Mistress of Greyladies (19 page)

He hesitated.

‘The Latimer Trust would pay the expenses of the women staying here. It would have to pay for them one way or another, and it’ll probably be cheaper to send them here … as long as you didn’t charge us rent.’

Mrs Dalton looked from one to the other in puzzlement. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Part of my inheritance was a trust fund to look after women in trouble. People who know about this, like clergymen or ladies running missions in the slums, send
them to me. And there’s a new sort of woman in need, one who’s lost her man in the war but wasn’t married to him, so can’t receive a widow’s pension.’

She waited, half expecting her mother-in-law to make some disapproving remark, but Mrs Dalton surprised her.

‘I have a friend who runs a mission. I thought it was for fallen women, but she insists it’s to stop women having to take to the streets.’ She flushed a little. ‘I have in the past been guilty of thinking very unkind thoughts about such women, but Mary has made me see that they can’t always help it: it’s that or starving – or worse still, letting their children starve.’

Joseph gave her a cracking hug. ‘Mother, you are wonderful.’

‘No, I’m not. But since your father died, I’m starting to care more for the people around me. He was … rather arrogant and very old-fashioned. I loved him, but sometimes I grew angry with him.’ She looked at Harriet. ‘He treated you badly when you inherited Greyladies, and I didn’t even try to stop him. I’m sorry about that.’

Joseph waited a minute, then asked, ‘Shall we speak to Enid and Cook and see what they think, then?’

‘And write to Selwyn. We’ll need his permission to use the house.’

‘He won’t care,’ Mrs Dalton said sadly. ‘He doesn’t seem to care about anything these days, except killing our enemies.’

Cook and Enid were relieved that they were not to lose their jobs, but Cook seemed a bit doubtful about the women who might come to stay.

Mrs Dalton drew herself up. ‘The Bible says, “Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have
not charity, I am become
as
sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.”
Corinthians
, I believe.’ She fixed the two servants with a firm gaze. ‘I have learnt that these are women, just as we are, but less fortunate. If
I
am willing to help them and associate with them, so should you be.’

‘Sorry, ma’am.’

Mrs Dalton unbent for a moment to add, ‘It’s the children of such unfortunate women who upset me most, so hungry their poor little legs and arms are like sticks. Some have rickets, too.’

Enid gulped. ‘I can’t abide to see children going hungry. We’ll help all we can, ma’am. Won’t we?’ She nudged Cook with her elbow and got a nod out of her.

‘Thank you,’ Harriet said.

As they went outside to the car, Joseph gave his mother another hug. ‘You’re a wonderful woman.’

‘Sadly, I’ve frittered my life away. But I’m learning to be more helpful. It’s my friend Mary who is wonderful. Very inspiring.’ Mrs Dalton stared into space for a moment or two, then added, ‘It gives me something to do, to feel good about. I was a bit lost without your father and my former life, when I first went up to London.’

As they sat in the back of the car, Joseph said to his wife, ‘Isn’t my mother wonderful?’

‘She is. And so are you,’ Harriet said quietly. ‘You’re very like her in some ways.’

He looked at her in surprise. ‘Am I?’

‘Yes.’ She chuckled. ‘Well, you certainly don’t take after your father, and you’re not at all like Selwyn.’

They were silent then, remembering the other two brothers.

‘I don’t know how your mother bears it,’ Harriet said. ‘If I lose our two …’

‘You won’t. The war will be over long before they grow to manhood.’

‘There seems to be a war for each generation. Why, there was more than one Boer War. I wish men didn’t try to settle things by fighting.’

‘It’s all some men know.’ He reached for her hand and held it most of the way home.

Frank slipped out of his house just after midnight to meet a man with goods to sell. He’d not dealt with this fellow before, but he’d been recommended by an acquaintance. The list of goods on offer was enough to tempt an angel.

If they agreed on a price, Frank would take most of the goods out to his parents’ farm, keeping back some of the items that were selling well.

The man was waiting for him behind the church, as agreed, jacket collar turned up, though it was quite a mild night for the time of year.

‘I’m Frank.’

‘I’m not interested in names. You want to buy some goods. Have you brought the cash? I don’t give credit.’

‘Of course I have. Let’s see what you’ve got.’

‘I’ve brought samples. The rest of my stuff is in a safe place.’

‘I’d want to check everything out.’

‘They all do,’ the man said in a bored tone. ‘Don’t worry. I’d not last long if I cheated people. Here. These are some samples.’ He led the way to one of the gravestones, where
goods were laid out, and switched on an electric torch.

Frank checked everything and they agreed on a price.

‘Come on, then.’ The man led him to a back lane and into a garden. ‘Here they are, but you don’t take them till I’ve got your payment.’

Smiling with pleasure at the thought of the money he’d make, Frank handed over the cash.

At once another torch flashed in his face and a hand grasped his arm. ‘Frank Hapton, you’re under arrest for black market dealing.’

He tried to lunge away, hoping to take the policeman by surprise, but another man grabbed him, and though he struggled, they were too much for him.

‘
And
you’ll be charged with resisting arrest,’ one of them said.

He was marched through the dark, empty streets to the police station, feeling sick with dismay. All his plans, ruined. Wait till he caught the fellow who’d helped set this trap for him. How long did they give you in prison for such a crime?

At the police station, he was taken into a small room at the side, where a man in army uniform was waiting.

‘This is him,’ the policeman said. He was a big man and shook Frank’s arm hard as he said, ‘Pay attention, you. We can charge you and you’ll go to prison. No doubt about that. But the government in its kindness is offering you an alternative. You can volunteer for the army instead. Which is it to be?’

Frank thought rapidly. He didn’t know which was worse, prison or fighting in a damned war. Then he thought of being locked up, perhaps for years, and that made his mind up. He couldn’t abide being penned in. ‘Army.’ The uniformed man
was a sergeant, by his stripes, and was smiling smugly now.

‘They usually choose that,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Fetch my men in, will you? We’ll go through the formalities before we leave. And if you have any more of that nice strong tea, I’d welcome another cup.’

Frank gave his details and signed the piece of paper as directed, then was handed over to two burly soldiers.

‘Take him back to the barracks, lads.’

Frank tried to get them talking as they walked, but one said brusquely, ‘You shut your mouth. I hate black marketeers. We’re fighting a war, lads are losing their lives and rats like you make money from it. That stinks.’

At the barracks, Frank was locked in a room till the doctor could see him.

‘The medical is only a formality,’ one of the soldiers said. ‘You look a nice strong fellow to me, a bit flabby around the middle, though.’

He punched Frank suddenly in that very place and he doubled up, gasping for breath.

The soldier grinned at his mate, then turned back to their prisoner. ‘I shall enjoy helping you get fit, training you to kill … or be killed.’

There was a bench along each side of the room and a man was lying on one of them, snoring.

‘He’s another like you,’ the chatty soldier went on. ‘Two rats caught in one night is nice going, don’t you think? You’ll make good cannon fodder and I personally hope you stop a bullet! Scum, that’s what you are. Scum.’

The two men were left there till morning, then another soldier came for them.

‘You’re not going to give me any trouble, are you?’ he asked affably, studying one clenched fist and slamming it into the palm of his other hand.

‘No,’ Frank said.

‘No, Corporal,’ the man corrected, slapping him on the back of the head to emphasise the point.

‘No, Corporal,’ the other prisoner said hastily.

Frank wasn’t going to buy trouble, so repeated meekly, ‘No, Corporal.’

‘This way, men. The doctor’s waiting to stamp your cards. You’ll soon be in the army and you won’t know what’s hit you.’

The doctor gave the smaller man a cursory examination, listening to his heart and chest, and ordering him to drop his trousers before subjecting him to a bored check of his manhood. ‘You’ll do.’ He looked at the corporal. ‘Take him away. Next.’

Frank stepped forward, feeling sick at how easy it was to pass a medical.

The doctor took his wrist and felt his pulse, then frowned. ‘Take your shirt and vest off.’

Wondering what the hell was going on and hoping they weren’t going to beat him up, Frank did as he was told.

The doctor held a very chilly brass stethoscope to his chest, frowned again, and said, ‘Turn round.’

He looked across at the sergeant. ‘A word.’

The two men left the room.

Frank reached for his shirt, feeling chilly.

‘Leave it off. He may want to check your chest again.’

There was the sound of voices, then the doctor returned and listened to Frank’s chest again.

‘How do you feel when you run?’

‘I don’t like running, so I don’t do it.’

‘I’m not surprised. You’ve got a heart murmur that can be heard a mile off. We can’t have that in the army. You’d probably drop dead during the training.’ He stepped back and picked up a rubber stamp. ‘Rejected.’ He slammed it down on the piece of paper. ‘Pity, but there you are.’

‘This way, you!’ the sergeant roared.

Frank hated the sod already, but did as he was told. His heart sank. That must mean he’d be charged and sent to prison.

‘Wait in there.’

He scowled round at the cell. What now?

It was a full half-hour before they came to get him, by which time he was so hungry and thirsty, he’d have eaten anything put before him.

But they didn’t put anything to eat before him; they took him in to see a magistrate, who glared at him.

‘Damn you and all like you!’ he said by way of greeting.

‘You are charged with black market crimes.’ He took a deep breath and tapped an envelope. ‘This is the money that was taken off you last night. Two hundred pounds.’

Frank brightened. At least he’d get his money back.

‘The doctor tells me it’s no use sending you to prison, not with your tricky heart. You’d be more trouble than you’re worth. So I’m going to fine you instead. Two hundred pounds. Pay it or you will go to prison.’

He gave Frank a smile that was more like a snarl. ‘Well?’

‘I’ll pay it, Your Worship.’ He indicated the money in the magistrate’s hand. ‘With that.’

The man roared with laughter. ‘This isn’t your money
any longer. It was confiscated. You’ll need to come up with another two hundred pounds.’

‘
What?
’ Frank caught his eye and bit off further angry words. They’d got him coming and going. ‘I’ll have to fetch the money sir, get it out of the savings bank.’

‘I’ll send my clerk with you, and a police officer.’ He consulted his watch. ‘The bank doesn’t open for another half-hour. Give the fellow a cup of tea and something to eat. We don’t want him fainting on the way there, do we? The government needs the money to fight the war.’

Frank was given a cup of lukewarm tea and a piece of dry bread. He was hungry enough to eat the damned thing, but had to dunk it in the tea to soften it.

They left him sitting there for what seemed a long time.

He could hear the loud voice of the sergeant in charge of the police station and realised the man was talking on the telephone. No one else was around, so he listened carefully. You never knew when you might learn something useful.

‘Yes, sir. Hapton fell into the trap meek as a mouse, just like you said. Trouble is, he failed the medical.’

Silence, then, ‘I’m really sorry, sir. The doctor was adamant. He doubted the man would last through training. Might look big and strong, but he was flabby under it, and no wonder. If he did anything physical, his heart would have played up.’

Another silence, then, ‘I hope you find another way to keep him in check. I don’t like fellows who beat up women. They’re as bad as black marketeers in my books.’

Frank couldn’t help but realise they were talking about him. He didn’t care what they said about his heart. He’d not had any trouble with it, except for a few episodes of
fluttering, because he knew what to avoid doing. Damned doctors. They couldn’t even save themselves when they fell ill. Still, it had got him off both prison and the army.

But it was clear that he’d been set up by someone, lured into a trap, and he cared very much about that. Who could have borne him a grudge?

The sergeant had been talking to a superior officer by the tone of his voice, and the way he put ‘sir’ on the end of every other sentence. Frank grinned.
He
wouldn’t have to do that now.

He stopped grinning. They’d been talking about him beating up a woman. It suddenly clicked in his mind: the fellow who’d rescued Phoebe must have been an officer. Could this be in payback for that? Why would a complete stranger do that? Only one reason that Frank could think of. Phoebe must have been giving the officer what she’d refused him.

Rage filled him, but he didn’t let it boil over. Rage upset his heart.
Watch me deal with this, Mr Stupid Doctor!
When something upset him, he could control his anger and get his own back later.
That
didn’t upset his heart. Well, it only caused a bit of fluttering, which was nothing. Hadn’t done him any harm so far, had it? He was a big strong fellow with one small problem.

And it’d got him out of the army! What a bit of luck!

When the time came to go to the bank, he walked along meekly with his escort, took out the money, and was marched back to pay his fine officially. It hurt him to see his hard-earned savings swallowed up by that damned magistrate, but at least the money had set him free
and
made sure he’d never be killed in the mud.

They let him go eventually, after fiddling round with bits of paper and signatures.

He had to trudge back to the damned bank, because they’d taken every penny of his money so he couldn’t even catch a bus.

After he’d drawn out a few pounds, he went to a cafe and got himself a decent meal, sitting over it thoughtfully.

He’d have to find out where Phoebe was and teach her a lesson. He’d not let anything put him off this time. Someone must know where she was. He’d find out, oh, he would.

No one had ever got away scot-free with upsetting him, man or woman. And no one was going to do it this time.

Set traps for him, would they?

Take more than half his money, would they?

She and her fancy man were going to regret that. Oh, yes.

Phoebe settled down, enjoying life at Greyladies. It was set up so that the men detained there lived a reasonably comfortable life and earned their places by translating documents, teaching certain visiting officers to speak some simple German and doing anything else considered useful.

Corin made sure the atmosphere was peaceful.

Miss Bowers made sure that the villagers accepted the ‘enemy aliens’ by insisting that they were working for the British, though she couldn’t reveal how.

It was a five-day wonder to have such exotic people nearby, but if Miss Bowers said the men were all right, they must be. No one could fool her.

She started taking groups of three or four men into the village, where they could do a bit of shopping at the village store or simply enjoy a change of scene. Phoebe accompanied
them, not wearing her VAD uniform now, but her everyday clothes, though Harriet and Miss Bowers made sure she had enough new clothes to look smart.

And Corin was still at the house, to brighten her days by stopping for a chat in passing, and sometimes to take her for long walks on fine evenings. They grew closer, very much closer, but still he didn’t do anything about his feelings, not even ask her to walk out with him officially.

She couldn’t be mistaken in the looks he gave her, just couldn’t. And she had grown to love him dearly. If he proposed, she’d accept him in a flash. What was holding him back?

Corin went up to London at least once a week, sometimes more. She thought he was reporting to his boss, but he never said what he was doing, though sometimes he brought her a note from Beaty, or a little gift.

The shops were not as full of items for sale as they had been, Beaty said in one of her notes, and food was limited in some ways. In the country, they had produce from their own gardens, and the cooks at Greyladies planned to follow the locals’ example and bottle as much as they could for the winter.

So life was still comfortable. She hadn’t been as happy as this since she was a child.

A few weeks later, Corin brought Phoebe a letter from Beaty and she cried for joy when she read it. Beaty had found Mr Stein. He was rather frail, but had proved a suitable candidate for helping the government at Greyladies, so she’d arranged for him to be transferred. He should arrive very soon.

One of the nurses was passing by and stopped to ask, ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m very all right, thank you.’

The nurse lingered. ‘Why were you crying then? Is there anything I can do to help?’

Phoebe deliberately made use of her friend’s title, wanting to give poor Mr Stein the best possible reception here. ‘Lady Potherington has arranged to have my old employer transferred here. He’s Austrian and he’s an absolute dear. His name is Stein.’

‘That’s good to know. I wondered when I first came here what these people would be like, but they’re no trouble at all, are they?’