WOODICOMBE HOUSE TRILOGY BOOK 3

The Soldier's Return

Chapter One

The Telegram

Kate Channer let out a long sigh. Her afternoon at St. Ursula’s had been a busy one and now, standing beneath the porch of number twelve, Hartland Street, hunting about in her handbag for her door key, all she wanted to do was sit down somewhere quiet with a nice cup of tea. Quiet? Huh. Little chance of that! The moment she stepped over this threshold, all hope of even a moment to herself would go straightout of the window.

Finally locating her key, she opened the door and paused to listen. Sure enough, from along the hallway came shrieks of delight and towards her hurtled a blur of rose-sprigged pinafore dress and dark ringlets that only halted when it smacked – ouf! – straight into her legs.

‘Aunty Kay! Aunty Kay!’

With a warm smile, and reaching over the little girl’s head, Kate deposited her handbag on the hall table. Oh, to be so full of beans. ‘Yes, hello there, Esme.’

‘Swing, Aunty Kay! Swing!’

There being no point refusing, Kate gave up unbuttoning her jacket, scooped the child up from the floor and then whirled her around in a circle. ‘There,’ she said, setting her back down again, ‘big swing for my favourite girl.’

Disoriented, and clearly giddy, the child teetered about for a moment before turning back to grasp Kate’s skirt. ‘Again, Aunty Kay! Again.’

This time, Kate shook her head; one turn at that was quite enough for both of them. ‘No, no more, lovey. That’s all for now.’

As it usually did, the commotion of her arrival brought Naomi through from the drawing room. ‘Esme, darling,’ she said, moving to smooth a hand over her daughter’s hair, ‘poor Aunty Kate’s tired. She’s been volunteering at St. Ursula’s all afternoon.’

‘No! Not tired. Aunty Kay come play.’

With Esme now tugging at her skirt, Kate nevertheless finished unbuttoning her jacket, slipped it off her shoulders and then reached to hang it from its hook.

‘Esme, please let go of Aunty Kate’s skirt,’ Naomi chided. ‘There’s a good girl.’ Then, turning back to Kate, she asked, ‘Busy afternoon?’

‘Busy and then some. Marjorie was at the War Office again, hoping to nab someone about these latest delays to the widows’ pensions, leaving meto go about things in a manner of my own devising.’

‘Hm. One can only hope that thistime, the War Office listened to her.’

‘Can only hope they see fit to get off their backsides – forgive my language – and dosomething, more like.’

‘Well, mythoughts on the matter have always been plain,’ Naomi said, bending to peel her daughter’s fingers away from Kate’s skirt. ‘Had it been menwaiting to receive payment for the loss of their wives’ incomes, then this whole business would have been resolved years ago.’

Kate couldn’t disagree. The state of affairs was pitiful, families who’d lost their breadwinners were faced with having to get by on handouts and charity. ‘And what about yourafternoon?’ she asked, reaching to peg her felt hat over an empty coat hook.

‘Oh, nothing out of the ordinary. A certain little girl refused to go up for her nap again, asking instead to go the park.’

Hm. When it came to Esme – and what she did or did not want to do – Naomi always seemed rather swift to give in. But it was easy, one step removed, to criticise; shehadn’t been through what Naomi had. Suffering that miscarriage, especially with Mr Lawrence being away at the front, had really knocked Naomi for six. Such a blessing when they’d been brought an orphaned new-born to fill the void – and so soon afterwards, too.

Almost disbelieving at how things had turned out, she let out a little sigh. Hard to believe all that business was three years ago now. Hard to think Esme had ever been that tiny. Or that Mr Lawrence should instantly have taken to her, too. To see them together now, no one would ever imagine that they she and Naomi weren’t naturally mother and daughter. Esme even mimicked Naomi’s pout when she didn’t get her own way. Look at her, the little madam.

‘You’re very naughty, Esme,’ she said, affecting mock displeasure and staring down at the little face looking sheepishly back at her. ‘You must do as your mamma says.’

‘Anyway, I told her,’ Naomi picked up again, ‘that if she wants to be treated like a big girl, then she must act like one and, at bedtime, must go straight upstairs – no whining and no fuss. In fact, another five minutes and I’ll take her up and get her washed – she does look awfully tired.’

Was it that time already? She glanced to the grandfather clock. Heavens, yes, it was almost six. Where hadthe day gone? Turning to the cupboard for her apron, she reckoned a list of her chores; foremost being those she hadn’t got around to this morning while Naomi had been out doing her own volunteering, driving an ambulance for St. George’s hospital. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘And as soon as I’ve seen to the dusting in the drawing room, I’ll pop down and make a start on supper.’

Nodding her understanding, Naomi returned her attention to her daughter. ‘Five more minutes, young lady, and then it’s bath time.’

When Esme scampered back to the drawing room, and Naomi followed, Kate let out a weary sigh. Given the afternoon she’d had, the last thing she felt like doing was dusting. But, for one reason or another, this morning she’d got all behind. So, although her feet were throbbing, and, in her skull, it felt as though a dozen blacksmiths were forging enough horseshoes for an entire cavalry regiment, there was no way around it: she had to get on. Naomi might be her half-sister – and treat her as such for most of the time – but she also employed her to run her home. And household chores did notsee to themselves.

Rappity-tap-tap.

Neither, sadly, did people knocking at the door.

She shook her head in dismay; pound to a penny it would be children again, daring each other in a game of Knock Down Ginger. Coming along the street just now she’d spotted a couple of ragamuffins up to no good behind the knife grinder’s barrow; more than likely it was them larking about, the little devils.

Rap-a-tap-tap.

Yes, yes, patience, for heaven’s sake.

Having fastened the strings of her apron about her waist, she reached to open the door. On the other side was a small boy with dark-ringed eyes and an ashen face. Bringing her hands to her hips, she tutted. Hadn’t his friends told him that the point of the game was to rattle the knocker and then run away as fast as your legs would carry you?

On the point of giving him short shrift, though, something stopped her. Glinting on the collar of his navy-blue jacket was a brass badge. Oh, dear Lord, this was no street urchin: this was the telegram boy. And the only news that came by telegram these days was the sort every wife dreaded.

Meeting her stare, the child offered an envelope towards her. ‘Telegram for Mrs Lawrence Colborne.’

She exhaled heavily. Mrs Lawrence Colborne. NotMrs Luke Channer. It wasn’t about Luke. No, but it wasabout Mr Lawrence.

Her heart thudding in her chest, she released her grip on the door frame. ‘Wait there,’ she said to the child. ‘W-wait right there.’

With the sensation that her legs might buckle beneath her, she lurched towards the drawing room and peered in. On the rug was Esme, her toy tea-service set out in front of her, several of her dolls propped up nearby. Poor love: still short of her third birthday and yet already so many people had been taken from her. Well, if it turned out that something hadhappened to her new papa, then at least she was probably too young to understand it. Or even to properly miss him.

Sadly, the same couldn’t be said of Naomi; shewas going to be devastated.

‘Right then,’ Naomi chose that moment to rise from the sofa and say, ‘come along Esme, it’s time for your – good heavens, Kate, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

Kate closed her eyes. This was it. No matter how carefully she chose her words, nothing was going to soften the blow. ‘There’s um… a telegram… come for you.’

In an instant, Naomi was pushing past her, the heels of her shoes clack-clacking upon the tiled floor of the hallway as she ran to the door.

‘Mrs Lawrence Colborne?’

‘Yes, yes. I am she.’

‘Telegram for you, ma’am. Will there be a reply?’

Back along the hallway, grasping the door frame for support, Kate straightened up. A reply? The boy wanted to know if there would be a reply? Then it couldn’tbe as she had feared, because telegrams starting with the words Deeply regret to inform youbore a special mark on the envelope to warn the delivery boy that he carried bad news – the sort for which there couldn’t possibly bea reply. Yes, Marjorie Randolph had told her that. And she was never wrong about anything.

Exhaling with relief for the second time in as many minutes, she sank back against the wall. Well, if it wasn’t bad news, then what was it? What else could be so urgent as to necessitate the sending of a telegram?

In the doorway, Naomi was still attending to the delivery boy.

‘No. No reply for the present,’ she heard her say, her tone giving away nothing of her thoughts as she reached into the bowl on the side table for a coin, pressed it into the child’s hand, and then closed the door.

Watching her slit open the envelope and pull out the message, Kate held her breath. But, when all Naomi did was stand and stare down at it, unable to wait, she leant across and snatched the chit of paper from between her fingers.

LT EDWIN RUSSELL INJURED. MOUNT EDEN HOSPITAL DOVER.

Ned. It was about Ned. He was in a hospital in Dover. Dover: why did she know that name? Oh, yes: the ambulance train at the Victoria rest station that day – that had come from there. Instantly, the scene from that morning, with all of its horror and its gore, came flooding back to her, the groaning from the wounded men and the stench of their blood and vomit as vivid now as it had been then.

‘Ned,’ she breathed, the news slow to register. Not Naomi’s husband at all, but her brother.

‘Yes,’ Naomi whispered. ‘Ned.’

Staring down at the telegram, she found her eyes drawn back to the word that had first caught her attention. Injured. How was it possible for a word of so few letters to cause so much alarm and yet, at the same time, say so little? Was he, for instance, badlyinjured? Were his injuries mortal, or had he just suffered a few bumps and grazes requiring little more than ointment and bandages? As his next of kin, were they, or were they not, to fear for his life? This curt little missive told them next to nothing.

‘At least he’s alive,’ she said, trying to swallow down the panic that was tightening her throat.

Beside her, Naomi stiffened. ‘Mamma and Papa!’ she exclaimed. ‘I must go and tell them… and telephone this Mount Eden place – find out what happened… find out how he is.’

Oh dear, yes, of course. When Ned had joined the Royal Flying Corps, rather than give his parents as his next of kin he had given his sister, meaning that poor Naomi now had the task of going to tell Mr and Mrs Russell.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You must go.’

‘Yes. Look… can you see to Esme for me?’

‘’C-Course,’ Kate replied, attributing the chattering of her teeth to shock. ‘And I’ll keep something warm for you.’ Catching sight of Naomi’s frown, she went on, ‘In case you’re hungry when you get back.’

Uncertainly, Naomi nodded. ‘Yes. Very well. Although I can’t say when that will be…’

‘No matter.’ Poor Naomi, she looked as though she’d had all the stuffing knocked out of her, her face blanched to the colour of linens dipped in blueing. ‘I’ll make sure to keep something for you anyway.’

Seemingly unable to decide what to do next, Naomi stood, glancing about the hallway. ‘Look, if I go up and fetch my mac and my handbag and what-not, would you go along to the corner and flag down a cab for me? I shall be no more than two or three minutes at most.’

Relieved to have something to take her mind from speculating about Ned’s condition, Kate nodded. ‘I’ll go dreckly.’ On her tongue lingered the words and try not to worry,but where was the point in uttering something as half-baked as that? Until Naomi learned the extent of her brother’s injuries, she was bound to fret. And, she, Kate, would do the same. Ned might only be her half-sibling but she still loved him dearly. So, all she could do for the moment was try to remain calm, try to make things seem normal for Esme, and then pray that when Naomi returned with news, it wasn’t of the sort she had begun to fear.

***

copyright Rosie Meddon 2019