a grandmother twice over,’ he smiled, knowing what was to come. ‘I’d never have thought Amelia and Albert would have had children. Why did Albert imply she was too old?’
‘Albert didn’t say she was old, now that I think back on it. A little older, he said, which could be two or three years at the most. You should know. You stayed with them in Kentucky. You’re the only one who has met Albert’s wife. But it was you who put it around he’d wed a woman old enough to be his mother. Well, your trouble-making has come back to make a fool of you, my lad, because I’m not best pleased, I can tell you!’
‘But Aunt Helen was delighted when she became a grandmother.’
‘Your Aunt Helen –’ She stopped, button-mouthed. Looks years younger than me, she had been going to say. ‘Helen needed a boy for Rowangarth – and so the title shouldn’t pass to us, at Pendenys,’ she added, vinegar-voiced. ‘And she got one, just in the nick of time. I’d bet it was more relief than delight! So relieved, she overlooked the fact that it had taken a servant to get that child for her!’
‘Mama, dear – I know how much you want me married and now that the war is over, I agree entirely with you.’ She was getting red spots high on her cheeks – a sure sign that a tirade of abuse was imminent. ‘Find me a suitable wife and I’ll go down on bended knee to her – I promise you.’
‘You couldn’t find one for yourself, I suppose? Too much trouble, is it? Albert got himself wed without help from anyone and so did your cousin Giles, so what’s so special about you, my lad? Lose interest in a woman, do you, once you’ve had her in your bed?’
‘Mother, I beg you!’ Elliot dropped his knife with a clatter. ‘You can be so – so direct!’ And so common, when she was crossed. He’d been with prostitutes more refined than she. But it was all because of Mary Anne Pendennis. A woman who’d followed the herring boats from port to port, gutting fish, his great-grandmother had been. A fishwife. And when the season was over, she’d taken in washing which made her a washerwoman, too! And beneath his mother’s ladylike exterior lurked a Cornish washerwoman who could curse like a fishwife when angered and not all her riches would ever breed it out of her. It was all a question of pedigree and there was no avoiding the fact that somewhere in his ancestry, a mongrel bitch had got over the wall!
‘You’ll get more’n direct if you don’t shape yourself and get me a grandson; and get me one in wedlock, an’ all! I want no more hedge children – do I make myself plain? I’m taking tea with the countess at the Ritz, tomorrow; intend getting to the bottom of it even if I have to ask her outright if her daughter is in the market for a husband. And if I get the answer I hope I’ll get, then you’ll start paying attention to Anna Petrovska – or else!’
‘Or else what, Mama?’ It was the nearest to defiance he was capable of.
‘Or else you’ll see how nasty I can be, son! On the other hand,’ she lowered her voice to a soft coo, ‘only give me a couple of grandsons and I’ll turn my back on your goings-on, I swear I will. Now do you get the message – because if you aren’t for me then you’re against me – it’s as simple as that. Think on, Elliot …’
Only two days after her return from London and before she could do the baking she had intended, Alice watched a large, green-painted lorry drive up Beck Lane and come to a stop outside Willow End Cottage. They had come, and Tom not even thinking to tell her!
Clucking with annoyance, she set the kettle to boil. At least she could make them a pot of tea though it would have been more neighbourly to have been able to offer something more substantial. She was slicing the currant loaf when the knock came at the back door.
‘Hullo! Anyone at home?’
The woman who stood there was young, her thick, dark brown hair pulled into a severe knot in her neck. Her face was pale but her smile was wide and open.
‘You’ll pardon the intrusion.’ She stepped into the kitchen, ‘but in case you think we’re tinkers and breaking in – well – I’m Polly Purvis. Come to live at Willow End, only my Dickon don’t know we’re arriving. Only knew myself, late last night when Sidney told me if I wanted a lift to Hampshire I’d better shift myself! Sidney’s my cousin. He had an extra trip on if I was interested, he said, which was better’n waiting a fortnight to get here.’
‘Goodness – what a rush …’ So overwhelmed was she it was all Alice could think of to say.
‘No rush at all, m’dear. Took no more’n half an hour to get our bits and pieces loaded. Most of what I started out with all sold, see? Had to be. But things’ll be better, now. I shall like this place, I know it. You’ll be Mrs Dwerryhouse?’ She held out her hand, still smiling. ‘And it’s your husband I have to thank for all this – and thank him I will, when I’ve got things seen to! But best be off. Sidney can’t wait. Got to be at the docks in less’n an hour …’
In a flurry of long black skirts she was gone, striding down the lane at almost a run.
‘Well!’ said Alice to the kettle on the hob. ‘And what do you make of that!’
Friendly, though, and a countrywoman – that was plain enough, for who but a countrywoman knocked on back doors then walked in, unasked?
Work-roughened hands she’d had. Alice had felt their sharpness against her own. Sleeves rolled up to the elbow; a long, flower-patterned pinafore tied at her waist. And such a smile! Dark, though. A bit of gypsy in her, somewhere. Maybe, like Jinny Dobb, she could read tea leaves, look into the future. But of one thing Alice was certain. Her new neighbour would not be difficult, as she had feared. Rather the opposite, she thought as she stirred the coals to hasten the kettle. Her new neighbour seemed outgoing and uncomplicated and one who wouldn’t be opposed to a gossip over a cup of tea! She wished she had been better prepared; been able to do the bake she had intended offering in welcome. Now, she sighed, a pot of tea and a plate of currant bread would have to suffice.
The green lorry parped its horn as it passed her house. The new tenant at Willow End had spoken nothing but the truth; there had indeed been little to unload.
Alice walked carefully up the lane, teapot in one hand, plate in the other. The small boy sitting on the doorstep sucking his thumb got to his feet as she approached.
‘Hullo,’ she smiled. ‘It’s Keth, isn’t it?’
The boy nodded, dark eyes gazing up into her own.
‘And I’m Mrs Dwerryhouse. I live at Keeper’s, down the lane.’
He was too thin, but there were a lot of too-thin children about, these days. Fatherless bairns, most of them, with mothers hard put to it to feed them on the pension the Army allowed.
‘Well, if it isn’t Mrs Dwerryhouse and carrying a pot of tea! Come you in, and welcome. You’m my first caller. Sit you down, m’dear!’
‘I’m sorry. Can’t stay. I’ve left my little one in her pram. I’d intended baking you a pie. As it is …’ She placed the plate on the table, gazing around her.
The floor was bare. A table stood in the middle of the room with three chairs around it. Arranged beside the fire, already burning brightly, stood two rocking chairs and an upturned box with a cushion on it.
‘A cup of tea would go down a treat – and is that curranty bread home-baked?’
‘It is, though I’ve been away and my cake tins are empty.’
‘Away, is it? Well, now that I’ve got here, it’ll take more’n wild horses to drag me from this house. Beautiful, it is – and Dickon and me never setting eyes on each other for nigh on six months. When he finds us here and smells his dinner cooking, he’ll be bowled over!’
‘You’ve brought meat with you, Mrs Purvis?’
‘No, but first thing I set eyes on was a rabbit hanging in the pantry. I’ll soon get the skin off it and get it into the pot. I’ve brought potatoes