The Daisy Club (27 page)

As Branscombe turned to do as directed – feeling, and doubtless, he was sure,
looking
flustered – he tried to imagine old Dan Short from Number Five The Cottages sitting down to break bread with Miss Maude. He turned back. ‘Miss Maude?'

‘Yes, Branscombe?'

‘You do mean
everyone
from The Cottages, do you?'

Maude nodded briskly.

‘I certainly do, Branscombe, I certainly do.'

‘Up to and including Dan Short, and the Tumps?'

‘Oh, yes, everyone.' Maude turned back to put out her cigarette. ‘Although,' she paused, ‘although, maybe the Tumps should be in the basement – better for bicycling.'

‘They don't have any bicycles, Miss Maude, I wouldn't have thought they own bicycles.'

‘Maybe they have no bicycles, but we do. My brothers all had bicycles, and they are in the basement. When all is said and done, that is one thing that a house as big as the Hall is good for, bicycling down long corridors . . .'

Branscombe thought for a minute. He didn't like to think of the Tumps, a rowdy, scruffy lot at the best of times, having first pick of the Beresford bicycle shed.

‘May I, with the greatest respect, suggest that we put Dan and the Tumps up in the grooms' quarters above the stables, and we put my lot from the Court, the Lindsay brothers, in the basement here?'

Maude thought for a minute.

‘I tell you what, Branscombe, why do I not appoint you billeting officer for the Hall? You make all the arrangements that you think appropriate once you have alerted the rector and Huggett. You can be billeting officer, while I myself will become head of nursing and so on, allocating beds and such matters that looking after a small community will doubtless bring.'

Branscombe turned. He could not help remembering that Miss Maude and Miss Jessica had always been known to differ in their attitudes to the idea of another war, Miss Jessica often being called a warmonger by so many, while Miss Maude, seeing no one, never reading a newspaper, going nowhere, had been more than happy to sit in her vast house living off her memories. Now it would seem that she had sprung to life. Perhaps she, like so many, had needed a war to feel wanted again? Although why she had chosen to cut Miss Daisy out of her life was quite another matter.

The brigadier stared at Maude. He was not used to dealing with women that he could not bully, and he was certainly not used to a woman with the look of a latter-day Britannia about her addressing him as if he was some kind of a nincompoop.

‘I am sure, from the army-issue map that I have here, ma'am, that this house, the Hall, is included in the village of Twistleton, and it is the village of Twistleton that we have been ordered to requisition, preparatory to army training and exercises, as you know. Most villages near to the sea have been evacuated, in case of invasion, as you are doubtless aware. I can only suppose that the smallness of Twistleton, its size, has meant that your village has escaped notice to evacuate so far. Perhaps the authorities thought it too negligible, but from 0800 hours tomorrow Twistleton village will be requisitioned. I have been given my orders.'

Maude gave the brigadier her coldest look.

‘Perhaps you have the authority to requisition Twistleton, the village, Brigadier, but with the greatest respect, the Hall is not part of the ancient village of Twistleton, and never has been.' She paused. ‘If I may explain. In 1086, my ancestor Sir John Beresford was given the lands and grants to what is now known as Twistleton Hall and Twistleton Farm. If you look at these ancient maps, you will see that the people of Twistleton were ceded grazing rights then to the common land of their village under ancient law, and indeed it was the same in each village south of here. The Hall and the Farm, while bearing from the middle of the nineteenth century onwards – and purely for the sake of convenience for the new postal service – the name of Twistleton, have never, ever been part of the village. In fact, as you will see here, as Mr Huggett can point out to you . . .'

Maude looked across at poor Huggett, his face edged with grief above a black tie. She was only too thankful that she had written a condolence letter to him and his wife, for now that it seemed they were all in the soup, she needed to lean on him in a way in which she would never have done had times been different. Grief needed time and tranquillity, but there was a war on.

Whether by intent or design poor Huggett had brought with him a map of such age that it was immensely difficult to make out county, village or any other demarcation lines. He now pointed at a faded line with an authoritative finger, and assumed an expression of legal gravity, before beginning.

‘Here you will see, from these lines, lands granted to Gwillem of Twussel in 1103 by King William. This land, in time, passed not to his son – I think he was killed on a crusade. At any rate, the land passed not to him, the only son of Gwillem, but to his cousin, one Bardolph. The land thereafter passed in 1184 to Thomas, and from Thomas to William, always known as the Saint, because he was said to have healing powers. At any rate, where was I? Yes, it was then that the family name changed to Berrenger, following titles and deeds passing on the marriage of William, son of William the Saint, to the heiress, one Mathilda, only daughter of Thomas Berrenger, and—'

But what happened after Mathilda, only daughter of Thomas, was lost to those present as the increasingly familiar sound of a siren rang out, and they all retreated to the basement.

Perhaps the brigadier had been cowed by the ancient map, or perhaps he had no taste for history, for he left the Hall an hour later, entirely dissatisfied with the stance that its owner had taken, but somehow realising that he could not prove that Maude's family home was indeed part of the village, and the Hall open to be requisitioned by the army.

‘Well done, Huggett,' Maude said quietly. ‘We have repulsed the enemy. At least we at the Hall have a temporary respite from his horrid invasion. I must do all I can to help the village, although for how long, we cannot know.'

For a few seconds Roger Huggett looked, if it was possible, even more sombre. Only he knew what few other people knew: that in her quiet way Maude Beresford had always been financially active in every area of the day-to-day life of Twistleton – helping out with anonymous donations whenever possible. The fact that she was now opening her home to the whole village in their hour of need was not surprising. Miss Beresford might be cold in manner and detached in voice, because she was very much of the old school, but he knew, if only from her letter of condolence about Joe, that she had a golden heart.

‘If we have to pour boiling oil from the first-floor windows that man and his troops are not going to invade the Hall, Huggett. He has no right, he
shall
have no right here. War or no war, an Englishman's home is still his castle. Now, would you like a gin? You certainly deserve one.'

Roger accepted the gin and downed it really rather too quickly, while Maude sipped hers, quickly making sure to refill his glass.

‘It's very difficult for you, at Holly House, I know, but we must all just bite on this particular bullet. The army will offer compensation, it will only be a question of time.'

Roger thought of his poor wife, already distraught at the loss of their youngest son. It would be only a matter of hours before poor Susan would have to come up to the Hall, the owner of a few suitcases and not much more.

‘Some places, I hear, have been given so little time to evacuate their homes that the army have even requisitioned their pets. My wife was talking of having to put the dogs down, but—'

‘Tell her she must do no such thing, Huggett,' Maude interrupted, appalled. ‘She must bring them here. Whatever happens we must save what we can before the ghastly dawn of tomorrow. But we must hurry, Huggett, we must indeed. The Cottages alone will need our help in such matters as livestock. There will be Dan Short's hens, and Jean Shaw—'

Roger turned away abruptly at the mention of Jean's name. Maude had heard the rumour about young Joe Huggett's marriage to Jean Shaw, from Bowles of all people. The maid had come to take her leave of Miss Maude, in order to go into the armaments factory near Bramsfield, but of course Maude hadn't believed her story about Jean. It was not Maude's way to listen to hen-house gossip; yet seeing Huggett's face, she now believed that Bowles might have been entirely correct, and that Jean Shaw was indeed both pregnant, and a widow.

Maude felt a momentary sadness, but it was only momentary as there was too much to do to allow feelings to get in the way. What she could do, and what she would do, was to ask Branscombe to put aside the best bedroom on the first floor for the poor girl. In the circumstances, that was the least they could offer her.

Freddie was travelling to London to see a patient in a newly set-up burns unit. Daisy had just flown a plane to Scotland and was facing a very long return trip indeed; while Laura had been sent to Norfolk to take charge at a recruiting centre, so none of them knew what was taking place at Twistleton.

Neither did anyone care to try to get hold of Jessica and Blossom, since they seemed to change their lodgings every few days – bomb dodging. All anyone knew was that they were still slaving away at the aircraft factory.

Despite the mind-bending, back-breaking, agonising days spent painting aircraft, or slotting metal, the pause in the German assault that had come from the skies had given renewed energy to the girls and women in the factories. It was as if someone from above was patting them on their heads and saying, ‘Without all that you are doing, and have done, we would be Hitler's lackeys.'

In fact Jessica had taken up lodging in an old inn some miles from the factory. It was said to be haunted, but no spirit had, as she now often joked, ‘a ghost of a chance of waking me up after my shift'.

If she was on dawn shift, which she often was, she was able to throw herself into the pub bar, and enjoy a drink, always providing there were any to order.

Too often there would be a sign saying, ‘NO BEER. WAITING DELIVERY', or another saying, ‘SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. UNEXPLODED BOMB IN THE ROAD'.

The quiet while a bomb was being dealt with outside in the road was, indeed, the silence of the grave. Happily, the second time it happened, there was beer to be had, and she and the other regulars were able to toast Phil and his friends from bomb disposal, who had brought about a happy outcome.

Phil was older than the rest of his team, but nevertheless he had that same bright-eyed look that a friend had told Jessica the young officers of the Great War had possessed, before they went over the top. This particular night, after a successful lift of an unexploded bomb in the neighbouring town, the little bar was filled with young men, eager to drink away the reality of what might have happened.

‘Your hands had a bad time of it, in that place?'

Phil nodded at Jessica's hands, which were now so marked that she had to wear gloves.

‘I am afraid so. Still able to hold a glass though—'

Phil watched Jessica put the glass down, and handed her a cigarette.

‘And a cigarette?'

Jessica nodded.

‘That, too,' she agreed, laughing suddenly.

They started to talk, and as they did so, Jessica realised that although Phil might be ten or perhaps even as much as twelve years younger than she was, and not from the same background, nevertheless they might as well have been born in the same year. They talked, as everyone did nowadays, about everything
except
the war. They talked about the films they had seen and the books they had read, about travelling abroad – carefully leaving out the words ‘before the war' – and by the end of two rounds of drinks, and even more cigarettes, Jessica was quite sure that whatever else happened, she had to make love to him.

As with Esmond, there would probably only be time for it to happen once – and as with Esmond, it would be something that would remain with her always. As also with Esmond, she did not care what people thought, or that the publican winked at her as she passed him to go upstairs, Phil following her, after a statutory few minutes.

What did it matter? There was a war on, and she knew what war did: it took people for ever. So when they were with you, you made sure that you made them happy, and when they were not with you, you knew that you had at least brought them some last-minute love.

Afterwards – when break of day had dawned and nudged them both into leaving each other's arms, and going back to the war – instead of Jessica's thoughts reaching out to Twistleton Court and darling old Branscombe, to Freddie and the dogs, instead of drawing comfort, as she usually did, from her memory of the old place with its soft stone, its benevolent aspect, and its delicate air of having always been there, she found that she was only remembering the last few hours of the night. The factory work might be cruel in every way, but as her badly gashed and bruised hands reached out to push open the dark door that led to the factory floor, as she faced the start of yet another smoke-filled twelve hours, of yet another truly back-breaking day, another day of community singing to the sound of
Workers' Playtime
, she found she was remembering only the passion and tenderness of the night.

Chapter Nine

While the sun showed still weakly on the horizon, the first rumble of army tanks was heard in the village below the Hall, the ominous noise rising above the sound of the distant sea and the gathering wind and rain, above the sound of people pushing anything from hand carts to wheelbarrows up to the Hall, their only place of refuge against the coming invaders.

Maude had been up for some few hours, busily making up beds with poor grieving Susan Huggett. Bedroom after bedroom, and in an awkward silence punctuated only by small instructions from Maude, they carefully observed the usual routine, moving from room to room, making hospital corners at the side of each top sheet, and equally carefully straightening all the blackout blinds at the windows, not to mention dusting all the mahogany furniture.