Leaves Before the Storm Page 2

  ‘I’ll sing very, very softly,’ promised Dottie.

  Megan entered the church on Arthur’s arm. He was walking with his crutches and only Megan knew how much pain this caused him, but he insisted. ‘I’m not going to take my sister up the aisle in a wheelchair,’ he said.

  As they paused in the doorway for Arthur to get his breath back, the first thunderous chords of The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba echoed through the church and Megan felt a thrill of triumph sweep through her. She’d done it. She was about to become Mrs Henry Lockwood, mistress of Folly House. The entire village was there dressed in their Sunday best, the men’s suits too tight and shiny at the seams, the women’s hats overflowing with flowers, ribbons and feathers.

  They turned with one accord to look at her. Megan knew she looked beautiful. The simple oyster-satin dress cut on the cross clung to every curve of her slender body, a million seed pearls glimmered in the light from the windows, and the creamy white veil covering her face gave an air of mystery.

  Henry too turned towards her. He was the most handsome man in the church. His fair hair gleamed in the light sliding through the narrow slit of the chancel window as he smiled at her. She was aware of other people smiling, but it was only Henry whom Megan had eyes for. He was the man she was marrying.

  When they reached the altar steps her father moved forward, solemn and dignified in his surplice and cassock. He always seemed taller in stature in church, and possessed a florid handsomeness, which made ageing almost a compliment. His dark hair streaked with silver added to the air of distinction, and when he began the service the timbre of his baritone voice rang through the church with august resonance.

  The wedding breakfast was a small affair; neither the Lockwoods or the Elliotts came from large families, therefore it was decided to use the gold drawing room and the rose dining room, opening the connecting wooden doors between the two rooms. The windows looked out onto the lawn, which stretched down to the shore with the distant view of the Isle of Wight. By the time the guests arrived back from church it was exceptionally warm and the guests spilled out through the wide French windows into the garden with their champagne and canapés. The casual help from the village, mostly cousins of Tilly as well as Tilly herself, were kept busy. Meanwhile a perspiring Bertha and her niece Milly, plus Amy from the rectory, the only people she would trust in the kitchen, made sure the dining area was laid out perfectly and all the food prepared. Bertha wouldn’t let anyone carve any of the meats; in her opinion no one could carve properly except herself, and therefore no one was allowed to touch the assembled joints of beef, ham and pork.

  The meats were assembled on the enormous rosewood sideboard and Bertha was just finishing paring the crackling from the pork when Henry came in to see how things were going.

  ‘Give me five minutes,’ said Bertha to Henry’s enquiry. ‘And I’ll get Tilly to sound the gong for the guests to come in.’

  Henry, always irritated by anything less than perfect efficiency when it came to organization, found himself wishing he’d listened to Gerald’s advice and hired a professional company from London to do the catering. Now, he said without thinking, ‘Oh dear, perhaps this is all too much for you, Bertha.’

  ‘Too much for me!’ Bertha raised a beetroot-red face and glowered at him. ‘I’m enjoying it.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll wait for the gong then.’ Henry backed out, accepting defeat. ‘But you will give the guests five minutes to be seated won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Bertha sounded even more affronted. ‘I knows what to do, Master Henry.’

  Henry paused in the doorway. ‘Bertha, you can’t go on calling me Master Henry now I’m a married man and master of the house. You must call me Mr Lockwood, Mr Henry or Sir.’

  Bertha fixed him with a steely eye. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said.

  Henry rejoined the rest of the guests, wondering how it was that the word sir hadn’t sounded polite at all.

  Gerald joined him, puffing rather ostentatiously on a large cigar. ‘When is lunch going to be served?’

  Henry pulled a face. ‘When Bertha decides it’s ready,’ he said.

  Gerald snorted. ‘The trouble with the Jones family is they’re treated almost like friends. I keep my servants’ noses to the grindstone, and they are certainly not my friends.’

  ‘And they don’t stay with you for long. I’ve heard they never stay for more than a few months,’ replied Henry.

  Gerald flung himself down bad-temperedly on a garden seat. ‘So what? Plenty more where they came from. All willing to work for a few shillings. I shall make good use of them now; they won’t be around once the war starts. Cannon fodder, all of them.’

  ‘Let us hope that we can avoid war,’ said Henry. ‘The politicians are trying hard enough to avoid it.’

  Gerald laughed and stubbed out his cigar. ‘As far as I am concerned war is a money-maker. The more fear and chaos there is in Europe and the rest of the world, the more armaments I can sell. Business is good.’

  Henry stared at his brother, impotent anger boiling up inside him. ‘In my view the political situation in Europe is a tragedy. People are suffering. The Nazi regime is disgusting.’

  ‘Depends on your point of view.’ Gerald was unrepentant. ‘Personally I admire their talent for organization. We could do with a bit of that here in England. The government is bloody useless. Besides money is power and I intend to accumulate both.’

  Henry didn’t reply, he just walked away across the lawn towards the shore. Adam left the other guests and joined him, and they walked to the water’s edge side by side.

  ‘The lawn looks beautiful,’ said Adam, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘It’s been especially mowed by George Jones to within an inch of its life,’ replied Henry with a wry smile. He’d seen George the day before going up and down with the mower, practically measuring the lengths of the blades of grass.

  Now it looked like green velvet, stretching in neat stripes down to the tamarisk bushes, their pink fronds fluttering in the gentle breeze. The stone walls of the folly glinted in the afternoon sun. Such a peaceful scene, thought Henry, so far removed from the upheaval across the channel, where people were piling their belongings on to carts, prams and bicycles, anything with wheels, and moving themselves and their families to what they hoped were safer places. Poor devils, he thought. Henry was a pacifist at heart, and couldn’t imagine himself going to war.

  ‘Such a peaceful scene,’ said Adam, echoing his thoughts.

  ‘Yes, England is safe for the moment,’ said Henry slowly. ‘All because of that reassuring strip of water separating us from the anarchy of other lands. But maybe not for long.’

  Adam walked slowly to the water’s edge and threw his cigarette stub into the sea. ‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve been accepted into the Royal Air Force as a pilot. I begin my training next week in Essex.’

  Astounded, Henry joined him at the water’s edge. ‘But what about your new play in London? It’s only just started. What about your career? Everything?’

  ‘Everything is different now,’ said Adam, lighting another cigarette and inhaling slowly. ‘You are married, so there’s nothing to hold me in London apart from the theatre. There will definitely be a war soon, we all know that, and I want to defend my country against the Nazis. I shall come back to the theatre when the war is over.’

  ‘But you don’t have to do anything as drastic as joining the Air Force. You could do something else. Join the Civil Defence, like me.’

  Adam laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he told Henry. ‘I haven’t got organizational or medical skills like you. I’d be useless. But flying, that’s a different matter. I’m damned sure I can give the Nazis something to worry about.’ He leaned against the barnacles on an ancient breakwater, got out another cigarette, then threw the packet to Henry.

  Henry felt shocked. Suddenly the war seemed ominously close. To disguise his unease he lit a cigarette, then said, ‘
I’ll miss you. I won’t have anyone to talk to.’

  ‘You’ll have Megan.’ Adam carefully blew a smoke ring and looked at Henry through the wavering, fragile circle of blue as it disappeared.

  ‘I can’t talk about anything serious to her. Nor Lavinia. They both are only interested in the house and village. Neither is interested in life outside East End and Stibbington, and neither is willing to acknowledge that war is imminent.’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘I supposed it’s because they are women.’

  ‘Maybe,’ agreed Adam. ‘But it’s the way things are. We have to accept it. That’s why I’m joining the Air Force.’

  ‘I’ll miss you.’

  Adam laughed. ‘Just wait until you see me in my blue uniform. I’ll be so handsome you’ll be green with envy, because all the women will be throwing themselves at my feet.’

  Henry grinned. ‘No change there then,’ he said.

  They stood smoking in silence, then Adam said. ‘It’s not surprising no one thinks about impending war down here. It’s so different from London.’

  Henry nodded. ‘Yes, Megan hated what she saw in London when she came up for the fitting of her wedding dress. She couldn’t believe it was necessary to dig trenches in the London parks, or that huge barrage balloons should be flown everywhere. She said it looked as if the sky was full of elephants.’

  ‘But they’re having Anderson shelters in the gardens here,’ Adam reminded him. ‘You’ve got two in the kitchen garden if I’m not mistaken, and everyone has got their gas masks.’

  ‘George Jones is using the shelters as an extension to his potting shed,’ Henry said wryly, throwing his lighted cigarette butt into the sea. ‘And the gas masks are gathering dust in the hall.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by Gerald, who offered Henry a cigar, but he waved it away. ‘Best quality there is,’ said Gerald, snipping the end off and lighting it. ‘I import them from Havana.’ He drew on it expertly. ‘Funny,’ he said regarding Henry through a pall of cigar smoke. ‘I never thought of you as the marrying type. And then to marry little Megan from the vicarage: that’s a turn up for the books. Although I must say she’s turned out to be a stunner and not so little any more.’

  ‘Everyone has to settle down at some time or another,’ said Henry. ‘Besides, I want a son. Someone to inherit the house.’ He didn’t add otherwise you will get it, but he knew Gerald was thinking that too.

  Gerald inhaled deeply on his cigar. ‘Ha! Not exactly a love match, then?’

  ‘Of course I love her,’ said Henry quickly. ‘Anyway what exactly do you mean by a love match?

  ‘Dunno,’ sniffed Gerald. ‘Overrated term, if you ask me. But I suppose it means overwhelming passion, can’t live without the woman in question. Can’t say I’ve ever felt it myself. Overwhelming passion, yes. But once I’ve bedded a woman I lose interest. By the way, have you and Megan…?

  ‘No,’ said Henry quickly. ‘Megan is not that sort of girl. I’m marrying a virgin.’

  Gerald gave a lecherous laugh. ‘Tonight should be fun then.’

  They were interrupted by the gong sounding loudly as Tilly came out of the French windows. It was time to go in for the wedding breakfast.

  A rosepink sunset heralded the end of the day. Tilly and the girls flitted around the departing guests, gathering together empty champagne glasses, while Megan and Henry circulated, saying goodbye and thanking everyone for their gifts. Then they went into the kitchen to thank Bertha and all her staff.

  The staff stood in a row, Bertha at their head. They were all red in the face but beaming with pleasure. ‘It’s been a long hot day for you,’ said Henry. ‘My wife,’ he turned to Megan who blushed, it was the first time he’d called her that, ‘and I, thank you from the bottom of our hearts for making our day absolutely perfect.’

  ‘And we have a little thank you to give you,’ said Megan. Henry passed her some envelopes and she distributed them. One for each girl and Bertha.

  Dottie tore hers open immediately. She held up a pound note in one hand and a shilling piece in the other. ‘A guinea,’ she said gasped. ‘I’ve never been paid so much before.’

  Everyone else had the same except Bertha who when she opened hers discovered that she had three guineas. Her face went an even darker shade of puce. ‘What can I say,’ she stuttered.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Henry firmly. ‘You deserve it. All the guests agreed that the food was worthy of the Ritz in London. You should be very proud.’

  Megan felt proud too. Henry was generous to a fault. He was a marvellous husband. She knew she was going to be very happy at Folly House. They linked arms and left the kitchen to a round of applause.

  As they walked back through the gold room and out on to the darkening lawn which was now empty of guests, Adam appeared. Henry dropped Megan’s arm immediately and moved across to Adam. ‘I’m taking the Daimler and dropping Adam off at Stibbington station now,’ he said to Megan over his shoulder. ‘He’s got to get back to London tonight.

  Megan stared at him. Surely he couldn’t leave her now, not on their wedding night? Couldn’t someone else take Adam to the station? Then common sense kicked in. Of course, Adam was joining the Air Force, it was only natural that Henry wanted to say goodbye to his friend. Stifling her disappointment she smiled meekly as Henry kissed her. ‘Of course,’ she said, holding out her hand to Adam. ‘Goodbye and good luck.’

  Adam took her hand and, bending low, kissed it. ‘Goodbye and good luck to you,’ he said, and as he raised his eyes Megan shivered at the bleakness she saw there. His grey eyes were cold, like stones. Adam didn’t like her. Well, did it matter? She tried to tell herself that it did not, but was not convinced.

  ‘Won’t be long, darling,’ said Henry.

  Lavinia was the last to leave. She unbuttoned Megan upstairs in the bedroom she was to share with Henry. ‘Tilly’s much too busy washing up,’ she said, ‘and I don’t want any of them dropping my precious china.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Do you want me to stay, dear?’ she asked.

  Megan shook her head.

  Lavinia looked at her watch again and tutted. ‘Adam must be on the train by now. It really is too bad of Henry to leave you alone tonight, of all nights.’

  ‘I think he’s upset that Adam is joining the Air Force,’ said Megan.

  Lavinia sighed. ‘It’s the coming war,’ she said, ‘disrupting our lives before it’s even begun.’

  ‘Don’t stay,’ said Megan quickly. ‘I’m all right.’ So Lavinia left.

  Megan was alone, wishing she could join the servants down in the kitchen. She could hear the clink of glasses and laughter. To fill in the time she took a rose-scented bath before slipping into a cool white satin nightdress with a matching gauzy negligee. The woman who looked back at her from the mirror was tall and slender, with a cloud of dark hair surrounding a pale, anxious face.

  Thinking she heard the sound of a car on the gravel she went downstairs to greet Henry. But no one was there. Restless and even more nervous now, she lit a cigarette and stepped out of the French windows into the garden. Dew on the lawn soaked through her satin slippers, but Megan didn’t notice. Without thinking she drifted towards the folly, where a sea mist was swirling over the gently lapping waves on the shore. It eddied around the walls and tower of the folly, clinging in shifting shapes and forms, and closing around her like a mysterious blanket.

  Leaning against the rough stone wall of the folly Megan drew on her cigarette, watching the red pinprick of light at the end of her cigarette glow in the darkness. A thin sliver of a crescent moon gave a cold light.

  She felt alone and unwanted. What had happened to her dream? A hot tear trickled down her cold cheek; she wiped it away with the back of her hand and sniffed.

  ‘Here, take this.’ A hand materialized out of the darkness and proffered a large, white, man’s handkerchief.

  The next moment she felt the warm bulk of a man’s body pressed close beside her. ‘Gerald,’ she gasped. ‘What are you doi
ng here?’

  ‘I might ask you the same question.’

  ‘I’m waiting for Henry.’ As she stuttered her reply she turned towards him. The next moment she was in his arms. They were warm and comforting and involuntarily Megan relaxed in his embrace.

  ‘What a fool Henry is.’ Gerald’s voice was rough.

  The next moment his mouth found hers. I’m married. I’m married to Henry. To Henry. The words echoed through her head but they didn’t stop her responding to Gerald’s urgent, demanding mouth.

  Everything was forgotten. Nothing mattered but the overwhelming feeling surging through her, obliterating everything else. Kisses became more urgent. Suddenly she was lying naked on Gerald’s jacket. She heard herself groaning as she clasped her hands behind his neck, pulling his face down to hers, pulling his whole body down, down, down, deeper and deeper. They were moving together in an ecstatic frenzy. Crying out, she wanted it to go on forever, but it was over too soon, leaving them both breathing hard, and lying tightly locked together. Then Gerald’s mouth closed over hers once more, this time in a long, luxurious, lingering kiss that left a delicious feeling in the pit of her stomach. At last, content, they lay in each other’s arms.

  ‘You should have married me,’ said Gerald at last. ‘I told you I’d be rich, but you didn’t wait.’

  His words brought Megan back to reality. To reality and the enormity of what had just happened. I’ve betrayed Henry. I’ve made love with his brother. Panic-stricken, she grabbed her nightclothes. ‘I shouldn’t have, I shouldn’t have,’ she muttered feverishly.

  Gerald sat up and lit a cigarette. ‘No, you shouldn’t,’ he agreed, then laughed softly. ‘But by God, it was worth it. I can’t wait until the next time.’

  ‘There won’t be a next time. I don’t know what came over me.’ She started to leave, but Gerald was too quick for her.