Sunday 30 April – a trip to Howard House, Sherborne
Verity woke in Marigold, dressed and crept from the cabin. It was dawn and she’d hoped she’d sleep in, but the habit of early rising was ingrained, damn it. She stood on the counter and stretched; they were still on leave, but what on earth were they to do with their time? She didn’t dare to go off to London again and leave Polly, who was doing her best to be the Sulky Sue of the universe. Even the pheasant casserole that Sylvia had produced yesterday evening, plus the cider, which went with it so well, hadn’t perked the wretched girl up.
She levered herself onto the cabin roof, sitting and thinking for a moment, and then rolled a cigarette, wondering why she tried to alternate between Woodbines and roll-ups. Yet another habit, she supposed, but they were trying to cut down anyway, and roll-ups took longer. She lit up, picking a shred of tobacco from her tongue. A mist hung over the cut, and smoke curled from the chimneys of the moored boats.
She sighed. Well, they could all go into London and try another show? She and Sylvia had used the darts-kitty money for their tickets last time, and had also put a pound into the collection box at the station, for those who had been bombed out in the Blitz. There was still plenty of money left and so, to be fair, Polly should use some, if there was anything she wanted to do.
Bombs, eh? Been a long time since one was dropped, but the transport of the troops they were witnessing all the time brought the war into sharper relief. Did all the activity really mean the invasion of Europe? Would that lead to more bombing of British cities? But how, when the Luftwaffe would be kept busy trying to stop the advance? She shut off her mind. It didn’t do to trespass into the world of ‘what if?’ which led to ‘would he be safe?’, ‘would he return?’
The smoke from the cigarette rose straight into the air. No wind, then. The trouble was – and it was what Sylvia and she had talked about, after Polly had gone to bed – Polly knew the harsh reality of war only too well, and platitudes wouldn’t help. Poor Will. Verity wished she had known him, but by knowing Polly, she realised she probably had.
The cabin door of the butty squeaked open. Sylvia stepped onto the counter and beckoned Verity across. They huddled together, Sylvia waving Verity’s cigarette smoke away. ‘I’m simmering the kettle.’
Dog pushed open the motor-cabin doors and jumped onto their butty counter. ‘Let’s go to the lavatory and then walk Dog, shall we?’
Sylvia nodded her agreement. ‘Come on, Dog.’
Dog ran along in front of them to the yard and waited patiently for them outside the lavs. As Verity washed her hands and face, her fingers brushed the chain that held her ring. Well, she could get the ring made smaller at the very least, and Polly her ring too, even though Saul had bought her a chain. She stared in the mirror. Had Saul asked Polly’s parents for her hand? He was going to once he knew, and he’d be phoning Joe from Catterick, if that’s where he was destined. But there were too many questions with no answers. She tucked the ring away again.
She met Sylvia in the yard, but was deep in thought about Mrs Holmes, who was nothing like her own mother. Mrs Holmes was kind – look how she’d taken on Joe – so surely she wouldn’t hope to split up Polly and Saul? On the other hand, Mrs Holmes had been disappointed that Polly hadn’t made her relationship with Reggie, the RAF bomber pilot, work; the one who had a good future in the engineering industry, if he survived. Verity shook her head; life was ridiculously complicated.
Sylvia and she walked back with Dog, who was dancing about the place, joining in with the children who were running wild, before their ‘imprisonment’ on their parents’ boats. Verity found herself studying them, and the mothers who were watching with eagle eyes in case the children strayed too near the water. What was it that had happened between herself and her own mother? Was there really something ‘other’? Was it her mother who had been cross and unkind? It must have been, because surely it was her nanny who had been kind, and she must have been the one who smelt of camellias; her mother wore Worth perfume.
Dog brought back a stick and dropped it at Sylvia’s feet. How interesting, Verity thought. Dog has suddenly decided Sylvia’s one of the pack. Well, perhaps they all had. Sylvia threw the stick. ‘We could all see White Horse Inn – if we can get tickets, that is,’ Verity suggested.
They were drawing close to Marigold. Sylvia said, ‘Well, we could ask Polly, I suppose. We can’t just do nothing or she’ll sink even further.’
It was then that they saw Polly on the counter, her arms crossed as she watched them approach. She snapped, ‘Why don’t you just ask me if I want to see White Horse Inn? You forgot to whisper, you realise. And I’ve helped myself to tea, and yours is here.’ She pointed to the cabin roof. ‘Drink it up quickly, because I don’t want to go to the theatre. We have another few days’ holiday. Verity, Tom wanted you to find out about your family, so while we’re facing up to home truths, we’ll go down and sort it out – all of us – and see just how brave you are? I don’t want to stay here. I want to achieve something, then we can get back to work. Think about it.’
She stepped off the motor, called Dog and walked along the lay-by towards the lavatories, where else.
Verity watched her dearest friend, who had been stony-faced, her eyes almost bruised from crying, and whose words were not suggestions, but barked orders.
Sylvia said, ‘She’s accepted it, and she will come to terms with whatever her mother’s real motive was, but in her own time. Personally, I believe her mother is a good, kind woman, but Polly has to be cross with someone. And she also feels she’s made an awful fuss, which she has, and doesn’t quite know how to climb back from it.’
Verity kept her eyes on Polly, who was storming off, and hid a smile. Ah, Sylvia was on the case, too, and there was comfort in that.
Sylvia said, ‘Don’t worry about Polly. It’ll get sorted in time. Let everyone settle down and say nothing more, until they know what to say.’
Polly had reached the yard, and was walking at a lesser pace. Perhaps she had walked off some of her angst. Verity looked carefully at Sylvia. ‘Your orphanage was run by nuns, wasn’t it? Did you learn how to advise people from them? I always think nuns look wise.’
‘We all learn from the people we live with, don’t we? But perhaps the Sisters don’t always know what’s best for people, any more than anyone else does.’ Sylvia finished her tea, took Verity’s mug and stepped up onto the counter of the butty. ‘I’m going to sort out the cabin.’
Verity thought that sometimes life was like a conker shell: prickly. She sighed. Well, she would write and tell Tom that she was following things through with her parents, and then perhaps they would stop off at Woking, and Polly could talk things through with her mother. She sighed again.
The train to Dorset was full of troops, and slow, because they pulled in at sidings to let other trains pass, loaded with military vehicles covered in camouflage. Verity heard one soldier say, ‘They usually move the buggers at night, so what the—’
‘Harry, shut it,’ he was warned. ‘Yer don’t know who the ’ell’s listening.’
At last the train drew into Sherborne and they hurried out of the station to the bus stop, after Polly barked, ‘There’re no soldiers heading to London to give us a lift, like last time, Verity.’ She added, her voice softer as they trundled along the highways and byways, ‘I wonder if the GIs who gave us a lift had a good time in London town?’
Verity laughed. ‘Who knows, but they were delighted to be free of us and our Waterway Girls smell. Do you remember how they opened the windows the moment they dropped us off at the gates?’
Polly did.
The bus left them at the top of a T-junction. They plodded along as Sylvia muttered, ‘I suppose it would have been polite to polish our boots, as we’re visiting a rather grand house with upper-class people in it.’
Verity and Polly laughed, and it was the first time Polly had done so since Saul left. Verity flung her arm around Sylvia’s shoulders. ‘By the time we’ve hacked up the drive and our boots have been scratched to bits by the gravel, all the dirt will have been shaken off. Anyway, if we polished them, it would only show up the rest of our clothes.’
It was two o’clock, and they were all hungry and hadn’t thought to make some spam sandwiches before they left, because they’d been too busy finding a dog-sitter. Eventually they had pinned down Mary who worked in the canteen kitchen and lived near the depot. What’s more, she loved Dog. Their last sight had been of Dog lying in a cardboard box on a blanket, by the cooker in the canteen, looking like the cat who’d got the cream. All quite against the rules, but who was going to tell on Mary? She’d have their guts for garters.
They reached the high, imposing wrought-iron gates of Howard House, which were slightly open. They entered, Sylvia whispering, ‘What will they say when they see there are three of us?’
Verity shrugged. ‘I have no idea, because I haven’t told them I’m coming, let alone you two.’
Polly and Sylvia grimaced. They walked on. Polly asked, ‘I know the drive is a quarter of a mile long, but how much land have you?’ She waved to the parkland on either side of the drive.
‘Oh, several hundred acres, I’m not really sure. Tell you what, we’ll take this path to the left and slip round to the back, and grab some lunch from Mrs B. She’ll be pleased to see us, anyway.’ Verity heard her own nervousness. She almost marched up the path that skirted alongside the silver birches her grandfather had planted, though she doubted he had actually dug anything. He probably just gave his orders.
She and Tom had used this path when they returned from the pub. It led to the side and the rear of the house. Did he actually know what lay behind her mother’s behaviour? Or did he just know something? Or perhaps he didn’t know anything, but simply sensed it. Come to think of it, that’s what he had said really. Well, she was here to find out more, but already her courage was waning. Just then she felt Polly’s hand on hers, and she loosened fingers which had tightened into a fist.
Hand-in-hand they walked along, and now she saw that Polly had grabbed Sylvia’s hand, and soon they were all half marching, swinging their arms, singing quietly that they were the Three Musketeers. ‘All for one, and one for all.’
Then they laughed, startling the birds, which flew from the trees. Verity hushed them. They continued without speaking until Polly stopped, pulling them both to a halt. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been stupid, rude and embarrassing. I feel a total fool.’
Verity said, hurrying them on, ‘Well, darling idiot, you were, but we’ve all done it. Strange to say, Miss Polly Holmes, no one is perfect, not even you.’
They were laughing again as they approached the side of the house through a walled garden that contained weed-covered vegetable beds enclosed by overgrown box hedges, and neglected fruit trees that had been trained along the walls. Verity hushed them when they saw a doorway, through which they could see a yard, and she whispered, ‘Your dad would soon sort this lot out, Polly. Simon, the new young gardener, went off to war of course. The flower beds at the back will be as bad, though I’m sure Mother will have done her best.’
A small cottage lay to the right of the path that led through the yard to the rear of the house. ‘The old gardener’s cottage,’ Verity said. ‘I liked to go in, because old Matthews was a nice bloke and used to hang herbs over the range. Mrs B would give him hell, because the range dried them too much, and would then stuff him with cakes to show him she didn’t mean it. Mother had a soft spot for him too.’
Suddenly, as they passed more shrubs in the walled garden, Verity thought again of the scent of camellias and remembered that old Matthews had nurtured a scented camellia somewhere around here. Is that what she remembered – not perfume at all, but the flowers? She shook her head, sure it was perfume, because she had smelt it on a person.
At the end of the walled garden, Verity put up her hand and peered about to check that the yard was clear, but before they moved forward, Sylvia said, ‘You do still love your mother, you know. It was in your voice just then, wasn’t it, Verity? She is your mother, after all. I mean, perhaps it was just a tantrum, or a concern, that made her trick you and Tom?’
Verity ran the words through her head, then muttered, ‘It’s more than that. I’m not sure she’s ever liked me. I can remember being bathed by someone who was cross. I thought it was the nanny pulling me about, but Mother has often been cross, just like that. Oh, everything is so blurry. All I know is that there was someone else who was kind, someone who smelled of camellias. She was gentle, and sang to me. Now what was it she sang? Oh, I can’t remember. I was just a toddler. Mother and Father never talk about my life – about their lives – back then. But parents don’t, do they?’
They crossed the yard, and just before they reached the steps down into the kitchen, Verity stopped, feeling a rushing, a darkening; but no, she was not going to panic, was not going to let fear and the memory of Sandy, the water, the blood, the uncertainty of what was to come, drag her down. No, that was in the past. No. She breathed deeply, and again.
Polly said, ‘Verity?’
She made herself turn and smile, feeling her heart beating wildly. She said, ‘Across the yard you can see the garages. The old Rolls is not there, so at least Father is absent, and Mother might have gone with him.’ She was gabbling, panting. Sylvia gripped her arm. Then it was over, all gone, like a wave, and now there were just the echoes as she spoke again, strongly and slowly. ‘We can talk to Rogers and Mrs B, which will be better. Above the garages is where Tom lived. He loved the smell of oil, grease and petrol.’
Polly murmured, ‘Sylvia’s right, you know. You did sound as though you love your mum. And I love mine, but sometimes you just can’t forgive.’
Sylvia turned to stand in front of them. ‘Forgive whom? Yourselves or them, Polly? You might not forget, but you must forgive. You too, Verity. Life is much too short to do anything else.’
Verity pushed past and headed off down the stairs, because there was no must about it. Polly stamped down the steps behind her, clearly thinking much the same.
The boot hall was dark, but of course it was – where did the light come from in a basement? The kitchen door off the hall was half open, and the lights were on. Verity entered. Mrs B was chopping carrots on the centre table, her back to them; a large range oozed heat. Gleaming copper pans hung from the ceiling, and at one end of the table sat Rogers, doing what looked like accounts. Verity felt love for these two people, but as for …? She didn’t know at all.
Rogers looked up, his face breaking into a smile. ‘Why, Lady Verity? This is a surprise.’
Mrs B put down her knife and held out her arms. Verity almost fell into them. Mrs B whispered, ‘No, it’s not a surprise, silly old devil. Tom has written to us, so we knew you’d come sometime, and also why. We are so glad that your plans with him are clearer, my love. First, though, have you eaten lunch?’
She ushered Verity to a high stool beside her, and the other two girls to those on the opposite side.
‘Sandwiches, and perhaps leek-and-potato soup. Rogers and I had some for our lunch, but there is plenty, isn’t there?’
They ate. Rogers provided cups of tea, and in the warmth and familiarity Verity found courage. Lord and Lady Clements were due to arrive home at four, apparently. They had been invited for luncheon with a neighbour, so it was to be a light supper, Rogers told them, nodding towards the clock. It was now ten past three. Once they had eaten, Rogers busied himself above stairs, while Polly and Sylvia asked to look round the walled garden. On their way out Polly turned and smiled, mouthing, ‘Find out what you can.’ Aloud she said, ‘We’ll be back by four, in case you need us.’
Verity nodded, so pleased to have the real Polly returning to them. They clattered up the steps to the yard. It was a noise that was so familiar from childhood that she could almost feel the peas that she had shelled with Mrs B, and the carrots that she had cut into long, slim slices, though her mother had not approved because it stained her fingers. As she had worked, the staff and tradesmen had come and gone, and the chatter had been cheerful. Now, as she washed the dishes with Mrs B in the scullery, no staff entered, because there were no more than just the two of them. She and Mrs B didn’t speak, beyond mentioning the canal boats and the weather.
At last they sat at the table, the copper pans glinting in the electric light. Mrs B leaned forward, her plump arms on the table. Verity gripped Mrs B’s hand. ‘So, you know why I’ve come?’
Mrs B nodded. ‘Tom explained, and I have to tell you, it will be a shock for you to learn more – and it is your parents who should tell you.’ At that moment they heard a car in the yard, and Mrs B snatched her hands away and said, ‘You must go upstairs. It won’t do to be tittle-tattling in here, it’s not fair on your mother.’
Both turned to the back door as Verity’s mother, standing in a cream silk outfit, said, ‘What isn’t fair, Mrs B? And, Verity – such a nice surprise. I noticed your friend, Polly, and one other wandering around the flower garden as we drove into the yard. I am delighted to see you all, of course, but I do wish you’d telephoned; we could have made sure we were here. We’ve missed you, haven’t we, Mrs B?’
Mrs B smiled. ‘Indeed we have, even though she’s such a little monkey.’
Lady Pamela was pulling her gloves off. ‘Mrs B, perhaps tea in the drawing room in twenty minutes, for five of us, if that doesn’t interfere with your plans?’
She waited, smiling at Mrs B, who said, ‘Of course. I think I have some scones.’
Lady Pamela smiled at Verity, though she seemed strained and nervous. She turned on her high heels and left, mounting the stairs to the yard again.
Verity sat, feeling as though all the breath had left her body, a reaction her mother had so often created. If only the woman would kiss her, or reach out to her in some way. Mrs B was bustling into the pantry and came out with some scones and honey, arranging them on a plate, just as Rogers rushed in. ‘You know they have returned?’
Verity nodded. ‘Don’t worry. Mother overheard Mrs B insisting that I talk to them, not to you.’
Rogers shook his head. ‘We’re not worried about that, are we, dearest? We have been with them so long, and there is a reason we stay. Your mother – not your father, my dear, whatever you might think – is the heart and mainstay of this family, and whatever you hear, you must remember that. You need to leave time and space to follow through on all that you learn. The person they will talk about, and your father in particular, is … Well, we have an address, should you need it.’
One of the bells above the door rang. It was the drawing room.
Rogers smiled tiredly. ‘I believe that is for you, not for us.’
Polly and Sylvia could be heard pounding down the steps from the yard. ‘I’m sorry – they saw us,’ Polly said.
‘And now we need to present ourselves in the drawing room.’ Verity rose.
The girls walked across the majestic hallway, skirting the silk carpets. Even Verity found herself walking on tiptoe beneath the portraits of her ancestors. The drawing-room door was open.
Her mother called, ‘Do come in, please, because Mrs B is quite right, this discussion is long overdue.’ There was a mettle in her voice that there hadn’t been in the kitchen. Out of her natural surroundings down there, Verity thought. Perhaps the silk rugs gave her mother a sense of importance, superiority. She felt anger stirring, as it always did, and resentment.
The three of them entered the room. Her father was standing by the fireplace, his walking sticks over his left arm. For a moment Verity thought of Tom. Had he cast both his aside yet? The fire was laid, but not lit. Her mother sat on her usual sofa to the right of the fireplace. Her father smiled. ‘Darling Verity, here you are at last. I feared, after your last visit, we wouldn’t see you again, but I’m relieved you haven’t given up on us. And so good to see you, too …’ He hesitated, looking at Polly. ‘Polly, isn’t it, if I remember correctly?’
Verity walked to the sofa that was placed opposite her mother’s. She stood behind it, with the girls beside her. They looked ridiculous, Verity feared, like three starlings on a telephone wire. She breathed in deeply. No, like the Three Musketeers.
Her mother said, ‘We had hoped to see you sooner. We do miss you, dearest Verity.’ Though she sat ramrod-straight, she looked fragile, though she had lost weight. Her father, though, looked as he always did. Well, unlined, though when he moved, as she did now, he was clearly in pain.
Verity said to her mother, holding Polly’s hand for courage, ‘You could have come to Bull’s Bridge. Or written.’
Her mother looked surprised. ‘But I did write, to the address you left here.’
Verity shook her head slightly. Always an answer – never at fault. She murmured, ‘Oh dear, and I suppose the postman didn’t deliver it? How convenient.’
Her mother looked at her hands, then at her husband. ‘Them. Them, Verity, my dear. I wrote several letters and left them for posting in the hall. Your father takes them …’ She stopped, thought, then looked at him as he stared into the far distance, as though he had nothing to do with the things being said.
Verity shrugged, knowing that her father wasn’t about to be disloyal to her mother and expose her lie. After a moment her mother said, ‘I had things I needed to say, amongst which was to congratulate you on helping Lady McDonald’s daughter, Alexandra. That took great courage.’
Verity squeezed Polly’s hand. ‘And if it had been the postman’s daughter?’
Her mother sighed. Polly nudged her and frowned.
Verity knew she was being churlish, but she didn’t care. She said, ‘So, you know from Lady Celia that Tom and I have found one another again. He travelled with us to Birmingham and back on the Marigold and has now returned to the war.’
Her mother sank back against the cushions. ‘I wrote to you trying to explain why I took the actions I did, to prevent such a liaison. Basically it was out of love, Verity, and experience.’
Verity looked at her father, then back at her mother. ‘I’m not sure you know about love, Mother. But I am to marry Tom.’ She dragged the ring on its chain out from beneath her sweater. ‘I love him, he loves me, and nothing – not even lies – will stop us.’
Her mother put her hand to her mouth. Verity’s father said, ‘Pamela, be very careful. I will take over now.’ He looked at the girls. ‘I do wish you’d all sit down, it’s like some strange seance or similar.’
None of the girls said a word, but just waited.
Verity’s father muttered, ‘Very well.’ He picked up a gold cigarette case from the mantelpiece, using it to reflect the light, then replaced it before turning to face them, taking both his sticks and leaning on them. ‘We love you very much, dearest Verity. Your mother spoke the truth. We utterly do.’ He stopped, staring at the floor as he struggled to find words, but to say what?
Lady Pamela spoke into the silence, face pale beneath her make-up, her hands clasped in her lap. ‘Your father is quite right, we both love you, and perhaps I acted out of turn with Brown.’ She stopped, shook her head. ‘No, let me start again, with Tom. But it was out of fear, you see …’ Now it was she who petered out.
Verity leaned forward. ‘But, Mother, it wasn’t just that you acted out of turn. You’ve spoken to me, dealt with me for as long as I can remember, as though there is no love in you for me. As though you have a barrier between us, one you’ve built to keep me at a distance.’
Tears were streaming down Lady Pamela’s impassive face, but she had not issued a sound.
Verity felt something twist, but her father said, ‘Collect yourself immediately, Pamela. Verity, what we should have told you years ago is that you are my child – the beloved issue of a relationship between me and another woman, in the early days of my marriage to your, shall we say, stepmother. Your real mother was a rather beautiful woman, one of our staff, and I was mesmerised. You were conceived and your … Well, Lady Pamela insisted that the right thing was for you to be brought up here, by your real mother.’
Verity clutched at Polly’s hand as the water threatened to engulf her, and the darkness, and the … No, not now. Now she must listen. She breathed slowly, pushing away the rushing and surging as she listened to her father.
‘Most sadly, your real mother died when you were two, so you were a gift, if you like. You are our daughter, and I believe that your … perhaps we should call …’ He wafted his hand towards his wife. ‘Lady Pamela, your stepmother, feared that with Brown – no, so sorry, Tom – heartache might ensue. I mean that perhaps he was not quite what he seemed.’ His voice broke. He pressed his lips together and couldn’t go on.
As he was speaking Verity had realised so many things. She looked like him, and not her … ‘My mother was my nanny, wasn’t she?’
There was a long silence. Lady Pamela’s silent tears had stopped, but she was diminished somehow, almost a shell, though still she sat upright and immobile. Her hands were clasped together so tightly that her knuckles were white.
‘She was my lady’s maid, before you were born.’ She spoke, but her voice was thin and defeated.
Verity’s father had slung his sticks back over his arm and had opened his cigarette case, but clicked it shut now and tossed it back onto the mantelpiece. ‘It was a mess. I behaved without honour. It was difficult for us all.’
‘Why did she die?’
Lady Pamela whispered, ‘Pneumonia. Your father brought in the best physicians, but nothing could be done. She was taken to hospital, where she died.’
‘Where is she buried?’
Her father had picked up the cigarette case again. It had his initials in the corner and the family crest, and Verity wished he’d leave the damned thing alone and look at her. ‘Her family insisted that she return to them. We, of course, paid all expenses.’
Verity felt her legs trembling. ‘Where are they – my family?’
He shook his head, and Lady Pamela pleaded, ‘Henry, you must …’
‘They were in the East End, that’s all we know,’ he admitted.
‘What did she look like?’ It was all Verity could think of to say, above the hammering of her heart, and she held Polly’s hand so tightly that it hurt her, so it must be just as bad for Polly. She loosened her grip.
Her mother rose and began to leave the room. ‘Your father has a photograph. I will fetch it for you.’
Verity rushed around the sofa. ‘Stay here, you two. I’ll be back.’
She ran after Lady Pamela, who was hurrying up the stairs, her trembling hand clutching the bannister. Verity stayed two steps behind, trying to absorb the information and fit the new knowledge into her memories of her kind real mother, and the scent of camellias. And then, as they reached the landing, she thought of herself, and of Tom, and how she would feel if he loved another, under her own roof. How could she bear it? How? Again something inside her twisted, but as they walked towards her father’s bedroom, she realised that it must take a heart of stone to endure such a thing.
She thought of the crossness and the slapping she had endured as a defenceless young child; of the distance that she felt as she grew up. It wasn’t her fault. It was theirs. Her mother – no, her stepmother – should have been able to keep her husband’s love; her father should have resisted temptation, and her real mother should have walked away before anything happened. Had she no loyalty towards Her Ladyship, and how could she stay here, with a child? Her father – how could he, how dare he?
Lady Pamela swept into her father’s room. There was an adjoining door between this room and her mother’s – no, her stepmother’s. Was it ever opened? The room could only have been a man’s: dull colours, bare, matter-of-fact. On the dresser were three photographs. One of her grandparents; one of herself on Star, before her mother – no, her stepmother – had ridden and killed the mare; and one of … well, her real mother, laughing, with blue eyes and blonde hair.
Verity had always thought she took after her father, because he was blond and blue-eyed, while the woman she had thought of as her mother was dark-haired, dark-eyed and those eyes were now swollen from crying and looked as bruised with hurt as Polly’s had. Something twisted again. Lady Clement held the photograph out to her; her hand still trembled and was stick-thin. ‘This is your mother, dear Verity. You see, she’s beautiful, like you. You are a mixture of both your parents.’
Verity held it and traced the outline of her mother, who wasn’t in a nanny’s uniform, but a long skirt, with the sun on her hair. She returned it. ‘It must have been so hard for you. What do I call you? Stepmother? Lady Pamela?’
Her mother did as her father had done and pressed her lips together, but only for a brief moment. She then stood quite straight and looked into Verity’s eyes. ‘Only you can decide that, but I did love you, and I do still, though I have made mistakes, and for that I am more sorry than you can imagine.’ She looked out of the window, as though a great stillness had fallen on her. ‘I just wanted to keep you from harm, especially with Tom. You see, things aren’t always—’
Her father’s voice from the doorway cut through his wife’s words. ‘I think we’ve been over it enough, my dear. I have apologised, as have you.’ His voice was like ice, but underneath it trembled, as though in fear. ‘All we can do is assure you of our dearest love, Verity. And you had your mother’s love, too; your mother was a fine woman.’
Lady Clement moved to the window. ‘You must always remember, Verity, that we are who we strive to be. You are beautiful, as she was, and are such a wonderful young woman in your own right. As I said, I have made mistakes and I ask forgiveness, though I know that for you to forget is too hard. But I welcome Tom, if he is good and kind to you, I sincerely do.’
Verity looked from one to the other, the words of forgiveness and forgetting so similar to Sylvia’s that they resonated more than they might have. She moved to the window, too, looking out over the lawns, feeling that she knew neither of these people – one who stood next to her, one behind her. Perhaps it was no surprise to feel this about her mother, but how could her father betray his young wife and then stand by, while she was unkind to a child? How could he keep the woman who was her real mother in the house, along with his wife? How cruel was that? How utterly awful. And how could Lady Clement stay? Verity wouldn’t have; she’d have swept away, taking the family silver as she went.
She shook her head. ‘I’ve got go. We have work to do, cargo to deliver.’
She rushed from the room and down the stairs, into the hall where Polly and Sylvia were waiting. She dragged them to the green baize door, then down and into the kitchen, where Rogers was standing, about to deliver tea on a huge silver tray.
‘I know,’ Verity shouted. ‘At last I know.’
Mrs B thrust a piece of paper into her hand. ‘Not everything. Trust me, not everything, for your father would not reveal the complete picture. This is where your mother’s family lived. Perhaps they still do. Go and learn the reality. Go and recover your family – this family, I mean.’ She pointed above stairs.
Verity nodded, then shook her head. This family, here? No, her family was at this address. She read it; it was close to Poplar, in the East End. Her head was spinning. ‘I don’t even know her name.’
Rogers said, ‘Jenny Rivers.’
Verity shoved the address into her trouser pocket, kissed them both and stepped back. ‘I don’t think my father has any idea what he put that poor Lady Clement through. But how she could be so cruel to a young child, and how she could go on being so cold? And, lastly, how she could stay? Has she no pride? I don’t know, I just don’t know any more.’ She spilled out the sorry saga to her friends, standing there in the kitchen of her family home, which now seemed a stranger’s.
After a long silence, when only the ticking of the clock could be heard, Sylvia put her arm around her. Polly stood in front of her. ‘We’re going home, to Marigold, Horizon and Dog, do you understand, Verity? We’re going home, and we’ll come with you, if you want to try and find your other family. But you have Tom, you are safe. And let’s face it, you have parents who absorbed you into the family, when perhaps others wouldn’t.’
Sylvia said, ‘But it is a bloody mess.’
This got through to Verity like nothing else. She stared at Sylvia and said, ‘Language, if you please.’ Their laughter was high-pitched and strained, but it was at least laughter.
The train journey seemed interminable, but Polly sat on one side of Verity, and Sylvia on the other. No one spoke. Perhaps, Polly thought, they were all trying to assimilate what they had heard. The Clements had kept the child, brought her up, when Jenny Rivers could have been sent away, disappeared, gone home to the East End in disgrace. Without a doubt, Lord Clement should have known better. How dare he? His poor wife. It was all so odd, and in some ways so gallant of Lady Clement, but why be so unkind to a child and then so detached? Why not just leave? It was too much and they all gave up and sat back, moving with the train.
They arrived at Waterloo at ten o’clock at night and were hurrying to the Underground when they heard a shout. ‘Sylvia, Sylvia.’
They turned as one, to see a nun in a black habit, waving and hurrying across the concourse. Sylvia whispered, ‘Oh no, it’s Sister Augustine. Wait for me, you two, please. I won’t be long.’ She hurried over.
Verity said to Polly, ‘There’s time to telephone your parents.’
Polly shook her head. ‘Not after today. Who knows what people are really like.’
They stood while travellers hurried around them. Beneath the clock Sylvia was shaking her head, then standing with it bowed, as Sister Augustine talked and talked. Then she pressed Sylvia’s hand and blessed her.
Sylvia returned, looking confused. ‘Come on, please.’
She hurried ahead and the two of them followed. Verity called out, ‘Is everything all right?’
Sylvia just said, ‘Some people never give up. Polly, you should be pleased that your Saul accepts whatever is pushing at him. Some of us have a voice guiding us, but it’s not necessarily where we damn well want to go.’