Home for Christmas (21 page)

The continual bouncing resulted in her sour expression turning even sourer.

The elderly butler stumbled here and there thanks to the uneven ground and the state of his knees, which had become more bowed and unsteady with time.

The pastureland they were traversing had been nibbled short by the sheep that had been grazing there just a week or so before.

‘There she is,’ murmured Agnes, her scarf wound up over her nose, her goggles pulled down over her eyes. ‘By the looks of her face she’s either been sucking lemons or licking a cat’s rear end.’

Lydia had long realised that Agnes could be quite rude at times and that there was no point in admonishment. Agnes did and said more or less what she liked.

‘Agnes! Get back,’ Lydia hissed. ‘Otherwise she’ll order you from the premises and our day will be ruined. I’ll never forgive you if it is.’

She caught sight of Agnes’s eyes narrowing from behind the thick goggles.

‘Listen to Lady Lydia! So you won’t forgive me? How about me never forgiving you for becoming engaged to Robert? And I bet you’ll save yourself until your wedding night. I wouldn’t. The quicker I could get him into bed the better. I’m made of flesh and blood, that’s me.’

‘I will not be a slut, Agnes!’

‘Are you calling me a slut because I have a passionate nature?’

Lydia saw the tears in Agnes’s eyes; her friend didn’t really mean it. Because of that she would not argue. Agnes had become a dear friend. ‘Of course I’m not.’

‘It’s through passion that I came to be. We all did. Even you,’ snapped Agnes.

Lydia turned away and purposely looked skywards.

‘Where is Robert?’ she murmured.

Her outspokenness forgotten, Agnes pushed her goggles up on to her forehead. ‘We should be able to see him, surely.’

They both strained their eyes but saw only cumulus clouds sitting like giant meringues in a clear, cold sky.

‘I can’t see him yet,’ Lydia said breathlessly whilst holding on to her giant hat. ‘It’s quite amazing though, isn’t it? Robert flying a plane. Robert an officer in the Royal Flying Corps.’

The very thought of his strong hands propelling the machine up into the air made her fear and made her wonder.

‘I’m going to ask him to take me up in it,’ stated Agnes, in the process of tying a red silk scarf around her neck. ‘I’ve heard there are women aviators who are just as good as men. I think I would make an excellent aviator and now’s the time to get in some practice. And by the way, that’s a formidable hat you’re wearing. It’s not your usual style.’

‘Yours is very typical, Agnes,’ Lydia responded, the argument forgotten. They looked at each other and laughed.

Lydia admired her friend’s rebellious nature, her determination to be different and to prove that whatever a man could do, she could do it too.

Despite the initial hurt at Lydia and Robert’s engagement, Agnes valued Lydia as a friend. Lydia was a friend who had not abandoned her when she’d fallen on hard times as others might have done and had done.

‘He’ll be coming from the west; out of the sun,’ said Agnes knowledgeably.

Lydia raised a hand, shielding her eyes against the brightness of the sky. She looked in the direction everyone else was looking, while standing between Agnes and the place where Lady Julieta sat, one blanket tucked around her knees, another around her shoulders and a thick shawl over her head. Lydia decided there was little chance of Lady Julieta peering through that lot and seeing Agnes.

Towards the west, the setting sun had gilded the fluffy clouds with gold and its rays were still strong and warm.

Lydia craned her neck. There seemed at first to be nothing to see except gilt-edged clouds and a blinding brightness. Agnes did the same.

‘I can’t see him,’ said Agnes, sounding thoroughly disappointed.

Lydia kept her hand shielding her eyes. Robert was coming and she was desperate to see him before Agnes did.

‘There,’ said Lydia, shrieking so loud that heads turned in their direction. ‘I see him; at least I think I do. See? It’s no more than a black dot, but it’s getting bigger as he gets closer. I’m sure of it.’

‘You’re seeing things!’ Agnes snapped, annoyed that Lydia had seen Robert’s plane first. ‘Here. Let me borrow those.’

She snatched a pair of opera glasses from the hands of a junior butler, thinking to herself that the great house must be empty of staff. It seemed the whole household and half the village besides was out here to see an aeroplane land.

‘Remember to keep out of Lady Julieta’s line of sight,’ Lydia hissed at her.

‘Damn the old bat!’

Lydia sighed and shook her head. Agnes was incorrigible.

The dot got bigger and bigger; first, it looked like a plus sign and without any defining features. Nearer and nearer it came until the plus sign was like a dragonfly with one wing on each side only and spindly legs ending in fat tubular tyres.

A chorus of exclamation went up as the fragile craft swept over the field only some fifty feet or so above the ground, an oblong mix of string, canvas and strips of iron framework.

‘I can see him,’ cried Lydia and waved for all she was worth.

Robert waved back, his white silk scarf streaming out behind him.

Agnes was jumping up and down beside her, waving both hands and clapping above her head.

‘Hooray, hooray, hooray,’ she shouted amongst other sounds that were pure enthusiasm rather than actual words.

‘You’re attracting attention,’ Lydia hissed at her, nudging her in the ribs. ‘The old bat will see you.’

Agnes took no notice so Lydia positioned herself to block the old lady’s line of sight, hoping she’d forgotten to bring her opera glasses or her spectacles.

A few men recruited from the village to hold back the crowds got between them and the likely landing strip, their arms outstretched – as if that was enough to hold back such excitement.

‘Keep back,’ they shouted, their voices almost drowned out by the noise of the aero engine.

Despite the competition of sound, the cry passed all along the line, the crowd dividing obediently, some tripping backwards over clumps of stubble, unwilling to take their eyes off the fragile craft descending from the sky in case they missed its landing.

Everyone gathered there gasped with one voice when the wheels bounced once, twice, three times before the plane levelled out to bump along over the bumpy ground.

Agnes attempted to duck beneath the stretched-out arms and suddenly found herself whipped off her feet by the strong arms of John Filer, the gamekeeper.

‘Oh no you don’t, young fellah, no matter who you are!’

‘Let me go. I’m an aeroplane mechanic,’ she shouted.

‘Is that so? Then what are these?’ He grabbed Agnes’s breasts, laughing as he jiggled them and made lewd suggestions.

Agnes brought one foot back then the other, both connecting with his shins.

Lydia took advantage of the situation, popping through the human barricade, stumbling as she ran across the field towards the aeroplane. Breathless, she stopped some distance from where the propellers were turning until they slowed and finally stopped.

Face slick with sweat, Robert shoved the goggles up on to his head and wiped his face with his scarf. The moment the scarf left his face, he spotted her and his eyes lit up.

‘Lydia!’

Heaving himself out from the aeroplane, he swung his legs over the side, landed on the grass and ran towards her.

‘Lydia. Did you see that? That was the best landing I’ve ever done.’

‘You bounced a bit,’ she said, relishing the feel of his hands holding her shoulders.

He smiled into her face as though the crowds around them didn’t exist. The smile was for her and her alone.

‘It was the best landing because you’re here,’ he said to her. ‘Better than any awards I must say. I could fly the Atlantic if I knew you would be there at the end of my trip.’

‘I would be,’ she whispered, her cheeks pink with both joy and the crispness of the evening.

He kissed her, his lips hot on her mouth, and then broke off, grinning as he tapped the brim of her hat.

‘That’s a thoroughly cunning hat you’re wearing.’

‘Cunning?’

‘No one can see me kissing you.’

Lost in his embrace, loving the feel of his muscular arms around her, his lips on hers, the rest of the world faded away.

Standing a few hundred yards away, Agnes pulled her goggles back over her eyes. Nobody must see the moistness in her eyes. Nobody must suspect she was close to tears.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her ears. ‘Know your place, my girl. Theirs is to live in big houses and have all the good things of life; yours is to wait on table, cook for them or scrub the floors.’

She felt a fool for loving Robert. Blinded by her own infatuation, she had chosen to ignore the loving looks he and Lydia had exchanged from the very first moment they’d met, the colour in Lydia’s face, the obvious way their hands brushed together, the closeness of her hip against his.

Seething with bitterness, she realised that everything her mother and grandmother had warned her about was true. There was a big divide between the classes. The world had not yet changed enough to alter that despite all the assurances given her by Sir Avis. And perhaps it never will, she thought to herself.

On a whim she headed for that part of the stable yard used as a garage, pulling her helmet off and sliding her scarf down from her face.

She hadn’t expected anyone to be in the garage, everyone having headed for the field and the landing of the aeroplane.

Tears threatened and her face was hot. It wouldn’t take much for her to burst out crying. She ground her teeth in an effort to keep the tears at bay whilst telling herself that only sissies cried and she wasn’t a sissy. She never had been. Never would be.

The door of the garage was heavy and it took a lot of effort to push it open. She eyed the one remaining car with sadness. Sir Avis had kept three cars. His widow saw no point in keeping three. She didn’t love cars; to her they were merely a convenience for getting around. One sufficed.

The air inside the garage no longer held any vestige of the smell of horse fodder. There was only the smell of oil and grease, smells that she breathed in with great pleasure.

Running her hand along the bonnet of Sir Avis’s favourite car, she reflected on all the things he’d said to her, how she could be anything she wanted to be if she applied herself with dedication and determination. She’d hung on to his every word and regularly reminisced about those precious moments he’d spent with her. Sir Avis had made her feel important and fired her up with dreams of what she could achieve. On reflection, never once had he mentioned marriage to Robert being achievable. Everything had been about her being independent and rising above the circumstances of her birth.

He’d never admitted to being her father, but then he didn’t need to. She knew now that her mother had never been married to anyone called Thomas Stacey; in fact, he’d never existed. All she did know was that Sir Avis had filled that particular spot in her life and she would never forget him.

A slight sound, another smell and a shadow moved just to the right of her peripheral vision. She looked in the direction of the sound.

‘I’ve just finished polishing that car and would be obliged if you removed your mucky hand.’

Thompson the chauffeur emerged from the shadows. Agnes scowled at him. ‘I see you’re as welcoming as ever, Thompson. Been drinking, have you?’

News that Thompson had turned to drink following Megan the maid’s having ended their relationship after meeting and marrying a soldier had reached Myrtle Street. ‘None of your bloody business.’

He jammed a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and lit it.

‘Better be careful, Thompson. Petrol and fire are a dangerous combination. Worse still when alcohol is added.’

‘What you talking about, you silly cow?’

His voice was slurred, his eyes glazed and yellow tinged. The lips that held the cigarette were wet and his jaw sagged slightly.

Agnes thought how grotesque he looked – untidy too. ‘I’m saying you’re likely to set the whole place on fire if you’re not careful.’

‘None of your bloody business,’ he said again.

‘No. Perhaps not. But it is Mr Robert’s business. This house will pass to him when the old girl is dead and buried.’

Thompson sneered. ‘Well, you won’t be ’ere, now will ya? The old lady don’t want you ’ere, you and yer mother. I’d get going if I was you.’

Agnes folded her arms and stood with legs braced, holding her chin defiantly.

‘You gonna throw me out, Thompson?’ she asked, her eyes glaring fiercely. ‘You and whose army?’

His sneer widened.

‘No point in bein’ ’asty. That’s what I says. You ain’t so precious now the old man’s not around. Not his darling little girl any more.’

‘If he was still around, he would have sent you packing by now.’

Thompson shook his head and chuckled. ‘Well, you was the one sent packing. Bet that surprised your mother. I reckon she was bankin’ on the old man leavin’ you a bit in ’is will then you and ’er would ’ave been set up for life.’

Agnes felt her face colouring up. She was grateful Thompson had taught her to drive the car when she was very young, but that was only under forbearance. Sir Avis had instructed him to do so.

‘You wouldn’t speak to me like that if Sir Avis was still alive!’

‘Course I wouldn’t. That was back when we was all expectin’ ’im to admit you was ’is daughter. But ’e didn’t, did ’e? Never said a bloody thing!’

The smell of engines, petrol and cigarette smoke all combined to make a heady brew that was suffocating.

‘Hey. How about you stay and we can talk about motor cars. I’ll give you a cigarette. Give you something more besides if you fancy it. So! Do you fancy me, Agnes?’

Agnes paused by the door, turned and threw him a look of utter contempt.

‘I would never stoop so low.’

‘Excuse me, but I think the boot should be on t’other foot! My father married my mother. Yours didn’t!’

June, 1914

Sarah Stacey was at the range stirring a mutton stew when Agnes arrived back at the house in Myrtle Street.