Coming Home to Island House Read online

  ‘Please don’t make a fuss,’ Mum had said, trying to calm her. ‘It was only a doll.’

  ‘No it wasn’t!’ Florence had wailed. ‘She was a special doll because that nice man won her for me.’

  Mum had put her arm around her and told her that she had to remember that today had been a secret day, and she mustn’t ever mention it to her brothers or her father. It was later, when she was in bed that night listening to her father yelling at her mother, that Florence remembered something important – she hadn’t lost the doll; Mum had. Mum had been carrying it for her because Florence was so tired. Had she deliberately lost it? Would it have spoilt the secret if they’d brought it home with them?

  She never got the chance to ask, because the next day her mother fell down the stairs. Well, that was what she said she had done, but Florence knew that the bruises to her poor battered face had not been caused by a careless tumble. Two days later, Mum disappeared.

  In the days and weeks that followed, Florence would often hear the neighbours talking on their doorsteps about her mother. Some said she’d run off and good luck to her; others thought she was more likely dead, her old man’s temper having finally got the better of him. Florence had always hoped that she had run off; that wherever she was, she was happy. Maybe she was with that nice man they’d met at the fair. But then she’d think of the misery of her own life after her mother had disappeared and her heart would harden.

  Ahead of her she saw a small midnight-blue tent with stars and a moon painted on it. There was a sign attached to it bearing the words ‘Fortune Teller – Gypsy Rose-Marie.’ Florence looked at it sceptically. It was probably just someone from the village dressed up to look like a gypsy who you paid to stare into a crystal ball, or who would make up some rubbish from looking at your palm. Odds on Florence would be told that she would meet a tall, dark and handsome stranger – who she would marry and then discover he was nothing but a brute, and they’d have lots of children, one after the other, like her poor mother. If that was her future, no thank you!

  But curiosity made her waver. What if the gypsy woman was genuine and could really see what the future held? The next thing she knew, she was parting the flaps of the tent and stepping inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the stuffy darkness, and she jumped when a cackling old voice told her to sit down. ‘Come on, dearie, don’t keep me waiting.’

  The voice came from the other side of a small round table covered with a heavy brocade cloth. Illuminated by a single flickering candle was the most gnarled and wrinkled old woman Florence had ever set eyes on. Her head was swathed in a scarf with what looked like gold coins sewn along the edge, and draped over her shoulders was a black shawl.

  ‘Please tell me I’m going to meet a tall, dark and very handsome stranger one day,’ Florence said nervously. She might just as well enter into the spirit of the thing; after all, this old crone of a woman couldn’t be genuine, could she?

  The woman gave her a terrifyingly severe look in the candlelight. ‘You’ve come in here to mock me, have you? You may live to regret that. Give me your penny, and then your hand.’ She stuck out one of hers, gold bangles jangling on her scrawny wrist. She took the coin Florence offered and hid it somewhere in the folds of her skirt.

  The woman’s fingers were dry and rough as she snatched hold of Florence’s hand, but surprisingly cool given how hot and fusty it was inside the small tent. Florence began to consider the possibility that she might actually be a real gypsy; she certainly had the sort of face that looked like it had spent most of its life outside in all weathers. She even had a gold tooth, and hooked through her ear lobes were gold-hooped rings, which caught the light from the candle when she moved.

  A long bony finger traced a line on the palm of Florence’s hand. ‘I see a long life ahead for you,’ she said in a raspy tone. ‘It won’t be an easy life, though. You’ll have many obstacles to overcome. You’ll find love and you’ll lose love. Now then, this is interesting. I see … I see a woman … a woman with red hair …’ She raised her dark eyes to Florence’s. ‘Red hair just like yours.’ She dropped her gaze back down again. ‘This woman … you haven’t seen her in a long time—’

  Florence snatched her hand away. ‘You’re making this up!’

  ‘Am I, dearie? And why would I do that?’

  ‘Because … because that’s what people like you do.’

  The woman laughed scornfully. ‘That’s what all unbelievers say. If you don’t want to hear the truth, don’t waste my time. Be off with you!’

  Florence couldn’t get away fast enough from the old witch. She emerged from the tent into the bright sunshine breathless and close to tears. It was just a lucky shot in the dark, nothing more than that – Florence’s own hair was red, so it made sense that somebody close to her would also have the same colour hair. Anyone could have guessed at that.

  Her heart beating fast, she was practically running when she crashed full tilt into Billy Minton. ‘Hey, what’s the hurry?’ he asked, catching her by the arm.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, flustered and feeling foolish. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

  ‘You okay?’ he said with a frown of concern. ‘You look properly ruffled. Did something upset you in the fortune-telling tent?’

  ‘How did you know I was in there?’

  ‘I saw you go in. Plain as daylight.’

  ‘Well I wish I hadn’t,’ she said hotly. ‘The old hag in there shouldn’t be allowed to take hard-earned money and then tell lies to innocent folk. She’s nothing but a charlatan.’

  Billy laughed. ‘She’s here every year – she’s a rum ol’ gal and no mistake. She once told my gran that she was going to have an accident, and sure enough she fell down the cellar steps that very evening.’

  ‘Was she all right?’ asked Florence.

  He laughed again. ‘Yes, she was right as rain until she died quite peacefully in her sleep the following year. Fancy trying your luck on the coconut shy with me?’

  ‘Aren’t you needed in the band?’

  ‘We’ve a short break before we have to play again. I’ll stand you a go on the coconut shy if you come and listen to me play later. I’ve got a solo,’ he added with obvious pride.

  Her mood lightened and she smiled. ‘Go on then, why not?’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ he said.

  The combination of his words and his taking her hand made Florence’s heart, which had only just settled, skip a beat.

  But then like a shadow passing across the sun, the gypsy woman’s words echoed in her head: You’ll find love and you’ll lose love.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Arthur had been drinking steadily since his stepmother had given that toe-curlingly awful speech about his father and declared the fete open. Could she have been any more nauseatingly sentimental?

  Everything about the fete was just as Arthur had known it would be; nothing had changed since he’d attended as a boy – tombola, hoopla, tug of war, donkey rides, country dancing, best dog in show, sack races. It was pathetically unsophisticated entertainment for the pathetically unsophisticated. At least the up side was that as an adult he could drink as much as he wanted instead of sneaking into the beer tent to help himself to somebody else’s glass while they weren’t looking.

  He’d been in the tent for over an hour, observing the comings and goings. Apart from a few women, it was mostly lads, and older men in their caps and rolled-up shirtsleeves. Every one of them had eyed him warily without actually looking him in the eye, and not a single one had spoken to him; most had actively given him a wide berth. Which suited him just fine. He was in no mood for small talk.

  It had been a ridiculous idea of Romily’s to insist they show a united front in the village. For what purpose? Who did she think they would be fooling? It was nothing but a pointless exercise. Or more precisely, on her part, an exercise
in divide-and-conquer warfare. For there was no doubt about it, she was already showing signs of winning the others round. In fact, he’d go so far as to say they were warming to her so much she’d be lucky to be rid of them when the week was up. More fool her!

  As for him, he’d be off just as soon as he’d fulfilled the requirements of his father’s will, heading back to town on the first available train. Better still, he’d make a detour to Wembley. By God, after being cooped up here, he’d have earned the right for a lengthy session of pleasure with Pamela. And there’d be no need to worry about Irene. With her safely up in Scotland with her family, he’d be able to indulge himself for a few days before she rejoined him at home. But what pleased him most was the satisfying prospect of coming into a great deal of money before too long. Life was definitely looking up. ‘Thank you, Father!’ he said aloud, causing those nearest him to look his way. He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Jack Devereux, who has proved to be a better father when dead. A shame he didn’t die sooner. What?’ he said when a cloth-capped old man tutted and shook his head.

  His glass now empty, he hauled himself up to go and order another beer and caught his foot on the leg of the table he was sitting at, nearly knocking it over. ‘Bloody stupid table!’ he cursed. Forcing his way through the crowd of men, who seemed to be making his passage deliberately difficult, he very nearly lost his balance again. Bloody stupid uneven ground, he thought angrily. Why couldn’t they flatten the field before erecting the ruddy tent?

  He had the makeshift bar within his sights when he missed his footing once more, and, finding the ground suddenly rising up towards him, reached out to steady himself. His hand met with something pleasingly soft and rounded, and coincided with a piercing scream coming from a girl directly in front of him. To his amusement, he saw that his hand was clamped over one of her breasts. For the sheer hell of it, he laughed and squeezed it hard, eliciting an even louder shriek. As well as a slap to his cheek.

  ‘Bitch!’ he exclaimed, as much out of disbelief as pain.

  ‘What did you just call ’er?’ demanded a voice from behind him.

  He turned to see a brute of a man staring down at him. He was an ugly, square-faced, square-necked Neanderthal beast who looked as stupid as he was big. ‘I called her a bitch, sir, if it’s any of your business,’ replied Arthur, staggering slightly.

  ‘It is my business,’ the beast roared. ‘She’s my girlfriend!’ And with that, he slammed a fist the size of a shovel into Arthur’s face. His legs instantly gave way beneath him, and the next thing he knew, he was on the ground, breathing in the smell of crushed grass. He scrabbled to get up, but a vicious boot aimed at his ribs, followed by another and another, knocked the last breath of air from his lungs.

  As he lay there with mocking laughter ringing out all around him, he heard a woman’s clear voice cut through the raucous jeers and laughter, and at once a silence fell on the crowd. A request was made to help him up, and it was only when he was on his feet, dizzy and spitting blood, that he realised the person who’d come to his aid was none other than his ruddy stepmother.

  ‘A misunderstanding,’ Romily repeated sarcastically as she applied a wad of cotton wool soaked in warm water to his face. ‘You really expect me to believe that?’

  He pushed her hand away. ‘I don’t give a damn what you believe. It doesn’t concern you anyway.’

  ‘Of course it concerns me,’ she said impatiently. ‘You’re a guest in my house. From what I hear, you were in your cups and behaved disgracefully, and you got what you deserved.’

  ‘A guest in your house,’ he repeated. ‘Finally you dispense with the veneer of courtesy and reveal your true colours. I knew it wouldn’t take you long to start rubbing my nose in your good fortune.’

  ‘An unfortunate choice of words, given the current state of your nose.’

  At the sound of the doorbell downstairs, Romily tossed the bloodied cotton wool into the bin beside the washbasin. ‘That’ll be Dr Garland,’ she said.

  ‘I told you there was no need to send for that quack.’

  Ignoring him, Romily hurriedly washed her hands and went to let the doctor in.

  ‘So good of you to come, Dr Garland,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid the patient is not in the best of humours.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll cope,’ he said. ‘How are you bearing up? It can’t be easy having a houseful right now.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about me, I’m fine. Unlike Arthur. I don’t think his nose is actually broken, but it’s certainly swollen and he may well have a couple of black eyes in the morning.’

  She led the way upstairs to the guest bathroom, where she’d left Arthur. When she pushed the door open, she found him with his shirt unbuttoned, examining the bruises on his body.

  ‘I want those louts arrested,’ he said, ‘and I want you to be my witness, Garland, that this is the state in which they left me.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to do that?’ asked Romily, before the doctor had a chance to say anything. ‘After all, there were plenty of witnesses in the beer tent who will all claim the same thing: that you were drunk and molested Bob Springer’s girlfriend, and he was doing nothing more than defending her honour.’

  Even with his horribly swollen face, the cold, hateful fury in Arthur’s expression was plain to see. ‘No pretence now at family loyalty and putting on a united front, then,’ he said. ‘I might have known.’

  ‘Think yourself lucky I stopped the beating when I did,’ snapped Romily. ‘Dr Garland, I’ll leave you to your patient.’

  Alone in the kitchen, Romily helped herself to a glass of Mrs Partridge’s home-made lemonade from the jug in the pantry and took it outside to the garden. She had lied earlier to Dr Garland. She did not feel fine. The burden of carrying on as normal this afternoon had left her completely drained. All that smiling and shaking hands and accepting yet more condolences had weighed heavily on her, and she had longed to escape back here to the sanctuary of Island House.

  She had just seized what she thought was a quiet moment in which to slip away unobtrusively when Mrs Bunch, who always seemed to know exactly what was going on, sometimes before it had even happened, came and told her that there was trouble in the beer tent: that Arthur was drunk and had got into a fight. Approaching the tent, Romily could hear people saying that he had brought it on himself and deserved the pasting he was getting.

  As tempting as it was to let the arrogant devil suffer the consequences of his folly, she couldn’t bring herself to turn her back on him. Jack had often said that Arthur was his own worst enemy; that if he could only channel his guile and intelligence into something of real worth, he’d be a lot more likeable. And perhaps happier in himself, thought Romily as she sipped at the cool, refreshing lemonade.

  It took no stretch of the imagination to conclude that the worst aspects of Arthur’s character very likely stemmed from the loss of his mother when he’d been three years of age. The same was probably true of Hope and Kit. Their entire childhood had been overshadowed by bereavement, if not their own, then Jack’s grief for Maud, which had left him unable to be the parent his unhappy children had needed.

  But understanding, if only partially, why Arthur behaved the way he did did not make him any easier to deal with. The question was, was it too late for him to change? And why, for heaven’s sake, did she care?

  Jack. It all came back to Jack. Her love for him and her promise that she would try and unite the family. ‘Do what I failed to do,’ had been his last wish in those final days. ‘Be the one to make it right.’

  ‘Oh Jack,’ she murmured tiredly, staring over towards the beech hedge, on the other side of which his body lay in the churchyard. ‘I fear this might be a challenge too far for me.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Kit hadn’t enjoyed himself like this in a very long time. It made him realise that lately he had become too introverted, but mostly
too disappointed with life. But here tonight at the village dance, with Evelyn in his arms, he felt like a man reborn. Like a man who could do anything he wanted! And it wasn’t beer or rum punch that was making him think such grandiose thoughts. He’d deliberately steered away from drinking alcohol, given the memory of his previous disastrous evening here with Evelyn. No, this was sheer happiness.

  During the afternoon at the fete, while he and Evelyn had been watching the dog show, he had risked asking her if she would come to the dance with him this evening. ‘I promise to behave myself this time,’ he’d said. She’d smiled and said she’d love to, but would have to check with her mother first. It was then that she’d let out a cry of delight at the sight of a man strolling towards them. It had taken a few seconds for Kit to recognise her brother, Edmund, having not seen him for some years.

  ‘I didn’t think you were coming until tomorrow,’ Evelyn had said.

  ‘I managed to get away sooner than I thought would be possible,’ Edmund told her.

  ‘I’m so pleased you are here. Now you’ll be able to come to the dance tonight.’

  The closeness between Evelyn and her brother had in many ways mirrored that between Kit and Hope as children. The four of them had always got on well together, but somehow – and it struck Kit now as a great shame – they had lost touch, gone their separate ways.

  After the fete had wound up, Kit had returned to Island House and sought out Hope, who had taken Annelise home some time earlier. He had suggested his sister might like to come to the dance that evening, adding that Edmund had been asking after her that afternoon. He had included Allegra in the invitation too, but both had declined, Hope saying that of course she couldn’t go, she had Annelise to consider, and Allegra claiming she had a headache. That was before Romily had stepped in and offered to mind Annelise. As Kit was fast learning, his stepmother had a persuasive way about her that people found difficult to resist, himself included. In this instance, she had been quite blunt. ‘The world is about to change,’ she had said, pointing to the copy of the Times she was reading, in particular a piece about France continuing to call up its reservists. ‘My advice is to enjoy yourselves while you still can.’