The FitzOsbornes at War (48 page)

Anyway, after collecting my things and saying goodbye to Anne, I stomped out of the building and up the road towards Oxford Street. It was hours before the end of the official working day, but I’d completed all my allotted tasks and besides, what was Miss Halliday going to do about it? Sack me? If she’d tried to object, I would simply have pointed out that it was
unconscionable
to expect any girl to remain in that office a minute longer, after her boss had behaved in such a disgusting manner. All those times he’d called me in to lecture me about apostrophes, and he’d secretly been looking at me and thinking . . . Ugh! It was
humiliating
to have been proposed to by such a man! It was absolutely
mortifying
to realise that
he
was the sort of man I attracted!

I was so busy feeling insulted that I nearly ran into a woman holding a clipboard.

‘Excuse me!’ she shouted. ‘Sign the petition?’

‘Er . . . sorry,’ I said. ‘What?’

‘Petition to put Oswald Mosley back in prison!’

‘He’s been let
out
of prison?’ I said. ‘When?’

She gave me a scornful look. ‘Don’t you read the papers? Let out last weekend, he was. He and his wife living in luxury in some great big house in the country now, while ordinary working men and women are slaving away in factories and sacrificing themselves in the services! Sign here.’

I took the proffered pen.

‘There’s a protest march to Trafalgar Square being held on Sunday,’ the woman went on. ‘A Fascist like him, being let loose when we’re fighting a war! It’s a stab in the back for working people, isn’t it? It’s a slap in the face of freedom and democracy!’

I bent to add my name to the long list – and then I paused.
Was
his release a blow against democracy? He’d never been charged with any crime. He’d never been convicted of treason. The British Union of Fascists had long been disbanded, and Mosley had lost whatever political influence he’d ever had, which hadn’t been much – after all, his own political party had never even come
close
to winning a seat in Parliament. Mosley would never be Hitler’s puppet Prime Minister now, with the threat of a Nazi invasion having vanished long ago. And I was certain the Colonel’s men would be keeping a very close eye on Mosley’s current activities to make sure he posed no future threat to national security.

I handed back the pen. ‘No, I don’t think I will sign, thank you,’ I told the woman. ‘Mosley’s one of the most loathsome men I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet – but I don’t think a democracy ought to lock people up indefinitely without a trial. If we put people in prison simply because we don’t like their opinions, we might as well be living under the Nazis.’

Then I walked away quickly, because she looked very cross. But I did feel that I’d been right. I think even Veronica would have agreed with me.

13th December, 1943

I
’VE BEEN IN
M
ILFORD A FORTNIGHT
, but it feels as though it’s been a year. Everything is horrible here. It’s freezing, and it never stops raining. I spend half my day squelching through the mud to the henhouse, the stables, the village and the Home Farm, then the other half scrubbing floors and doing the laundry and cooking meals that nobody feels like eating. Aunt Charlotte has still not recovered from her bout of bronchitis, and alternates between irritable demands and long, pitiful silences. Barnes is a saint, but the only conversations I have with her are about household chores or WVS jobs. I do talk to Carlos, but I think he’s going a bit deaf. I miss Veronica. I miss Julia, and Kick, and Anne from work, and the ARP warden who lived down the road from us in Kensington, and that nice lady conductor on the 73 bus. I miss my talks with Rupert (it’s true he was hardly ever in London, but he’s even
less
likely to visit Milford). I am lonely and tired and miserable.

This morning was the worst yet, because I had an awful row with Aunt Charlotte. She announced that she was arranging for a plaque to be put up in the church, as a memorial to Henry. That was distressing enough – the idea of someone as vibrant and alive as Henry being reduced to a few words inscribed on a cold, flat piece of brass – but then I saw what it was going to
say
. ‘Henrietta’ rather than ‘Henry’! Barnes stepped in and negotiated a compromise of ‘Henrietta (Henry) Charlotte FitzOsborne’, although not before quite a lot of tears and shouting, mostly on my part. But
then
Aunt Charlotte revealed that she was also commissioning a memorial for
Toby
!

‘How
can
you?’ I cried. ‘You wouldn’t even know what date to put on it! He’s not dead, you’ve got no proof of that!’

Actually, I
do
secretly think he’s dead, but it would be a horrible betrayal of Henry’s beliefs ever to admit this out loud. So I yelled a bit more, then stormed out and went for a very long walk in the pouring rain, and now I have a sniffly nose and scratchy throat. I’m meant to be down at the church hall doing a stint of camouflage net weaving, but instead I am hiding out in the stables with my journal. I’ve told myself that all the dust and lint from the strips of fabric will only make my throat worse, but really it’s that I hate having anything to do with the war now, and besides, I still haven’t managed to get all that nasty brown dye off my hands from last night’s weaving session –

Ow! Lightning the pony just hit me
very hard
on the top of my head with his chin because I’m sitting outside his stall and haven’t brought any carrots for him! Even the
horses
hate me!

I don’t know why I bother continuing with this journal when there’s never anything nice to write.

28th December, 1943

W
E PRETTY MUCH IGNORED
C
HRISTMAS,
on account of our lack of seasonal cheer, and yesterday began like any other day for me. Up at half past six, let Carlos out, feed the hens and check for eggs (only two), bring in the milk canister left by Mr Wilkin on the doorstep, go out again to find Carlos and herd him back inside, make porridge. Check with Barnes about the division of the day’s chores over breakfast. Write out a shopping list for Aunt Charlotte, who was taking the pony and cart to the village. Wash some blouses and stockings, and drape over clothes horse in front of the sitting room fire. Tidy bedroom and attempt to plug the draughty gap in the window frame with bits of Henry’s modelling clay. Go back downstairs to retrieve damp clothes from sitting room floor, Carlos having knocked over the clothes horse while clambering down from his armchair. Do lots of boring ironing. Make half a dozen cheese, carrot and chutney sandwiches, and take them and a thermos of soup over to the stable girls at lunchtime. Get stuck there for an hour helping them muck out stalls. Return to gatehouse and do washing up. Bring in more firewood from woodshed, stack logs next to fire in sitting room, then go out to collect more kindling.

I was trudging through the wood, basket dangling from the crook of my arm, when it struck me how like the awful bits of a fairy tale my life had become. Here was the impoverished princess, banished from her kingdom, deprived of family and home, bidden to wander the forest in search of twigs and pine cones. What enormous shaggy wolves might lurk ahead, or be stalking in her wake? (Well, none actually, because I’d sent Carlos back to the house with Barnes when I’d met her at the gate).

What I
really
needed was a prince on a white horse to gallop to my rescue, I thought, as I set down my basket and knelt to gather handfuls of twigs scattered around a stout oak. It had stopped raining, but each gust of wind shook a hail of icy droplets from the branches onto my bare neck. I’d just scrambled to my feet, clutching an armful of kindling, when I happened to glance through the trees to the driveway – and my heart seemed to stop. I thought I was going
mad
. I was surely seeing things.

For cantering across the grass came a beautiful white horse, and astride it was a man, fair and lean and graceful. He held the reins lightly in one hand, as though they were simply for show – as though he had only to murmur a word and the animal would obey. He caught sight of me, and I dropped my burden and started to run, and by the time I’d reached the drive, he’d swung down from the saddle and taken a few steps in my direction, and I threw myself into his arms.

It felt as though I’d come home.
This
was where I belonged – with Rupert. We clung to each other, words tumbling out about how much we’d missed the other and how glad we were to be together again.
Soppy
, Henry would have said, rolling her eyes – but she always did like Rupert, so I think she’d have secretly approved. Rupert finally drew back and smoothed my hair behind my ear, his fingers trailing down to trace my cheek. It
might
have progressed to kissing then – except the horse had grown very bored by that stage, so it stuck its nose in my ear and gave a loud snort.

‘She’s just jealous,’ said Rupert, laughing as he reached past me to take hold of the reins. ‘She knows I love you
far
more than her.’

Which was pretty much the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me, even though I’m aware that being placed ahead of a horse in someone’s affections is not exactly the same as, say, being serenaded on a moonlit balcony.

Rupert took my hand in his free one, and we walked up the drive, towards the stables. The emotions bubbling up inside me were making me quite light-headed, so although I knew there was much to discuss regarding the two of us, I was content, for the moment, simply to
be
with him. I sensed he also needed some time to become used to the idea that there
was
an ‘us’ – he’d turned a bit pink and seemed to be having a sudden attack of shyness – so to put us both at ease, I asked about the horse. He explained she was Lady Bosworth’s, sent over to be trained at Aunt Charlotte’s school.

‘There’s hardly any petrol to spare, so I said I’d ride her over. We came through the fields and back lanes, and it only took a couple of hours. I tried to ring first, but your telephone seems to be out of order. Of course, I was hoping like mad that you’d be here.’

And then he squeezed my hand and I squeezed back, and we beamed at each other. Perhaps some things
didn’t
need a lot of talking, after all. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so bathed in warmth.

He’d had a few unexpected days off work over Christmas, he went on to say, which he’d spent at Astley. Then that morning, he and his mother had driven over to visit Penelope and her daughter, who both live with the Bosworths now. The little girl is nearly two and a half.

‘She’s very sweet,’ said Rupert. ‘She talks non-stop, although I can’t say I actually understood any of it. Penelope dotes on her.’

‘Does she look like David?’

‘Well, my mother thinks she does, but Lady Bosworth insists the child takes after
her
side of the family. Poor old Lady Bosworth, she was in a fearful temper when we got there. The War Office has just requisitioned their big farm in Devon, you see, the one near the coast – along with about thirty thousand acres of the surrounding lands. All the villagers have had to be evacuated. I passed streams of US Army lorries driving south this morning, so I suppose that’s where they were headed.’