Love or Duty Read online

  ‘And Mother refused?’

  Polly nodded. ‘That’s when she got all hysterical. Mrs Bennett left and told me to call the doctor.’

  Louise couldn’t help agreeing with Dora – but for different reasons. Steyne House was no place for a lively child she thought, recalling her own and Sarah’s childhood when they weren’t allowed to run and play or sing because Mother had ‘one of her heads’.

  Still, she wouldn’t mind having a child to stay. After all, they had plenty of room. With a short laugh, Louise knew that it would never work. But she resolved to try and persuade her stepmother.

  And, if they couldn’t have a child to stay, there were plenty of other jobs she could do. She’d offered to help with the children’s hospital but now she wasn’t so sure. It was obvious from Andrew Tate’s cool manner and his eagerness to return to London, that he had no interest in her and it would be embarrassing to keep running into him.

  She’d go and see Mrs Bennett to see what she could do to help but first she’d speak to Dora and try to persuade her take in one child at least.

  She was sitting in the kitchen having a cup of tea with Polly when Dora appeared in the doorway. She was still in her dressing gown and her hair was unkempt. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittered with a kind of fever. She really did look ill, Louise thought, jumping up in alarm.

  ‘Mother, come and sit down. Let me get you some tea,’ she said.

  Dora’s eyes flashed. ‘We do not drink tea in the kitchen with servants,’ she said. ‘Polly, I’ve been calling and calling. Bring a tray into the drawing room – now. Louise, come with me.’

  Before Louise could reply, she had turned away.

  Polly jumped up and grabbed a tray but Louise stopped her. ‘I’ll do it. Finish your own tea.’

  She was furious as she realized it was not illness but temper that had caused Dora’s flushed cheeks and glittering eyes. Surely she could see that poor Polly was worn out. It wouldn’t hurt her to get her own tea for once. She took the tray into the drawing room and set it on a low table beside her stepmother’s armchair.

  ‘Mother, you shouldn’t speak to Polly like that. She may be a servant but she has feelings.’

  ‘Oh, the girl’s impossible. Can’t do the simplest things and she’s getting so surly.’ Dora took the cup and saucer that Louise offered her. ‘And you make things worse, treating her like a member of the family. We pay her wages and she must do as she’s told.’

  Louise wanted to say that she thought of Polly as family, remembering how she’d looked after her when she was a child. She had been with them for over twenty years and, until Dora had come on the scene, had been, if not like a mother, at least a big sister to the lonely child Louise had been. It was no use, though. Her stepmother had got used to having someone to order about and was anxious to maintain her perceived status as wife of one of the town’s prominent businessmen.

  So far, the war hadn’t made much difference to the lives of the people of Holton Regis. After the flurry of activity in the first couple of months, the gas drills, the sandbags stacked against the main buildings in the town and the threat of rationing, people had started to call it the phony war.

  For Louise, life at Steyne House began to revolve round Dora’s demands and it was almost as if those months in London had been a dream. She had now begun to realize just how much work was involved in running the big house and she wondered how Polly had managed for so long without any help.

  Despite her promise to engage someone else, it had proved impossible. Young girls didn’t want to go into service any more. There were far more exciting prospects in the women’s services and more money to be earned in the burgeoning wartime factories. How Louise envied them the freedom to choose. She could have left, of course, joined the ATS or the WAAFs, but she couldn’t bring herself to abandon Dora.

  The letter from her half-sister had arrived two weeks after the funeral, written after her arrival in New York – three tear-stained pages of grief for her father and guilt that she hadn’t been with him. ‘If only I had realized how ill he was, I would have stayed,’ she had written. She had ended with a plea to Louise to ‘look after Mother. I couldn’t bear to lose her too.’

  She had written back to say that she would stay as long as she was needed. Now, it looked as if that would be for a very long time. Dora had taken to her bed almost permanently, only coming downstairs to berate Louise or Polly for some imagined neglect of their duties. That was the word Dora used – ‘duty’ – and Louise was beginning to hate the sound of it.

  She was doing her best and was grateful for Polly’s willingness to work hard. Life would have been easier if Dora would agree to shutting up some of the rooms, to eat in the kitchen and to dispense with fires in the bedrooms. But everything had to be done ‘properly’.

  One bitterly cold morning, Polly was filling the coal scuttle to take up to Dora’s bedroom. ‘She says she’s not feeling well again,’ she said, when Louise questioned her.

  ‘Doesn’t she understand that the coal has to last?’ Louise sighed. ‘If she has a fire up there it means we have to go cold.’

  ‘That don’t worry her,’ Polly said.

  Once, Louise would have chided her for her outspokenness, but now she could only agree. Dora’s selfishness was becoming more marked and she seemed unable to grasp the inevitable changes that war was bringing to their lives. It was turning out to be the coldest winter for years and already there was a shortage of coal. And now that bacon, butter and sugar were rationed Louise was finding it harder to manage the housekeeping.

  She decided it was time to take a firm stand. ‘There’s a fire in the morning room,’ she said. ‘If Mother feels cold, she must come downstairs. Fires in the bedroom are a luxury we cannot afford at present.’

  It was true. Since her father’s death Louise had begun to realize just how privileged she had been. Despite the problems caused by the nationwide slump as well as the fire, she’d never really had to worry about money. Since her talk with James Spencer a few days ago she’d had to face up to the fact that the business wasn’t doing so well. ‘The war is bound to make a difference,’ he’d said. ‘Who wants to build new houses when they might be bombed?’

  ‘You really think that’ll happen?’

  ‘It’s the lull before the storm,’ James said. ‘Everyone says so.’

  ‘But we have the rents from the properties,’ she said.

  ‘That’s only a small part of the business.’ James had placed a hand over hers. ‘I don’t want you to worry.’

  Louise was worried, though. And Dora had no idea of the situation, or if she had, she was refusing to face up to it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sarah sat in front of the dressing room mirror, powder puff in hand. She leaned forward, peering into the glass, wondering where the naïve young girl she had once been had gone. Life here in New York was so different – noisier, brasher, faster – and she loved it.

  ‘My destiny,’ she whispered.

  Since disembarking from the Queen Mary all those months ago she’d hardly spared a thought for those she had left behind. Of course, she had wept when she said goodbye to her family on the quayside at Southampton but she’d soon recovered in the excitement of her new adventure. Then the telegram about her father had come and she had cried again. The tears hadn’t lasted long. She sternly told herself that there was nothing she could do. She could have gone back – the voyage only took four or five days and she could have telegraphed asking Louise to delay the funeral. But what would be the point? she asked herself. Besides, she had signed a contract and she couldn’t let the others down. At least, that was what she told herself.

  The show was a success, enjoying rave reviews, especially for the young unknown singer playing the part of Amy. Offers were already flooding in, including one from a top Hollywood producer. She sighed, wondering if the price had been too high. Was starring in films worth what she’d had to do to hold Ralph Beauchamp’s in
terest? She looked at her reflection and pulled a face. She’d learned a lot since that first experience with Steve Forbes and the main lesson had been that, with her looks, men were easily manipulated.

  The show had another week to run and then she’d be off, across that vast continent to embark on yet another adventure – that’s how she must think of it, an adventure.

  A tap on the dressing-room door warned her that she was due on stage.

  ‘Coming’, she called and stood up, throwing down the powder puff in a cloud of perfumed dust which settled on the letter lying among the tubes and jars of make-up.

  As usual the show finished to tumultuous applause and many curtain calls. Sarah took her final bow, then rushed off stage. She was exhausted and, despite the exhilaration she always felt at the end of a successful performance, she wasn’t sorry that the end of the run was in sight. It was time to spread her wings, to tackle something more demanding than the part of the youngest March sister.

  As she began to remove her make-up, her hand brushed against the letter. When it had arrived, she’d only glanced at it briefly, unwilling to be reminded that, while everything was going so well for her, the sister she loved seemed to be trapped in a life of boring domesticity. Not that Louise complained of course. But Sarah could read between the lines. Rather her than me, she thought, at the same time chiding herself for her selfish thought.

  ‘I’ll write later,’ she promised herself. ‘Tomorrow, when I’m not so tired.’

  But she wasn’t too tired to join her friends for a late supper and drink. And in the small hours of the morning, as she tried to sleep, her thoughts reluctantly returned to Holton Regis and the family she’d left behind. It was hard to imagine Steyne House without her father. How were they coping without him? And was her mother really ill? Sarah had long suspected that Dora’s famous ‘heads’ were a bid for attention and that Stanley had always indulged her.

  Louise had told her she was volunteering at the children’s hospital and Sarah was glad she was able to get away from Dora’s demands for a little while. She seemed very happy with her ‘war work’, although as far as Sarah could tell nothing much had happened after the first panics about bombs and gas attacks. It all seemed very far away to her.

  I’m glad I got away in time, she thought, as she drifted off to sleep. Poor Louise, stupid Louise. Why didn’t she stand up for herself, make a life for herself? She could have been married with her own family by now or if, like Sarah herself, she wanted a career, she should have stayed on in the theatre. Now, she was stuck in Holton Regis, an old maid, doing good works and running around after Mother.

  Sarah woke late the next morning, a sour taste in her mouth from the cocktails she’d drunk the night before. Thank God there was no matinee today, she thought, pulling the satin quilt up over her head. But she couldn’t get back to sleep.

  Rubbing her eyes, she sat up, blinking in the bright sunshine that streamed through the uncurtained window. ‘Coffee,’ she muttered, and staggered across to the corner of the room where a sink and a gas ring served as a kitchen.

  While she waited for the coffee to percolate, she tipped everything out of her handbag, hoping there was a cigarette left in the packet. As she snatched at it, she caught sight of Louise’s letter. As she re-read it, she could tell her sister wasn’t really happy despite her efforts to sound cheerful. It couldn’t be much fun, looking after Mother with only Polly to help in that great big house, and now there was rationing to put up with as well. At least there’d been no bombs so far, Louise wrote, although being so far from any big city, that wasn’t really a worry.

  She should have come out here with me, Sarah thought, as she lit her cigarette and took a deep drag. She poured the coffee, adding a generous helping of sugar and sat down at the little table by the window, looking down on the busy streetscape below. So many people, so much noise, so much life. If only Louise could see it, she’d realize what she was missing. She stubbed out the cigarette and went to the dresser, scrabbling in the drawers for pen and paper. She’d invite her for a visit. They could travel out to California together. Surely she could leave Mother for a week or two.

  But, as she sat down to write, chewing the end of her pen, she realized it would be impossible. The Atlantic liners had all been requisitioned as troop ships and besides, ships were being sunk by U-boats every day. Louise’s visit would have to wait till the end of the war, and who knew how long that would be? Perhaps it was just as well, Sarah thought. Much as she loved her half-sister, she knew Louise would not approve of the way she was living now – the drinks, the parties, her relationship with Ralph. In the end she wrote very briefly saying she hoped Mother would be better soon and reassuring her family that everything was going well for her.

  She didn’t mention that the Hollywood producer wanted her to change her name, or what she’d had to do to ensure a starring part in his next film.

  The letter took a long time to reach Holton. When it came through the letterbox, Louise snatched it up eagerly; it was months since they’d heard from Sarah. Standing in the hall, she scanned the single sheet, relieved that everything was going well for her half-sister but disappointed that it didn’t contain more detailed news.

  A querulous voice came from upstairs. ‘Was that the post, Louise?’

  Louise sighed. ‘Yes, Mother. I’ll bring it up in a minute.’ She went into the kitchen, lit the gas under the kettle and began to prepare Dora’s breakfast tray. Despite her determination not dance to her stepmother’s tune, she had begun to realize it was easier to give in than to make a stand. Since Polly had left them to work in the Vickers factory in Southampton, she’d had to manage alone.

  In a way, it was a relief that nowadays Dora rarely left her room, spending most of the day in bed and only getting up for a short while in the mornings. She didn’t come downstairs but sat at the window, watching and commenting on everything, from the amount of time the ARP warden spent in his hut at the end of the road to the shabby look of the Local Defence Volunteers as they drilled along the promenade.

  When Louise came up to remove her tray or to help her to the bathroom, she would try to detain her, going on at length about the shortcomings of those who were mismanaging the war in general and Holton Regis in particular. ‘I’m going to write to the council about it,’ was her frequent threat and Louise would fetch her notepaper and fountain pen, pleased that she had something to occupy her.

  Thank goodness she doesn’t come downstairs these days, she thought, glancing round the shabby kitchen where she spent most of her time now. She’d have plenty to criticize here. She finished setting the tray and put Sarah’s letter on it.

  She settled Dora in her chair, making sure she had her spectacles, pen and paper, and edged towards the door.

  ‘Sarah doesn’t have much to say for herself, hardly worth writing at all,’ Dora said.

  ‘I expect she’s busy.’

  ‘Too busy to write to her mother?’ Dora’s voice was sharp. ‘And why did she address it to you?’

  ‘It’s to both of us, Mother. It would be silly to write separate letters.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Dora sighed. ‘I’ll have to write back, though I don’t know what I’ll say. You shouldn’t have told her I was ill. I don’t want her worrying.’

  ‘Why not tell her about the Red Cross parcels? She’ll be reassured if she knows you’re well enough to do war work.’

  In an effort to keep Dora occupied and to stop her from dwelling on her imagined ill health, Louise had enlisted the help of Mrs Howard, who was in the WVS. Since Dora refused to get actively involved, Mrs Howard had provided wool and needles and persuaded her to knit socks and scarves for the troops. It hadn’t really worked; often Louise came into the room to see her stepmother gazing out of the window, her knitting idle in her lap.

  ‘I don’t really feel up to doing anything today.’ Dora crumbled her toast and pushed the plate away. ‘I can’t eat this. Isn’t there any bacon?’

&nbs
p; ‘Mother, you know it’s rationed now. We’ve had our share for the week.’ Louise didn’t tell Dora that she’d eaten her ration as well.

  ‘I don’t understand it. Surely we produce bacon in this country. I can understand rationing stuff that comes from abroad but—’

  ‘It’s to make things fair and to stop people profiteering from the war, Mother,’ Louise said. ‘Now, are you sure you have everything you need. I have to go out in a minute.’

  ‘Do you have to? I hate being alone.’

  ‘Yes, I do. It’s war work, Mother. We all have to do our bit.’ She closed the door and ran downstairs with a sense of freedom. Three hours away from the house, away from Dora’s whining, three hours doing the work she had come to love.

  She walked out into the fresh spring morning with a smile on her face, her shoulders back, her step light, as if a burden had fallen from her shoulders. She loved her work at the children’s hospital and was pleased that she’d dismissed her earlier misgivings.

  Her good mood almost evaporated as she recalled the contents of Sarah’s letter. Surely she could have said more about the Hollywood offer and when she would be leaving New York? Still, she knew from experience that the hours at the theatre were long and tiring and she supposed they were lucky to have received a letter at all.

  She’d write back tonight, tell Sarah about Alfie and her voluntary work. She wasn’t sure if she’d mention her growing friendship with James, though. She didn’t want Sarah reading too much into it. She wasn’t even sure herself if friendship was the right word.

  She crossed the road and entered the former dance hall that had escaped the worst of the fire. It had remained boarded up for years while the council tried to decide whether they should find a use for it or have it demolished. For some time it had been used as a furniture warehouse and when Dr Tate had suggested using it as temporary hospital for the children from London, there had been some opposition. But his nephew had gathered a band of volunteers who had put up partitions, installed plumbing and painted the building inside and out.