Sons and Daughters (51 page)

Grim faced, Miles nodded. ‘Then I shall take her home myself.’

‘Oh, I don’t know—’ Mr Tomkins began, but whatever he’d been going to say was cut short by Miles saying firmly, ‘That’s the only way I’ll let her go. I want to know she’s going to be all right. If she isn’t,’ he glared at the inoffensive man who was only trying to do the duty that had been imposed upon him, ‘then I shall bring her back here and no one – no one – will be able to stop me.’

This time, even Jenny was helpless in the face of her mother’s demands. Backed by the authorities now, Dot held the trump card. She was the child’s mother.

‘She’s better off back where she belongs,’ was Osbert’s only comment, but he was alone in his thinking. Everyone else in the district had taken the little girl to their hearts and they were all sorry to see her go.

Miles and Charlotte organized a farewell party for her. Since many of the children had returned home, lessons at the manor had ceased. The school now had room for the few evacuees still left, Jenny amongst them. But Charlotte invited all the children who’d had lessons at the manor, together with those in Jenny’s class at school. Miss Parker, the Warrens and Mary and Edward came too, but Osbert refused to attend. ‘Such a fuss over a grubby little city urchin.’

Mary and Mrs Beddows had combined their resources and made as many treats as rations would allow for the children. All the guests played rowdy games on the lawn, led by Miles and, at the end of the afternoon, as they waved everyone ‘goodbye’, Jenny slipped her hand into his.

‘That was a lovely party. I just wish Georgie’d been here.’

Charlotte felt a lump in her throat and tears prickle her eyes. When Miles did not answer the child, she knew he was feeling just the same as she was.

How she missed Georgie every minute of every day. And now they were to lose the child who’d brought sunshine into their lives and helped to ease the pain of their loss.

‘Do you want me to come too?’ Charlotte asked the following morning – the day that Jenny had to return home. By poignant coincidence, the date was 1 March and would have been Georgie’s twenty-first birthday.

Miles shook his head and Charlotte felt hurt. He didn’t want her with him, she thought. Didn’t want – or need – her support. But his next words lessened her pain, though only a little.

‘I want to spare you having to leave her with – with
them
,’ he said bitterly. ‘I’m not even sure I’m going to be able to do it.’

‘Then let me—’

‘No, Charlotte,’ he snapped. ‘I have to do this.’

He turned away from her and Charlotte watched him go with tears in her eyes, feeling rejected yet again.

Jenny clung to her when the time for parting came and sobbed noisily. Charlotte could no longer hold back the tears that flooded down her face. Perhaps, after all, Miles was right. She wasn’t able to hide her distress now and leaving the girl in London would be even worse.

‘Promise you’ll write to us, Jenny.’

Against Charlotte’s shoulder, which was already wet with her tears, the girl nodded.

Charlotte watched them go until they were out of sight, then she turned and headed for her studio, but even here she could find no comfort. Not today. Jenny’s childish paintings littered the floor and Charlotte couldn’t bring herself to tidy them away. As for painting herself, which usually gave her such solace, she hadn’t even the heart for that.

She retraced her steps downstairs and, putting on a warm coat and sturdy boots, she went out for a walk. She headed towards the sea bank, where she sat down and allowed the tears to flow for Georgie, for Jenny and even for herself because she couldn’t give her beloved Miles what he most desired, a daughter. And now he’d lost the closest thing he’d ever had to that.

He’d lost the little girl who’d found her way into both their hearts.

Miles telephoned that evening to say that he couldn’t get home that night and would stay in the city.

‘Was it – bad?’ she asked tentatively, not wanting to rub salt in the raw wound, but needing to know.

‘Worse than you could possibly imagine,’ he said tartly and rang off quickly.

The following day Charlotte waited restlessly for Miles’s return, watching the driveway from the window of his study. She wanted to greet him the moment he returned. Her heart leapt as she saw movement at the end of the driveway. But it was not Miles returning.

It was a telegraph boy riding solemnly towards the house.

The telegram was addressed to Miles. Charlotte bit her lip, fingering it, not knowing what to do. She was frightened to open it and yet afraid not to do so.

At her elbow, Wilkins said, ‘The master would want you to open it, madam, I’m sure.’

Charlotte took a deep breath and slit open the thin, folded sheet. She read the words with growing dread.

‘
. . . Regret to inform you Philip Thornton seriously wounded . . .
’ There followed a telephone number for further information.

‘It’s Master Philip. He – he’s been wounded.’

‘Do you wish me to obtain the number for you, madam?’ Wilkins prompted gently.

Charlotte bit her lip. ‘No – no. I’ll wait for Mr Thornton. He – he should be the one to telephone.’

‘Of course, madam. Would you like me to get Brewster to drive you to the station? Perhaps you’d like to meet the train?’

But again Charlotte shook her head. She couldn’t bear to give Miles yet more bad news in such a public place. ‘No – no. It’d be best for him to get home first.’

‘Very good, madam.’

She had to wait another two hours before she saw Miles walking up the driveway. She went to the front door and waited for him to reach her. She had the telegram in her hand and he knew at once that it bore bad news.

He gained the top step and leaned wearily against the door jamb. ‘Which one is it this time?’

‘It’s Philip – he’s been badly wounded. There’s a number to ring.’

With a supreme effort, Miles pushed himself upright and walked, shoulders hunched, towards the study. Charlotte followed him, watching him with worried eyes as he sank into the chair behind the desk, reached for the telephone and motioned to her to hand him the telegram.

Wilkins entered the study quietly and set down a tray with sandwiches and tea. Charlotte nodded her thanks and the manservant left the room, closing the door discreetly behind him.

When, after what seemed an age, Miles replaced the receiver, he sat a moment with his head in his hands. At last he raised his eyes, bloodshot with weariness, to look up at her.

‘He’s in hospital, but there’s nothing they can do for him except try to alleviate the pain as much as they can. He’s very badly shot up and—’ He buried his face in his hands and his huge shoulders shook.

Charlotte hurried round the desk and put her arms about him. He turned and buried his face in her neck, weeping unashamedly.

A little later, when he was calmer, they drank the tea though the sandwiches lay untouched. ‘I’ll hire a special ambulance, and a nurse – that one you had for your father, if she can come. We’ll bring him home. He – he’d want to be here, I know.’

Charlotte wasn’t so sure, but she said nothing as Miles went on. ‘I’ll get the best doctors, the best surgeons. Surely, there’s something that can be done.’

Still Charlotte remained silent. She doubted the medical people would allow Philip to be moved if he was so seriously injured. But she was wrong. Desperate for beds, the hospital was only too glad to release Philip into his father’s care.

On the afternoon that he was carried into the manor and up the stairs to his bedroom, the sight of the young man’s ashen face shocked Charlotte. Later, when Nurse Monty gave her permission and they were allowed to see him, some colour had returned to his cheeks, but he was thin and obviously in dreadful pain in spite of the morphine the nurse had administered. He reached out his arms to them both and they each took one of his hands and sat on either side of the bed.

‘I’m – so – sorry.’ It was an effort to speak and at once Charlotte shushed him and bade him rest. ‘You’ll soon be stronger. Now you’re home.’

He smiled thinly. ‘Dear Charlotte,’ he whispered, ‘ever the optimist, but I’m sorry to say that this time’ – he managed a wry smile – ‘I’m not pretending.’

Tears filled her eyes as she squeezed his hand gently, but she could find no words.

Philip closed his eyes and slept, but they remained sitting beside him until the nurse shooed them away. They left him reluctantly, knowing that every moment with him was precious.

‘I suppose,’ Miles said carefully as they sat together in the growing dusk, the first time they had found a little peace in the flurry of the last few days, ‘we should let your father come to see him. Does he know yet?’

Charlotte shook her head. ‘I haven’t told him. What with Jenny going and – and then hearing about Philip . . .’ Her voice trailed away. There was silence between them until at last she said tentatively, ‘You – you’ve never told me about Jenny and – and how things were.’

Miles sighed and ran his hand through his hair. ‘It was awful. They live in a dirty, dilapidated back street. Kids were playing in the roadway, kicking a tin can about. Oh Charlotte, I wanted to gather them
all
up and bring them home – every last one of them.’

‘And Jenny? Was she – all right when you left?’

Miles shrugged. ‘I suppose so. Her mother certainly seemed to have made an effort. She’d got her some clothes – not new, but I wouldn’t blame the woman for that. Times are really tough for them down there, what with all the Blitz damage and the rationing. But even Arthur had bought her some toys. And, surprisingly, a few books, too. Mind you,’ Miles allowed himself a wry grin, ‘“bought” might not be quite the right word for how he came by them.’

‘I hope they’ll let her draw and paint. I let her take a set of paints and brushes with her. And some of my paper, though she insisted on leaving her paintings here, all except one of the beach – like the one she – she did for Georgie.’ Charlotte stopped. The tears were choking her. So much sadness. First losing Georgie and then Jenny being forced to leave them and now Philip, for whom there was little hope. They would have to stand helplessly by and watch him die. The best they could do was try to keep him out of pain and to be beside him until . . .

Breaking the long silence at last, Miles said, ‘I think you should ask Philip if he wants to see your father and then let Osbert know. After all, he – might want to change his will.’

‘I don’t want him to do that,’ Charlotte said at once. ‘It would seem very cruel to Philip. No – no, I don’t want that.’

Miles touched her face gently. ‘My dear, dear Charlotte. Always putting others before yourself.’

If only, she thought, I really was his ‘dear, dear Charlotte’.

Miraculously, over the next few days, Philip seemed to grow a little stronger. His appetite improved though he still ate like a bird. He was drowsy, yet his nights were restless and filled with nightmares.

‘That’s the side effect of the morphine,’ Nurse Monty told them. ‘But without it . . .’

Miles asked Dr Bennet, the young doctor who had replaced Dr Markham, to arrange for a specialist to visit. ‘Surely there’s something they could do?’

Dr Bennet eyed Miles shrewdly. ‘You’re right to want to explore every avenue. It’s only natural, and I will see that we get the very best to give their opinion, but I should warn you against holding out much hope. Philip himself knows the score. I’ve talked to him. His injuries are such that his organs are failing, Mr Thornton. With your love and care he’ll live a few weeks – maybe even months – but they can’t give him new kidneys, liver and a whole string of intestines. My dear fellow, I’m being blunt, but I’m not one to give out false hope to anyone. If folk can’t take the truth from me, then they’d better find themselves another doctor.’ He paused and then said soberly, ‘To be honest, Mr Thornton, I don’t know how he’s survived this long. Sheer willpower, I shouldn’t wonder. I think he just wanted to get home – to be with you all for the short time he has left. Anyway, I’ll get in touch with my colleagues. You shall have a second opinion. A third and fourth, if you wish.’

The young doctor was certainly from the same mould as his predecessor and well liked by his patients for it. He had a similar bluff, no-nonsense manner, yet he was kindly and caring, too. And he was as good as his word; two consultants came to the manor to examine Philip, a week after each other, but could not give any better a diagnosis than Dr Bennet had done.

‘No more, Father. I’ve accepted the inevitable and so should you. And now,’ Philip grinned weakly, ‘you’d better let Mr Crawford come. I’ve a few things I want to say to him.’

Charlotte rode alone to Buckthorn Farm to break the news of Philip’s dreadful injuries to her father.

At first Osbert ranted and raved and accused Miles of not trying hard enough to find medical attention for the boy. ‘There must be someone somewhere who could do something.’

‘Dr Bennet—’

‘Bah – what does he know? He’s still wet behind the ears.’

‘We could ask Dr Markham, if you—’

‘That country yokel. I never did like him.’