The summer of 1919; a world at peace, though many found it hard to believe. In Germany, in January, the National Socialist Party had been formed. In April the League of Nations was founded, a slender thread of hope for future years.
For Sally it had been a busy winter and a busier spring as she helped Hannah and Ralph with the resettlement and repatriation of their refugees. The bleak months had passed, lightened by friendship and by the companionship of her daughter, and of Marie-Clare – who had announced her firm intention of staying in England with Sally – and little Louise. She saw nothing at all of Ben, apart from the briefest and most unavoidable social contact. The move had gone ahead: Ben now had an apartment in Oxford; Charlotte, with Peter, had moved into a tiny village not far from Maidstone in Kent. If the family found the arrangement a strange one, after a word from Ben ranks were closed and no one spoke of it. Only Bron expressed any opinion to Sally.
‘Funny way to carry on, if you ask me – anyone’d think it was Mr Peter she was married to – but there, the poor man needs someone to look after him, I suppose – and with Doctor Ben busy all the time—’ She had slid a small, questioning look at Sally, obviously hoping for an enlightening comment. Sally had said nothing. Bron had shrugged, accepting defeat philosophically, ‘Blessed shame, mind, about poor Mr Peter – and what he’d have done without Miss Charlotte I really don’t know – there aren’t many as would take on a crippled brother-in-law.’
‘No. There aren’t.’
‘Pass the salt, would you? These potatoes are next to tasteless!’
Gradually, and with relief, the Bear settled back to normal life. With Ben gone Sally once more spent her time helping Hannah, who was in the throes of reorganizing her milk depot, her midwives, her health visitors. She visited Bolton Terrace just once, but could not bring herself to go back; she could not blame Bill Dickson for his inability to welcome her. She spent a lot of time with the children, Philippa and Louise, and as spring turned to summer the hurt she nursed so secretly very slowly began to heal. The time came when she no longer woke every day with the feeling of loss heavy on her heart; and a restlessness began to stir. The world beckoned. As the budding leaves of the walnut tree tentatively opened to the sunshine, Sally too began to lift her head and look about her; began to think of the future.
The letter that brought a sudden sparkle of laughter to her eyes, and an impulsive decision to her heart came in June. Still holding it she ran into the garden, where Marie-Clare was pushing Louise on a swing they had fixed in the tree.
‘Marie-Clare! Would you pack a few things for yourself and the children? We’re going on a trip.’
‘Oh, where, Mama? Where are we going?’ Philippa, who had been impatiently awaiting her turn on the swing, flew to her, and hung excitedly on to her hand. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To Aunty Fiona’s. For a little holiday.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘It’s in the country. In a place called Yorkshire.’
‘Will we go on a train? Will we?’
‘We most certainly will. And we’ll stay in a beautiful big house. With servants. What do you think of that?’
Philippa’s big eyes grew bigger.
‘Now – come on – help Marie-Clare to pack. I’m going to the post office to send a telegram.’
‘So – here you are at last.’ Fiona slipped an affectionate arm through Sally’s as they strolled in the garden of Fiona’s family home. The building behind them, sleepy as a dozing cat in golden June sunshine, was huge, a rambling, pleasant maze of a house to which Fiona’s parents had welcomed their visitors warmly. ‘And about time too.’
‘I’m sorry. I know I should have come before. But – there were things—’ Sally’s voice trailed off. ‘Your letter just seemed to come at the right time. So – yes – here we are—’
The formal rose-trellised and fountained garden ended in a ha-ha spanned by a plank bridge. In the meadow beyond, Philippa, Louise and Marie-Clare ran hand in hand, laughing, knee deep – in Louise’s case waist deep – in buttercups. A little summerhouse looked out across fields and a river to the picturesque lift of hills beyond. Fiona sat on the bench, her eyes upon Sally, who stood leaning in the open doorway watching the children. ‘So. The – problem you had,’ Fiona asked gently, ‘it’s sorted itself out?’
Sally bent her face to the perfumed petals of a rose she had picked in the garden, and nodded.
‘Are you going to tell me how?’
Sally hesitated for a moment. ‘It’s over. That’s all.’
‘Dare I say – good?’
Sally smiled. ‘You dare.’
‘Good. Then-good!’
Sally turned, leaning against the door, her head tilted to the slanting rays of the sun.
‘Hannah’s refugees are all settled?’ Fiona asked.
‘Yes. Most have gone home – some wanted to stay. Hannah’s sorted them all out the way only Hannah could. She really doesn’t need me any more.’
‘And – she’s happy?’
‘With Ralph, you mean?’ Sally turned her head as the shouts of the children rose above the sound of bird song. Sunlight gilded her face and hair. ‘Oh, yes. They’re perfectly suited. He loves her dearly.’
‘Lucky old Hannah,’ Fiona said drily. ‘And – Toby?’
The rose twirled gently in Sally’s fingers. ‘He’s fine. He’s going to university. To study law. He’s going to be very, very rich and very, very famous, so he tells me.’ Pensively she laid the flower to her mouth. ‘He probably will be, too.’ Another buried pain, the rift with Toby, a small, sore spot she tried not to probe. ‘I hope so.’ She strolled to the bench, perched herself beside Fiona, pulling a crumpled envelope from the pocket of her flowered cotton skirt. ‘And now, Fiona MacAdam – are you going to tell me what this is all about?’
Fiona leaned back, stretching long legs, uncaringly elegant. ‘I’ve taken up with a bunch of fallen women.’
Sally waited smiling, watching her.
Fiona slanted a laughing glance. ‘And jolly good fun they are, too. To say nothing of their kids.’
Sally made a great show of patience.
‘Eddie,’ Fiona said, as if the single word explained all.
‘Eddie,’ Sally repeated, ‘Eddie Browne introduced you to a bunch of fallen women?’
‘That’s right.’ She leaned forward, elbows on knees, a lock of hair falling across her broad, white forehead, shadowing eyes that were bright with enthusiasm. ‘Eddie, as you know, didn’t make it to the Mother of Parliaments. Not this time, anyway. So while he’s waiting for the call he’s set about the locals—’
Sally grinned, ‘Physically?’
‘All but. He’s on the Council. He’s wangled his way on to every committee in existence and a few that weren’t until he got there.’
‘Another one building Jerusalem?’ Sally’s voice was wry.
‘In his own way, I suppose, yes.’
‘With a bunch of fallen women carrying his coat?’
Fiona was suddenly serious. ‘Sally – give him his due – he’s doing a lot of good. Shaking up the Establishment. He’s a breath of fresh air—’
Sally laughed. ‘He’s that all right.’
‘Will you listen? Do you know how many girls – young women – have been left ruined by the war? Can you imagine how many fatherless children there are? How many daughters have been turned from the door, into the street to starve, because on the last night – or the first night – of their soldier lover’s leave they could not bear to let him go without loving him? Do you know how many were lied to? How many were widowed before a ring was ever put on their finger? And do you know the plight of these girls now – a child at their skirts, no family, no job, no money? No roof over their heads?’ In her enthusiasm Fiona had failed to notice the quite open gleam of amusement in her friend’s eyes. She stopped suddenly, warily, at the undisguised twitch of Sally’s lips. There was a moment’s silence before her explosion of laughter. ‘Oh, good Lord – hark at me! Teaching my grandmother to suck eggs!’
‘Teaching the one who invented eggs to suck eggs more like.’
Fiona sobered, nodded. ‘These girls need help, Sally. No one knows better than you. Practical help. A roof over their heads, someone to help them care for their children so that they can earn a living.’
‘And this is what Eddie’s got you involved in?’
‘That’s right. Organizing. Fund raising – we need to buy decent places for the women to live in – employ people – oh, there’s so much to do.’
Sally nodded thoughtfully.
Fiona turned and caught her hands in a strong, warm grip. ‘Please – come and join us, Sally. We – I – need you – it’s difficult for me, you see – they aren’t my people, they distrust me sometimes – you can’t blame them.’ The words held no resentment.
Above the field where the children played a lark sang, shrilly and sweetly, climbing high into the summer air. The children’s voices lifted, laughing. Sally’s thoughts slipped for a moment to the memory of a small girl abandoned to the London streets by a mother who had been unable to face the bitter fight for survival; a child who sometimes now seemed so remote, so very far removed, that it was difficult to remember the depths of her fears, the wretchedness of that precarious existence.
‘Sally? You will come? You will join us?’
‘Course I will. You knew I would.’
Fiona jumped up, drawing Sally after her, slipping an arm about her waist. ‘Bless you! Now, listen – there’s a meeting tomorrow, over in Bradford – Eddie’s set it up for us.’ She grinned at the lift of Sally’s head. ‘Oh, yes – he knew you’d come, too. Anyway, the problem is this; we’re meeting some opposition from the diehards in the local community – well, we would, wouldn’t we?’
They strolled into the sunshine, Fiona still talking excitedly.
In the buttercup field beyond the ha-ha Philippa, catching sight of her mother, waved energetically before diving, with more vigour than elegance, back into the golden sea of flowers in pursuit of the shrieking Louise.
Sally stood for a moment, watching them. Fiona, smiling, fell to friendly silence.
Above them the lark soared, singing.