War Orphans (16 page)

Her thoughts went back to the tin of pilchards. She was livid that Joanna had eaten the lot, but how come there was no half empty tin? She went to the larder to double check.

Nothing. Nor was there anything in the meat safe or any empty tin in the rubbish bin.

Elspeth stood at the bottom of the stairs. The house was in darkness and, although she was keen to know the truth, she knew it was best to leave it until daylight. Just for once she would get up early.

It was late afternoon on a Friday when Pierre took Sally to meet his Aunt Amelia, Lady Ambrose-DeVere, picking her up in a two-seater sports car the top pulled up firmly against the cold weather.

Butterflies were performing aerobatics in Sally's stomach. She'd rather stand in front of a class of screaming nine-year-olds, each throwing a tantrum. What if Aunt Amelia disliked her on sight?

Noticing her nerves, Pierre did his best to reassure her. ‘You will love her. I know you will.'

‘But will she love me?'

Pierre was adamant. ‘Of course she will. She loves me. I told her I loved you and so she will love you.'

Sally was stunned. Pierre had just uttered the most thrilling three little words he could ever say. He loved her! She knew he was a man who made up his mind quickly. He oozed confidence, fully convinced that his opinion would be instantly echoed and agreed with by other people. A niggling voice at the back of her mind pointed out that he might very well be the kind of man who insisted on having his own way, that he was convinced he was always right and expected everyone else to fall in line.

As fast as the thought formed, she dismissed it. He was perfect, her very own Prince Charming.

Ambrose House was a rambling mid-nineteenth-century building with medieval turrets at one end, a Georgian portico slammed right in the centre, and a neo-Elizabethan black-and-white gable at the opposing end.

Sally eyed the building with foreboding that was coupled with a good dose of criticism for whoever had designed it.

Either the original place had been added to or successive generations had favoured one era. It occurred to her that the former was the most likely. The Victorians had a reputation for mixing styles with no regard for good taste.

Instead of pulling up in front of the imposing main entrance, Pierre followed the road around the gabled end to the rear of the property, drawing up at the back door and a far plainer entrance than at the front.

On alighting from the car, Sally noticed a painted sign, ordering tradesmen to ring the bell and wait.

She bristled at the insult, that she was relegated to the tradesmen's entrance as befitting a member of the general public. That was before Pierre opened the car door, grabbed her hand and proceeded to drag her in the opposite direction to the house.

‘This way.'

He led her away from the rear facade to where a collection of single storey buildings stood in a separate courtyard opposite a series of very large greenhouses.

The sound of barking told her that whatever the old stone buildings might once have been, they were now converted to kennels. It sounded as though a whole pack of dogs were housed there.

Pierre, excitement lighting up his delicious brown eyes, pushed open the door of what might once have been a dairy where maids spent all day churning milk into butter or cheese – the milky smell long gone and replaced with the smell of dog.

‘Auntie's favourite place,' Pierre whispered.

Ahead of them Sally spotted someone bent down. All she could see of them was a wide bottom and a worn seat of a pair of dark green corduroys. The corduroys were tucked into a man-sized pair of wellington boots.

‘Aunt Amelia!'

At the sound of Pierre's voice the figure turned round. Sally was confronted with a weather-beaten face and the brightest blue eyes she'd ever seen. She flinched as they swept boldly over her in a swift act of evaluation. Most people would take their time weighing up a visitor, possibly not making their mind up until a bedrock of familiarity had been established. Pierre's Aunt Amelia had made up her mind in a moment.

‘Right,' she said, her jaw-clenching stiffness vanishing in an instant. ‘So you're the little poppet Pierre's been rabbiting on about. Pleased to meet you.'

Sally shook the proffered hand, the roughness of which surprised her.

Suddenly a gust of wind blew a cloud of steam between them.

Sally wrinkled her nose at the smell that came with it.

Her ladyship beamed. ‘Intestines! That's what you can smell. Tripe,' stated Pierre's aunt, with a sideways jerk of her head. ‘Though unbleached, so not fit for human consumption. And it comes from a horse! The knacker's yard is quite happy for me to buy it. Different for a cow's tripe, of course. Or a sheep's, for that matter. Have you ever tasted mugget? That's the name they give sheep's tripe.'

Sally admitted that she had not.

Perhaps because they could smell that evening's meal cooking, the dogs began to bark.

Pierre, who had been watching Sally closely, suggested they take a look at his aunt's menagerie.

Without waiting for Sally to answer, Lady Amelia Ambrose-DeVere, who looked more like a farmer than a titled lady, strode off, her boots slopping slightly as though they were too big for her.

Sally exchanged a smile with Pierre and he squeezed her hand reassuringly. All they could do was follow.

They stopped in front of a little black-and-white dog yapping for all his worth and bouncing up and down on his hind legs.

Amelia pointed to him. ‘I've named him Jack. You can see why, I trust?'

Under Amelia's hard stare, Sally felt as though she were a butterfly being pinned to a display board.

‘Because he's like a Jack in the Box?'

‘Correct. He was also left in a box outside my gate. Unfazed by his experience. He's that sort. One of the lucky ones to be so.' Amelia's manner was abrupt but her expression was soft.

She went on to introduce Sally to other dogs she'd rescued, including a greyhound.

‘It's supposed to be a bit like horse racing, though more favoured by the common man, rather than a sport of kings. Once he ceased winning for his owner and reached the end of his racing life he was destined for the scrap heap. The war hastened this. He was abandoned, though not before they'd cut off his ears. Racing greyhounds are tattooed with an identification number. The owner would have been found. Then I would have cut off
his
ears – or something more painful,' she added.

Judging by the look on her face, Sally had no doubt she was being deadly serious.

‘I used to concentrate on greyhounds, but the war has changed all that. This is now a haven for the unwanted: cats complete with litters of kittens, placed in a sack, weighed down with bricks and thrown into a river. A dog found hanging from a tree, another tied to a railway line. Not all the animals that come to me have been mistreated. Some of the owners are just at their wits' end. War or not, they do not wish for their pets to be put down. I'm their last hope.'

Feeling genuinely moved, Sally patted and stroked those animals she could reach. ‘You're so wonderful to be doing this.'

Amelia shrugged. ‘As I've already said, I've always done it. Anyway, I prefer animals to humans.' She glanced at her nephew, her look firm and forthright. ‘Some of them anyway.'

From the kennels they returned to the house, Amelia stripping off her boots and man's ex-navy duffle coat at the back door. From there she led them into the drawing room.

The house turned out to be a hotchpotch of different styles, mirroring the outside. The furniture was heavy and old but in excellent condition. The smell of lavender polish hung in the air.

A teatime spread was set out on a low table, sandwiches and a cake taking centre stage. A maid who looked almost as old as the house came in with a tray of tea and a vacuum flask of hot water.

‘That will be all, Iris.'

Iris tottered out, her back bent, her feet carefully treading to support her bandy legs.

‘Knowing you were visiting I've done the best I can with what we have here,' Amelia explained. ‘Can't cater on a large scale nowadays. I used to have full-time servants, but no longer. Just Iris in the house and Fred the gardener. Everyone else is casual and part-time. All keener to get to fight and die or help the war effort in other ways rather than keep house. Oh well . . .' Sighing she began to pour the tea. ‘Push the animals off the chairs. Sit down and help yourselves. I'm not here to wait on you.'

Pierre encouraged two cats and a black-and-white English pointer off the chairs. Looking very disgruntled they all headed for a sofa at the further end of the room and settled there.

‘Can't keep them outside in the kennels. They're always in the house. Getting old. Like me,' Amelia said with a chortle.

‘You'll never get old, Aunt Amelia,' said Pierre, raising his aunt's hand to his lips and kissing it.

Amelia snatched her hand away. ‘Flatterer!'

Sally thought she saw a twinkle in Amelia's eyes. It made her think she'd been quite a girl in her youth.

‘Are only cats and dogs brought to you?' Sally asked, while accepting a piece of cake from Pierre.

‘Mostly. Pet mice and suchlike are merely set free. Rabbits, well, you can guess what happens to them so they're not likely to end up here.

‘There is Poppy the pony,' Pierre pointed out. ‘And Big Ears.'

Sally smiled. ‘Big Ears? That has to be a donkey.'

Pierre's aunt smiled benevolently at her. ‘Quite right. He's a donkey. The hurdy-gurdy man brought him. Said he was afraid his family might insist on eating him if he kept him. People were content enough to hear his music without having a donkey to pet. As for Poppy, she's the pony Pierre used to ride when he was small. She's old. We might well end up eating her, but not until she keels over of her own free will.'

Before leaving, Sally excused herself to go to the bathroom. Amelia directed her to the far end of the corridor. All the way along the corridor Sally felt she was walking on air.

Pierre had been right. Lady Amelia clearly approved of her and once she'd got over her ladyship's bluntness, she loved his aunt. As for Pierre, well, she loved him most of all.

After Sally had left the room, Pierre questioned his aunt as to why she'd directed Sally to the bathroom at the end of the corridor when there was one much closer.

His aunt's amiable expression became challenging. ‘You know why. I want a word.'

‘Ah!' he said, looking disconcerted as he settled himself back in the chair. ‘Might as well ready myself for a verbal mauling.'

‘You're not going to lead her up the garden path, are you?'

Pierre smiled in the way he knew usually got him his own way. ‘No. Only up the aisle. If things all work out.'

Unimpressed, Amelia drew in her chin. ‘You can't mean that. Not until you know Adele's whereabouts.'

Pierre sighed impatiently and met his aunt's forthright gaze with one of his own.

‘Adele and I did not part on friendly terms. We differed in our views of what was happening in Germany. She thinks it's all quite wonderful and that France should follow its lead. I, on the other hand, feel we'd be making a pact with the Devil!'

‘I am aware of your views, also of hers. All the same . . .'

‘Enough! I'll get round to it in my own good time. When the time is right.' Eyeing his aunt intently, hands clasped, he leaned
towards her. ‘You're not going to tell her, are you, Aunt Amelia? Please. Give me time. I will do what's right. Just give me time.'

Amelia felt her heart softening. Pierre's mother had died when he was nine years old. Rightly or wrongly she had plunged wholeheartedly into the vacant position. It occurred to her that every woman who had ever come into contact with her nephew swiftly fell under his spell – including her.

Conceding defeat, she shook her head. ‘I won't tell her. It's none of my business. It's all down to you.'

When Joanna opened her eyes on Saturday morning she sensed that something had changed. The room felt very much colder and her breath came in white clouds from her mouth.

Driven by the necessity to feed Harry, she arose from bed at the usual time and pulled on her old woollen skirt, pairing it with a patchwork jumper knitted by Mrs Allen next door from scraps of unpicked adult jumpers.

Frosty patterns covered each windowpane, so solid that even the heat of her finger failed to melt them.

After making her bed, she shot down the stairs to the kitchen before her stepmother put in an appearance.

The kitchen was in darkness so she switched on a light. The blackout curtains were still drawn and there was no point in pulling them back, not in December at this time in the morning, though she did peer out just to see how intense the frost might be. Although it was dark she could see a white crust covering that piece of garden where her father had planted vegetables before leaving for war. They were all wilted now. What remained of the unkempt straggly grass was white; the shed, the fence and the gate at the end of the garden that led out on to the lane all crusted with white too.

Her bedroom had been cold enough but outside would be even colder. She would need to wrap up as warm as she could. It occurred to her to get the fire going first so she could spread the coat in front of it. Even its early smouldering would warm the inside of her coat.

Once at the bottom of the stairs, she attuned her ears to the sound of her stepmother stirring. All was silent.

The larder held little except for the remains of the cheese and some bread.

Disappointed, she eyed the leftovers disparagingly. From there she delved into the pig bin and found the remains of two-day-old pastry and the gristle and bones from a pig's head. The gristle and bones were grubby with old tea leaves. She swilled everything off beneath the tap. It wasn't enough for a growing dog. He needed meat and biscuits, scraps of fat if she could get hold of any.