upon the windows as the small bus wound its way along narrow lanes. The sound of its grinding gears as it lurched around a bend and began to climb steeply upwards stirred Brenda from a deep sleep. Blinking herself awake, she gazed out at the scramble of sharp peaks, jutting rocks and smooth green-humped hills, disappointed they were not lit by the warmth of September sunshine. Yet she felt some relief to have at last reached the Pennines. The journey had been long and difficult. She still shivered at the memory of being halted and searched by a German guard at the foot of the Pyrenees in Spain. A terrifying moment! Now, after years of danger she was at last safe; in a bus driving mile upon mile over beautiful open moors cloaked in purple heather.
Eventually the vehicle stopped and the driver called out, ‘Trowbridge Hall.’ Hitching her heavy bag high on to her shoulder, Brenda climbed out of the warmth of the bus into the chill damp of the valley. When first she’d set off from France she’d felt dizzy with anticipation, filled with hope. But much as she had longed to reach her destination, now a nervous tension was setting in. She could remember all too well the scowls, furious arguments and strong tone of disapproval on the day she’d been thrown out of the manor house all those years ago.
Today it felt strangely silent as Brenda walked down the rutted track, the only sound that of her boots squelching in the mud, a clogging mist swirling about her. Thankfully it had at last stopped raining. Turning a corner, she paused to gaze up at the tall chimneys, mullioned windows and grey stone walls of this grand house. For a moment her nervousness faded even if the mist did not. When at a low ebb during her recent troubles she would often bring to mind the majesty of these rolling hills, and the autumn glory of the scabious, goldenrod and blue harebells that clustered the verges. The memory of this place had at times helped to keep her sane.
Her heartbeat quickened as she recalled coming to work here back in the spring of 1939. That was the day she and Jack had first met, and despite her being no more than a mere scullery maid and he the son of a wealthy land owner, they’d fallen in love almost at first sight. At just seventeen she’d been young and eager for a new life, utterly captivated by his good looks, his gentle kindness, and the way his blue-grey eyes smiled at her. Whenever her day’s work ended and she’d take a walk for a breath of fresh air, Jack would be sitting on a wall or leaning against a tree waiting for her.
‘I thought I’d show you around,’ he’d said with a twinkling smile the first time she’d found him there. The thought had thrilled her.
‘Oh, that would be lovely.’ She’d felt herself blushing even as her insides tingled with excitement.
They’d stepped out along the path into the wood, the dog at his heels as Jack explained how he didn’t want her to get lost. ‘It’s not a good idea to venture too far on your own as it’s all too easy to lose your way in these woods,’ he’d warned.
‘I confess I am more accustomed to the busy streets of Manchester,’ Brenda had admitted, gazing in wonder at the bluebells in bloom. It was May and she could hear the rippling chatter of fieldfares celebrating the coming of warmer weather. ‘Or at least the Castlefield part of the city. I’m more used to walking along canal towpaths than in woodlands. Never really been out much in the countryside before, but it is so beautiful here I’d love to explore it.’
‘Then take care if you set out for a walk to always leave markers, such as a small pile of stones at every turn in the path to mark your way. We call them cairns. Then you can retrace your steps by following them on your return.’
‘What a wonderful idea. Thank you, I’ll remember that.’
‘And if you should ever get lost, follow a stream downhill towards the river, then walk north along the riverbank back to the house. You can judge the direction by checking the green moss that grows on the northern side of the trees. It certainly does here in the Pennines. But it would be safer and much more fun, don’t you think, if we were to walk out together? And Kit does love a good walk,’ he’d said, introducing her to the farm collie.
Meeting his gaze, she knew in that moment they were meant for each other, and his desire for them to walk out together had little to do with the dog. The expression in his eyes was utterly captivating, reaching to the heart of her.
After that, it seemed perfectly natural for them to meet up every single evening. And when he eventually stole a kiss she’d responded with eagerness, loving it when he almost lifted her off her feet to gather her in his arms. Explosions of pleasure had shot through her, almost as if she’d been waiting her entire life for this moment.
Fond as Brenda was of the city of Manchester where she’d been raised in an orphanage by nuns and still had many friends, she instantly fell in love with the beauty of Saddleworth, and the dramatic and rugged Pennine hills and moorland. She soon came to think of herself as a country girl, if working class and a bit plain and plump with fluffy brown hair. Jack, however, always regarded her as gorgeously curvaceous, and adored the twinkle in her downward-sloping brown eyes. It was certainly true that she was rather well endowed, but liked to think that her round face generally appeared cheerful, even if there was sometimes a flutter of nerves behind her eyes. How she’d loved it when he’d whispered such compliments as he kissed her. She smiled now at the memory.
They’d naturally tried to keep their feelings and meetings secret, only too aware that his family would not approve. They’d carefully avoided visiting the local villages of Trowbridge, Uppermill and Greenfield together in case people Jack knew spotted them. Much safer to remain high in the hills where few people roamed.
But then one afternoon Jack’s father, Sir Randolph, caught them together locked in the kind of clinch that clearly revealed their love for each other. Sadly, he was an ice-cold, aloof sort of man. Perhaps living as he did in this fine house with a large estate and money to answer his every need, caused him to be bossy and self-opinionated.
‘Girl, return to the kitchen where you belong,’ he’d roared. She’d spun on her heels to scurry away as fast as she could, tripping over tree roots and stones in her anxiety to escape his fury. Jack had stoutly remained where he was, clearly preparing himself for a lecture.
Brenda had found herself instantly dismissed. Jack was ordered to go to France to stay with his French mother, who’d returned to Paris some months previously on a visit to her family. She showed no sign of returning any time soon, which did not surprise Brenda, bearing in mind she had such a controlling husband. Brenda had been sorry to see her go, as it was this lovely lady who had offered her the job in the first place. Lady Stuart had been a regular visitor to the orphanage and very friendly with the nuns who’d brought Brenda up.
Jack made no protest to this plan, as he adored his mother, but instead of leaving Brenda behind he’d suggested she go with him. Brenda had been unable to speak a word of French at the time, yet loving him as she did, how could she resist the temptation?
Her time in France had felt like a real adventure to her. Memories she would nurture forever in her heart. She’d worked hard to learn the language, and happily helped Jack to care for his dear mother who was not at all well.
When war broke out they’d quickly married and enjoyed such a happy time together, until the dreadful effects of bombs and fighting took their toll, robbing her of the love of her life. Brenda’s heart still bled at the pain of her loss.
Now she was quite alone, and the events that had followed his death were a period in her life she desperately strived to block out. Returning to her late husband’s home had been a difficult decision to make, but so important. It was vital that she find her son and prayed this would provide the answers she needed. After all her efforts to resolve the issue had failed, this seemed like the only solution left.
There was no one around to welcome her, all doors closed and curtains drawn. Perhaps dear old Kit, no doubt too old now to be out working with the flock, might offer a welcome, unless he too had forgotten her. As Brenda hitched up her bag and set off again along the track, he must have recognised the sound of her footsteps for he was suddenly scampering towards her, his wittering greeting a positive warble of doggy ecstasy.
‘Hello, old boy. So you do remember me, even after all this time. How wonderful.’