Page 36 of Last Letter Home
On this occasion it was telling that he hadn’t even taken the time to change out of his service dress.
‘You shouldn’t be doing this heavy work,’ he said, reclaiming his jacket and hooking it over his shoulder. ‘Mind you, the garden’s looking splendid. Do you have any help? I’m sure we could send Hartmann down.’
‘Jim Holt who does the vicar’s garden comes in once a week. I wouldn’t bother Mr Hartmann. He has enough to do.’
Did she imagine the satisfaction with which Ivor nodded? Because of her mother’s remark she found herself watching him with new eyes, and wondering about her own reaction to him. She was aware of his glowing demeanour, the brightness of his gaze.
‘How is Aldershot?’
‘Chaotic. We’re training the new recruits we’ve been sent. Pretty raw, most of them.’
‘One of Mrs Allman’s nephews in Ipswich has signed up. Her sister’s very concerned.’
’Tell her not to be. There’s no sign of anything happening at the moment.’
‘No, but it’s hard not to fear that something might.’
Ivor’s tone had been light, but the way he avoided her eye betrayed his underlying fear. Sarah, who made a point of reading a daily paper and listening to the news, knew about the increase in defence spending and the plans for a Women’s Land Army to improve food yields. Slowly but surely the country was creaking into war mode. And yet ordinary life was going on as usual. Mrs Allman said that her sister had told her about a German hockey team that had visited and played in Ipswich recently, and what did Mrs Bailey think of that? A week ago, at Whitsun, Sarah and Diane, taking the train to Norwich, had found the station platform packed with excited families heading for the coast. A bank holiday was a bank holiday, after all, and why shouldn’t the children have donkey rides and ice cream?
A knocking sound. She and Ivor looked up to see Diane, struggling to open the conservatory door, which was swollen by damp and always caught. Ivor marched over and tugged it open and Diane emerged in her dainty, fawnlike manner, her blue eyes huge and anxious. ‘How lovely to see you, Ivor,’ she said gravely and held out her hand. He shook it carefully and asked how she was keeping.
‘Very well, thank you,’ she replied, but her eyes darted to Sarah now, reproachful.
‘You’ve heard my sister’s news, I expect,’ she asked him, a sharpness in her voice.
‘No, what news is this?’ He turned enquiringly to Sarah.
‘Oh really,’ Sarah murmured. Diane should have left it to her to explain in her own time.
‘She’s leaving us,’ Diane said, her chin jutting.
‘I’m not going anywhere quite yet, Ivor. It’s simply that I might be going away to study.’ She explained about Radley. ‘I want to do something with my life, be useful and, as you know, I love growing things.’
‘I see. Has Hartmann put you up to this?’
‘No, of course not. Why would he?’
‘Simply what my father said. That he’d seen you together.’ Ivor’s eyes glittered.
‘Well, it wasn’t anything to do with Mr Hartmann. It was my own idea.’
‘I don’t think she should go, Ivor, do you?’ Diane said. ‘Oh, I wish you wouldn’t, Sarah. I would be so lonely.’
‘Diane,’ Sarah warned. ‘Don’t embarrass poor Ivor. And you wouldn’t be lonely. You have plenty of friends. Jennifer Bulldock’s always inviting you to things.’
She couldn’t rid herself of a sense that everyone was lining up against her: her mother, Diane, Paul Hartmann and now Ivor, too, for he was regarding her with lips pressed together. I may not go if there’s a war. She’d have said that to Ivor, but not with Diane there. She and her mother had an unspoken agreement not to speak about politics in front of Diane, knowing how she hated it.
She worried about Radley all that day, then come evening she wrote the letter accepting the place and enclosing a cheque. Only after she had dropped the envelope into the box outside the post office did she feel a sense of peace. The decision had been made.
Nineteen
It was July, the House of Lords was in recess for the summer and the Kellings had come home to Westbury. In church the Baileys sat two rows behind the Kelling family pew. They were tall and thin, all three Kellings, Sir Henry with his clever, grave face and salt-and-pepper hair, elegantly dressed Lady Kelling with her striking hawkish looks, and between them their daughter, The Hon. Robyn, a girl of Diane and Jennifer’s age, her still, pale face and colourless hair almost ghostly in the grey light. They left smartly after the service, stopping merely to address a few words to the Reverend Tomms and no more than nodding to the Bulldocks, who had gathered eagerly to speak to them outside. Robyn trailed obediently after her parents, trained to do so no doubt by her stern mama.
Watching their car drive away, Mrs Bulldock did her best to make excuses for them, which Sarah saw from the disappointment in her broad face were really to disguise her hurt feelings. ‘The poor man really does appear exhausted,’ she said to the Baileys. ‘Lady Kelling is very worried about him from what I hear. All those late nights discussing the international situation. It’s too bad of the Germans. And Robyn, well, you’ve seen the girl yourself, very plain, don’t you think. It’s her second season, poor thing, and there is still no sign of an engagement. Such a pity after all that money and effort. I’m so glad we didn’t go down that route for Jennifer.’
Mrs Bulldock appeared completely unaware that a similar comment might be made about Jennifer’s single status, or that it was tactless to say these things in front of Mrs Bailey, who had two unmarried daughters, but then the Baileys were getting used to Mrs Bulldock’s frequent faux pas.
‘Now are you sure, Mrs Bailey, that we can’t interest you in our whist drive next Tuesday? It’s to raise money for the mission school in Nigeria, well, you heard all about it from Mr Tomms just now. The Stevensons are doing such a marvellous job out there with the heathen, we must do our best to support them.’
