The Angel Tree (7 page)

‘Buck up, dear. Nearly there now,’ the driver shouted over the roar of the engine.

Greta scurried back into the car and they set off along the rutted drive.

‘Here we go. This is Lark Cottage.’ The car shuddered to a halt and the driver leapt out, grabbing Greta’s cases from the back seat. ‘Home sweet home.’

As Greta stepped down, she watched the woman making her way through a glade of moonlit trees. Following nervously behind her, she sighed in relief as a small cottage came into view. Oil lamps
illuminated the interior, giving out a soft yellow glow. The woman opened the front door and they went in.

‘So.’ The woman peeled off her goggles and turned to face Greta. ‘This is it. Will it suffice, do you think?’

It was the first opportunity Greta had had to study her companion, and she was immediately struck by the woman’s resemblance to her son. She was very tall and long-limbed, with piercing
green eyes and a shock of windswept greying hair cut in a short, sensible style. Her outfit of corduroy breeches, knee-length leather boots and a tailored tweed jacket was both mannish and
strangely elegant. Greta glanced around the cosy interior of the cottage, looking gratefully at the fire, with its burning embers.

‘Yes. It’s lovely.’

‘Good. Bit basic, I’m afraid. No electricity in here yet. We were just about to install it when war broke out. The privy’s outside and there’s a tin bath in the kitchen
for high days and holidays, but it takes so damn long to fill it’s easier to use the sink.’

The woman strode towards the fire, picked up a poker, stirred the embers and threw on three logs from the basket beside the fireplace. ‘There. I lit it before I came to fetch you. The oil
for the lamps is in a canister in the privy, the logs are in the shed out back, and I’ve put some milk, fresh bread and cheese in the pantry for your supper. I’m sure you’re
parched. Put the kettle on the range and it’ll boil in no time. And don’t forget to stoke it with wood every morning. It’s a hungry beast, if I remember rightly. Now, got to be
off, I’m afraid. We’ve lost a ewe, you see. Gone over a gulley, we suspect. David said you’re a pretty self-sufficient kind of gel, but I’ll drop in on you tomorrow when
you’ve got your bearings. I’m Laura-Jane Marchmont, by the way’ – she thrust out her hand to Greta – ‘but everyone calls me LJ. You should too.
Goodnight.’

The door slammed and she was gone.

Greta shook her head in confusion, sighed and then sank into the threadbare but comfortable armchair in front of the fire. She was hungry and desperate for a cup of tea, but first she needed to
sit down for a few minutes and recover from the ordeal of her day.

She stared into the fire, pondering on the woman who had just left. Whatever she had expected Taffy’s mother to be, it was not Laura-Jane Marchmont. In truth, she’d imagined an
unsophisticated country widow with plump, ruddy cheeks and child-bearing hips. She glanced round her new home and began to take full note of her surroundings. The sitting room was snug, with a
charming beamed ceiling and a large inglenook fireplace taking up an entire wall. The furnishings were minimal: just the armchair, an occasional table and a crooked shelf stacked untidily with
books. She pushed open a latched door and walked down two stone steps into the small kitchen. There was a sink, a Welsh dresser filled with mismatched crockery, a scrubbed pine table with two
chairs and a pantry, in which she discovered a loaf of fresh bread, a slab of cheese, butter, some tins of soup and half a dozen apples. She opened the back door and found the icebox masquerading
as a lavatory to her left.

A creaking staircase led off from the kitchen to a door at the top, beyond which was the bedroom. The low-ceilinged room was almost entirely taken up by a sturdy wrought-iron bed covered in a
cheerful patchwork quilt. An oil lamp cast a warming, shadowy glow. Greta looked longingly at the bed but knew that, for the baby’s sake as much as her own, she needed to eat before she
slept.

After a supper of bread, soup and cheese in front of the fire, she yawned. She washed as best she could in the kitchen sink, realising she’d have to boil the kettle in future if she wanted
warm water. Then, shivering, she picked up her suitcases and finally made her way up the staircase.

Pulling her nightdress over her head, and adding a jumper on top of that, she pulled back the quilt and sank gratefully into the comfortable bed. She closed her eyes and waited for sleep to wash
over her. The silence, after her noisy London room, was deafening. Eventually, exhaustion overtook her and she fell into a dreamless slumber.

Greta woke the following morning to the sound of two pigeons cooing outside her bedroom window. Feeling disoriented, she reached for her watch and saw that it was past ten
o’clock. She rose from the bed, drew the curtains back and peered out of the window.

The sky was a soft blue and the frost of the night before had been melted away by the weak winter sun, leaving a heavy dew. Below her, there was a gently sloping valley, its sides planted with a
dense wood, the huge trees now bare of leaves. The sound of rushing water told her a stream must be close by. Across from the river that bisected the floor of the valley she could see undulating
fields sloping upwards, populated with small white dots which must be sheep. And away to her left, presiding over the valley, stood a low red-brick house surrounded by sweeping lawns and tiers of
stone terraces. Its many mullioned windows glinted in the sun and she could see smoke coming from two of the four majestic chimneys. She assumed this must be Marchmont Hall. To the right of the
house there were barns and other outbuildings.

The sight of the peaceful, natural landscape surrounding Greta filled her with unexpected pleasure. She dressed quickly, eager to go outside and explore. As she was walking down the narrow
staircase, there was a knock on the front door and she hurried to open it.

‘Morning. Just came to check that you’re settling in all right.’

‘Hello, LJ,’ said Greta self-consciously. ‘I’m fine, thank you. I’ve only just woken up.’

‘Good grief! I’ve been up since five nursing that blessed ewe. She
had
fallen over the gulley, and it took the men hours to coax her up. Looks as if she’ll make it,
though. Now, we need to have a chinwag about logistics whilst you’re staying here, so why don’t you come over to me tonight for a spot of supper?’ suggested LJ.

‘That would be lovely, but I don’t want to put you to any bother.’

‘No bother at all. To be honest, it’ll be nice to have a bit of female company.’

‘Do you live in that big house over there?’ enquired Greta.

‘Used to, dear girl, used to. But nowadays I live in the Gate Lodge by the main gate. Does me fine. Just turn right out of here and follow the path. A brisk walk of five minutes should do
it. There’s a hurricane lamp in the pantry. You’ll need it. Pitch bloody black around here, as you saw last night. Now, I must be off. See you at seven.’

‘Yes, I’ll look forward to it. Thank you.’

LJ smiled at Greta, then turned round and waved as she marched briskly down the path.

Greta spent the day settling into her new home. She unpacked her cases then went for a walk, following the sound of running water. After a while she found the stream and knelt
to take a drink of the clear, sparkling water. The air was bracing and bitterly cold, but the sun was shining and the leaves that had fallen from the many trees formed a natural carpet for her to
walk on. She arrived home weary, but with a hint of pink in each of her normally pale cheeks. She changed into her best skirt and jacket, looking forward to supper with LJ.

At five to seven Greta knocked on the door of the Gate Lodge. By the dim light of the moon, she could see it was a modest but handsome red-brick building whose gable-fronted
architecture echoed that of Marchmont Hall itself. The small front garden looked immaculate.

LJ opened the door a few seconds later. ‘Bang on time, I see. I like that. I’m a stickler for punctuality. Come in, my dear.’ She took the hurricane lamp Greta was carrying and
extinguished it before helping her off with her coat.

Greta then followed LJ through the hall and into a formal but reassuringly cluttered sitting room.

‘Sit down, dear girl. Drink?’

‘Yes, please. Anything soft, thank you.’

‘I’ll mix you a small gin. Do you and the baby no harm at all. Drank like a fish myself when I was carrying David, and look at the size of him! Won’t be a second.’

LJ left the room and Greta sat down on a chair by the fire. She glanced around the room and took in the mahogany dresser filled with expensive-looking china and the framed pictures depicting
lurid hunting scenes. It was obvious that the furniture in the room was valuable, but had seen better days.

‘There we go.’ LJ handed a large glass to Greta and sat down in the armchair opposite her. ‘Welcome to Marchmont, my dear. I hope that for the time you’re with us,
you’ll be very happy.’ LJ took a large gulp of her gin as Greta tentatively sipped her own.

‘Thank you. It’s so kind of you to have me here. I don’t know what I’d have done if it hadn’t been for your son,’ she murmured shyly.

‘He always was a soft touch for a damsel in distress.’

‘Taffy’s doing awfully well at the Windmill, too,’ Greta said. ‘Mr Van Damm has just given him a regular slot. His routine is very funny. All us girls fall about when we
listen to it.’

‘Yes, well, could I ask one favour? While you’re here, please could you try to remember to call my son by his proper Christian name? I’m afraid it offends my sensibilities to
hear his extremely unimaginative nickname. Especially as he’s only half Welsh in the first place.’

‘Of course, I apologise, LJ. So his father is Welsh, I suppose?’

‘Yes, as you might have guessed, I’m as English as you. Such a shame that David barely knew his father. Robin, my husband, died in a riding accident when David was twelve, you
see.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ murmured Greta.

‘So was I, my dear, but the one thing you learn, living on an estate such as this is that death is as much a part of life as life itself.’

Greta took another small sip of her gin. ‘You said this morning you used to live in the big house?’

‘We did. David was born there. When the house was taken over as a nursing home during the war I moved out to the Gate Lodge. I decided it suited me much better and never moved back,
especially since—’ LJ stopped suddenly. ‘My husband’s elder brother lives there now.’

‘I see. It looks like a beautiful place,’ ventured Greta, sensing LJ’s tension.

‘I suppose so. Huge though, and the maintenance bills are a nightmare. Cost a fortune to have electricity put in. Mind you, with ten large bedrooms, it served well as a nursing home. It
held twenty officers and a team of eight nurses at one time. Rather came into its own, I think.’

‘So, do you help run the Marchmont estate?’ asked Greta.

‘No, not any more. After my husband died, yes, I did. I looked after the upkeep of the place, which I can tell you is a full-time job. Owen, Robin’s brother, was in Kenya but
returned home when war broke out and naturally he took over the running of things. The farm produced milk and meat for the Ministry of Agriculture and it meant that we here were self-sufficient.
Rationing hardly touched us. It was all hands to the pump then, I can tell you. I worked on the farm from dawn until dusk. Then, when the house was requisitioned as a nursing home, I worked
alongside the medical staff. I know I should be relieved the war is over, but I rather enjoyed all the activity. Feels a bit like I’ve been put out to pasture now,’ she said with a
sigh.

‘But you still help on the farm?’

‘For the present, yes. Some of the young men from around here are yet to return, so the farm manager’s always short-handed. I’m roped in to help milk the cows or hunt for lost
sheep when necessary. It’s quite a big operation, you know. Nowadays, one has to make one’s land pay its way. The milk and meat we produce earn sufficient income to keep the estate
going. Now, that’s enough about me. Tell me about you.’

‘There’s nothing much to tell, really. I used to work with Taff— David, at the theatre and we became friends.’

‘You were one of the Windmill Girls, then?’

Greta blushed and nodded. ‘Yes, but only for a few months.’

‘No need to be embarrassed, dear girl. Women have to earn their living somehow and, until the world wakes up and sees the inner steel of us females, one has to get by any way one can. Take
me, for example. The very model of an upper-class Englishwoman. Even had an “honourable” before my name. Being a girl, I had to stay at home and learn cross-stitch while my brothers
– who in my opinion did not have a decent brain between them – were educated at Eton and Oxford. One’s a drunk and managed to squander the family pile in a matter of years, and
the other got himself shot whilst hunting in Africa.’

‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Don’t be. He deserved it,’ LJ said brusquely. ‘I’ve spent the past thirty years at Marchmont working in some capacity or another and it’s been the happiest
time of my life. Anyway, we seem to have got back to me again. My fault. I digress all the time. One of my bad habits, I’m afraid. We were talking about you. I don’t wish to seem rude,
but just what is your relationship with David?’ LJ’s aquiline nose almost quivered with inquisitiveness.

‘We’re good friends. That’s all, really.’

‘Would it be impertinent to suggest that I have the feeling that David is more than a little keen on you? After all, it’s not as if he lends the cottage to every stray girl he
meets.’

‘As I said, we’re just good friends.’ Greta felt herself blushing. ‘David helped me because I had no one else.’

‘What about your family?’

‘I . . . they died in the Blitz.’ It was a lie, but LJ wasn’t to know.

‘I see. Poor you. And the baby?’

‘The father was an American officer. I thought he loved me and—’

LJ nodded. ‘Well, it’s happened through the centuries and will continue for time eternal, I’m sure. And there are lots less lucky than you, my dear. At least you have a roof
over your head, thanks to my son.’