Chapter 1: Bunty Has a Surprise CHAPTER 1 Bunty Has a Surprise Guy Collins was a man of some talents, but until now he had kept motorcycle mechanics under his hat. As the sun shone down on a beautiful July morning, I walked up to the entrance of Dower Cottage to see both Guy and his brother flat on their backs marvelling at the workings of what, by the sound of it, was a terrifically fascinating valve. "I say, well done," said Charles from underneath the Sunbeam Model 8. "That's definitely looking better." Major Charles Mayhew, who also happened to be my husband, was on forty-eight hours' leave from his base just under an hour away. With Italy beaten and put firmly in its place, four months ago and to my absolute joy, he had been sent back to Britain, where he had been promoted and sent to work on something operational and, as ever, enormously secret. The fact that he was currently lying on the ground and covered in oil did not for a moment detract from the thrill of having him home. After over two and a half years of marriage, we were finally in the same country, and most important of all, he was safe. "Hello, darling," I said, bending to retrieve a piece of rag and a spanner. "Has the old deathtrap been playing you up again?" Charles looked up, smiled broadly, and leapt to his feet, greeting me with an enthusiastic kiss. "She's a trouper," he said, patting the cracked leather seat as if the motorcycle was a trusty old horse that had carried its owner though the Somme. "Guy has just worked a small miracle. I say, you look smashing." He kissed me again. Guy, who was also now on his feet, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a large black smudge. He had rolled his sleeves up and was up to his forearms in grease. "It should get you back to the base," he said, as he surveyed his handiwork. "Better test it out first though." Before Charles could reply, I moved in. "It's nearly lunch," I said, firmly. "I'm under strict instruction to bring you both up to the high field to meet the others. The children are mad keen to see you, and Bunty has laid on the most terrific spread. I'm to take you there straight away." I paused and looked at them. "You might want to clean up a bit first." At the promise of food there was no argument from the men as they followed me into Mrs. Tavistock's cottage. Bunty's granny was always a generous hostess, and never more so than now. For the last fortnight, London had been under constant attack from Hitler's new flying bombs as he tried yet again to break British morale. Throughout the city, sirens rang out day and night with air-raid alerts. Under today's cloudless sky in the Hampshire countryside, it was quite possible to pretend that it wasn't having an effect, but that was far from the truth. There had been two direct hits where Bunty and I lived in London, and while our home in Braybon Street had been extraordinarily lucky, a desperate number of our neighbours had not. The morning after the second bomb, our friends from the fire station, Roy and Fred, had come round, the colour drained from their faces. "There's at least fifteen dead," said Roy, quietly, "and well over a hundred more injured." "They won't put that in the papers," said Fred. "These new rockets are vicious blighters. I don't want to scare you, but if you can get the kids out of the city, we both think that would be a very good idea." The children's mother, Thelma, had been one of our dearest friends. Almost exactly a year ago, she had been killed by the Luftwaffe and at her request we had become George, Margaret, and Stan's temporary guardians until their dad came home from the front. With the end of the war now in sight, nothing was more important than keeping the children safe. Roy and Fred were usually two of the biggest jokers we knew, but when they were serious, you listened. "Don't wait for the end of term," said Roy. "Put them on the first bloody train you can find." We didn't have to be told twice. Bombing raids might have been part of wartime life, but seeing the devastation they caused never became any easier. Now, with the arrival of the doodlebugs, and as it was so close to the summer holidays, a decision was swiftly made. A phone call later, and Bunty and the children were on their way to her granny's, two hours from London and with masses of room for everyone. I had stayed on in Pimlico, working with Guy and the rest of the team at Woman's Friend magazine where we were doing everything we could to support our readers after nearly five long years of war. It was a job that very much needed to be done. Everyone was exhausted. For Britain's women it wasn't just from the physical demands of war work, but the keeping things going--looking after the children, dealing with shortages of everything, or trying to turn carrots and potatoes into a new, interesting meal for the thousandth time. And when you added grief and loss and loneliness on top, not to mention the current bombardment from the V-1s, that was a very big weight to bear. Today, I was grateful to be able to escape to the countryside and picnic with my friends. Guy and I had arrived the previous evening, relieved to deliver our precious cargo of Stan's two guinea pigs. Now, with the brothers having used a ration-defying amount of carbolic soap to combat the motorcycle oil, we headed off to the top field. It was only a ten-minute walk, and as we strolled along the narrow lane I breathed in deeply, savouring the fresh air. Tall spikes of purple and pink foxgloves lined our route as they poked up between the white umbrellas of wild carrot, while clouds of fluffy meadowsweet swayed in the ditches. There wasn't a florist in all of London that could come close. "How is Harold coping without Bunty?" asked Charles as we walked, arm in arm. "Is he pining away now that she's moved down here?" I laughed. Harold and Bunty had been seeing each other for some time and it was screamingly obvious to everyone that they were perfect for each other. Both, however, had been through difficult times during the war, and perhaps this was holding them back. Bunty always played things down and Harold seemed stricken with fear at the very thought of asking her to make things more official. Having recently forced Charles to corner him and ask very severely what his intentions were, it transpired that Harold was absolutely convinced that he wasn't good enough for Bunty. Consequently, he couldn't bear the thought of what he was sure would be the crushing blow of rejection should he suggest anything permanent between the two. For his part, Charles had been equally hopeless and not thought to tell him to buck up and get on with it. "You'll see for yourself in a minute," I said. "Although if you'd jolly well pushed him in the right direction, Harold would probably have proposed by now. Guy, couldn't you have a word?" Guy stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "You can't go around bullying people into this sort of thing," he said, sounding vague and looking over a hedge. "It's not bullying," I replied. "It's Bunty. Honestly, you're both as bad as each other." Charles and Guy exchanged synchronised raised eyebrows. I took my arm out of Charles' and marched on, telling them that I would obviously have to speak to Harold myself. "That's torn it," said Charles. "Poor chap," said Guy. I picked up speed and put some distance between us. Then, as I climbed over the stile into the top field, I looked back over my shoulder. Nothing galvanised people more than a competition and I had always been a very good sprinter at school. "LAST ONE THERE HAS TO TELL HAROLD," I shouted. Then I jumped into the field and began to run for it as fast as I could. "That's cheating," yelled Charles. "Come on, Guy." I didn't stop. Within seconds Charles was at my heels, his older brother swearing in protest while bringing up the rear with admirable speed for a man of his years. A few minutes later, the three of us collapsed in a heap on the ground, as an entirely unsurprised Bunty and Harold looked on. "We had a race," I gasped, unnecessarily. Charles lay back on the grass, breathing heavily. "Guy lost." "I'm fifty-one," panted Guy. "I don't even run for the bus." "Is there a prize?" asked Harold. "NO," said Guy and Charles at the same time. "More a forfeit at some point," I smiled. "Where are the children?" "In the river, hunting for sticklebacks," said Bunty. "They were famished so I let them eat. They'll be thrilled now you're here, Charles." I craned my neck and could see the three of them standing in the shallows, studiously looking for fish. Bunty opened the lid of a large wicker hamper. "Shall we tuck in? The bread smells delicious." No one needed more encouragement than that. Mrs. Tavistock's cook was an excellent baker and as the shop-bought national loaf was always slightly stale, this was a treat indeed. Bunty carved off big chunks and loaded them onto plates with slices of cheddar from the farm, tomatoes still on the vine, and fat blobs of sticky, home-made chutney. Then, and just as you thought life couldn't get any better, Harold went over to the river and returned with bottles of cider that had been keeping cool in a bucket, together with three over-excited children. "MAJOR CHARLES," cried Margaret, as Charles stood up to greet them. "Look what we've caught." She swung a jam jar at him. "You didn't happen to come on the motorcycle, did you, sir?" asked George, shaking hands in his role as senior member of the team. "Have you seen the guinea pigs?" asked Stanley, making his priorities clear. "They came on the train." "I'm waiting for you to show me after lunch," said Charles. "How's the country life suiting you all?" The children plonked themselves on the ground as Bunty produced a large punnet of strawberries. "It's very nice so far, thank you," said Stan, politely. "Even though I'm not allowed to drive the tractor." "Stan, you have to be twelve," said Margaret. Her brother looked justifiably downcast. "That's ages away," he sighed. Harold, who was sitting next to him, gave the little boy a surreptitious nudge with his foot. "You just need to grow a bit taller," he whispered. "Then we'll see." Stan's face lit up as Bunty rolled her eyes. "Harold," I said. "Prison is no joke and you'll be no good to anyone if you're locked up." Harold laughed. "I'd better have another bottle of cider while I still can then," he said. "How about you all help me test drive the bike?" suggested Charles. "Guy's just fixed it as it's been on the wonk." At this the children were spoilt for choice in terms of who was the most impressive grown-up, and as I listened to the chatter, sitting in the sun, full of lunch, and surrounded by the people I loved, it was almost possible to imagine everything was normal and at peace. I would have given all the money in the world to stay suspended just like this. "Penny for them?" asked Charles. "I was just thinking how wonderful it would be to stay exactly like this, forever," I answered. "I'm rather jealous of the children getting to live here for the summer. I don't really want to go back to London tomorrow. Sorry, Guy, I know that's a terrible attitude." Our Editor in Chief, who was reading a slightly crumpled newspaper, stretched his arms and sighed. "I feel much the same," he said. As he spoke, two RAF transport planes came into sight, droning their way across the sky. "Never mind," he added, more heartily. "Job to do. Very lucky to get to visit." "It would be nice though, wouldn't it?" said Bunty, keenly. "I do feel rather I'm all right Jack that work gave me a leave of absence." "You're hardly a shirker," I replied. "And you are helping your granny with the estate as well as being in charge of this lot." I pulled a face at the children, who laughed. "I suppose so," said Bunts. "But would you, though?" she added, chewing on a piece of grass. "Stay, if you could?" "Of course," I said, without hesitation. "Lolling about with everyone for the summer. I'd move in tomorrow." "Steady up, Miss Lake," said Guy, leaning back and turning his face to the sun. "You've a problem page to run." Bunty was not put off. "But Emmy could do that anywhere," she said. "I can't really," I replied. "Can you imagine? ' Sorry everyone, could you forward my post as I've decided to stay in the country? PS: please send my sunshades as the sun's hurting my eyes. ' I'd hardly get top marks for that sort of managerial approach." Now Bunty sat up. "What if you didn't have to?" she asked. "What if everyone else could come too?" Bunty had stopped playing with the piece of grass. Charles shifted to look at her. Guy lowered his head and stared at her over the top of his glasses. "Harold?" she said, giving him a meaningful look. "Well, now," said Harold. "Speaking as Woman's Friend 's Business Director, we've had what could be a Very Interesting Idea." For a moment, no one said anything. A bee hummed by, setting its sights on an open chutney pot. Bunty reached for the lid, disappointing the bee by screwing it onto the jar. "We think you could all move in," she said. "The whole magazine. All the staff and everything you need from the office. The filing cabinets, the typewriters, everything through to pens and pencils. Bring everything here." "We've been working it out," said Harold, now sitting up very straight. "Bunty and the children are staying with Mrs. Tavistock in Dower Cottage, so we've been looking at Rose House. Now that the US Army has left, it's just standing there doing nothing. You could fit half of Fleet Street in the drawing room. Why don't you all come for the summer or longer, if Hitler keeps chucking his buzz bombs about? For all that he's trying to wallop us, we know Victory isn't far off. Stay here for the last few months of the war where everyone can feel slightly safer." Bunty nodded, her eyes shining with enthusiasm. "People could bring their spouses if they wanted, or families could visit at weekends, or of course they could go home if they preferred. But once they were here..." She looked around. "Who wouldn't want to stay?" Bunty had hit the nail on the head. Rose House was at the very heart of Mrs. Tavistock's estate. An elegant and substantial home, it had been occupied by American officers for two years until overnight they had disappeared to take part in the Normandy landings. I pictured the Woman's Friend team sitting on the terrace in the evenings or eating their lunch on the lawn, for once not having to worry quite so much about air raids or rocket attacks, or the possibility of being bombed out. I wasn't naive enough to think that rural life was a utopia, but on a day like today a move for the summer sounded ideal. "But isn't Rose House still under requisition?" asked Guy. He leaned forward and looked seriously from Bunty to Harold. "There would be all sorts of permissions." Bunty looked smug. "I've been investigating that," she said. "I think we've got a good chance." "The upside of Bunty working for the bigwigs at the War Office," added Harold, proudly. "Granny's very keen," said Bunts. "She rather likes life in the cottage but worries about the house standing empty. She knows we'll look after it." "It's a good point," said Charles. "Some of the requisitioned estates have been wrecked." "Please say yes," said Margaret, wistfully. "Don't dash our hopes, now," added George. Stan nodded and let out a long sigh. It was like watching an audition for the workhouse scene in Oliver Twist . "Have you three been rehearsing this?" I asked. "Nice work, Laurence Olivier," said Harold, patting Stan on the leg. "What do you think?" I asked Guy. "Well, Good Housekeeping have been over in Wales for most of the war," said Guy, thoughtfully. "They moved everything, lock, stock, and barrel. If they can do it..." I thought of my colleagues--my friends. They were all endlessly hardworking, as tough as you like, no matter what Adolf threw at them. It could be like a working holiday for everyone. "I think it's the most enormously generous offer. Thank you, Bunty, and of course, your grandmother. We need to ask the team. And obviously Monica would need to be on board," Guy continued. That was an understatement. Monica Edwards had been at the very centre of Woman's Friend since we had taken over ownership at the end of the previous year. Now she was both our Publisher and quite irreplaceable Fashion and Beauty Editor. "Do we think people would mind living together?" I wondered. "Darling, you're not about to ask them to share a bunk room," said Charles, sensibly. "Rose House is the size of a decent hotel." "We have given it some thought," admitted Bunty. "Everyone would have their own room, and there are lots of spaces so no one would be on top of each other. It's a shame we couldn't have done it before." "It would have been a terrible squash with all the Americans," said Harold. "That sounds rather fun," I said, cheerfully. "Good job I've been posted back," said Charles, calmly throwing a crust of bread in my direction. "Not a moment too soon," agreed Harold. "Speaking of which," said Guy, looking at his wristwatch rather pointedly. "All these plans sound super. But, um..." "Yes," said Charles. "Lots to do." There was an odd silence. "Is that a hint that you've had enough lunch?" grinned Bunty. "I'll start packing up then, shall I?" "I'll give you a hand," I said. "Harold," murmured Guy through his teeth, sounding like a ventriloquist. Charles stifled a laugh and clapped him on the shoulder. Guy made a slight face. Then they stared at Harold. "No time like the present," said Charles, almost under his breath. Now I was baffled. Bunty appeared much the same. Harold looked flushed. "Ah," he said, in a voice that came out very small for a very large man. He cleared his throat. "Yes. Right then. Gosh." Guy gave him the kindest smile. Bunts, who had been about to stack plates, stopped what she was doing. "Is everything all right?" she asked, sounding concerned. Harold nodded. He took a deep breath, then put his hand into his pocket and took something out. "Bunty," he said. "Darling, I have something I would very much like to ask you." Nobody said a word. Harold moved from where he was sitting next to Bunty and now knelt down on one knee. He took another large breath and then spoke in the clearest of tones. "Miss Marigold Tavistock," he said. "Will you marry me?" Excerpted from Dear Miss Lake: A Novel by A. J. Pearce All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
