Chapter 22

The next morning when I left Rose Cottage for work, my head hurt from all the red wine consumed at the Old Fox, and I hadn't slept very well on the sofa. I grabbed a coffee from the Stables and went to my office. Opening my notebook, I reread Margaret's letter. What should my next step be? And how was I supposed to find out where Tabitha was? Perhaps finding out who she was would be a good start.

Picking up an old edition of the Gatley Hall guidebook, published in 1985, I found a section about the servants and their quarters and was pleased to see a floor plan. These rooms included the housekeeper's parlour, where I worked, the kitchen, the servants' hall, the laundry room, the still room and the butler's pantry. The staff and volunteers at Gatley Hall were the modern-day version of the servants from its past, and I tried to picture the house back in the 1940s. Like in all country houses, male servants would have been limited.

Turning the pages, I saw photos of the servants' hall and kitchen in the late 1930s. There were footmen in their livery from 1939 and a housemaid in her dress with apron, hat and black stockings. Gardeners with their tools from 1935. There were three different housekeepers, including the one in charge from 1935 to 1945: Mrs Willis, and her husband, the butler, Mr Willis. I recalled seeing them in the photo of the servants in front of the Christmas tree. Tabitha Willis had to be their daughter, surely? But then why did Margaret want to find her? Mrs Willis looked to be at least in her fifties though, and this made me wonder if they'd adopted Tabitha. The Willises lived at Rose Cottage, but from the photo, where they stood outside the front door my cottage and Jim's were joined together as one.

But there was no information in the guidebook about Tabitha or Margaret. Then I remembered Helen mentioning the website and logged on to my computer. There was a photo of a Spitfire with ‘Violet' written on the side, a pilot standing in front of it, proudly wearing his uniform.

Then there it was: a picture of Thomas and Margaret Bates on their wedding day, 1 November 1945, at Leatherhead Register Office. They were both smiling and she held a bouquet of flowers. He wore a navy-blue RAF uniform with shirt and tie and wings on the lapel. Her surname had been Anderson rather than Bates in the letter so she must have married again at some stage.

The photo was accompanied by an article from the Surrey Standard.

Love Story at Gatley Hall

Former chauffeur, Thomas Bates, married former lady's maid, Margaret Bartlett, at Leatherhead Register Office last week. They met while working at Gatley Hall and she wrote to him every day while he flew fighter jets over France, Italy and Germany. Congratulations to the happy couple!

Could Tabitha be their daughter, conceived before Thomas went to fight or when he was on leave? And did Mr and Mrs Willis adopt her because Thomas and Margaret weren't yet married? Would Margaret have lost touch with her if this was the case though? It really was a mystery.

When I got back to Rose Cottage after work, I sat at the table in the kitchen with a glass of wine and looked around the place. I could make it feel more like home. Taking my notepad, I started to sketch a plan of the house and drew out things that could be added – in the living room, a couple of lamps, a rug, some cushions and a throw. In the kitchen, I could buy a cheap sideboard to put a lamp and candles on, and the blind desperately needed replacing. Upstairs, I'd get a new shower curtain, and plants would brighten up the bathroom. In the bedroom, replacing the musty old curtains would make a real difference and an eiderdown would look nice on the bed. Making the house look better would be uplifting and help me get over all I'd been through in the past few months.

Finding myself doodling in the corner of the page, I looked down to see a small flower with petals. I began to colour them in with my biro, one at a time, finding the activity strangely therapeutic. I'd been really into drawing, and painting, once. When I did art at A level, my teacher said I had real talent. The pressure of completing coursework had taken the fun out of it though and I'd lost interest, as it made art more of a chore than something you did for fun.

Jim came through the front door, a towel wrapped round his waist. His appearance made me jump out of my daydream world.

‘How are you, Claire?'

‘What happened to the dressing gown?' I said.

‘Samantha spilled a cup of tea down it this morning, so it's in the wash as we speak.'

‘Well, hopefully it will be clean and ready to wear again soon.'

‘Did you enjoy last night in the end?' he said.

‘Well, you certainly did.'

He ruffled his hair at the front, seemingly unaware of how hot he looked when he did this. ‘What do you mean by that, exactly?'

‘The wall between our bedrooms is paper-thin and I had to sleep on the sofa because Mike left the spare room in a right mess. There's a tired-looking mattress leaning against the wall and there are random boxes everywhere. We need a plan for what to do when one of us has an overnight guest.'

‘Oh sorry, I hadn't thought about that. Mike used to stay at his girlfriend's, and he never said anything about my visitors. To be fair to Mike, I think your spare room was like that when he moved in. You could get a bed to go in there, perhaps?'

‘You expect me to move rooms whenever Samantha stays over?'

He shrugged. ‘My spare room is set up as an office and there's no space for a bed.'

I could get a bed in my spare room, I supposed, but why should I?

‘How have you found your first week here?' Jim said.

‘It's taken some getting used to, but I made a bit of headway with the Below Stairs project today.'

‘What did you find?'

I told him about the photos in the guidebook and the article about Margaret and Tom's wedding day but there was still so much to find out.

‘You'll get there, I'm sure,' he said. Standing up, he tightened the towel round his waist. ‘Right, I'd better get on and have a shower.' The prospect of spending yet another evening alone didn't appeal and, as he went upstairs, I considered asking him to have a glass of wine with me. Maybe I could rustle up some pasta with whatever was in the fridge.

Opening the fridge door, I peered into the salad drawer: half a pepper, an onion, a handful of mushrooms. What I really needed was bacon, then I could use the jar of pesto sauce in the cupboard to make my speciality. Jim might have a few rashers in his fridge. The running water above me stopped, and before long he came downstairs.

‘Fancy a glass of wine before you go?' I said.

‘Sure, what have you got?'

Was he looking for company too?

‘A bottle of Australian Shiraz.'

‘Sounds good to me.'

He pulled up a chair at the table, and I filled tumblers for us both. I still needed to buy wine glasses. That might be a way to pass time at the weekend. Was there a kitchen shop in Dorking? I wanted to get nice ones though, to invest in this new little home of my own.

‘Sorry I don't have wine glasses yet,' I said, sitting down.

‘I almost prefer this. In France, they use tumblers all the time for wine.' He took a sip and his appreciative nod and slight smile implied that he approved.

A knock came at the front door, making me jump.

‘Well, I have no idea who that is,' I said.

I got up and went to open the door. To my horror, Miles was standing there, a paper bag tucked under one arm from the fancy deli he liked. Oh no. I wasn't up to seeing Miles. This was going to be awkward, especially with Jim dressed only in a towel. Tightening my grip on the door handle, I said, ‘What are you doing here?'

‘I just happened to be in the area,' he said, throwing me his best smile.

‘Sure you were.'

He frowned. ‘Aren't you going to let me in?'

‘How did you find my cottage?'

‘A lady in an ATP fleece was very helpful. Said she knew you.'

‘You should have called first.'

‘I did, but there was no answer. Have you muted me or something?'

When he'd kept calling the day before, I'd hidden alerts from his phone number and must have forgotten to switch them back on. I stood there, looking at him, not knowing what to say.

He held up the paper bag. ‘Brought your favourite.'

‘What is it?'

He rolled his eyes. Miles was a keen eye-roller.

‘You know. Coq au vin, with mash.'

Although I liked this dish, the sauce and the mash were too rich and salty, and packed with butter and cream. I'd always pretended this was my favourite, because it was his. Looking back, how could I have been so foolish, letting him run my life like that? I'd often wanted to do everything to please him for an easy life as otherwise he could get moody. Miles was one of those people who liked to exercise the silent treatment when they didn't get what they wanted. Now we'd spent some time apart, this was becoming clear to me.

But now he was here, and I could hardly tell him to go home. We might as well eat what he'd brought. Maybe he could have a glass of wine, and we'd work our way towards some kind of closure.

‘I'll be off then,' Jim's voice came from behind me.

Damn, this was awkward.

Miles and I moved aside and Jim went past. He gave my ex a polite and unsmiling nod as he unlocked his front door. In return, Miles threw him one of those looks he gave men when they showed any interest in me – it had always irritated him – and stepped over the threshold into my cottage. Closing the door behind him, he scrunched up his face in that way he did when he was not happy.

‘Who was that?'

‘Jim, the ranger who lives next door,' I said, in an upbeat voice.

‘What was he doing here, and dressed only in a towel?'

‘He was taking a shower.'

‘Doesn't he have his own shower?'

I shook my head. ‘His is broken.'

‘Well, he needs to get it fixed, and soon. He can't wander into your house half-dressed whenever he likes. Do you want me to arrange for a plumber to go round there?'

Goodness, he was so concerned about another man's presence in my home when he'd allowed me to leave our flat without even helping me to put my things in the car!

‘He's got someone coming over next week,' I said, heading into the kitchen.

‘It shouldn't take that long to find one, especially somewhere like this.'

‘Somewhere like this?'

‘There's hardly anyone living in this village, is there? Can't be that much demand in the middle of nowhere.'

After only a few days in Gatley, I found myself wanting to defend the countryside but decided to bite my tongue.

Following me, Miles handed over the paper bag. The coq au vin was presented in beautiful white cardboard trays with matching lids, and I put them in the fridge. Jim would be pleased to see the absence of plastic, although the meal had probably cost Miles a small fortune. Why was I thinking about Jim's potential opinion of my dinner?

‘Fancy a glass of wine?' I said.

‘I'm driving but will have one small glass.'

He pulled out the chair where Jim had been sitting and looked at me as I picked up the half-empty tumbler and took it to the sink.

‘So, he was having a drink with you as well as taking the liberty of using your shower?'

Taking the libertywas one of Miles's favourite phrases, and I hadn't missed it.

‘We were discussing a work matter, that's all.' Why should I have to compose a lie and defend myself? Miles and I weren't together anymore. It shouldn't matter who was in my house.

Filling a clean tumbler for Miles, I joined him at the table.

‘No wine glasses yet?' he said.

Shaking my head, I said, ‘Nope. So, why are you here then?'

He sipped the wine and grimaced. ‘What is this?'

He liked expensive wine and it always had to be French. No other country was capable of producing decent wine, apparently.

‘Australian Shiraz. Don't complain.'

‘Oh. I miss you, Claire.'

He studied me with those brown puppy-dog eyes, a move that used to work but now it seemed kind of pathetic. Emboldened by having consumed a couple of glasses of wine, I said, ‘How can you mean that, after everything that's happened?'

He laughed, but I didn't see what was so funny about the way things had ended between us.

‘I know. Stupid, isn't it?'

‘Are you asking me to come back?' A part of me wanted him to say yes, for the ego boost more than anything else.

Inhaling, he said, ‘I wouldn't exactly say that. Yet. Have you missed me?'

‘I've missed your company, but moving out was the right decision,' I said, wanting to see his reaction. ‘We're not meant to be together, are we?'

‘It doesn't feel over though.' He finished his wine. ‘I need a few more glasses of this wine so I can't tell how bad it is.'

‘Aren't you driving, though?'

He looked me in the eye. ‘Can I stay?'

‘What do you mean?'

Placing his hand on mine, he said, ‘Please, Claire Bear?'

This was what he called me when he wanted something, a pet name I'd never been sure about. I got up, switched on the oven and removed the coq au vin from the fridge.

He put his tumbler on the counter and came up behind me and put his arms round my waist.

‘Can I stay, please?'

He gently pulled me round to face him and leant in to kiss me on the lips. I'd missed this side of being with him. I threw my arms round his neck and he hugged me tightly. My heart had begun to mend since leaving him and sleeping together would open up those feelings again, like losing in a game of Snakes and Ladders. Since being at Gatley Hall, I'd made it a little way up that board.

Refilling his glass, I said, ‘Okay, you can stay.'

I put the coq au vin in the oven, and we returned to the table with the rest of the bottle of wine.