The Angel Tree (3 page)

The residents of Marchmont Hall woke up on Christmas morning to an idyllic, snowy scene outside. At lunchtime, they tucked into a goose, and vegetables grown on the estate.
Afterwards, they gathered in the drawing room by the fire to open their gifts.

‘Oh Granny,’ said Ava as she unwrapped a soft white baby blanket, ‘that will be so useful. Thank you.’

‘Also, Tor and I would very much like to buy you a pram but, given that neither of us has a clue about all those new-fangled contraptions parents use these days, we’ve written you a
cheque,’ David said, handing it to Ava.

‘That’s more than generous, David,’ Simon said, topping up his glass.

Greta was touched by Ava’s gift of a framed photograph of the two of them, taken when Ava was a tiny baby and while Greta was still hospitalised.

‘That’s just to remind you of what’s to come,’ Ava said with a smile. ‘My goodness, you’ll be a great-grandmother!’

‘I will, won’t I?’ Greta chuckled at the thought.

‘And you look barely a day older than the first time I met you,’ David commented gallantly.

Greta sat on the sofa, watching her family with pleasure. Perhaps it was the effect of far more wine over lunch than she was used to but, for once, she didn’t feel unwanted.

After the presents had been unwrapped, Simon insisted he take Ava upstairs for a rest, and David and Tor left for a walk. David asked Greta to accompany them, but she tactfully declined. They
needed time together, and three was always a crowd. Greta sat by the fire for a while, dozing contentedly. Coming to, she glanced out of the window and saw that the sun was now low but still
shining, the snow glittering beneath it.

On impulse, deciding she could do with a breath of fresh air, too, she sought out Mary and asked if there were any boots and a thick coat she could borrow.

Five minutes later, dressed in a pair of wellingtons that were far too big for her and an old Barbour, Greta strode out across the virgin snow, breathing in the wonderful, clean, crisp air. She
paused, wondering which way to go, hoping some inner instinct would guide her, and decided to take a stroll through the woods. As she walked, she looked upwards at the deep blue sky above and a
sudden joy filled her veins at the sheer beauty of the scene. It was such an unusual and rare feeling that she almost skipped as she zigzagged her way through the trees.

Arriving in a clearing, she saw a majestic fir tree standing in the centre of it, the rich green of its bushy, snow-laden branches a contrast to the tall, bare beech trees that made up the rest
of the wood. Walking towards it, she noticed there was a gravestone beneath it, the inscription covered by snow. Surmising that it was almost certainly the grave of a family pet – perhaps one
she had known – Greta reached down and scraped away the hard, icy flakes with her gloved hand.

Slowly, the inscription began to appear.

JONATHAN (JONNY) MARCHMONT

BORN 2ND JUNE 1946

DIED 6TH JUNE 1949

May God guide his little angel up to Heaven

Greta read and reread the inscription, then fell to her knees in the snow, her heart pounding.

Jonny . . . The words on the gravestone said that this dead child was
her
son . . .

She knew Francesca – Cheska – was her daughter, but there’d never been any mention of a boy. The inscription said he’d died at just three years of age . . .

Weeping now with frustration and shock, Greta looked up again and saw that the sky was beginning to darken. She gazed around the clearing helplessly, as if the trees might speak to her and give
her answers. As she knelt there, in the distance she heard the sound of a dog barking. An echo of another moment created a picture in her mind; she’d been here in this place once before and
had heard a dog . . . Yes,
yes
. . .

She turned and focused on the grave. ‘Jonny . . . my son . . . please let me remember. For God’s sake, let me remember what happened!’ she cried, half-choking on her tears.

The sound of the dog’s bark faded away and as it did so she closed her eyes and immediately saw a vivid image of a tiny baby wrapped in her arms, nestling against her chest.

‘Jonny, my darling Jonny . . . my baby . . .’

As the sun dipped below the trees and into the valley below, heralding the arrival of night, Greta’s arms reached wide to clasp the gravestone as, finally, she began to remember . . .

Greta

London, October 1945

The cramped dressing room in the Windmill Theatre smelt of Leichner No. 5 panstick perfume and sweat. There weren’t enough mirrors, so the girls jostled for space as they
painted on lipstick and teased their hair into curls on top of their heads, fixing the elaborate styles with spritzes of sugar water.

‘I suppose there’s something to be said for appearing half naked; at least you don’t have to worry about laddering your nylons,’ laughed an attractive brunette as she
checked her reflection and deftly arranged her breasts to better advantage in her low-cut, sequinned costume.

‘Yes, but carbolic soap doesn’t exactly leave your skin looking as fresh as a daisy after you’ve scrubbed the make-up off, does it, Doris?’ replied another girl.

There was a sharp knock at the door and a young man peered into the dressing room, seemingly oblivious to the scantily-clad bodies that met his eyes. ‘Five minutes, ladies!’ he
shouted before retreating.

‘Oh well,’ sighed Doris. ‘Another shimmy, another shilling.’ She stood up. ‘I’m just thankful there’s no more air raids. It was bloomin’ freezing
a couple of years ago, sitting in that bloody basement in not much more than your undies. My backside turned positively blue. Come on, girls, let’s go and give our audience something to dream
about.’

Doris left the dressing room and the others drifted out behind her, chattering amiably, until there was only one girl left, hurriedly applying red lipstick with a small brush.

Greta Simpson was never late. But today she’d overslept until after ten, even though she was due at the theatre at eleven o’clock. Mind you, it had been worth having to run the
half-mile to the bus stop, she thought dreamily as she stared into the mirror. Last night with Max, when they’d danced until the small hours then wandered hand in hand along the Embankment as
the sun came up over London, made it all worthwhile. She hugged herself tightly at the memory of his arms around her and his passionate kisses.

It was four weeks since she’d met Max in Feldman’s nightclub. Usually, Greta was too exhausted after five shows at the Windmill to do anything other than go home to bed, but Doris
had begged her to come and help celebrate her twenty-first birthday, and in the end she’d agreed. The two girls were chalk and cheese; Greta quiet and reserved, Doris brash and blowsy with a
loud cockney twang. Yet they’d become friends of sorts and Greta hadn’t wanted to let her down.

The pair had treated themselves to a taxi for the short journey to Oxford Street. Feldman’s was packed with demobbed British and American servicemen, as well as the cream of London society
who frequented the most popular swing club in town.

Doris had bagged a table in the corner and ordered a gin and It for each of them. Greta glanced around and thought how the atmosphere in London had changed since VE Day, just five short months
ago. A sense of euphoria pervaded the air. A new Labour government had been elected in July, with Clement Attlee at the helm, and their slogan ‘Let us face the future’ summed up the
fresh hopes of the British people.

Greta had felt suddenly light-headed as she’d taken a sip of her cocktail and soaked in the club’s atmosphere. The war was over after six long years. She’d smiled to herself.
She was young, she was pretty and it was a time of excitement and new beginnings. And God knew, she could do with one of those . . .

It was as she was looking around that she’d noticed a particularly handsome young man standing with a group of GIs at the bar. Greta had remarked on him to Doris.

‘Yeah, and he’ll be randy as they come, I’ll bet. All them Yanks are,’ Doris had said, catching the eye of one of the group and smiling boldly at him.

It was no secret at the Windmill that Doris was free with her affections. And five minutes later a waiter arrived at their table with a bottle of champagne, ‘With the compliments of the
gents by the bar.’

‘Easy when you know how, dear,’ Doris had whispered to Greta as the waiter poured the champagne. ‘This evening won’t cost either of us a penny.’ She’d winked
conspiratorially and instructed the waiter to tell the ‘gents’ to come over so she could thank them in person.

Two hours later, high on champagne, Greta had found herself dancing in Max’s arms. She had discovered that he was an American staff officer working at Whitehall.

‘Most of the guys are on their way home, which is where I’ll be headed in a few weeks,’ Max had explained. ‘We just got a few things to tidy up first. Boy, I’m
gonna miss London. It’s a swell city.’

He’d looked surprised when Greta told him she was in ‘show business’.

‘You mean you’re on the stage? As an actress?’ he’d said, his brow creasing into a frown.

Greta had sensed immediately this wasn’t something that was going to impress him and she’d quickly changed her story. ‘I work as a receptionist to a theatrical agent,’
she’d added hurriedly.

‘Oh, I see.’ Max’s features immediately relaxed. ‘Show business sure doesn’t fit with you, Greta. You’re what my mother would call a real lady.’

Half an hour later Greta had extricated herself from Max’s arms and told him she must go home. He’d nodded politely and walked her outside to find a taxi.

‘It’s been a wonderful evening,’ he’d said as he helped her inside. ‘Can I see you again?’

‘Yes,’ she’d replied, before she could stop herself.

‘Great. I could meet you here tomorrow night?’

‘Yes, but I’m working until half past ten. I have to see a show one of our clients is in,’ she’d lied.

‘Okay, I’ll be waiting for you here at eleven. Night, Greta, don’t be late tomorrow.’

‘I won’t.’

As the taxi had driven her home, Greta found that her mind was a mixture of conflicting emotions. Her head told her it would be futile to begin a relationship with a man who had only a few weeks
left in London, but Max seemed like a gentleman, and that made such a pleasant change from the often rowdy male audience that frequented the Windmill.

As she’d sat there, she’d thought sombrely of the circumstances that had landed her at the stage door of the Windmill barely four months ago. In all the magazines and newspapers
she’d read as a teenager ‘The Windmill Girls’ had always seemed so glamorous, dressed in their beautiful costumes with an array of British celebrities pictured smiling between
them. Having had to make a hasty exit from the all-too-different world she’d previously occupied, the Windmill had been her first port of call when she’d arrived in London.

The reality, as she now knew, was very different . . .

After she’d arrived back at her boarding house and climbed into the narrow bed, with a cardigan over her pyjamas to keep out the autumnal chill of the unheated room, Greta had realised
that Max was her passport to freedom. And whatever it took to convince him that she was the girl of his dreams, she’d decided she’d do it.

As planned, Max and Greta had met at Feldman’s the following night, and from then on they’d seen each other almost every evening. And despite all Doris’s
warnings about overpaid and oversexed Yanks, Max had always behaved like a perfect gentleman. A few days ago he had taken Greta to a dinner dance at the Savoy. As she’d sat at the table in
the grand ballroom and listened to Roberto Inglez and his Orchestra, she’d decided she loved being wined and dined by her rich, handsome American officer. And, more and more, she was learning
to love him as well.

Through their conversations, Greta had begun to realise that Max had lived a very privileged but somewhat sheltered life before arriving in London a few months ago. He told her he’d been
born in South Carolina, the only son of wealthy parents, and lived just outside the city of Charleston. Greta had gasped when he’d shown her a photograph of the elegant, colonnaded white
house where they lived. Max had told her his father owned several lucrative businesses in the Deep South, including a large automotive factory which had apparently fared well during the war. When
Max left England and arrived back home he would be joining the family business.

Greta knew from the flowers, nylons and expensive meals he paid for that Max had money to burn, so when he started talking about ‘our’ future, a glimmer of hope that they just might
have one had begun to ignite in her heart.

Tonight, Max was taking her out for dinner at the Dorchester and had told her to wear something special. He was due to ship out to America in a couple of days and had said time and time again
how much he’d miss her. Perhaps he’d be able to come back to London to visit, or maybe, just maybe, she thought, she could save up enough money to make a trip across to the States to
see him . . .