Tomorrow Brings Sorrow Read online

  ‘I’m surprised you haven’t been called up, Terence. It would bloody well do you good.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Theresa. If you haven’t anything useful to say, just keep out of it. Anyway, I have—’

  ‘No! You can’t! I mean—’

  ‘It’s all right, Mater, old thing. I doubt it will come to anything. I still don’t believe any of it. It is as everyone is saying: a phoney war. Obviously we have to prepare, and that is all that is happening. The government has set the ball rolling in getting those of fighting age medically tested and trained. It will all be over soon, you’ll see.’

  ‘Exactly.’ The look his father gave Terence as he said this told him this wasn’t his real feeling, as indeed it wasn’t Terence’s own, but it was better to perpetuate the pretence for a while to allay his mother’s fears. She had never really got over her sister’s death and remained vulnerable to breakdowns. For a long time after Aunt Laura’s demise Mater’s mental health had given them all extreme concern, and she had seemed very frail since the first mention of war.

  As Terence entered the drawing room to await the chat with his father, he saw that a fire roared up the chimney, warming every corner of this elegant room. He remembered this being his favourite room as a child. He’d loved the pale greens and silvers, and still did. The soft blend of colours lent a calm and beauty that were complemented by the highly polished oak of the occasional tables and display cabinets.

  His Aunt Laura had once told him that her mother-in-law had chosen the room’s colours; although Laura had never met her, the tales she’d heard of her being a frumpy misfit of a wife for her father-in-law, but a wonderful person and adoring mother, had made her keep the room as it was.

  Mater had never wanted to change it, either. In fact, if it was left to her, everything about the house would have remained the same as the day they’d taken it over, and they’d be living in shabby surroundings as the house deteriorated around them. But Father had prevailed, and most of the place had been refurbished. Terence was glad that it hadn’t included this room. At least not in changing it; it had simply been given a good freshen-up.

  He swirled the brandy in his glass, then a satisfying and smooth yet sharp tang tinged his throat at his first sip. He relaxed in the high-backed wing chair, took a ready-cut cigar and accepted the light that the butler offered. ‘Thank you, Frobisher. Pater will be in in a few moments, if you would wait for him.’

  ‘Of course, Master Terence.’

  This form of address would have annoyed him if it had come from any of the other servants, but Frobisher had known him since infancy, and although he and Theresa often had a joke about him, they held him in high regard.

  ‘How are you, Frobisher? Are you still coping? We don’t put too much on your shoulders, do we?’

  ‘I’m very well, thank you, Master Terence, though I do share your mother’s concerns. Life downstairs is getting harder by the day. Two of the footmen have gone already, and the groom and chauffeur have both had medical call-ups.’ Frobisher’s shaky old voice held a hint of fear.

  ‘I’ll speak to Pater about it. He does take it all very seriously, you know. But poor Mater . . . well, it is a lot for her to cope with.’

  ‘I understand. And I would be grateful if you could discuss the situation, thank you, Master Terence.’

  ‘We’ll sort it. I’m sure there are a lot of women in the town who would love to take up the positions the men are vacating.’

  The look of utter disgust on Frobisher’s face was a picture! The thought of a woman doing a footman’s job seemed abhorrent to him. The opening of the door and Lord Crompton’s arrival couldn’t have happened at a more opportune moment. It stopped the laugh that was bubbling up in Terence, which he knew would have seriously offended Frobisher, and he’d never willingly do that. It would, however, be a source of entertainment when he spoke to Theresa later . . .

  ‘Now, Terence.’ His father paused while Frobisher finished ministering to him. At one time the butler had caused no disturbance, as he gracefully glided around them, carrying out his duties. Now he shuffled. The glasses that he had once filled with just the satisfying tinkle of syrupy liquid now clinked alarmingly, and his once indiscernible closing of the door had become a noisy operation as he let it bang behind him, no longer able to hold his tray in one hand while he closed the door with the other.

  Terence waited, watching his father and allowing him to gather his thoughts in his own time and open the conversation again.

  Looking every inch the lord, his father held the title well. Of average height, and trim of figure, Charles Crompton had a quiet elegance about him, and a dignity in everything he did and in all his dealings with people. Taking a sip of his brandy and following that with a deep inhaling of his cigar, he sounded troubled as he exhaled, and weary. ‘There is a lot to talk over, Terence. Not least you having had word from the War Office and, on top of that, the expectation that our whole way of life will be disrupted.’

  Thick smoke curled in the air between them, filling the room with the distinct aroma of good Havana tobacco. Nerves fluttered in Terence’s stomach. He couldn’t tell if his father would be averse to him thinking of getting out of going to war or not. He decided to remain silent and listen.

  A moment went by before Lord Crompton spoke again. ‘Well, we’d better start with your position. I am concerned for your mother, if it should happen that you go to war.’

  ‘I must say, I’m not without my own worries on that score, and it is what I wanted to speak to you—’

  ‘Let me finish.’ The stern tone surprised Terence. His father seemed almost angry or . . . Did he discern a note of . . . well, slight disgust?

  ‘I’m not going to dress this up, Terence, but you are not exactly officer material.’

  Despite feeling piqued at this, Terence was aware of another emotion overcoming him: that of shame. He hadn’t made a success of anything, or even tried to prove his worth, so he shouldn’t be surprised at his father’s disdain, but it still felt uncomfortable to have this man he loved and admired spelling it out.

  ‘Therefore,’ his father continued, ‘you can only look towards having to fight amongst the ranks, even taking orders from the working class! Your mother is very worried. To the extent that she could have a relapse, and I can’t let that happen.’

  ‘Not to mention the possibility of your son being killed!’

  ‘Sorry, no – of course I didn’t mean it to come across like that. It isn’t easy . . . I mean, I am sure you want to go to war, and if it was possible I would buy you a commission, but I suspect, as things are in today’s world, money isn’t enough to secure your safety.’

  Although he was uncertain whether his father was simply paying lip service to these sentiments, Terence didn’t really care. The fact was that he had no intention of fighting for King and country, and it looked like Pater was of the same persuasion.

  Picking up on this, Terence jumped in. ‘Naturally I want to do what I can, Pater, but I don’t think the country – or anyone else – is best served by me making a hash of things and getting in everyone’s way, so I was wondering about you appointing me manager of our farming estate? That would exempt me and, I can assure you, I would take that exemption, if only for Mother’s sake.’

  This last he added to give weight to his suggestion, but to give it further credence he added, ‘You need someone, Pater. I spoke to Earnshaw earlier, when I came back from Fellam’s, and he is adamant that he and all of the younger ones are going to war. Hensal Grange Army, he called them. It appears that he sees himself as the sergeant and the farm hands as his troops, and he has already been drilling them as they carry out their work.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Admirable. I’m very proud of them, though sorry at the same time. They have become like a sort of lower family, and it is distressing to think of them going. Anyway, I had thought of asking Fellam to oversee things, but it will be too much, now that he has to farm his own land, and with the horses a
s well.’

  ‘Not that I am saying you should ask him, but hasn’t he told you he has to give up the stables? There is already a rumbling that leisure pursuits will be the first thing to be curtailed – can’t have the privileged enjoying themselves, what!’

  ‘Don’t be flippant, Terence. What exactly did Jack say?’

  ‘That he would have to sell. Demand is already waning for his stud horses, and besides, he needs machinery to farm the land, and seeds and labour, though he accepts – like me – that we will probably have to rely on Land Girls. Makes sense, I think, him concentrating all his efforts on arable and dairy farming, with all that fertile land he has, and it being the flattest around here. It’s—’

  ‘But I haven’t heard anything of this. It’s ridiculous. I must speak with him. Yes, he will have to take things to a lower level, but he should keep his breeding programme. He has some of the best stock going, and when the war is over . . . well, it could make him a lot of money. I can’t believe he hasn’t talked this over with me first.’

  ‘You mean you’d be willing to fund him to keep going?’ The trickle of apprehension that Terence had experienced earlier revisited him. He’d thought it was over, this rivalry. He’d thought he had only to get to the end of the war and he’d be able to achieve his dream, and then there would be no objection from his father, with Fellam already out of business. After all, Fellam would be fine: he’d have his farm established by then, and his wife would be well set up.

  ‘Of course. The future prospects are tremendous. Think of it: at the end of all this, racing will resume and all the main players will want good stock. If Jack has that, well . . .’

  ‘But what about me? You know my ambitions. This could have been my chance.’

  ‘Your chance? Oh, for heaven’s sake, Terence—’

  ‘No, Pater.’ He could no longer sit; frustration was agitating his entire body. Pacing the room, he felt very angry. ‘This is so unfair.’

  ‘Just stop there a moment, Terence. Am I to believe that you hoped you could step into the breach and take over what the war might take away from Jack? That’s preposterous.’

  ‘Why is it? I didn’t start the bloody war. There are always winners and losers. And besides, Fellam will have his farm well established by then. The stable should be mine. Aunt Laura always wanted it to be here. She even started up once, and everything is in place. All I need is the funds.’

  ‘And the downfall of the man who least deserves it.’

  ‘Least deserves it! God, have you forgotten what he did, in having an affair with Aunt Laura and then thwarting her? The shame he brought down on this family, and what it all did to Mater?’

  ‘You know nothing, Terence. And I didn’t plan on having an argument with you. Let’s just deal with what we are facing, shall we? And for goodness’ sake, drop this notion that you might even be capable of running a stud farm, let alone owning one!’

  With his father in this mood, Terence supposed he had no option, but it did feel as if all his hopes had been dashed. Granted, he’d probably been saved from the rotten job of going to war, but . . . No, he’d not give up. There was always his other plan. It wasn’t one he wanted to put into action, particularly now that he knew Fellam better, but what other choice had his father left him?

  8

  Sarah

  Unwanted Preparations

  ‘Sarah? Is that you, love?’

  ‘Aye, sorry, did I wake you?’

  ‘No, love, I was just resting me eyes. Come here and sit with me. I don’t get much chance to talk to you these days.’

  Sarah put another log on the already blazing fire and sat herself down on the couch next to Granna Issy. She sank into the feather cushions. She, like her granna, loved the late-autumn evenings.

  The light had faded, banishing the shadows that the disappearing sun had thrown up. Only the flicker of the flames lit the room, but she didn’t turn the lamp on. That would spoil the cosiness.

  ‘Everyone’s busy these days. Jack’s allus on with his work in the stables and getting the land ready; Megan’s life is lived in a whirl; and you, Sarah . . . by, you’re a clever lass. Megan tells me as you’re brilliant at taking care of all her dealings, where money’s concerned. I’m reet proud of you, thou knows. Eeh, I reckon as you have a lot of your Granddad Tom in you. He was clever with numbers.’

  ‘Well, I have the hard work of Aunt Megan and Dad to thank for that an’ all. It was them as saw to it that I had a chance to go to the grammar school. Not that I were happy there, as they all thought themselves better than me. That was until they needed help with their homework.’

  ‘Aye, I know. Still, you got through it, and with all your school certificates. Who would’ve thought it, eh? Your mam would’ve loved how you’ve turned out. And as for us living like we do, she’d have had something to say about that an’ all. By, we’ll be taking over Hensal Grange yet.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so. They must be millionaires.’

  ‘Aye, got rich by making good marriages in the first place, they did. Eeh, I could tell you stuff about them. Not this lot that have it now. That Lord Crompton seems a decent bloke, and Lady Crompton ain’t a bit like her late sister, Laura Harvey. But them as went before, and the old Mr Harvey – Laura Harvey’s father-in-law, as passed on before the last war – there were some goings-on with him, I tell yer.’

  Sarah remembered that Issy had told her this many times over, but she didn’t say so. Instead she sought a distraction. ‘Shall I get Fanny to make us a pot of tea, Granna? I’m reet parched. I’ve had a long day.’

  ‘Aye, lass, that’d be nice. And see if she’s got some of them scones made. I’d like to see if she’s learned yet how to make them proper, like I showed her.’

  Sarah laughed as she went in search of Fanny. Her granna was a one. She’d not wanted any hired help; the kitchen was her domain and had remained so until recently, when it had all become too much. For her body, that is, not for her spirit. Not that they could stop her altogether – she still oversaw all the meals.

  Tiredness ached in Sarah’s bones as she headed towards the kitchen. Tomorrow was decision day. The medical team had already sat and pronounced Billy suitable for release, and Grandpa Edward had assured them that he’d looked into Billy’s case and everything pointed to him being mentally fit. The final decision would be down to the court. The lawyer was sure it would all go well, but the outcome that he thought good was far from being so to her. The only good thing would be the end to her visits, but she’d rather endure them than have Billy free. Not that there had been another visit since . . . No, she’d not think on that. There’d been letters, though – letters written as if from a perfect lover. It all sickened her.

  This thought had hardly settled in her when the walls of the hall closed in on her. Unable to see, and with her ears zinging, she groped for the hall stand. Clutching it, she steadied herself. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her mind wouldn’t tell her what was happening. She thought her body would sink to the floor without her being able to stop it. After a moment, the feeling calmed and everything took on its normal state. She gave herself time, telling herself it must be the stress coupled with, perhaps, the onset of her monthly, which – by her reckoning – was well overdue. She’d already missed one and was due again, but then, with her not eating well and fretting, it wasn’t surprising. Maybe tonight. Yes, all the signs are there. I’m sure to start me monthly tonight.

  Feeling better now she was back in the sitting room, Sarah felt glad that no sign of the incident had shown itself to her granna. Forgetting about it, she threw herself into the situation that she could see brewing, as Fanny put a tea plate of perfect-looking scones in front of them.

  Issy took one, but made no comment. As she bit into it and caught the crumbs from falling into her lap, she grunted. The look of surprise accompanying the grunt spoke volumes.

  Sarah winked at Fanny, telling her, ‘They’re delicious. The best I’ve ever tasted.’
/>   This set Fanny scurrying out of the room, and Issy choking as she said, ‘By, lass, I’ll say one thing for you. You not only look like your dad; you’ve got his cheek, all right.’

  ‘Well, Granna, you are naughty. You put the fear of death into poor Fanny. She tries her best.’

  ‘Aye, I knows, lass. I just can’t get used to someone else in me kitchen. But you’re reet about these scones, and though I’ll bide me time, I’ll tell her so one of these days. Anyroad, it’s not scones as I want to talk to you about. Tell me what you’ve been buying.’

  Trying to drum up some excitement for something she’d found a chore, Sarah giggled. ‘Oh, I had a good day. I found just the headdress I was looking for.’ She took the white skullcap from the box she’d discarded by her feet when she sat down. ‘Look, it’s perfect! Aunt Megan’s going to make some lilies out of the silk she is using to make me frock, and she’ll attach them here at the back. And not only that, but I’ve found the perfect thing for Sally’s hair, too. Look at this. It’s the exact match for her dress material.’ She displayed the small swatch of Sally’s bridesmaid dress that she’d taken with her, and the two tiny roses on a silver clip that were an identical shade of rose-pink.

  ‘By, lass, it’s going to be a beautiful wedding. You’re going to look lovely. Like I said, you’re a picture of our Cissy. Eeh, she’d have been reet proud of you.’

  ‘I still remember her, Granna. And Bella. I’ll never forget them.’

  ‘I knows that, me love. And all as she’d want is for you to be happy. Are you happy, lass? Really happy, I mean? You’re not drifting into marrying Billy, are you?’

  ‘No! Of course not. I – I love him. It may be that our wedding is sooner than I thought, but then it’s like that for a lot of young couples, with this war and talk of all the men going away.’ Wanting to change the subject, Sarah asked her granna’s opinion of the war. ‘What do you think about it all, Granna? Will it be as bad as everyone says?’