly.

Greta nodded and retraced her steps to the bench. ‘Oh goodness,’ she sighed and breathed on her hands, trying to stop them going numb. Then she heard the sound of a car approaching.
A loud horn assaulted her ears and bright lights dazzled her eyes. Once the noisy engine of the vehicle in front of her had died into silence, a female voice called out, ‘Damn! Damn! Hello
there! Are you Greta Simpson?’

Greta tried to make out the figure sitting in the driving seat of the open-topped car. The driver’s eyes were shielded behind huge leather goggles.

‘Yes. Are you Taff— David Marchmont’s mother?’

‘I am. Jump in then, quick smart. Sorry I’m late. The blasted car got a puncture and I had to change the tyre in the dark.’

‘Er, right.’ Greta stood, picked up her suitcases and hauled them across to the car.

‘Throw those in the back, dear, put these on and grab that travel rug. It can be a bit breezy if the old girl gets above twenty miles per hour.’

Greta took the proffered goggles and blanket. After a few false starts the engine burst into life and the driver reversed rapidly out of the station forecourt, narrowly missing a lamp post.

‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ Greta ventured as the car hit the open road and sped down it at frightening speed.

‘Don’t talk, dear girl. Can’t hear a word above this racket!’ shouted the driver.

Greta spent the following half-hour with her eyes tightly shut and her hands balled into fists, the knuckles white with tension. At last the car slowed, then it stopped abruptly, almost throwing
Greta over the small windscreen and onto the bonnet.

‘Do be a darling and open those gates, will you?’

Greta stepped shakily out of the car. She walked in front of the headlights and pushed open two enormous wrought-iron gates. On the wall to one side of them there was an ornate bronze plaque
with the word ‘M
ARCHMONT
’ engraved upon it. The car drove through and Greta shut the gates behind them.