The Fleethaven Trilogy (101 page)

‘Please, Mum.’

As her mother lifted her up, Ella looked down at the
man lying in the coffin. ‘Is that your grandad?’ she
whispered.

Pressing her lips together, Kate nodded.

Like a figure lying on a cathedral tomb, smooth and
marble cold, his hands rested upon his chest, fingers curling
in natural repose. He was dressed in a long, white nightshirt,
his head on an embroidered pillow.

Ella shuddered. ‘Let me down . . .’ and her mother’s
hold loosened and Ella was standing on the floor again,
the silent, lifeless figure gone from her view.

‘Go back to Nannie,’ her mother said absently. ‘I’ll be
back in a minute.’

Determined not to go back into the kitchen without her
mother, Ella waited in the hall. She glanced up the narrow
stairs and then began to climb, pausing to listen every time
a step creaked. She reached the top and stood on the tiny
landing between two doors. Glancing just once over her
shoulder, she lifted the latch, pushed open the door to her
left and stepped into what was obviously her grandparents’
bedroom, for in the corner on a stand was Grandpa
Godfrey’s best Sunday suit.

Like the rooms downstairs, the furniture was old, but
solid and lovingly polished to a rich dark mahogany
colour. A picture of the Virgin and Child was the only
ornament on the stark, white walls. Ella ran her fingers
along the multicoloured patchwork quilt covering the iron
bedstead and her feet made no sound on the thick peg rug
at the side of the bed. In the far corner, a green-patterned
bowl, huge jug and soap-dish stood on a marble washstand.

Ella’s darting glance came to rest on a line of silver-framed
photographs on the pink-painted mantelpiece
above the fire-grate. She tiptoed forward and bent closer
to look at them. One was of a little girl with long flowing
hair; that must be her own mother, Kate, as a child. She
knew now, since meeting Esther Godfrey, that Kate had
inherited her hair colouring from her own mother, but
where did Ella’s own colour come from then?

‘Such a pretty strawberry blonde,’ the hairdresser
always said as she trimmed Ella’s tightly curling hair. ‘But
I do wish you’d let her grow it a bit longer, Kate. It’s so
pretty . . .’

‘It’s not my fault,’ Kate would laugh. ‘There I was
thinking I’d get a little girl I could dress up in pretty dresses
with long, golden curls, a bit like Alice in Wonderland,
and what do I get . . .?’ By this time Ella would be laughing
with her mother, knowing what was coming next but
knowing, too, that it was gentle, loving teasing. ‘A tomboy
with short hair who’d spend her life in trousers and shorts
given half a chance.’

Ella’s wandering thoughts came back to the pictures in
front of her. There was another of a young woman in a
uniform. That was definitely her mother, because Ella
knew she had been in the WAAFs in the last war. Kate’s two best friends from those days – Mavis and Isobel – still
visited them quite often and they were Ella’s godmothers
too.

Another photograph showed a small child with straight,
mousey hair and a sulky face. Perhaps that was her
mother’s younger sister, Lilian. Ella couldn’t be sure, for
her aunt lived away and they had never met.

The last photograph stood at the very back of the shelf,
half-obscured by a letter propped in front of it. Curious,
Ella pushed the envelope to one side and found herself
looking at a fading, sepia photograph of a young man in
uniform. He was standing stiffly, as if he was hardly daring
to breathe and in his eyes there was a look of – not exactly
fear, Ella decided, he just looked sort of – lost. The girl
frowned thoughtfully and put her head on one side,
pondering. He looked strangely familiar, but she knew it
wasn’t her Grandpa Godfrey as a young man because the
man in the photograph had black curly hair and dark eyes
whereas Jonathan Godfrey had fair hair, turning grey now.
He was not very tall either, certainly not as tall as
Grandpa . . .

‘What are you doing in here, Missy? Nosing into things
that dun’t concern ya?’

The voice made her jump and she swivelled round to
see her grandmother standing in the doorway. Ella had
been so intent upon the family pictures that she had not
heard footsteps mounting the stairs.

The excuse came easily to her lips for although it had
not been the initial reason she had ventured upstairs, it
was now the truth. ‘I wanted the lav, Nannie. I can’t find
it.’

The woman gave a snort of laughter. ‘We dun’t have
such fancy things as an indoor lav in the country, Missy.
It’s outside.’

‘So’s ours at home. It’s across the back yard,’ Ella said
and began to cross towards her grandmother and the door,
making no apology for having been caught in Esther’s
bedroom.

‘And dun’t call me “Nannie”’ Esther said. ‘Meks me
sound like a goat. You call me Grannie.’

Ella stared at her and then suddenly the young girl’s
face broke into an impish grin. Her blue eyes danced with
mischief. ‘All right – Gran.’

It was a half-way concession without being complete
capitulation.

Her grandmother’s green eyes flashed fire. ‘Grannie.’

Boldly, the girl’s gaze never faltered. ‘Gran,’ she said,
calmly but decisively.

The battle of wills had begun.

Her grandmother’s strong fingers were digging into Ella’s
shoulder as she found herself being propelled down the
narrow stairs, through the living room, kitchen and scullery
and out of the back door. Turning to the right towards smaller
brick buildings attached to the main house, they passed
one door and came to a second. Esther flung this open.

It was nothing like the lav across the yard back home in
Lincoln. There, it was a proper flush toilet with a chain to
pull; here, it was a wooden bench fitted against the wall
with a hole in the centre. Dangling from a hook on the
wall a loop of string held squares of neatly torn newspaper.
Ella wrinkled her nose at the sour smell in the gloomy,
confined space, the only light coming from the draughty
gaps above and below the wooden door. Perched on the
seat, her feet swinging above the rough-set cobbles of the
floor, Ella shuddered and was glad to jump down, yank up
her knickers and push open the door. It crashed back
against the brick wall.

‘What are you doing, child? Ya’ll have the door off its
hinges.’

Blinking in the sudden light, Ella saw her grandmother
coming across the yard from the barn. The girl breathed
deeply in the fresh air. ‘It pongs in there.’

Esther sucked her tongue against her teeth in a sound of
exasperation and pointed towards the back door. ‘Into the
scullery with you and wash ya hands.’

Pushing up the sleeves of her jumper, Ella frowned. In
the deep sink there was a white, enamel bowl and on the
window-sill, a dish and soap. But where were the taps? To
the side of the sink, there was a huge sort of spout and a
big handle, but there were no taps.

Ella opened her mouth and shouted, ‘Mum. Mum!’

But it was her grandmother who appeared again in the
doorway to the kitchen. ‘
Now
what’s the matter?’

‘Where are the taps?’

They glared at each other once more. ‘Taps? What do
ya think this is? A posh hotel? Work the pump, child.’

Ella blinked. Pump? What on earth did this old woman
mean? What pump?

‘Dear, oh dear. What has your mother been doing?
Dun’t you know anything?’

Impatiently, the woman pushed past Ella and grasped
the big handle. She worked it up and down and water
splashed from the spout into the bowl. ‘There, see how to
do it?’

The girl said nothing, but plunged her hands into the
bowl, only to pull them out again quickly.

‘Ugh! It’s cold.’ She twisted her head round and looked
up at her grandmother resentfully.

‘Course it’s cold. None of ya namby-pamby ways here,
Missy. We always wash in cold water, night and morning.’

Thinking with longing of the steaming hot water gushing
from the taps at home, Ella stared up at her grandmother.
‘You don’t
bath
in cold water, do you?’ she asked
incredulously, although she was beginning to think that
anything might be possible in this place.

‘Bath night’s on a Friday night in a tin bath on the
hearth in the kitchen. Every drop of hot water comes from
the side boiler in the range.’

Ella gawped at her again, trying to imagine bathing in the kitchen in front of the fire instead of in the white
enamelled bath at home.

‘It seems,’ Esther Godfrey remarked drily, ‘that you’ve
been spoilt by city life, Missy. You’ve a lot to learn . . .’

‘I don’t think I want . . .’ Ella began and then the sound
of hob-nailed boots in the yard made her glance out of the
scullery window. Suddenly everything was all right, for
coming across the yard was someone she knew – knew
very well – and loved dearly.

‘Grandpa. Grandpa!’ she cried, and, shaking the icy
droplets from her hands, she ran out of the back door.

‘Just a minute,’ her grandmother began, ‘you haven’t
finished washing your hands properly . . .’

But Ella was gone, scampering across the yard towards
the tall man whose blue eyes crinkled with laughter when
he saw her. Knowing her grandmother must still be watching,
Ella flung her arms wide in greeting, inviting him to
catch her and swing her up into his arms.

‘My, you’re getting a big girl,’ Jonathan Godfrey said,
pretending to puff and pant under her weight.

Casting a sly glance back towards where her grandmother
stood, hands on hips, watching, Ella wound her
arms around her grandfather’s neck and pressed her cheek
close to his bristly face. Seeing the frown on her grandmother’s
face, Ella was triumphant.

‘Have you given Kate her letter, Esther?’ Grandpa Godfrey
said as he pulled off his cap, unwound the long woollen
scarf from his neck and kissed Kate’s cheek in greeting.

‘Letter? For me?’

Ella saw her mother’s puzzled expression. ‘Why should
a letter for me come here? I haven’t lived here for years.’

With a work-worn hand, the purple veins standing out against the tanned skin, he swept back the untidy lock of
greying hair that fell across his forehead and shrugged.
‘Well, it did. Last week. I was going to send it on to you,
but knowing you’d be coming for the funeral . . . Where is
it, Esther?’

‘On the mantelpiece in me bedroom.’

A few moments later Jonathan was handing it to Kate.

‘Who’s it from, Mum?’

‘I . . .’ Her mother’s fingers were trembling. She was
staring, mesmerized, at the envelope in her hand.

‘Open it, Mum,’ Ella urged, hopping up and down.
‘Who’s it from?’

‘Be still, child. Leave ya mother be . . .’ her grandmother
began.

‘Come outside with me, Ella,’ Grandpa Godfrey said.

‘But I want to know . . .’

‘Come along. Put your coat on.’ Though his voice was
gentle, his hand on her shoulder was firm and would allow
no argument. ‘We’ll go and feed the pigs.’

‘Mum . . .?’ Ella began again, but her mother was not
listening. Instead Kate was now hurrying towards the door
leading into the privacy of the living room, everyone else
in the kitchen forgotten . . .

‘Where are we going, Mum? Are we going home now?’

They were walking back the way they had come along
the lane, but this time towards the town. Ella, never still,
skipped and danced and hopped beside her mother. The
late January day was blustery and cold. The icy wind stung
the girl’s cheeks.

‘No. We’re going to Rookery Farm.’

‘Who lives there, then?’

Her mother’s voice was soft. ‘Uncle Danny.’

Ella stopped her skipping and stood still for a moment,
her eyes shining, a grin stretching her wide mouth. ‘Uncle
Danny?’ she squeaked with delight. ‘Really?’

Her mother nodded. Before they had gone very far,
Kate said, ‘This way, Ella,’ and they turned to the left off
the coast road, taking a lane leading inland. Ahead of them
in the distance, Ella could see tall chimneys poking skywards
from a clump of trees.

‘Is that it? Is that where Uncle Danny and Aunty Rose
live?’

Kate smiled. ‘No, love. That’s the old squire’s place. It’s
empty now, I think.’

‘Why?’ Ella jumped over a puddle at the side of the lane
and back again, but the heels of her sturdy, lace-up shoes
caught the edge and spattered her grey knee-length socks
with muddy water.

‘Oh, darling.’ Kate sighed. ‘Do walk properly.’

Ella came and walked sedately beside her mother for a
few moments. ‘Why’s the house empty, Mum?’

‘The squire died a few years back and his son lives in
London.’

Ella, skipping once more, glanced across the expanse of
open fields all around her. Shuddering, she pulled her scarf
closer around her neck and muttered, ‘Don’t blame him.’

She felt her mother look at her. ‘Don’t you like it here,
Ella? It’s our home.’

‘No, it isn’t. Lincoln’s our home.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so. But our roots are here. This is
where all our family are . . .’

‘Aunty Peggy’s our family,’ Ella retorted stoutly. She
and her mother lived with Peggy Godfrey, Grandpa Godfrey’s
sister, in a terraced house in Lincoln; it was the only
home Ella had ever known. ‘
She
wants us,’ the young girl
added pointedly. ‘Gran doesn’t.’

She heard her mother sigh and looked up to see the
expression in Kate’s green eyes that said, You’re too sharp
for your own good sometimes, young Ella Hilton. It was
what Aunty Peggy often said to her when she asked too
many questions. ‘Is that why we’ve never been here
before?’ the girl persisted now. ‘Because you and Gran
quarrelled?’

Kate looked away again, her glance roaming over the
flat fields all around them. ‘I suppose so.’

‘What was it about?’

‘It’s a long story, love.’