Chapter 8

Later, once Lilian had prepared the house for blackout, Aunt Edith and I ate at the table in the kitchen. Lilian had cooked our meal of liver with boiled potatoes and green beans. She served us, then said, ‘I need to go and get changed now, Mrs Bartlett. See you in the morning.'

‘Off to the Old Fox with the Canadian chap, are you, Lilian?'

She blushed, and said, ‘Yes, Ted's going to treat me to supper tonight.'

‘Lucky you,' Aunt Edith said.

Lilian headed for the stairs. ‘Don't forget there are baked apples under the grill.'

Aunt Edith gave her a nod as she closed the kitchen door behind her, then said in a low voice, ‘Lilian has been courting a Canadian soldier, stationed nearby at Netley Park. Very handsome apparently, and he provides her with silk stockings and cigarettes.'

‘Oh right,' I said.

Aunt Edith lowered her voice. ‘She cast the butcher's son, Martin Chester, aside for the Canadian chap, sadly. The poor lad was devastated to discover their romance when he came home unexpectedly on leave. Saw them kissing down at the Old Fox. Martin always thought he and Lilian would get married one day. Childhood sweethearts they were.'

Mother had never approved of the way Aunt Edith liked to spread gossip, and as a result didn't tell her anything that mattered. Often, when we'd visited, Aunt Edith would reveal the deepest secrets of people who considered her to be a friend.

‘How unfortunate. These potatoes are very good,' I said, not wanting to get drawn into a discussion of her maid's love life.

‘Lilian drops a sprig of mint into the saucepan when boiling them. Makes all the difference. We are fortunate to have a good crop of spuds from the vegetable patch,' Aunt Edith said. ‘And those beans were picked this very morning, fresh off their stalks.'

‘Mother says it's nice to have more space for planting vegetables now she's in Brighton,' I said.

‘Indeed, I couldn't manage without Mr Foster, who used to tend the garden at the rectory. He comes once a week to keep it all going and downright refuses to charge me a penny. Does it for Reg, he says. I tell him to take whatever he wants from my garden, within reason, and his wife is always grateful. She goes to the trouble of writing thank-you notes; not necessary at all, but there you are.'

When we'd finished eating, I cleared the plates and got the apples from under the grill. We ate them with evaporated milk from a tin.

‘These apples are from Mrs Patterson next door. We did an exchange, apples for potatoes. She has a tree that produced a big crop earlier in the month. They're all stored beautifully in her shed, and Mr Patterson is making cider with some of them, that's when he isn't doing wonderful work as an air raid warden. Poor man spends half the night walking around spotting fires and arranging for them to be put out. Mrs Patterson does worry about him so, but he insists on doing all he can to help the villagers.'

The apples were delicious, and they dissolved in my mouth, leaving an aftertaste of cinnamon and sugar. After we'd finished eating, I offered to wash up the dishes.

‘Thank you, dear. I'll go and listen to the news on the wireless.'

When I'd washed and dried the dishes and put them away, I went into the sitting room and sat opposite Aunt Edith. She was writing, using a fountain pen, on sheets of paper resting on a book in her lap. The news announcer talked about the usual, bombs being dropped all around the country, especially in London and the south-east. Listening in wasn't particularly uplifting, but one felt the need to stay informed.

‘Are you writing letters?' I said.

‘No, I'm taking part in the Mass Observation, a new endeavour taken up in recent weeks to exercise my writing muscles. Keeps the brain sharp.'

‘And what is that then?'

‘I write diary entries and send them off by post, and they'll be filed for future reference. If at any stage they're published, my name will be changed unless I give permission for it to be used.'

‘That sounds interesting.'

‘Writing a diary entry has become part of my daily routine, and it's a way to deal with what we're living through. A moment in history, Margaret. Doing this makes me feel of some use. Today, I'm recording your arrival in Gatley, but don't worry, I've changed your name.'

‘Thank you,' I said, unsure whether I wanted to be written about. ‘What to?'

‘I thought Penelope rather suited you.'

I nodded.

‘Don't worry, dear. I'm not writing anything personal. Only facts. It's all quite bland really. I note what is happening with no room for thoughts or feelings. It's more of a journal than a diary really.'

‘That's a relief,' I said.

‘Do you keep a diary, Margaret?'

Shaking my head, I said, ‘No, I don't.'

‘Writing down thoughts and feelings does one the world of good at times like this. I suggest you start one, for the sake of your sanity if nothing else.'

It hadn't occurred to me to write a diary, but I could see the benefits. ‘I can imagine it would help,' I said.

Aunt Edith continued to write, and I wasn't sure what to do with myself. My evenings would usually be occupied with sewing projects, but I didn't have one on the go. I could write to Mother, but wanted to wait until after the interview so as to deliver the latest news. The grandfather clock chimed, startling me. There were nine slow dongs and then the church bells opposite started to do the same. They were out of sync with each other, and it was rather nauseating to listen to. And then the sound of planes droned overhead en route to London, ready to cause more destruction. Mother was right; I was best off out of it, but from what Aunt Edith said I wasn't exactly out of the woods in Gatley either. Seeing that the fire had almost gone out, I got up to add another log, using the poker to get it going again.

‘Thank you for doing that, Margaret. You must be tired after your journey. Why don't you make us some cocoa, then you can get an early night to be fresh for the interview?'

‘All right,' I said, standing up, feeling dismissed. Still, it had been a long day.

‘Make mine lukewarm please.'

I went into the kitchen, and it didn't take long to find what was needed. I filled two cups and took Aunt Edith's into the sitting room, placing it onto the trestle table beside her.

‘Thank you, my dear. It's nice to have your company. Lilian goes out most evenings and comes back late. I'll tell her to be careful not to wake you when she comes in.'

‘Thank you,' I said.

Aunt Edith lowered her glasses and looked up at me. ‘If it's a particularly bad night out there, we'll all end up in the cellar with a bottle of brandy and cotton wool in our ears, of course. Let's hope not. Goodnight, Margaret,' she said.

‘Goodnight, Aunt.'

Taking the stairs, I considered how easy it would be to mess up the interview. But with no proper bed for me at Aunt Edith's house, where would I live? All the spare rooms in the area were taken up with evacuees from London. My only choice was to pursue a live-in position and working at Gatley Hall seemed to be the answer.