Chapter 8

August 1941

It had been three weeks and still her aunt was confined to bed in hospital. Further tests for consumption, or, as the doctor had referred to it, tuberculosis, had proved she didn't have it and Helen was enormously relieved.

‘But she needs to remain at Overdale to recuperate as much as possible,' he had told her. He explained further about the virus that had severely affected her aunt's heart. Helen was relieved to hear that if Sylvia took things easy, ate better and rested more, her death wasn't as imminent as they had both supposed. She looked forward to having her aunt back home the following week.

She couldn't imagine how they expected Aunt Sylvia to eat better, though, with the restrictions on food that were constantly being tightened. Mrs Hamel had been generous with her help, taking Bobby while Helen worked, but she wasn't free today and Helen hoped he would be calm when she took him to the villa.

She was pushing his pram down the corridor to the kitchen when a severe-looking officer startled her by stepping out of a room and stopping in front of her. Helen held her breath, wishing she could turn and run back the way she had come. It was one thing Cook and Mrs Edwards knowing Bobby was there, but another entirely when a member of the Wehrmacht found out.

‘And who do we have here?' he asked in passable English. He walked around the pram to peer inside. ‘He is your baby?'

Unable to speak or even look up at his face, Helen stared down at Bobby, watching the man push the hood of the pram down so that the light from a nearby window lit up her son's face.

‘He is a fine boy.'

‘Er, thank you.'

‘I have seen you here,' the officer said. ‘You serve in the dining room.'

‘I do.' Surprised, she looked up at him. He had a severe, untanned face, unlike most of the other soldiers she had come across. And a deep scar ran from the right side of his mouth to his ear. With a jolt, she remembered him as one of the soldiers who had come to Aunt Sylvia's about the V signs. She wished he would move out of her way and let her get to work before Mrs Jeune assumed she wasn't coming.

‘My apologies,' he said in near-perfect English. ‘I should introduce myself. I am Hauptmann Wilhelm Schneider of the Wehrmacht.' He studied her and Helen struggled to keep from shivering under his sharp gaze. ‘Your name?'

‘Helen. Um, Helen Bowman.'

‘Good morning, Frau Bowman. He held his finger over the pram and Bobby gripped it firmly. She wanted to snatch her son's hand away. ‘He is a strong baby.'

‘He is.'

‘You have enough food to feed him?'

She looked up at him, unsure what he was implying. Forgetting who she was addressing, Helen snapped. ‘My baby is perfectly well taken care of, thank you.'

He stepped back looking stunned.

Cringing at her stupidity, she tried to defend herself. ‘That is to say?—'

He raised a hand and shook his head. ‘I was not insulting you. I only ask because I am aware mothers must cope with less now.'

‘I see,' she said, feeling a little appeased. ‘I should go, or I will be late for work.'

He stepped back from the pram and held one arm out, indicating that she should pass. ‘It was pleasant talking to you, Frau Bowman.'

Helen didn't dare hesitate and pushed the pram towards the kitchen, eager to get away from him and into the safety of Cook's domain. She shuddered as she closed the door behind her and leant against it.

‘What's happened?' Mrs Jeune narrowed her eyes.

‘I was stopped in the hallway by an officer,' she said, her voice trembling. ‘He wanted to know about Bobby.'

The cook folded her arms across her ample chest. ‘Did he now? And what did he say?'

Helen repeated what had happened. ‘He seemed friendly enough,' she admitted, hoping she hadn't read the man's intentions incorrectly. ‘But there was something in his expression that unnerved me.'

‘Maybe he's a father and missing his own kiddies?' Cook said, picking up a ladle and scooping what looked like a meat and vegetable stew into a serving dish. ‘We tend to forget they're people sometimes. I imagine most of them would rather be back home than stuck here.'

The thought hadn't occurred to Helen, and it calmed her slightly. She hoped she wouldn't be needed to serve in the dining room. One conversation with the Hauptmann had been more than enough for one day.

It was a busy but peaceful morning in the kitchen with the usual chopping of vegetables, stirring of sauces and running back and forth at Cook's will. Relaxing into her day, Helen realised there was only half an hour until lunch was ready to be served. Cook had told her not to worry about helping in the dining room, which was a relief.

She pushed Bobby's pram to Coronation Gardens, the park across the road from Villa Millbrook, where she sat in the shade of the pavilion looking out over the sea. She thought back to her only other visit to the park, with her aunt, just before the war, and the relaxing afternoon they had spent walking past the beautiful rose gardens and watching children paddling in the large shallow pool. Aunt Sylvia had explained how Lady Trent had the park designed and built at the beginning of the Thirties to commemorate her late husband. She had brought the renowned French designer, René Lalique, to the island to install his famous crystal in the windows, baptismal font, altar and light fittings of St Matthew's Church, next to the park.

As she ate her sandwich, looking out at the array of trees and flowers in the gardens, Helen felt nostalgic for those seemingly innocent times three years before the Nazis had invaded, and mourned the unforeseen changes everyone had faced since the opening of the gardens, which Lady Trent had timed to celebrate the coronation of the King.

She was returning to the kitchen, having taken through a pile of used bowls to Dulcie, when she saw Mrs Edwards leaving, a furious scowl on her face.

"What's happened?' Helen asked as soon as the door closed behind the housekeeper.

Mrs Jeune grimaced. ‘Mrs Edwards has discovered that last evening one of the officers pushed a lit cigar into Lord Trent's portrait and damaged it.'

Helen felt a pang of sadness. ‘No, but that's such a beautiful painting. Why would they do that?'

‘I've no idea. What I do know is that there's a right ruckus going on about it because no one has owned up yet.' She glanced towards the door and lowered her voice. ‘Mrs Edwards is dreadfully upset. I think mostly because she feels responsible for keeping everything shipshape while her ladyship is away.' She sighed heavily. ‘Her poor ladyship. She'll be devastated when she sees what they've done.'

‘Rotten sods,' Dulcie said.

Hearing the cursing, Mrs Jeune turned to her. ‘What are you doing eavesdropping when you should be working? And don't dare use that language in my kitchen again, do you hear me?'

‘Sorry, Cook.'

Helen watched Dulcie skulk back to the scullery and took the opportunity to push Bobby's pram out of the way. Having spent almost an hour playing in the gardens, he was now fast asleep and Helen hoped he'd stay that way for a while yet.'

‘Dratted girl,' Cook mumbled. Then, turning to Helen, she said, ‘Better smarten yourself up. I'm told you're needed in the dining room after all, and we don't want to increase Mrs Edwards' anger by you being late.' She shot a look at Bobby. ‘I'll watch over the little one.'

Helen had little choice but to comply. What other employers would allow her to bring her baby to work, after all?

‘Better go and put a brush through your hair and fetch a cap and clean apron.'

Helen ran from the kitchen to the side room to change into the correct outfit.

* * *

‘Who is this then?' a fair-haired officer she hadn't seen before asked when she carried the tray into the dining room.

Helen didn't reply and willed her hands to stop shaking. She doubted she would ever get used to this part of her work.

The officer she had spoken to that morning stared at her, but Helen pretended not to notice, doing her best not to interact with them while still being respectful. It was a bit of a struggle. As she collected the crockery from the officers' first course, she noticed two of them whispering. The younger one, who had commented on her when she walked in, reddened when she caught his eye.

Eager to leave the room, Helen quickly pushed in front of the other waitress and took the tray carrying the soup tureen and bowls from the dining room.

‘What's the matter now?' Mrs Jeune asked as she passed her on her way to the scullery. ‘If you're worried about little un, there's no need. He's been as good as gold.'

Not wishing to be thought of as ungrateful, Helen shook her head. ‘I'm fine,' she fibbed.

‘Good. Then hurry up and take this meat through.'

As Helen carried in the heavy joint of meat she recalled her conversation with Peggy. She needed to stop feeling frightened of these men and focus on finding out useful information for her friend. Feeling emboldened, she quickened her step towards the dining room.