LANCASHIRE, OCTOBER 1943
The spoon tapped noisily against the table as Abigail banged it down, orange goo dribbling from the sides of her mouth onto the white cotton bib.
‘Who’s a clever girl?’ Eleanor said, smiling.
Seeing her mother’s face light up, she banged the spoon even harder, squealing in delight.
‘Shush, Abigail. Your grandfather will think the Germans are at our door!’ Patricia Roy said, half-serious.
‘Come on, Mother,’ said Eleanor, ‘you know he hasn’t the slightest interest in what she’s doing. I think he’s only been up here twice.’
They’d installed the nursery on the second floor next to Eleanor’s bedroom, away from any visitor’s ears or prying eyes. Today they were in the sitting room, Abigail’s wooden highchair pushed up against the round table near the bay window, long pink gingham curtains draped half-open on either side. The pale blue of the carpet was just visible beneath the large oriental rugs and antique furniture.
‘You know that’s not true. It’s just taking him a while to get used to the idea.’
‘Pretend she’s not here, you mean.’
Patricia narrowed her eyes at Eleanor as if she disagreed but had become tired of saying so.
Eleanor looked at Abigail’s plump smiling face and tiny upturned nose and wondered if she had ever seen anything more perfect. When the midwife had first placed the baby in her arms, Eleanor vowed she would never leave her, but it had been ten months in her parents’ house with her father’s furious gaze and ten months with still no word from Jack. The War Office had been no help in contacting him and, while Cecily had done a good job redirecting her mail from Cleveland Square, nothing had arrived.
‘Wouldn’t your father love you,’ she said, stroking Abigail’s silky-soft crown, ‘and wouldn’t you adore him…?’
Patricia stopped sewing and looked up from her embroidery. ‘You know Abigail is safe here and that you’re better placed to find him in London. I don’t know why you don’t just go. Go and find him, Eleanor.’
Gilbert Roy had told his elder daughter that if she didn’t find her fiancé by the year’s end, he would find a husband for her: one who would take care of her and the child.
‘You really think Father is going to do as he says?’ Eleanor asked.
‘Yes, I do, dear. And I know he already has someone in mind.’
‘Who?’
‘I can’t say, but if you do as I’m suggesting it might not come to that.’
‘Please, you must tell me who!’
When Eleanor had arrived on the train back from London, four months’ pregnant and as lost as a ship at sea, her mother had taken charge. Gilbert was a devout man and his faith stitched him together as tightly as the fabric from the mill held his clothing, so it wasn’t a surprise that he avoided her as much as he did, or when his ultimatum came. So she hid in the house, pretending that her husband was on active service, and kept to her sitting room. She was protected and cossetted by Mrs Percival, the housekeeper, and the maids, who were beside themselves with excitement that a baby would soon be in the house; it was a gift, something joyous to focus on in these dark times.
A Victorian doll’s house sat on top of the shelves, front door open to reveal the tiny furniture and figurines inside. She was surrounded by the toys and books she had played with as a child, and felt how strange it was to inhabit the rooms where she and Cecily had put on plays, written stories and dreamt about a far-off day when they would be adults inhabiting an adult world. She would be an explorer living overseas, eventually with a husband and possibly two children; never, ever had she thought it would be like this. Some days she took comfort from having these girlish tokens around her, while other days they seemed to taunt her, as if she couldn’t escape from them and her life was to be anchored here, all that she had found and achieved in the meantime reduced to nothing. She had tried to make the space her own, but it was very difficult.
Mrs Percival had retrieved all the old baby clothes from the attic, washed and darned them and folded them neatly into piles. The fact that they were stacked in batches of colour from left to right—white first, followed by yellow, then pink, green and finally blue—pleased her more than she imagined was appropriate, but it was also very useful once Abigail had arrived and she became worn down by the night feeds and the continual crying.
Abigail curled her hand around her mother’s little finger and gurgled at her smiling face. Eleanor knew what was at stake: she needed to find Jack rather than be forced to marry another man, but she wasn’t ready to leave her daughter yet.
‘I just can’t—’
‘I think you could,’ Eleanor’s mother said, ‘just for a few months. Really look for him, and then come back.’
‘But she’s in such a good routine now.’
‘Even more reason that you should go.’
‘Isn’t it too much for you, though?’
Patricia Roy was a busy woman: the head of the household, active with the local WVS, the wife of an important businessman. She had more than enough to occupy her.
‘Darling, I had four,’ she said. ‘I think I might be able to cope with just one. Besides, some babies are more troublesome than others and you were my easiest, and I’m pleased to say that Abigail seems to be taking after you.’
Eleanor liked the way the name sounded when her mother said it—Abigail—as if it should be sung. She had surprised them all with the name. It meant ‘father’s joy’, and from her mother’s mouth it sounded soothing, three syllables broken into a chant, but she couldn’t remember her father ever saying it.
She gazed at her daughter’s rosy cheeks and long dark lashes, unable to look away. Even Francis, when he was fully recuperated, had come to visit and remarked how Abigail was as delicate as a flower and twice as pretty, and Clarence, when home on leave, had showered her with gifts.
‘I’m sure they will have replaced me by now,’ Eleanor said, leaning forward to press her lips tenderly against her daughter’s forehead.
‘You should write to Mr Powell—he always had a soft spot for you. I’m sure he could see his way to finding you something.’
‘Maybe…’
The committee and the Ministry had no idea about the pregnancy or Abigail. Eleanor had made the excuse of being summoned home to help with the family business. That the textile factory was producing uniforms and that the committee already knew this had worked in her favour, and no suspicion had been aroused.
Eleanor had only taken Maura into her confidence when she’d guessed, and then she’d helped by altering Eleanor’s clothes to guard their secret.
‘Good,’ Patricia said, lifting Abigail out of the highchair and taking her through to the nursery, ‘we shall leave you to it then.’
Eleanor found a pen and paper and sat at the desk, listening to her mother sing lullabies in the next room. In front of her was a stack of letters from the War Office, all in response to hers, and all saying the same thing: Jack’s unit was in Italy or North Africa and communication was difficult. That Italy had declared war on Germany hadn’t helped to ease Eleanor’s worries.
She wondered if she would in fact be serving Abigail’s needs better if she went looking for Jack and left her daughter behind. The only way that she really stood any chance of finding him was to go back to London, and her mother knew that too.
A week later Patricia ambushed Eleanor after breakfast before she left on one of her lengthy walks. Light rainfall in the night had left the Pennines sparkling and the air pungent with a mix of pollen, moss and wood. There would be plenty of animal life and new fauna to occupy her, and since Abigail’s sleeps were the only time she had to paint, she was keen to get outdoors.
‘You seem as if you’re ready for the Alps,’ Patricia said, looking her up and down.
Boots and trousers were a basic requirement for the boggy terrain, but her raincoat and hat were just a precaution, and her satchel of painting equipment a necessity.
‘The forecast wasn’t very specific,’ Eleanor replied. ‘Mrs Percival is keeping an eye on Abigail. I’ll be back before lunch.’
‘Mrs Percival does have other duties, Eleanor.’
‘Yes, Mother, I know. It’s only once in a blue moon, so I think she can manage.’
‘Well, your father thinks that if you are going to stay, you could help teach at the school. There are dozens of evacuees still here and your art classes count for something.’
Eleanor took a deep breath; if she kept her eyes closed and counted to ten, she might stay on speaking terms with her mother. First, Patricia had wanted her to go, and now she was asking her to stay and help, even though she would still be expected to hide Abigail.
She had nearly got used to the idea of going back to London, until she realised what Jack might say if he came back and found that she had abandoned their child—how unkind a mother he might think her to be—and so hadn’t sent the letter.
But the idea of helping the village schoolmaster, whose idea of fun was cataloguing the local weeds in his herbarium, might just be enough to make her change her mind.
‘And there’s a new teacher your father thinks you will enjoy meeting,’ Patricia added. ‘He is unattached…and he likes children.’
‘It’s all settled,’ Eleanor lied. ‘I’m going back next week. I’ve written to Cecily and told her to expect me.’
‘Well, that’s that then,’ Patricia said, beaming. ‘It’s the right decision.’ She patted her daughter’s shoulder. ‘And it will be good for you to keep an eye on your sister again.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
Patricia smiled again. ‘And we shall look after Abigail for you.’
Eleanor had written to her sister to raise the idea of returning, and Cecily’s reply had been unequivocal: Why must you come back and put yourself in danger? You are a mother.
Yes, I am a mother now but that is not all that I am, Eleanor had replied.