Frances alighted from the train at the station closest to Parnell Hall. She’d telephoned the evening before to say that she was coming home on leave, and her father, sounding a little absent-minded, had agreed to meet her. But there was no sign of him, or anyone else, on the platform.
‘Damn,’ she muttered, and picking up her suitcase, walked through the gate and onto the lane outside the little country halt. She would have to walk the three miles home.
It was a hot afternoon; bees and flies were buzzing around taking nectar from the wild flowers that grew in abundance at the edge of the dusty road. In the old days, before the war, the hedges and ditches had been managed properly, but now there weren’t the men to do it and the hedges were overgrown and the ditches blocked with rotting vegetation.
As she walked along, Frances found herself singing the latest number that she, Catherine and Della had been rehearsing. ‘It had to be you, wonderful you,’ she sang, mentally counting the beats in the way Catherine and Della had taught her, pleased with her effort. It had been a revelation to her that she could sing well enough to perform on stage, and although at first she’d been nervous of letting the others down, they’d assured her that she was good. ‘You’ve got a super mezzo voice,’ Catherine had said, and Della nodded enthusiastically. ‘And now that we’ve got matching frocks, we look the business.’
Surprisingly, for she never wore clothes like these new frocks, Frances loved dressing up for the show. The dresses were in a lavender blue, with tight halter-neck bodices and long, swirling skirts. Della had gone to a dressmaker she knew in Soho and had them made up. ‘Ginger Rogers wore something very similar to this in The Gay Divorcee, or one of those films. I can’t remember. Anyway’ – she held up one of the dresses – ‘what d’you think?’
‘I like it,’ Catherine said, fingering the fabric, and Frances had nodded, ‘Me too.’
Now Frances was belting out the song and practising the few steps that Della had incorporated and was so lost in her performance that she didn’t hear the ancient tractor that was coming up behind her until it was almost on her heels. Her song came to a sudden halt as she squeezed herself into the hedge, scratching her bare arms and legs on the hawthorn branches.
‘Lady Frances.’ The old man who leant out of the tractor cab looked at her in amazement. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here, prancing about like that?’
‘I’m walking home, Jethro,’ Fran said, ignoring the reference to ‘prancing about’. ‘My father was supposed to pick me up from the station, but he hasn’t come.’
‘His mind’s taken up with his new troubles, I dare say.’
‘What troubles?’ Frances asked. Her father was always short of money, so that couldn’t be something new. ‘What are you talking about?’
But Jethro was not forthcoming. He scratched his beard and spat a glob of phlegm onto the dusty road. ‘Get up on the trailer,’ he grunted. ‘I’ll drop you by the back gates.’
‘Thanks.’ Frances heaved herself up and leant against the sweet-smelling hay. Oh God, she thought to herself, what’s Pa done now?
There was no sign of her father’s Rolls as she walked past the outbuildings and garages at the back of the hall. The battered old shooting brake, which had a temperamental clutch and wouldn’t start at all if there had been even a hint of frost, was standing by the door to the boiler house. That meant that Pa had gone out, and Frances wondered if he was now outside the station, waiting for her arrival.
She walked in past the back offices and into the kitchen, and found Maggie at the scarred wooden table, skinning a rabbit, and Johnny sitting on the floor beneath the table, building a tower out of cake tins and copper jelly moulds.
‘Lady Frances,’ Maggie beamed. ‘Oh my word, you’re a sight for sore eyes.’ She put down the rabbit and wiped her hands on a cloth before coming round the table to give Frances a hug. She looked at the little boy. ‘And this young man will be really pleased to see you.’
Frances knelt down and held out her arms. ‘Darling, come and give me a cuddle.’
He crawled out from under the table and then, standing up, ran over to where Frances was kneeling. ‘Hello, Mummy,’ he said. ‘You’ve been away for ages.’
‘Yes, my little love,’ Frances said, holding him close and planting a kiss on his smooth pink cheek. ‘Have you been a good boy?’
He nodded and Maggie grinned agreement before picking up the skinned rabbit again and starting to chop it into pieces ready for the casserole. ‘He has, Lady Frances. He’s a lovely boy and no trouble at all.’
Frances smiled and got up. ‘I’ve got something for you, sweetheart,’ she said to Johnny. ‘Come and look.’
Opening her handbag, Frances pulled out a red-painted wooden car and put it in the little boy’s hand.
‘Oh!’ he cried. ‘A car!’ He sat down again on the floor and pushed the little car along the quarry tiles, laughing in delight as the wheels went round and he discovered that the driver could be taken in and out of his seat.
‘He likes that,’ Maggie said.
‘He does,’ smiled Frances. Then watching the child, she asked, ‘Where’s my father gone? He was supposed to meet me at the station, but he didn’t turn up.’
‘Gone?’ said Maggie. ‘He hasn’t gone anywhere. He was in the library when I took up the tea tray about half an hour ago.’
‘But the car isn’t there.’
‘Ah.’ Maggie shook her head. ‘The Rolls. It’s in the garage, up on bricks. Not to be used.’
‘What?’
‘Didn’t you know?’ Maggie frowned. ‘I thought his lordship would have told you.’ She slapped the rabbit pieces into seasoned flour before putting them into a black cast-iron casserole dish. ‘Constable Hallowes caught him buying black-market petrol. He would have come up in court, which would have been a scandal, him being the magistrate and all.’
‘Oh my God,’ cried Frances. ‘I told him months ago not to do it. Those spivs were in and out of the village all the time. But it was just too risky. I warned him.’ She shook her head, exasperated. ‘So what happened?’
‘Well, he was let off, wasn’t he. Bert Hallowes said that as your father has allowed the folks on the estate and in the village to help themselves to the fallen wood in the copses while the war is on, he’d turn a blind eye. But he made his lordship promise to put the Rolls up on bricks.’
Maggie started chopping carrots and onions, and throwing them in the casserole dish along with the rabbit. ‘The countess is not best pleased, I can tell you. She’s been stamping around the house for days now, saying she won’t go out in the shooting brake. Anyway, his lordship couldn’t get it to start this morning.’
‘Oh hell.’ Frances could imagine her mother’s fury. She was a woman who stood permanently on her dignity. Even with war raging and the family going broke, she expected to live in the style she’d enjoyed all those years ago at her father’s New York mansion. Then, she’d been a dollar princess, a good catch for anyone, and both her father and Lord Parnell’s had been thrilled with the match. But it hadn’t taken long for the Parnell estate to eat up her fortune, and the title she’d acquired when she married now seemed worthless.
‘Look,’ Frances said, ‘I’d better go and see them. Will you keep an eye on Johnny?’
‘Of course I will, lovey. Off you go.’
As Frances walked towards the stairs that led up to the main hall, she had a thought. ‘Where’s that girl – Janet, was it? The one my mother took on.’
Maggie snorted. ‘Her? Pregnant. Her dad came to take her home.’
‘Good Lord,’ Frances said. ‘She can’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen.’
‘She isn’t. The father is one of those soldiers that were in the village before D-Day, but she doesn’t remember his name.’
‘Poor thing,’ Frances said, as she went towards the stairs; she and Maggie didn’t look each other in the eye. There was no need.
She found both of her parents in the library when she opened the door and went in. ‘Hello,’ she said, and her father, with a big grin, sprang to his feet.
‘My dear girl, what a pleasure.’ He gave her a hug and then turned to his wife. ‘Look, Opaline, Frances is home. She’ll sort things out.’
‘I can see her,’ Lady Parnell said coldly. ‘I’m not blind.’
Frances bent and gave her mother a kiss on her thin, rouged cheek. ‘How are you, Mummy?’ she asked.
‘Don’t ask,’ her mother replied, and bent to pick up the copy of Vogue that was on the threadbare rug at her feet.
‘What’s the matter?’
Opaline Parnell flicked noisily through the magazine pages, refusing to look at her husband or her daughter. Frances thought she wasn’t going to answer, but suddenly her mother spat out, ‘Your father, that’s what’s the matter. Your goddam father. As usual.’
‘For Christ’s sake, give it a rest,’ Lord Parnell said angrily, and with less than his usual care crashed his teacup down on the tray and strode out through the French windows. Frances heard him whistling for Hero and Spartan, and soon the mad Irish setters came galloping up to him, ready, as always, for any activity.
As she watched them walking off across the parkland, Frances sat down beside her mother on the sofa. ‘I heard about the petrol,’ she said.
‘Uh!’ Her mother dropped the magazine back onto the rug. ‘Who told you? Not your father – he wouldn’t. It was Maggie, I suppose. And did she tell you that we have no transport now and that we’re trapped in this mausoleum for eternity?’
‘Come on,’ Frances grinned. ‘There’s the shooting brake. It’s not smart, I grant you, but it goes. At least, most of the time.’
‘I absolutely refuse to go in that … that, vehicle. Hell, I’m supposed to be the goddam lady of the manor. What will people think if I’m seen in that piece of junk?’
‘Nothing,’ said Frances. ‘They won’t think anything of it. We’re in the country; there’s a war on. Most people don’t have cars. Be reasonable.’
Lady Parnell snorted. ‘I’ve been reasonable for twenty-five miserable years. And I’ve had enough. I’m going home as soon as I can.’
Frances stared at her mother. She’d often made these threats before, but somehow this seemed real. ‘This is your home,’ she said cautiously.
Opaline gave a cold little smile. ‘No, it isn’t. It never has been. It’s the place I was sent to in exchange for my fortune. An arrangement made by my father and John’s. And I’ve hated it.’
‘But what about Pa and Hugo and me?’
‘Face it, honey. Hugo is probably dead. You let the family down years ago and went your own way. You won’t miss me, and I know your father won’t either. He was forced into this marriage as much as I was.’
Her words were shocking and Frances could feel her heart beating rapidly as she stared at this brittle, hard-faced woman who was her mother. Had she always felt this way? she wondered. Had she never been happy? Frances could think of nothing to say, but just as she was getting up to leave the room, there was a knock at the door and Maggie came in, holding Johnny by his little hand. ‘Can I take the tea tray, milady?’ she asked.
Opaline nodded and, getting up, went to the door. ‘I’m going to my boudoir,’ she said. ‘I’ll have my supper on a tray there.’
‘Oh Lord,’ Frances said, picking up her son for a hug and then taking him to look out of the window onto the parkland. ‘Things are worse than I thought.’
‘I know,’ Maggie sighed. ‘I think the petrol business was the last straw.’
In the five days that followed, Frances saw her mother only a few times. Lady Parnell stayed in her room, reading and smoking, and whenever Frances passed her room, she could hear her talking on the telephone. Once, when it rang and Frances picked it up in the hall, a man’s voice, said, ‘Opaline, honey, Mabel said you were coming up to town next week. Great. We’ll do the shows.’
‘Er … it’s not Opaline,’ Frances said, and would have gone on to explain that she was the daughter, but her mother came on the line.
‘Put the phone down, Frances. This is my call.’
The coldness in her mother’s voice was chilling. She sounded like a stranger. Frances tackled her father about it when they were together leaning over the pigsty wall, looking at the big Tamworth sow that had recently farrowed. Ten piglets were attached to her teats, grunting and squealing over the abundant milk, and the old sow had a dreamy expression of contentment on her brown, whiskery face.
‘By God, those are healthy-looking pigs,’ Lord Parnell said with a grin. ‘They’ll bring in a few bob.’
‘Mm,’ Frances nodded. ‘That’s good.’ Then she looked up at him and took a deep breath. ‘Mummy is talking about leaving,’ she said. ‘I think she means it.’
‘She won’t go,’ he said. ‘She’s just restless, that’s all.’
‘Not this time,’ said Frances. ‘It’s different. She’s different.’
It was if he didn’t care. ‘Well,’ he said, turning away from the pigsty, ‘it’s up to her, isn’t it? I can’t stop her.’
The phone call Frances got that evening from Beau was a welcome relief from the strained atmosphere at the hall. ‘Fran, darling, you have to come back to London,’ he said excitedly. ‘Our plans have been altered. We’re going to France earlier than we thought and I need you here to organise the gang.’
When she went back into the library, her father was on his hands and knees playing with Johnny and his cars. He had accepted the little boy absolutely, even if her mother hadn’t. Only this morning he’d been talking about buying him his first pony.
‘I have to go back to London tomorrow morning, Pa. Beau needs me,’ Frances said, coming to sit on the arm of the sofa.
He sat back on his heels. ‘Must you, dear girl? You’re such a help on the farm. The land girl isn’t bad, but she needs telling what to do all the time. Not like you.’
‘I must,’ she said. ‘We need the money. It’s not much, I know, but it’s something. Besides, what I’m doing is helping the war effort. You’ve no idea how much the servicemen and the factory people appreciate us.’
He sighed. ‘I’ll miss you, and so will Johnny.’
Frances sat on the rug beside them and gathered the child into her arms. ‘I’ll miss him too, but I know that you and Maggie will take care of him.’
‘We will,’ he said, and gave her a kiss on her cheek.
She went up to see her mother. Opaline was sitting at her dressing table painting scarlet varnish onto her fingernails.
‘What d’you want?’ her mother asked. ‘If you’ve come to try and persuade me to make up with your father, you’re wasting your time.’
‘I hadn’t, actually,’ said Frances, ‘but that would be good. I wish you would.’
‘I won’t.’ Opaline looked at Frances through the mirror. Her elegant face was as hard as stone when she said, ‘The bastard’s cooked his goose this time.’
Frances felt sick. This was horrible, and not for the first time, she wished that Hugo was here. He’d always got on better with Opaline than she had. But he wasn’t and she would have to deal with it on her own. Growing up, she’d always known that her parents had a rocky relationship, but something had tipped her mother over the edge. Surely it couldn’t only be the black-market petrol; it had to be more. For a moment, she considered asking her, but what would be the point? Instead, she said, ‘I’m going back to London in the morning, so I’ve come to say goodbye.’
Opaline looked up from her nails. ‘Are you still staying with Beau Bennett?’
Frances nodded. ‘I’ve got a room in his flat.’
‘I wouldn’t hold out any hopes there, honey.’ Opaline gave a short, sour laugh. ‘He sure ain’t a lady’s man, you know. Not like his father.’
Frances thought about that last remark as she sat on the train back to London. She had guessed that Beau preferred men, but that was beside the point. Had her mother had an affair with Rolly Bennett, Beau’s father? That brought further thoughts about the reason her mother appeared to be leaving Parnell Hall. Could it be that she had a boyfriend in London, a lover?
‘God, I’m glad to see you,’ said Beau, when she walked into the flat.
‘That’s nice,’ she grinned, taking off her coat.
‘Here’ – he went to the sideboard – ‘have a drink.’ He poured a large measure of gin into a glass and a minuscule amount of Angostura bitters. ‘How were the folks?’
For a moment, Frances was tempted to tell him, but only for a moment. ‘Alright,’ she said lightly. ‘The same as ever.’
‘Good. Now, let’s get down to business.’
The Bennett Players’ travel plans had been finalised. ‘We get a troop transport ferry from Gosport,’ Beau said. ‘That’ll take us to Arromanches, and then you’ll drive the bus to our first venue. It’s a field hospital and transit camp near Bayeux. They’ll be glad to see us; at least, I hope they will.’
‘Have you told everybody?’ Frances asked. ‘They all think they’ve got another four or five days off.’
‘Not all of them. I sent a telegram to Colin Brown in Glasgow and he’s coming to London tomorrow. I phoned Godfrey and had to speak to that dreadful wife for five agonising minutes before she let him on the line.’
Frances laughed. ‘What about the girls?’ she asked.
‘I’m leaving that up to you. I’ve got their addresses. I did phone Catherine’s house, but her mother answered and we didn’t understand each other at all. She seemed to think that Catherine was away performing with the Players. So perhaps you can go round there first thing in the morning. As for Della, she hasn’t answered my phone calls either.’
‘She did say once that the phone was in the hallway of her digs and that she didn’t always hear it. I’ll go round.’ Frances took a gulp of her drink. ‘And Tommy?’
‘Got him. I went to the Criterion the other night and he was playing with the band, so he knows.’
‘And that leaves the hateful Eric Baxter,’ sighed Frances. ‘Can’t we just forget to tell him and go to France without him? Everyone would thank you.’
‘No, we can’t.’ Beau’s face lost its normal pleasant expression. ‘Don’t worry about him. I’ll do it.’ He cleared his throat and then said, ‘By the way, we’re having a liaison officer. He’ll be meeting us in France. It’s someone you know.’
‘Who?’ asked Frances.
‘Robert Lennox.’