Angel's Secret Read online

  ANGEL’S SECRET

  Sheila Newberry

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Meet Sheila Newberry

  An extract from The Winter Baby

  Copyright

  Also by Sheila Newberry

  A Home for Tilly

  Bicycles and Blackberries

  The Canal Girl

  The Daughter’s Choice

  The Family at Number Five

  Far From Home

  The Gingerbread Girl

  The Girl With No Home

  Hay Bales and Hollyhocks

  Hot Pies on the Tram Car

  Molly’s Journey

  The Poplar Penny Whistlers

  The Punch and Judy Girl

  The Watercress Girls

  For The Children of The Buck –

  Especially Bella

  I stood and stared; the sky was lit

  The sky was stars all over it,

  I stood, I knew not why,

  Without a wish, without a will,

  I stood upon that silent hill

  And stared into the sky until

  My eyes were blind with stars and still

  I stared into the sky.

  Ralph Hodgson

  ONE

  Angel stood there still, with the dust stirred by the solid tyres of the railway motorbus powdering the shine from her smart shoes. She glanced down indifferently. Seven years ago, after all, she had been wearing boots cracked and caked with foul mud from the ruined fields of France.

  The bus was by now out of sight, having rounded the bend, but Angel could hear it rumbling ponderously on toward the next village.

  ‘Well, Angelina Rosselli, d’you intend to take root here?’ she mused aloud. Then she smiled faintly at the irony of her words.

  She was a slight young woman, of medium height, dressed in a light tussore costume, the skirt badly crumpled by a stout fellow passenger who had sat down heavily beside her, having boarded the train at Ipswich. A round, natural straw hat just afforded a glimpse of short, glossy grape-black hair that curved against the line of her firm, uptilted chin. Her eyes, narrowed against the flurry of dirt thrown up from the country lane, and the relentless afternoon sun, were surprisingly blue, under distinctive brows. Angel’s gloved hands, soiled from wrestling with the recalcitrant sash of the train window, gripped the handles of her heavy basket case. She had tucked her fat handbag under one arm.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ she thought, ‘I had the sense to leave the trunk at the station to await collection by Mr MacDonald.’

  Angel had yet to meet her new employer, Robert MacDonald of The Angel, for a mutual friend, his neighbour Edith Fenner had recommended her for this temporary post, duration uncertain, as companion-cum-nurse to his daughter, Alice, convalescing after scarlet fever and a subsequent operation for mastoid.

  In the one brief letter she had received, Mr MacDonald said she would be met from the bus. However, bags packed, impatient to leave London, and her sister Louise and brother-in-law Jack, she had come a day early.

  What was it the friendly red-faced driver had advised?

  ‘Foller the roses on your right, keep a going till you come to Mrs Newsome’s shop, then fork you sharp. Mind the gully in front of the meadow, see the pink house with the pargeting – then you’ll come to The Angel. Quite a walk uphill on a thirsty night that is, but that Scotsman do draw fine beer.’

  So, Angel obediently ‘follered’ the briar hedge, festooned with tiny roses, for it was June, in shades from deepest to palest creamy pink, each with its golden centre. She couldn’t resist plucking a single bloom to tuck in her hatband. Despite the weight of her case, she hurried along, brushing against the tall graceful grasses, averting her gaze from the scarlet poppies, which also flourished everywhere.

  There were poppies in France, they said: the seed which had lain dormant for many years had sprung to life where men had fallen, having advanced, retreated then advanced again, over and over the same desolate stretch of land.

  She must put those memories, the nightmare that had almost broken her, begin really living again, looking forward now to the future. That was really what had prompted her to come to rural Suffolk, not just Edith’s urging. Could they really resume their friendship after so long?

  Her sister and her husband had accompanied Angel, unasked, to Liverpool Street Station.

  ‘Write soon, Angel, oh, promise!’ Louise entreated.

  Angel nodded, seeing Lou’s hands linked so naturally, supporting the heavy swelling of her body. She witnessed that instinctive bonding with the unborn, and pain gnawed at her own insides. Jack’s arm lay protectively around Lou’s shoulders. He had survived the conflict, he may now have a steel plate in his skull and a nervous hesitancy in his speech yet – he was here, Angel thought. She must not envy them, for they had waited so long for this precious first baby.

  Harry had drawn her close to him, his hand daring to stray beneath the thick knot of her hair, uncut from childhood then – his fingers delicately caressing her neck where it rose above the constraints of her starched collar. Because they were on the ward, where the muttering and sighs betrayed those patients sleepless and in constant pain, she had suppressed the yearning to turn her face toward his, but she knew that her trembling must betray the way she felt . . .

  Lou made one final protest when Angel leaned from the train window to say goodbye. ‘I need you, Angel, with the baby coming –’

  With tears in her eyes, Angel replied firmly, ‘Lou, you and Jack and the baby – you’ll be a family, without me. You’ll see.’ The guard blew his shrill whistle. ‘Goodbye – I love you!’ she called, as the train steamed away.

  Now, she came upon the church, set well back on a rise of ground, with the entrance guarded by a magnificent lych gate, obviously a recent addition, and beyond that she saw an arch, with a lantern suspended from fanciful wrought-iron brackets, to light the faithful to Evensong on dark winter nights, she supposed.

  There were cottages, mere hovels, seemingly built into the bank below the churchyard. The bedroom windows, Angel conjectured, must be on a level with the tombstones on the slope above. THE COTTS, 1790, was carved into the lintel of the middle dwelling of five. The front doors opened directly into the lane. The church spoke of a comfortable living, she thought, the cottages of abject poverty, only partly concealed behind the torn, grimy curtains at the tiny windows.

  She sensed that she was being watched as she passed The Cotts by.

  It was a relief to arrive next at the school, but this too, was deserted, for the children must have whooped joyfully as they sped homewards some forty minutes ago. The bus had passed several clusters of farm cottages where Angel observed small girls in old-fashioned
holland frocks, babies in sun bonnets, playing in the shade of some trees, while their brothers rolled and tumbled on the grass. Rosy-cheeked, country children, she smiled to herself.

  The school had been built at a later date than the church, of course, but of matching flintstone – probably in the early days of Victoria’s reign.

  A large, yellow labrador barked from the pathway of the adjacent school house, merely a greeting, for the dog’s tail wagged furiously. Angel went quickly by, in case the schoolmaster should appear. She hitched her burden higher as if it were no weight at all. She did not wish to meet Edmund, her friend’s brother, before Edith.

  A pleasant fragrance emanated from the bakehouse, but the dimpled windows of the shop revealed shelves wiped clean, and empty. Next door, outside Mrs Newsome’s shop, for so the sign proclaimed, a group of women and children were gathered. They turned to gaze curiously at the newcomer.

  ‘Hello – who’s this?’ she heard, then one called out boldly: ‘Nice afternoon!’ Angel had the impression of flaxen hair, fair skins, friendly, smiling faces. Descendants of the Anglo-Saxons, all.

  Smiling shyly back, she agreed, ‘Oh, yes, it is!’ It felt like a welcoming, she thought. Then she obediently forked sharp.

  The gardener and his boy still toiled in the gardens of what was surely the residence of people of some social standing. The workers were bent double over the flower beds, despite the heat, tossing weeds into their barrow. The house cloaked in green ivy, wore its thatch like an itchy, rakish wig, Angel fancied, just as if scratching hands had pushed it awry.

  The lodge, guarding the sweeping drive to the side of the mansion, appeared to have been built around the trunks of four massive oaks, lopped to an even height, but varying in width. The windows here were wide open, and she could eavesdrop on the youngsters chattering at their tea. Hunger pangs struck her, for Lou’s sandwiches remained unwrapped in her bag. She marvelled at the vegetables growing densely in the cramped patch, which was all the big house had spared. Not a flower in sight, unless you counted the crimson peeping through the climbing beans. Food obviously took precedence here.

  Walking alongside the succeeding water meadows, so peaceful, Angel observed a giant hare, motionless, watching her, as she, in turn, stared back in surprise. A squirrel leapt, almost flying, from tree to tree overhead, leaving the branches swaying. Angel had forgotten the warning about the gully: she stumbled down into a narrow ditch, concealed by hedge clippings. To her relief it was dry, for there had been no rain for days. She bit at her lower lip ruefully as she saw the runs lengthening in her new silk stockings, a parting gift from Lou and Jack. Even as she straightened her hat, and her aching back, she became aware of the grinding of cartwheels, of the smart clopping of hooves. She turned as a pony and trap drew alongside and came to a halt. A man held the reins, a boy beside him.

  ‘Now, you must be the young lady we expected tomorrow – is that so?’ the man enquired, in a soft, precise Scottish voice.

  Pink cheeked, Angel nodded. She realised instantly who this must be.

  ‘I am Robert MacDonald, of The Angel. This is Tony, my son. We have just been down to the village to collect medicines from the surgery – they told me at the shop I would catch up with a lady walking, a stranger with a case.’ Robert MacDonald handed the reins to his son and swung his long legs easily to the ground.

  He held out a hand for her case, placed it in the well of the trap and then assisted her up. ‘There – it’s but a very short ride now – a pity we did not catch up with you earlier, eh? Your letter advising of the change of plan did not arrive, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, but I didn’t write,’ she admitted.

  ‘Ah, I see,’ he returned easily, not at all put out.

  Angel drew off her gloves, rubbing her chafed hands together, aware that she was already relaxing in his company. Her employer had looked up at her with a kind, quizzical smile, before he had resumed his own seat at the front. She gazed at the back of his neck, reddened from exposure to all weathers, for he wore no hat, at his dark hair, greying a little, cropped short but irrepressibly curly. His shoulders were broad, arms strong.

  Tony, the young boy, dark like his father, sat silently and shyly at his side.

  ‘Our friend Edith’s house,’ Robert MacDonald observed.

  There was a sturdy bicycle leaning against the pink house gate, with a delightful riot of cottage garden flowers almost obscuring the flagged path. The place was just as Edith had described in her letters. Albertine roses drooped over the latticed wooden porch; the faded pink of the walls, the pargeting, like a pattern marked on a piecrust, pictures embossed on plaster. If she had come tomorrow as planned, Angel thought, Edith would, no doubt, have been eagerly looking out for her. She had last seen her friend in 1916.

  They had arrived at The Angel. The inn stood facing up the lonely road ahead, where Angel saw trees leaning on either side, forming a leafy tunnel, linked by the buffeting of the east wind. The Angel was situated at the edge, or the beginning, depending on which way you approached it, of the village of Uffasham, in Suffolk.

  It was, of course, inevitable that the men in the hospital should call her The Angel. Harry had made her blush, when he told her that. Almost poetry, Harry’s next words, ones she could never forget, ‘But the word “angel” suggests to me a pale, shadowy being, floating somewhere up above: you, my darling Angel, have substance – so warm and caring . . . you catch your breath when you are forced to cause more agony before you can ease it. ‘Will it be The Angel, Doctor, with us through the long night watch?’ they ask me, ‘Or will it be Sister Edith?’ ’

  There was the inn sign, with an unlikely angel boldly gilded, hands demurely folded. Despite the oversized halo, it was hardly angelic, Angel thought.

  Tony jumped down, to unfasten the gates. Through a courtyard, they trundled, towards a block of stables, past the patrons’ privy, with the half-moon cut into the top of the door.

  Robert MacDonald said, ‘Here we are. Take the path, to the front of the house, for I spotted Aunt Hetty picking away in the asparagus bed. Tony and I will fetch your luggage inside. We must unharness the pony and stow away the trap, but we will be with you shortly.’

  A small figure rose unexpectedly from the centre of a lush plot, lifting a rush frail almost full of tender, green shoots.

  ‘Are you calling?’ Aunt Hetty enquired: hers was a local accent, excited, light and almost girlish. ‘Come you on, inside!’

  She led the way through the second door under the porch, for above the first door they came to there was the legend PUBLIC BAR.

  Through the open door of that black-beamed, rambling old whitewashed house, Angel stepped.

  She was here, an Angel at The Angel, where her past was unknown and where the days ahead looked bright.

  TWO

  To the right of the spacious flagged hall was a closed door. ‘Our front parlour,’ Aunt Hetty indicated. To the left, the high backs of two enormous oaken settles partitioned the hall from the bar beyond.

  So that was the reason for the first entrance, Angel realised, inhaling the fruity, malty odour that pervaded the hall.

  ‘Out of bounds to the children, you’ll understand,’ Aunt Hetty remarked cheerfully. ‘Kitchen this way, down the short staircase – that’s where we spend our days. I’ll soon stir the old stove up, rinse out the teapot. You must be tired, Angelina –?’ There was a look of kindly concern.

  ‘Oh, Angel, please, Mrs MacDonald,’ Angel put in quickly. She glanced around her with unconcealed interest. On one wall there was a handsome brass warming pan, hanging from the handle, on the other side a series of fading prints of horses and dogs. Just before the half-flight of stairs to the kitchen, on the right, a further few steps led up to a door labelled ‘The Snug’. Opposite, was the main staircase, winding upwards to the bedrooms, with a room on the half-landing directly opposite ‘The Snug’, designated ‘Private’.

  ‘My nephew’s room. There are five more b
edrooms beyond.’ Aunt Hetty had noticed her curious glances. ‘And you must call me Aunt Hetty – why not, eh? I’m Rob’s aunt by marriage, y’know. I was born here, in The Angel – a real coaching inn then, my dear, where they changed the horses before they went on to Lowestoft. Here we are, do you sit down –’ She gathered up a sleepy armful of ginger and black kittens from the bentwood rocker, a chair with arms deeply scored from cats’ claws, and deposited them on a rag rug by the stove. This aroused a plaintive mewing. Aunt Hetty continued: ‘I left here to marry my John and we came back here when my parents passed on. No children of our own, but Rob came to us from Scotland, as a lad, and joined us in the business. ‘Course, he was away all the war – milk and sugar in your tea, Angel? – Then his wife upped and left me with the children to care for, and my husband died. The Angel was in a poor old way, when her landlord returned – ah, here you are Rob . . . ’

  Angel found herself blushing deeply again. Rob MacDonald’s presence loomed large, for he was very tall, very masculine. She wondered if he minded his aunt hinting at his wife’s desertion to a stranger, if this still hurt. Yet, on first acquaintance he looked happy, well adjusted to his position. He was perhaps ten years her senior, not such a generation gap when she, herself, was almost thirty years old. To cover her confusion, she took off her hat, avoiding eye contact with her employer.

  Rob said: ‘You’ll excuse me, Miss Rosselli, but I must prepare now for the opening-up. Shall we discuss your duties over supper? We eat early, whilst we’ve the chance, but naturally I’ll not expect you to start work until Monday next, as arranged – you’ll appreciate the weekend to settle in, no doubt –’

  Angel found her tongue. ‘You’re very kind. Oh, I know I’ll soon feel at home here – it’s such a lovely old house. I do look forward to exploring –’ she added impulsively.

  That nice, warming smile again. ‘A slower way of life, mind, we’ve not caught up with London ways, as you’ll be used to – no water on tap, but a good old pump, oil lamps, can’t say I’m sorry. I gather Aunt Hetty has put you in the picture, regarding our circumstances, she has been a grand substitute mother to my children, as she was to me, but they will, no doubt, appreciate more youthful company, while we are busy each night.’ He turned, went back up the little staircase.