Ellie (59 page)

Lydia looked down at Jack and sobbed. She knew Mrs Phillips must ask herself that same question. Lydia had even asked it herself too. The truthful answer was that Bonny had been brought up seeing love as chains. She was greedy for freedom, like a bright, beautiful butterfly, only stopping fleetingly to sip on the nectar of love, afraid of being captured and kept in a jar.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Oxford, April 1946

Magnus Osbourne stopped under the shop awning, took off his trilby hat and shook it. It was pouring and he could feel dampness penetrating his raincoat, right through to his suit. It was more than just an April shower; the rain looked set in for the day.

‘I should’ve arranged to meet Basil at my hotel,’ he murmured to himself.

All his twenty-year-old student memories of Oxford were bathed in perpetual sunshine. In his mind’s eye he saw sunbeams slanting through the leaded panes of his study. Punting down the river wearing a panama hat, shirt-sleeves rolled up, with a couple of giggling girls reclining on cushions. Driving his Alvis with the hood down, playing tennis and rowing on warm evenings. Magnus knew it must have rained on countless occasions, yet he couldn’t recall one day in three undergraduate years when Oxford hadn’t looked golden.

It wasn’t golden today. The university halls were every bit as imposing as he remembered, but a dingy film tinged the yellow stone. The shops were pinched by post-war austerity, badly needing a fresh coat of paint, and the people’s faces seemed as grey as the sky. The only cyclists passing were in oilcloth coats, no black, gowns fluttering behind them as he remembered.

Turning towards the window of the bookshop he was sheltering beside, he saw himself reflected clearly, and it wasn’t altogether pleasing to observe how clearly the lean youth who’d once bought books in this very same shop was moving into middle age.

Taking off his hat for a moment, he stared at himself. He was forty-one. Ruth claimed he was handsome now, but when they married back in 1929 he had been merely ‘interestingly angular’. His hair was still as thick and fair, although a recent severe cut prevented it from having the ‘haystack’ appearance she so often laughed about. His features were all prominent: a broad nose and forehead, a wide mouth with fleshy lips and a strong chin. His eyes had lost their youthful brilliance; once a bright speed well blue, they had faded and speckled like a wren’s egg. But Magnus had never been concerned with his appearance, and his interest in it now wasn’t mere vanity, merely a slight anxiety as to whether, at forty-one, he was still physically strong enough to embark on what promised to be a strenuous, new way of life. ‘Of course you are.’ He grinned at his reflection. At twenty-one he’d been a six-foot weed weighing less than ten stone. He was close on thirteen stone now and it was all muscle and sinew, not an ounce of fat.

‘Magnus old chap! How the dickens are you?’

Magnus turned at the booming greeting and grinned at his old chum, putting one big hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezing it affectionately. ‘All the better for seeing you again.’

Magnus and Basil Lanagan had first met as ‘freshers’ here in Oxford. Both keen sportsmen, they had rowed and played tennis and cricket together and their friendship had endured, despite only seeing each other every two or three years.

They had both been in the RAF during the war, albeit different squadrons; Basil based in Suffolk, part of a ground crew, Magnus in Kent in reconnaissance. But now Basil was back teaching English and geography in a boys boarding-school close by, and Oxford had been an ideal choice for a long overdue reunion.

‘The rain’s a damned nuisance,’ Basil said, sweeping a hand over his wet hair. ‘I thought we’d be tramping around our old haunts.’

Basil hadn’t changed much since his student days: a tall, well-built fellow, with glossy black hair, smooth olive skin and flashing white teeth. His six years in the RAF had produced a rather splendid moustache. It suited him, Ambrose thought, and gave him a rather dashing image.

‘We could go back to my hotel,’ Ambrose suggested without much enthusiasm. ‘Though I doubt we’ll be able to get anything more than tea.’

Basil looked up at the sky reflectively. ‘Tea’s better than a soaking!’ he replied.

As they made their way back in the direction of the Royal Oxford Hotel, they made small talk about their respective families, aware that the gap of almost three years since they’d last met up left a great deal of trivial catching up to do before they could lapse back into the more comfortable manner of long-term friends.

They might have walked right past the Arcadia Theatre, but for a large board outside, almost blocking the pavement, proclaiming, ‘T
ODAY’S
M
ATINÉE
T
ICKETS
H
ALFPRICE
’.

‘How about that?’ Basil said with laughter in his voice. He wasn’t entirely serious, but they both had fond memories of taking part in a student revue at this same theatre. ‘Fancy seeing the Great Gonzalis or Ruby Rivers the Northern Songbird?’

Magnus studied the garish posters with some amusement. He knew exactly what this variety show would be like: heavy-footed dancing girls, a thumping piano, ageing comedians and magicians. But the sign declaring that this was the show’s sixth week had to be in its favour, and it was one way to while away a couple of hours out of the rain.

‘On your head be it,’ he laughed. ‘Don’t complain later that I talked you into it!’

They took their seats just as the musicians were tuning up. It didn’t look promising; only a pianist, a drummer, an ancient violinist and a saxophonist.

Looking around him, Magnus saw the theatre was less than a quarter full, mostly of old people, and a sprinkling of those like themselves who’d come in out of the rain. The Arcadia was suffering from the same post-war malaise as shops and houses everywhere in England: peeling paint, upholstery worn and shiny with age, a threadbare carpet. Magnus felt that all too familiar stab of anger again. When were the government going to make a start on getting the country back on its feet?

Magnus knew he was very fortunate. Born into a wealthy, landowning family, he had never known a moment’s deprivation in his life, or even the real necessity to work for a living as Basil had to do. Brought up at Craigmore, the family estate in Yorkshire, educated at Rugby and then Oxford, he could have spent his life just as his two elder brothers Frederick and George did, hunting, shooting and fishing. But even as a boy, Magnus had a social conscience. It never seemed right just to fritter his time away, secure in the knowledge that employees ran the estate. Or to whittle away the fortune that previous generations of financially astute Osbournes had left them.

While his brothers concerned themselves mainly with their social lives, to the despair of their father, Magnus took a more active interest in the running of the estate, working alongside the men in his school holidays and vacations from Oxford, learning everything from the art of building drystone walls to carpentry and mending farm machinery.

At twenty-two, with only a second-class degree in English behind him, Magnus regretted not having followed his instincts and chosen architecture or civil engineering instead. He was no academic, but neither was he cut out to be ‘just a gentleman’.

Stifled by the social restraints in England and his inability to settle again in Yorkshire, Magnus took himself off, first to America, then on to Canada. His family would have been appalled to discover that in two years away from home he worked in logging camps, on river boats going up and down the Hudson and for a spell as a builder in Vancouver. He might never have come home to Craigmore again, but for his father dying and his mother pleading he was needed, and he certainly wouldn’t have stayed but for falling in love with Ruth Tomlinson, a doctor’s daughter.

It was clear then, in 1928, that the old order of life in England was changing. The First World War had decimated the young male population and those who remained fit to work wanted more than a life of domestic servitude with the landed gentry. Craigmore was neglected, and Frederick and George, bewildered by suddenly finding themselves expected to take over the running of the estate, looked to Magnus for help.

Magnus agreed to stay, but on his own terms. He intended to marry Ruth and she wasn’t a brittle, sophisticated woman like Frederick’s and George’s wives, or even his own mother. Ruth was gentle, a home-maker, a girl who wanted a real family life and a husband by her side. Above all, Magnus wanted her to have the happiness she deserved.

In return for becoming estate manager, Magnus insisted on having a cash settlement immediately from his father’s estate, rather than risk his share being eaten away by his brothers’ excesses, as well as the dilapidated gatehouse, free and clear. George and Frederick found their younger brother’s requests amusing, and agreed willingly, assuming he’d later regret asking for so little. They continued to treat him like a simpleton as he worked tirelessly on the estate and watched in some amazement as in his spare time he restored the gatehouse into a gracious family home.

In 1929, Magnus married Ruth, breaking a long family tradition in being the first Osbourne not to bring his new bride into the big house. Ruth was delighted with this arrangement; she had been used to living in a small family home and she found the prospect of scores of servants daunting. She had always admired the gatehouse for its elegant proportions, charming arched latticed windows and its position on the road into Harrogate and it meant even more to her now Magnus had restored it for her.

Their marriage was a true love match. They complemented each other in every way: Magnus had the strength of character, the vision and stamina; Ruth smoothed his path, her quiet, loving way giving him the impetus to expand his ideals. Stephen was born in 1930, followed by Sophie some fifteen months later. Ruth didn’t subscribe to the idea of nursemaids, cooks or housekeepers, preferring to look after her family herself, and Magnus found real joy in being a husband and father.

Ruth’s appreciation and enthusiasm at Magnus’s building talent fired him still further. While still managing the estate, he invested his own money in property. He bought small, semi-derelict houses in Harrogate, drew up plans to improve them, then employed local men to do the work, sometimes selling them on when they were finished, sometimes taking in a tenant. Back then he was motivated more by proving to his family that he could make his own fortune, rather than from altruistic ideals of improving people’s standards of living, but that was to change.

Despite his background, Magnus was a sensitive man. During the depression years of the thirties, he became acutely aware of the hardship the working classes had to endure. His social conscience pricked at him daily as women knocked on the gatehouse door, begging for bread or a little milk for their children. He saw men who’d lost their jobs in the big shipyards of Tyneside tramping wearily past his comfortable house, looking for any kind of work in any town to keep their starving families.

If it hadn’t been for the war, Magnus might have continued to salve his conscience as he had before, by giving the odd day or two’s work to needy men, passing on old boots and clothes and letting Ruth give food. But six years in the RAF seeing the wholesale destruction of big cities and mixing with people from so many different walks of life, made his re-evaluate everything. After his demob at the end of 1945, he returned home to Yorkshire realising he had a far bigger duty in life than concerning himself with Craigmore and supporting his indolent brothers.

As Magnus was the youngest son, Craigmore would never be his, or his children’s. Frederick had three sons perfectly capable of taking up the reins. There were Yorkshire men returning from the war in need of work who would help them. What England needed now, more than anything, was houses, and Magnus intended to build some of them.

It was estimated that half a million homes had been destroyed or made uninhabitable during the war, while another half a million were severely damaged. The White Paper of March 1945 suggested three or four million new homes must be built in the next ten years, yet now, in 1946, they were dragging their feet, the ‘prefab’ their only answer to the acute housing shortage.

People were so desperate for homes they were squatting in disused army camps. The council housing waiting lists were so long it could take a man seven or eight years to get his family housed. Magnus knew he could only help a relatively few people to a better standard of living by building, but he had vision and he truly believed that if he led, others might follow, and England could be rebuilt.

*

The band struck up ‘I’ve Got Rhythm’, the curtain swished back and on pranced the dancers. Magnus sat back in his seat, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter because he was immediately reminded of amateur dancing shows put on at his local village hall in Yorkshire.

The girls weren’t co-ordinated, either in their steps or appearance. Half wore top hats, tails and fishnet tights, the other half flowing chiffon dresses. Where it would have made sense to dress the tall ones with good legs in the masculine clothes and the short ones in the dresses, the producer seemed to have given out costumes at random. As they swirled in pairs their weak voices were almost drowned by the band and the tapping of their feet was far from synchronised.

Magnus watched in amusement as the girls linked arms for a high kick routine. One girl was completely out of step with the others, and none of their legs reached a uniform height. The line broke in the middle, leaving gold painted stairs at the back of the stage exposed and as they moved back to form a semicircle, two more girls appeared at the top of the stairs.

A shiver went down Magnus’s spine. These two girls were perfectly matched. One was dark, the other blonde, both in tailcoats and top hats, sensational legs in seductive fishnet.

‘Wow!’ Basil exclaimed, nudging Magnus’s arm.

Magnus was too enthralled to comment. The girls’ symmetry dazzled him. Their height, size, even leg length was identical. They came down the stairs tap-dancing, faultlessly in time with each other. Magnus found himself leaning forward, forgetting the rest of the troupe, watching and listening to only these two.