Page 19 of Last Letter Home
At Flint Cottage the path was clear, and the only trace of Hartmann, his empty mug in the porch. Ruby had gone, too, but the house felt invitingly warm. Over coffee, the women opened their gifts to one another. Mrs Bailey unwrapped an engagement calendar from Diane, and an evening stole of dove grey which Sarah had seen in Harrods and had spent a large part of her monthly allowance on. She loved giving presents, really thinking about what people would best like. She’d found a pair of soft kidskin gloves for her sister there, too, which Diane exclaimed over, pulling them on immediately and testing their suppleness. Their mother gave them gold necklaces that had once belonged to Colonel Bailey’s mother, embroidered evening bags and some money for treats.
When she unwrapped her gift from Diane, Sarah was amazed at the rightness of it. The chunky dark green book, with its title embossed in gold, read, The Culture of Vegetables and Flowers. She sampled the pages eagerly. ‘Amaryllis,’ she said. ‘Oh, asparagus, I must try that now we’re in Norfolk.’
‘Do you like the book?’ Diane wasn’t used to such an enthusiastic response to her presents.
‘I love it, thank you,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s so clever of you to have found it.’
‘I couldn’t think what to get you, then I saw it in the window of Bumpus’s while you were searching for Mummy in Liberty. It looks just the thing for this garden, doesn’t it?’
‘Just the thing, and you’re a dear. While I read it I’ll dream of spring and the things we’ll grow.’
Diane gave one of her faded little smiles that were as much as she could ever manage. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do till then,’ she said in a small, wan voice. She fingered the new evening bag in her lap with her gloved hands.
‘Oh nonsense,’ said her mother. ‘We’ll find you other young people. I’m sure Ivor Richards will make some introductions.’
‘Winter will be fun, Di. Perhaps there’ll be skating on the stream, that’s what Ruby says anyway. We’ll borrow some skates from somewhere. And our boxes will be arriving soon. Think how we can make this house lovely with all our things.’
‘Won’t that be strange,’ Diane said in a bitter voice. ‘They’ll remind us of India and Daddy. I don’t think I’ll be able to bear it.’ And for a moment they were silent, hearing only the snap of the fire and the distant cooing of wood pigeons in the trees.
Ten
It was a small party that gathered later that morning at the Richards’ handsome, white-painted Georgian cottage. Sited in woods at the edge of the Westbury Hall estate, the Baileys reached it by walking along a sheltered footpath leading off the main drive to the old manor house itself. Including Major Richards’ elderly widowed mother, an austerely dressed leftover from the Victorian era with a face set in permanent distaste at the modern one, seven souls sat down to a splendid luncheon of roast goose and all the trimmings.
It was the first time the Baileys had met Major Richards since arriving in Westbury, and Sarah’s youthful memory of him as an unsmiling, highly strung military type of strong opinions but few words proved to be an accurate one. She was able to observe him closely during luncheon because she’d been seated next to his place at the head of the table. Powerfully built, he clearly liked his food. He took plenty of everything from the dishes presented by their long-suffering maid. No, she could never manage to call him Uncle Hector.
‘Amen and tuck in,’ he said after rushing the brief grace, and Sarah was all too aware of him working his way through his meal, sorting and turning the different components as he loaded his fork then chewed each mouthful noisily. At the draining of each replenishment of claret in his glass his face grew more flushed, and oily strands of greying hair began to fall over his forehead.
For a while the conversation was desultory as everybody tucked in.
‘How much leave do you have for Christmas?’ Mrs Bailey, who was sitting opposite Sarah, asked Ivor, who sat between the girls.
Ivor swallowed his mouthful and looked eager. ‘I’m to report back tomorrow evening.’
Major Richards cleared his throat and Sarah noted the wary way that Ivor glanced at him before continuing. ‘There’s a big exercise planned, Father, but with luck I should get away again at New Year.’
‘Does anything amusing happen in Westbury at New Year?’ Sarah asked and Diane looked up with interest. She’d no more than picked at the fatty slices of meat on her plate, Sarah noted.
‘The Kellings are in London unfortunately,’ Aunt Margo remarked with a sigh. ‘They usually throw such a splendid party for the hunt on Boxing Day.’
Sir Henry and Lady Kelling had chosen to stay in their Belgravia residence this Christmas. Their daughter, the Hon. Robyn, had come out in society earlier in the year, and Lady Kelling, it was always said, preferred London society to anything Westbury had to offer. This, Aunt Margo had already told the Baileys. She was very interested in the Kellings’ lives. Too interested, Belinda Bailey used to say snidely after reading any letter from Aunt Margo, but Sarah’s father would put in mildly that the interest was natural. The Kellings lived in Westbury Hall and were, after all, Major Richards’ employers.
‘I was going to say,’ Ivor chipped in. ‘The Bulldocks are putting on a do. Perhaps I could snaffle an invitation. If you girls should like to go, of course.’
‘The Bulldocks,’ Major Richards sneered as he jabbed a roast potato, but he failed to add anything to explain this comment.
‘Jennifer Bulldock is a very nice girl,’ Mrs Richards ventured.
‘Of whom do we speak, may I enquire?’ asked the Major’s mother, rook-eyed and with one hand cupping her ear.
‘The Bulldock children, Mother.’
‘Oh, the Bulldocks.’
‘If you will go,’ Major Richards addressed his son, ‘find out, will you, what the old man’s up to now.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘What is the matter with the Bulldocks?’ Sarah’s mother asked. ‘Should the girls be going to this party?’
