Enduring Passions (4 page)

‘I’m sorry to burst in on you – Detective Constable Roxham.’ He waved his warrant card under the man’s nose. ‘I think you are expecting me?’

The elderly man had just taken off his silk top hat – a tradition he continued from the earlier part of the century when the station master was a person of some note and had to receive and send off nobility and other important people. He was due for retirement soon – thank God – standards were slipping and he didn’t take lightly to young men bursting in. He flicked the tails of his coat and sat down. ‘We wondered where you were. Then the head porter said you were carrying bags for Lord Rossiter.’

‘That’s right.’

The station master took out his hunter and flicked open the lid,
checking
it against the clock on the wall.

‘Since when did the GWR Police Service carry out porter’s duties and deny them their tips?’

Tom winced. ‘It was something special, sir – a personal favour to Miss Rossiter.’

‘Know her do you?’

There could be no doubting the sarcasm in his voice.

He shifted his feet.

‘No, sir – not very well. Anyway, I have forgotten my overnight case and wondered if we could phone South Cerney? It’s in the Guard’s van.’

The hunter was snapped shut.

‘That will do you no good.’

Crestfallen, Tom managed, ‘No?’

The station master relented, opened a drawer and took out a bottle of brandy – given to him that Christmas by Lord Rossiter, and two tumblers.

‘Like a drop?’

Tom didn’t drink much and never on duty, but after everything that had just happened, well his nerves cried out for help. He nodded. ‘Under the circumstances, thank you. Why won’t it help?’

The man nodded to a corner of the room. When Tom looked round there was the brown cracked overnight case standing in a corner.

‘The guard put it off. Here—’

A small glass much smaller than the generous portion the station master had poured for himself, was pushed across the highly polished surface of the desk.

‘Now, let’s get down to business. About this break in….’

Fay met her mother exactly where she thought she would be, busy with her needlepoint. Immediately Lady Rossiter dropped what she was doing and came forward, arms outstretched. ‘Darling, you’re home.’

The two women embraced, Fay taller than her mother who was rather petite, her dark hair with threads of silver, still cut short in the earlier style of the twenties flappers. Because of Lady Rossiter’s youthful looks they could have been sisters.

‘Did you have a wonderful time, Fay? Are you glad you did what you did?’

Arm in arm they made for the drawing-room, Lady Rossiter saying over her shoulder to a maid. ‘Tea now, please Edna and we’ll take luncheon in the orangery.’

‘Yes, Mummy, it was great fun – so unstuffy.’

‘Good.’ Her mother had a twinkle in her eye. ‘Did you dance much?’

She squeezed her mother’s arm.

‘I did, Mother.’

‘What were the other people like, were they decent?’

‘Yes, of course. It’s Daddy, isn’t it? He really is an old fogey. This is
1939, nearly the forties. Times are changing, Mother.’

Lady Rossiter pulled a face.

‘Your father is just naturally cautious dear, after all, he went through a lot during the war and he says it was only the thought of home and family that kept him going. He doesn’t like change. Anyway – what was the trouble Aunty told him about?’

Fay was as dismissive as she could manage.

‘Oh, it was just Jeremy being Jeremy.’

Still arm in arm, her mother studied her.

‘There’s something you’re not telling me, Fay?’

She felt her cheeks going red.

‘No, honestly, Mother. By the way the orchestra was terrific, they played all the latest numbers. You should have heard them.’

Her mother had been a great one for dances in her youth.

‘Sounds marvellous.’

But she was under no illusion. Her daughter had just changed the subject. She could wait – Fay would tell her what it was all about in her own time.

But she would put money on it – there was a boy at the bottom of all this.

The ‘boy’ she was speculating on was at that moment writing up his report in a meticulous hand – nothing less would pass muster with Sergeant Whelan who would send it on to Swindon.

His pen scratched as he finally got to the end and signed his name with a flourish.

His digs for the night were just across the road in rooms above the Railway Inn. He took his leave and crossed the lines on the wooden sleepers – there was no footbridge. The pub doors were locked, but his repeated knocking finally brought the sound of bolts being drawn.

A large woman in a Dutch apron filled half of the double door that was opened.

‘Yes, what do you want?’

He explained and she relented, stepping aside.

‘Right. We didn’t expect you until later. Come in.’

He followed her into a stale beer-smelling public bar, past pumps covered with a stained tea-towel, the sawdust on the floor scuffed into the sides. She opened a green painted door. A steep flight of wooden stairs lead directly up to a lino-covered corridor.

At the top, breathing heavily she nodded to the end door.

‘That’s the lavatory – this is your room.’

She opened the door in front of her. There was a single bed with a green candlewick bedspread that had cigarette burns on it, the headboard a dark brown scrolled affair. There was a wardrobe of the same design and colour, and a free standing wooden towel rail beside a small white sink with a mirror over it. He set his case on the bed.

‘Can I get something to eat later?’

She was already on the way down the stairs, pausing to say, ‘When we’re open I’ll do some bread and cheese all right? If you want anything more there’s a café near the town centre that’s open till eight o’clock and a fish and chip shop round the corner.’

When she had gone he crossed to the sash window, and tried to open it a crack. Cold or not he needed to get fresh air into the damp-smelling room, but it wouldn’t budge. It had been crudely painted. He leaned on it. Suddenly it crashed down, the rotten rope spilling out, snapped. Try as he might the window wouldn’t stay up. Cold air flooded into the room. Desperate, he looked around for something to prop it up. There was nothing, until his eyes fell on to his weekend case. Emptied, it shut the window to within an inch of the top.

Satisfied, he wondered what to do next. In the end he removed his shoes and trousers, got into bed and pulled the clothes up over his head to keep warm and thought of her.

Tom Roxham had never felt like this before.

Was he going mad?

The cause of his madness was, by this time, sitting by the fire in her room, dressed in the floral silk dressing-gown, one graceful hand playing with a curl on her forehead, neglected book at her side, as she stared into the glowing embers.

What was she doing? What did she think would happen when she went on her own to Cheltenham?

Paradoxically she was both excited and terrified at what had come over her. She knew nothing about the boy – and yet was hoping to meet him without any friends or anybody with her at all – something she had never done before. Fay gave a little shudder at the thought of her
reckless
behaviour, and for a fleeting moment thought about backing out, then just
knew
that that was
not
going to happen. Her mother had
readily
agreed to the trip so Father would be all right – as long of course there was not a whiff of the real reason. Jeremy was a worry. She’d never told so many white lies to her parents before.

What on earth had got into her?

Timmy, her cat, leapt up on to her lap. Fay lifted the orange and white bundle of fur to her face and gave it a kiss. Timmy settled down, purring deeply as his mistress gently stroked his side. She’d wondered about her future from time to time, but today, listening to her father going on about Jeremy and marriage and feeling as unsettled as she did, she realized that things were coming to a head. She was an accomplished pianist and if the plaudits she received from the many distinguished house guests were anything to go by, she had a future in music.

Several singers, particularly of German Lieder had intimated their interest in her playing. She seemed to have that intuitive feel that made a good accompanist.

First thing in the morning she would phone Sir Nigel Travers the conductor, and set things in motion. Daddy might have some objections, of course, something along the lines of wait till after marriage, but mummy would be supportive, after all, she had been quite an
accomplished
singer in her time.

She stroked Timmy for another few minutes before placing him gently on to the carpet, where, back arched, tail swishing in annoyance, he stalked slowly away in a huff.

Fay stood up, and pressed the bell for her maid, Julie. Dinner was in half an hour, and although it was only family, her father always insisted they dress appropriately. She undid her dressing-gown and let it fall to the floor. In the full-length mirror she looked at her reflection, regarding it in a way that she had never done before. She was wearing the latest brassiere and matching french knickers, in midnight blue and trimmed with little pink bows, her silk stockings held up by her garter belt. Even though she was alone she blushed all over at the thought of him,
Tom
, ever seeing her like this. Heart thumping in her chest she began to daydream, pretending it was her wedding night – until a worrying thought struck her. In the sudden excitement of the moment she had done her best, but did he feel the same way?

Then she recalled the look he had given her. That was why she was standing like an idiot in her underwear, thinking things that were the stuff of schoolgirls’ dreams.

When there was a knock at the door and Julie entered she physically jumped.

‘Sorry miss. Did I startle you?’

Fay turned away so that the girl couldn’t see her embarrassment.

‘No, not at all, Julie, I think I’ll wear the green dress tonight.’

As the girl crossed to the large wardrobe, Fay took a last, quick glance at herself in the mirror. Was the weekend going to be a terrible
anti-climax
, or a huge embarrassment or, God forbid –
worse
?

Her father wasn’t in the dining-room when she entered, just her mother sitting on the side at the far end of the long mahogany table with its silver candelabra. She sat down opposite her, thanking the butler, Wilson, who moved her chair gently into place. She glanced at the empty chair at the head of the table.

‘Where’s Father?’

Her mother nodded at Wilson who went off to get the soup tureen.

‘He’s still on the telephone dear, calling his secretary. Mr Hitler has
said or done something; it was on the wireless, and he’s been agitated ever since.’

Nervously Fay took a sip of water, suddenly conscious that her mother was going to say something, probably about the weekend, and she said, ‘I’d like to go hunting tomorrow – is that all right?’

Lady Rossiter raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course, you don’t usually ask, so why—?’

Just then her father came in, looking thoughtful, hands in dinner jacket pockets, thumbs sticking forward. ‘I’m sorry, my dear.’

Frowning, he sat down. He reached out his hand and covered his wife’s. ‘Do you mind if we go off on Thursday – I need to attend a
meeting
, a group of us want to have a debate when the House resumes sitting.’

‘Of course not, George. Fay, will you be all right?’ Her mother looked at her with what Fay thought was suspicion. Feeling guilty she swallowed, took a deep breath.

‘Yes, of course.’

Lord Rossiter clipped the top of his napkin to his white shirt front and murmured ‘Good, good.’

Fervently, for the only time in her life, Fay silently thanked the German Chancellor.

Tom had come down the stairs into a room thick with smoke from the wooden and clay pipes of several men gathered around the bar and fire. Their sudden roar of laughter and voices with broad Gloucestershire accents coming up through the floorboards had woken him up. The woman who had shown him in earlier was pulling a pint, the handle clonking back on each release. She seemed to be in no better mood than before. All the men fell silent and looked at him. He gave a weak smile and a nod, ‘Good evening.’

There were a couple of grunts.

The landlady, work on the tankard finished as froth flowed down the sides, called out ‘You want that bread and cheese now?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m going out to eat.’ She wiped her hands on the same tea towel he had noted that afternoon.

‘Suit yourself. Don’t forget we lock up at eleven on the dot.’

He nodded and edged past them and out into the fresh night air. It was only a short walk to the market square, dominated by the church. A couple of cars were parked outside a hotel. Down a side street he found a café but somehow he didn’t fancy sitting there for the next hour or so
on his own. It took a while, but eventually his nose led him to the fish and chip shop. There was a little queue, and a couple of youths, sitting astride their bikes as they ate their penny worth of scraps.

He had rock salmon and chips, with plenty of vinegar and salt, wrapped in one layer of grease paper and then two sheets of newspaper.

Cold or not, he found a seat and picked a hole through the newsprint and then into the hot succulent depths, pulling out a chip first, then breaking off lumps of battered fish fried in lard.

Tom knew of no finer food in the kingdom.

He started to think what he was going to do. Would he just hang around outside the house in Imperial Square? That seemed stupid. Inadequate. The answer when it came, seemed simple. He would write a letter to her at Codrington Hall. It would give her his address, and suggest a time and meeting place for the Saturday. He only hoped she wouldn’t be offended, or that in some way she would get into trouble. But it was the only thing he could think of to do.

The morning was cloudy, threatening rain. He stood on the platform waiting for the train to Cheltenham. In one way it felt sad, leaving her, but it was also a day nearer to the weekend. Tom strolled past milk churns on trolleys, to the end of the platform where it sloped down to track level. A water tower with a canvas pipe dripped steadily on to the ballast.

He checked his watch, looked down the track to the gasworks beyond the station.

Several people were gathering, some sitting on the benches, but mostly standing or in the waiting-room. Beside him were a group of small boys – trainspotters, with their books, sitting on a parked handcart by the wooden fence, squabbling over something.

For a brief moment he wondered if she would appear on the platform, but knew it was wishful thinking – she knew nothing of his movements, but still….

The rails started to give out a faint hum, his eyes drawn to where the track curved away out of sight. A signal clonked down. The humming increased. The boys stopped fighting and gathered near him.

And then, in that exciting moment that he saw the children still
experienced
, around the bend in the distance came a black smudge. Spurts of white steam flickered at its wheels, and smoke flowed away from its chimney.

It grew in size until he could see that it was an old MSWJR engine now in GWR colours.

When it finally got to the other end of the platform it had slowed right down, and by the time it reached him it was moving at a walking pace. With a surge of steam it ground to a halt.

He nodded to the driver and walked away down the length of the train until he found an empty third class compartment. Drawing down the solid metal handle and stepping up into the interior he slammed the door behind him, released the leather strap from its stud and dropped the window. Tom put his head out and surveyed the platform, just hoping. There was only one person standing there, talking to someone on the train. The porters slammed doors, the guard raised his green flag,
holding
it out so that it could clearly be seen by the driver. He blew his
whistle
. Disappointed, Tom drew his head in and hauled up the window.

Imperceptibly they started to move, slowly gathering pace, easing out through the town into the countryside.

He rested his brown case on his knees and got out his notebook. It was time to compose the letter to her. He would copy it out at home on to notepaper they kept in the top drawer of the sideboard, beneath the wooden biscuit barrel with its metal lid.

But as he found a blank page, nothing seemed to come. Could he say ‘Dear Fay?’ Really, he didn’t know her at all, it seemed presumptuous – rude even. No, it had to be ‘Dear Miss Rossiter.’ The other was just
wishful
thinking.

So using his fountain-pen he started with his address. After several attempts he came up with:

He read it over and over again, nearly forgetting to get out at Leckhampton Station. Sergeant Whelan would have had his guts for garters. As it was he wouldn’t get home until quite late, and would
probably 
miss the last post. So, feeling frustrated, and with only one thing on his mind, he struggled to concentrate on his work.

Fay had had a good day. She was letting Jenny, her dapple grey mare walk home at her own pace. They were both splattered with mud and it was all over her white breeches and black jacket. The chase had been
exhilarating
and, whether it was the emotional state she was in, or the post period euphoria, but she had galloped harder and jumped higher than she had ever done before.

Now she was thinking once again about the weekend and her meeting with Tom Roxham.

Would he be a gentleman with her? Fay shuddered at the risk. Jenny
picking
up the movement through Fay’s knees, shook her head and snorted. She tried to take her mind off the possibility by wondering what they might do especially if the meeting continued to be awkward, or they were bored.

The
Gloucestershire Echo
would be delivered that evening, it might offer some ideas.

Another rider, in hunting pink, suddenly appeared alongside her. She knew who it was even before he spoke.

‘Fay, you’ve had a good day?’

It was Jeremy. She stiffened.

‘Yes, have you?’

‘I should say so.’

They walked on, only the sound of the horses and their jingling harness breaking the silence for a minute, before he said: ‘Fay, this fellow – you do know what you’re doing?’

She bristled, ‘Of course.’

Jeremy snorted. ‘The man’s a thug and way beneath you. I’m sorry for what I said before – I was cross and jealous, but now I’m worried about you. I really think I should tell your father – for your sake.’

‘Jeremy’ – her voice was like ice – ‘if you do that I will never speak to you again – ever. Is that perfectly clear?’

He said nothing, and she didn’t say anything else. When they reached the end of a lane where they would part company they reined to a halt.

Fay looked across at him, broke the silence.

‘Well?’

He didn’t know it, but her heart was in her mouth.

Jeremy found he couldn’t say, ‘all right’, but he couldn’t say, ‘no’, either.
Scowling, he touched the peak of his hat with his whip and swung away, leaving her to sag in the saddle. God, what was he going to do?

But then she calculated that he wouldn’t be able to see her father now, at least until after the weekend, and by then it would be too late.

Whatever that meant.

She handed Jenny over to the groom, gave her a scratch and a kiss and made for a hot bath.

Julie helped her off with her boots then bustled away to run the hot water. Fay had taken off her hat, now she reached up and released her hair from the strong net that had contained it through thick and thin all day.

When the maid came back she had already stripped and put on her dressing-gown.

‘Julie, can you see if the
Echo
has come? I’ll have it in the bathroom if it has.’

She was immersed in soapy water when a knock came on the door and Julie entered.

‘It’s here, miss – and a letter for you marked “personal”. It came in the second post.’

She dried her trembling hands then took the envelope. It was
postmarked
Cheltenham. Tummy churning, she didn’t recognize the neat careful writing.