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ONE

It was one of those rare April days when England rivalled the Riviera for breathtaking beauty. The sea broke in small waves on the shore and the sky was an intense blue. Margot sat back against the tufted grass and watched the gulls weaving patterns as intricate as any Celtic art; she felt at peace and at one with her surroundings, strengthened by the well-remembered beach and the memories it held. How long had it been since she had first walked in this secret place? So many years, but it was as if it was yesterday and she remembered the delight which had suddenly been hers and the joy that had changed her life.
Closing her eyes, conscious of the warm breeze as it blew a piece of dried sea-wrack against her cheek, she remembered the day when her father and mother had taken her to sit on the Backs in Cambridge before the tea to celebrate her twelfth birthday.
Her mother, Dorothy, looked pretty in a tussore silk dress with a matching sash embroidered with roses, while her father, always handsome in his upright soldierly fashion, was splendid in a boater and striped blazer. Margot was pleased her dress matched her mother’s; she wore a straw hat circled with a garland of miniature roses picked from their own garden, which Dorothy had helped her decorate.
Cambridge in 1932 was a quiet city. Few cars passed in the road behind them and the cyclists rode almost carelessly, gowns streaming behind them.
Margot wondered what it would be like to be an undergraduate but realised she had no academic skills to take her to Girton. Her eldest aunt, Emily, had studied there and from what she told her niece Margot realised, with relief, no one would expect her to follow her example. Emily had not painted too rosy a picture of a woman’s lot when a degree was grudgingly given to her: she attended no ceremonies and received her award in absentia. Women, the Faculty believed, were expected to take charge of households and rear children. Aunt Emily had been an unenviable exception.
On their way to The Copper Kettle, Margot wondered what she would do with her life. Despite the fact her parents assured her she was pretty she sensed they were seeing her through rose-tinted spectacles while a glance in a mirror was enough to tell her she was mousy-haired and small featured; perhaps her eyes were passable as they seemed to be quite a good colour.
Somehow she could not believe any man would see her as attractive or want to marry her: perhaps she could become a missionary or even a nun. For the moment nothing pleased her more than being with those she loved. Rodney and Dorothy Yates were good parents, setting examples of manners and propriety. Margot suspected her mother had wanted more children but when she had asked her about this Dorothy had merely replied that the child they had was all they had ever wanted.
Dorothy was artistic and Margot had seen old paints in a box which had obviously not been used for a very long time. Dorothy evaded questions about why this was but her mother said she had little time for hobbies when she had a house to look after and dresses to make for Margot and herself. Dorothy said that Margot was welcome to use them and gave her one of her drawing books to practise in. There were only a few watercolours in the box but they struck Margot as colourful and imaginary: conscious of her mother’s reluctance to speak about them she asked no more but took the book to her room. Here she studied the paintings and tried out a few coloured washes only to discover that the subtle use of watercolours was not as simple as it looked. She was, however, so intrigued by the possibility of discovering what colours made up the charm of the paintings that she determined to keep on trying until she knew how it was done. From then on she retrieved any scrap paper and when she had finished her homework indulged in the pleasure of mixing tones and strengths of paint. Not long after this Dorothy left a copy of a book, which had some Turner prints and pictures of his palettes, beside her bed. With this was a note from Dorothy telling her she was sure there were others like it in the attic and she and their maid would try to find them.
The tea was everything it should be with scones heaped with cream and strawberry jam, a coffee and walnut cake and tiny chocolate eclairs. On the way home to their semi-detached house in Stokby Margot gazed out of the window of the bus, full of good food and delighted with the new tennis racquet, which had been her prize present. Now she would be able to compete with those who possessed the latest Slazenger and return their fastest service with more ease.
Margot’s school was not far from their home and she walked there each day returning home in time for tea and the evening tussle with homework. It was always a good day when this chore was not maths or science but botany or poetry and it was sheer delight when the day’s test was to finish a piece of needlework or an opportunity to try out the newly acquired box of paints.
Although the Yates had a live-in maid, Dorothy was often in the kitchen because she was a good cook and hoped to set a good example to the cook-general. This girl came from Durham and had been ignorant of the basic skills of housekeeping or the duties of a parlour maid. In the months she had been with the Yates family she had learnt to lay a table and greet people who called. Her reaction to the necessity of wearing morning and afternoon uniforms had been incredulous disbelief but when Dorothy had encouraged her to use the bathroom, wash her hair and manicure her nails, she was quite delighted with her appearance. The girl was only a few years older than Margot and had left school at fourteen, hardly able to write her name or add up a simple sum. With Dorothy’s patient tuition she could now be trusted to pay the milkman and keep a record of what she had spent. Rosie, as she was called, was now devoted to Dorothy, regarding her in a touching way as a mother figure. Dorothy firmly believed Rosie’s mother was a slattern with eight children who augmented the husband’s miserable wage by cleaning the lavatories in the nearest public house; the doubtful advantage of this occupation being the amount of free beer she was allowed to drink. From what Rosie admitted about her mother she could be kind but when the drink went to her head she would be incapable of cooking for her family. This chore fell to Rosie’s eldest sister and consisted of soup made from bone stock and copious amounts of potatoes. Rosie admitted she had never eaten meat before joining the Yates household and often had been forced to go to bed after a pennyworth of chips. There were only two bedrooms in the back-to-back house in the mining village, her parents in one room with the two youngest children and the remaining six sleeping in the other with the boys in one bed and the girls in the other. Now here, in Stokby village, Rosie could not believe she had not only a room to herself, but a bed as well with sheets which were changed once a week. This was very different from the moth-eaten blanket and the dirty room she had shared.
Margot was not allowed in the kitchen unless her mother was with her, but she and Rosie were of an age and were especially friendly when Margot exchanged cigarette cards from her father to add to Rosie’s hoard. Rosie was making a collection of glamorous film stars and had bought a scrapbook from her eighteen shillings-a-week in which to keep them.
The rest of the year passed with placid regularity and Margot made great efforts to keep up with her studies. Her mother encouraged her with gentle patience but, rather to her surprise, she discovered her father chided her for her slipshod spelling and inaccurate arithmetic. This was an unexpected side to Rodney’s character and Margot became aware he was not always even-tempered and could speak quite sharply to Rosie if she were clumsy. Nevertheless, he was still the good-looking man he had always been and her mother was the same as always, understanding and comforting.
Margot remembered her mother from the earliest days, helping her, guiding her, loving her. She was there when Margot had a bad dream or when she was ill. She provided comfort when Margot had a bad day at school, or had fallen down and hurt herself. Margot felt that she could discuss anything with her mother and be sure of a sympathetic response. Even now, each night before she went to sleep Dorothy would come into her room and kiss and hug her.
Dorothy taught her to make cakes and, another surprise, invited some of her school friends to tea on occasions: the Yates did not entertain very often.
Margot thought how fortunate she was and how contented and happy she was. It came, therefore, as a cause of great concern when, as Christmas approached, Dorothy Yates fell ill with a very bad cold which settled on her chest. The doctor was summoned when she became delirious and saw foxes coming down the chimney. The old man who had brought Margot into the world took Rodney Yates on one side, ‘I’m sorry, Yates,’ he said, ‘but I don’t like the look of your wife; she is suffering from pneumonia and her chest has never been good. I hesitate to ask, but is there a history of consumption in your wife’s family?’ Rodney was obviously alarmed, ‘I’ve not heard of any but, as you know, Dorothy has not enjoyed robust health: she has the odd cold but is not the alarmist sort and makes light of them.’
‘I know,’ the doctor’s voice was quiet. ‘I must warn you that Margot is at risk and she must have plenty of nourishing food.’
‘That’s not easy,’ Rodney replied, ‘Dorothy likes to oversee the kitchen and our maid is not an accomplished cook.’
‘Then I suggest you employ a proper cook or teach Rosie to read recipes.’
Rodney said nothing, but accompanied the doctor to the door.
‘I shall return in the evening,’ were his parting words.
Margot’s friends’ mothers, hearing of Dorothy’s condition, invited her to tea and kept her amused with card games and visits to colleges for carol services. Yet despite these distractions, Margot found she could still see her mother’s pale face and the blue-veined hands lying motionless on the sheets. She was most perplexed by not being allowed to go further into the sick room than the door. Her father assured her that Dorothy would recover in time but Margot realised he was often at home and sent Rosie to buy fish and grapes for his wife. Margot missed her mother and it seemed worse as Christmas time was associated with paper chains and mistletoe adorning the hall lantern. Who, she wondered, would cook the turkey?
It was when a consultant came with the doctor that Margot reluctantly realised her mother must be very ill indeed; a fact compounded by the arrival of Aunt Emily who, to her niece’s surprise, took her to the local pantomime and tea at The Copper Kettle. On their arrival home they were met by a whey-faced Rosie who said they were to take their supper on trays.
Margot hardly spoke while she picked at the smoked haddock and poached egg on her plate. Rosie had not drained it properly and globules of cold, watery sauce slopped onto the tray.
Aunt Emily talked about the pantomime but the child found it difficult to show the enthusiasm that was expected of her. At last she put aside the half-eaten food and asked if she would be allowed to see Dorothy. She longed for her mother’s soft voice and the reassurance of her comforting presence.
‘I’ll ask your father,’ Emily said and went upstairs. She returned to say her sister was sleeping but Margot could stay for a few minutes. Dorothy was, apparently, in a deep sleep and Margot came away feeling relieved. It came as a great shock to Margot, therefore, when Emily told her she was to return with her to her house in the London suburbs.
‘But I can’t, it’s Christmas and we always have it here with you and Aunt Hattie.’
‘Not this year, dear,’ Emily told her, ‘with your mother as ill as she is there can be no talk of such a thing and, with you looked after, your father will have one thing off his mind.’
‘But I can help!’ Margot wailed.
‘Yes, that’s true, but Rodney wants you to come with us so that he can give his undivided attention to your mother.’
Margot’s stomach contracted with frustration and fear, she was suddenly very cold and unable to control her shaking hands.
‘What if mother should die?’ she asked.
Aunt Emily, not known for showing signs of affection, touched her niece’s shoulder. ‘I think she will have a better chance of survival if she knows you are with us and your father is not worrying about you.’
There was no answer to this and Margot went, miserably, to her room and started to pack a few garments for a short stay with her Aunts. She realised there would be no Christmas festivities and she put in her best tweed coat and skirt and a couple of jumpers. Her blouses looked crumpled and were in need of washing and ironing; she put them in with the hopes the Aunts would allow her to launder them.
Thinking of the Aunts’ home, Margot realised she had not been there for some time (it had been summer last time she had visited). Would there be a gas fire in her room as there was at home? Would there be radiators in the downstairs dining and sitting rooms? With these thoughts she added her thick school stockings and warmest vests and knickers. Of a sudden, she felt older and realised she was having to think for herself. On an impulse she added her Reeves paint box and a sketchpad; perhaps there would be time to indulge herself.
Dorothy was able to say goodbye to her daughter as Rodney supported her against the pillows. Her mumbled words conveyed apologies for missing Christmas and the hopes Margot would be happy with the Aunts. Margot’s eyes filled with tears and she found she was unable to say anything. Words were inadequate to express the mixture of concern and misery welling inside her.
She and her aunt walked to the station in silence, each carrying their suitcases and holding thick scarves over their mouths against the cold. Once in the train, Emily produced a copy of Little Women for her niece and settled down herself with a much-used volume of the Lakeland poets.
Margot found she was unable to concentrate and watched the bleak, flat countryside fade into darkness. Why, oh why was her mother so still and that comfortable, happy life so suddenly snatched away from her? When she had said her prayers this was not the outcome she expected. What if her mother died before she returned home? What
if – ?
She found her eyes closing, while her head slumped against the back of her seat.

Margot and Emily arrived at number 23, Claremont Close in High Green as the gas lamps lit the leafless tree-lined street. In the dim light, Margot could see a semi-detached house with a smallish front garden where bare shrubs were still in the frost-laden air. She shivered as she stood on the doorstep waiting for Hattie to admit them. Her younger aunt, swathed in shawls came, smiling, to greet them and the girl felt a temporary raising of her spirits.
‘Come in, my dears, supper is waiting.’ Despite being a shining light in the banking world, Hattie was an excellent cook. Her plain, strong features spoke of determination and self-assurance. Margot vaguely remembered her mother’s opinion that had Hattie not been ambitious she would have made someone a very good wife. She took Margot to her bedroom, showed her the bathroom and told her to come down when she was ready. The small bedroom was icy cold, with thin curtains at the window but Margot saw that a pair of bed socks and a spare hot water bottle were placed on the bed. It was a pleasant surprise to discover the dining room was warm, with a cosy stove sending out heat and a cheerful glow. Hattie had obviously made an effort to make things welcoming, with a small vase of winter-flowering yellow jasmine on the table. The supper was satisfying and after it was finished and Margot had offered to help with the washing up she admitted she was tired and went, gratefully, to bed.
Two days passed and the news from Cambridge was not hopeful, Dorothy had moments of “awareness” but quickly lapsed into sleep. First hand accounts came with Margot’s uncle, James, when he and his wife Flora came for supper on Boxing Day to see his sisters. He had been to visit his sister in Cambridge and reported she was not in any pain but showed no signs of imminent recovery.
James was a kindly, clever man who lived ten miles north of his maiden sisters. He and Flora had two sons who were at boarding school. Margot would very much have enjoyed their company. However they were not yet old enough to appreciate the company of girls. On the two occasions she and her parents had visited their home they had stayed long enough to be polite and then had departed on pressing business of their own.
‘Scrumping apples, I’m sure,’ said James’s housekeeper, ‘or smoking their father’s best cigars in one of their friend’s summer houses.’
The boys did not come with their parents but Margot was quite happy in the company of her uncle and his wife. Flora had brought a soft angora scarf for Margot. She had made it herself and it was large enough to act as a shawl on her bed. Flora was pleased with the gratitude and Margot found the older woman beautiful. Her long hair was classically piled on her head and her eyes were as blue as harebells. Flora talked to her of her mother and had brought some old photographs taken in the family home when she and James were newly married.
Margot was sorry when her uncle and Flora departed, anxious to return home as a fog had come down during their stay and threatened to become even denser. Margot would have liked to have spoken to her father but he was obviously unable to leave the house. It would be a good thing when the nurse of whom her uncle had spoken came to help. Why, oh why, was there no telephone at home as there was at Hattie’s and Uncle James’s?
On New Years Eve a telegram arrived for Hattie and Emily, and the latter took it into the sitting room while the boy waited at the door. The fog had, at last, lifted but it was a grey, gloomy day with clouds that promised rain. Margot happened to be in the kitchen helping Hattie to roll out pastry but, despite her aunt’s cheerful comment that it might be the postman with a late Christmas greeting, she was gripped with the knowledge that a telegram could mean only one thing; her mother was dead.
Emily came slowly into the warm kitchen looking at Hattie. She went up to Margot and put her arm about her shoulders. ‘You must be very brave, my dear child.’
‘It’s Mother, isn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid so. She died in her sleep early this morning.’
No floods of tears came to relieve her of the overwhelming terror that encompassed her at the thought of life without her mother. How could she live with no one to guide her or share her thoughts? Who would be there to bring her through the years ahead? Rodney was kind enough, but he was a man and girls needed womanly counsel. In the time it took Hattie to read the telegram and compose a reply, Margot had looked into the lowest depths of bereavement. Emily busied herself with the stove and the kettle, made Margot sit in the rocking chair and gave her a cup of tea. Margot tried to push it away but Emily gently persuaded her to drink. It was strong and sugary and did something to melt the icy pain of the horrible news but Margot wanted nothing more than to die herself. There could be no life without her mother.

Margot returned to Stokby for the funeral and to go back to school. James drove her and his sisters down and she was never to forget the hollowness of the home where she had once been so happy. Her father seemed withdrawn and she missed his usual affectionate embrace. No welcoming drink was offered until Flora disappeared into the kitchen and Rosie appeared with a tray of tea and whisky for the men.
The service in the village church was well attended, Margot only remembering the drift of white flowers on the coffin and her own detachment from reality. How could a kindly God take away her mother and leave her desolate? The prayers she had said from her childhood seemed unanswered for she had begged for the return of Dorothy to health.
When Flora had guessed at some of her hapless misery she had made it her business to distract her and, having found out Margot’s hope to go to art school, had promised to use any influence she might have with her brother-in-law to persuade him this was an appropriate career.
Rodney’s reply when the matter was broached was vague and Margot had the distinct impression he was wrapped in self-pity. It was Flora who spoke to Rosie and the girl was eager to prove she was able to look after the master, as she called Rodney, and to see Margot was properly fed. Flora told the child she must help Rosie without getting in her way and see to washing her own underclothes and handkerchiefs.
‘Use Lux,’ Flora told her, ‘and rinse everything well.’
Margot’s eyes were full of tears as she bade farewell to her uncle, his wife and the Aunts. Rodney said he had to work at his desk. He had not been to the office for over two weeks and told his daughter that she should go to her room and get her satchel ready for school.
Her tunic looked bedraggled and the white blouse that went with it came out of the drawer crumpled and anything but fresh. Glad of something to do, Margot went down to the scullery adjoining the kitchen and Rosie helped her put up the ironing board and showed her how to put the flat iron on the gas ring and lift it off with the padded holder. Margot found she was glad of the occupation and the resulting improvement to her uniform was quite pleasing. She also discovered she had not thought of the funeral for the half an hour she spent in the task. Rather to her surprise, she discovered that she quite liked helping Rosie and the girl, hardly older than herself, seemed pleased to have her company. In return for Rosie’s help, she offered to do something for her. Rosie was only too glad and gave her a tray and told her to lay the table in the dining room.
‘The cloth and napkins are in the sideboard, Miss, and the glasses and water jug are in the cupboard underneath.’
The mission completed, Margot returned to the warmth of the kitchen.
‘You all right, Miss?’ Rosie asked, ‘I can tell you it’s as well you were with your Aunts. The nurse was a help on one hand, I’ll agree, but she needed waiting on with a cup of tea every five minutes and hot water for the bedroom basin morning, noon and night.’
‘What was she like?’ Margot asked.
‘Well, she was a help to your mother, that I will grant you, but she was a right royal madam, full of airs and graces. You’d think she’d been trained to look after royalty instead of working at Addenbrooks.’
Margot changed the subject. She longed to ask about her mother but preferred to wait until Rodney came out of his distraught state and gave her some of the attention, which he had once showered on her. She felt, instinctively, that he should be sharing his grief with her instead of shutting himself away from her and retreating into his own misery.
Over the weeks that followed Rodney lost weight, lost interest and hardly seemed to notice Margot’s presence. Her age made her unable to convey either her sympathy or her own misery and he appeared to have lost interest even in her schoolwork. This had never been up to his standard and she made a special effort to prepare her work and do the best she could with the homework. When she showed Rodney some of the better marks she was achieving he gave the papers a cursory glance and walked out into the garden where he walked aimlessly up and down the uncut lawn.

It was on one evening at the beginning of summer that her father failed to come home for supper. Rosie and Margot had made an effort to make him a favourite dish, which made his absence more galling. When he did come home it was gone eleven o’clock and Margot, unable to sleep, waited for him to speak to her but he went straight to his bedroom. In the morning no explanation was given and Margot could not find the courage to ask if he had had a sudden meeting or an engagement, which he had forgotten to mention. A week later the same thing happened and on Sunday he told her he would not be coming with her to church and would be out to luncheon. This was so extraordinary that Margot was not only shocked but felt the first real sense of fear that her father was drinking heavily or had become involved in trouble at his office. Rosie was as nonplussed as she was and they had endless discussions on what might be the matter. In the end Margot summoned her courage and said that she hoped he would not be out on the evening of her birthday, which was the following week. Rodney sighed, a dramatic gesture that was not lost on his daughter’s sensitive emotions. Margot noticed also that her father appeared at a loss to answer her question until he blurted out that he hoped to be married during the next month. Margot, unable to control the shock that robbed her of the use of her legs, sat down in the low chair facing him.
‘Married?’ she echoed in a voice she hardly recognised as her own, ‘But you can’t be. You’re married to Mummy.’ Even as the words came tumbling out she realised the stupidity of what she had said and went on: ‘Married, you? Who? Who are you marrying?’ Now Rodney stood and walked to the window. At last he blurted out that he was marrying Miss Carver.
‘Miss Carver? I don’t know anybody by that name…’
As she spoke Rosie knocked on the door and came in to enquire if she should bring in the supper. Rodney, glad of the interruption, told her they were quite ready and Margot went out of the room to help the girl and get away from the father she now recognised as an unknown factor.
In the kitchen Rosie, obviously overhearing the conversation, quickly enlightened Margot with the fact that Miss Carver was none other than the nurse who had tended Dorothy during her illness.

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