‘Good lord, so it’s you, girl.’
With relief Brenda saw that it was Jack’s brother, if sounding every bit as cold and arrogant as his father. Stiffening her spine, she took a breath. ‘Good to see you again, Hugh.’
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Brenda faced him with a shot of her well-tuned courage. ‘I believe as Jack’s wife, or rather his widow, I do have that right.’
He gave a snort of disbelief. ‘You’re claiming to have married him?’
She blinked, stunned by this response. ‘You surely knew that we married late in 1939?’ Perhaps Jack had never mentioned their marriage because he was fearful of being cut off from his family completely, in view of his estrangement from his father. Camille was constantly cautioning her son about Sir Randolph’s temper and possible reaction.
Hugh glowered at her. ‘Jack never wrote to tell us about any damn wedding, so why would I believe you?’
‘Why would you not?’
‘Because you’re a feisty little madam. Always were.’
‘Please, we need to talk.’
Lifting his head to glare up at the grey sky as rain again began to fall, he marched to a side door and flung it open. ‘Very well, you can stay tonight, and explain exactly what did happen to my brother.’
Stifling a sigh, Brenda went to pick up her heavy bag then followed him into the house along the passage towards the kitchen, which was no doubt where he thought she belonged. Every step she’d taken in recent years seemed to have led to yet more trauma. Making decisions had never been easy in the terrifying world following Jack’s death, and despite believing she’d made the right ones, it had all gone terribly wrong.
France, 1940
Brenda stood washing dishes at the sink in the kitchen of her mother-in-law’s elegant apartment, quite close to the Jardin des Tuileries. Surrounded by gilt mirrors, chandeliers, glorious armoires and huge arched windows, she spent every day cleaning, washing and cooking, rarely setting foot outside except to buy food at a local market. Ever since Jack’s death a strange sense of detachment had enveloped her, leaving her largely oblivious to whatever was happening in the world. It felt as if she was living in some kind of frozen bubble, so devastated at losing him that she could barely think, let alone eat or sleep. Camille, his dear mother, was equally distraught and had largely confined herself to her room. Brenda continued to care for her, not only out of love for her husband, but felt she could never neglect this lovely lady who’d become almost like a mother to her too.
‘I thought you might like an egg custard with your afternoon tea,’ Brenda said to her now as she set a tray on the small coffee table by her chair.
‘Oh, what a lovely girl you are.’ Camille’s pale face creased with a smile in a valiant attempt to disguise the bleakness of grief. ‘I wouldn’t have the first idea how to make one of those tarts, even though it was a favourite treat of Jack’s.’
‘Mine too,’ Brenda said, with a slight tremor to her voice. ‘Let’s sit and enjoy it together, then I’ll run a bath for you before dinner. I’ve managed to find us some fish, if only a small piece of cod. But we can liven it up with some rice and tomatoes.’ There was a serious shortage of food these days, although the smartly uniformed German military were able to fully indulge their own appetites for fine meals, beer, women and dancing, no doubt viewed as a reward for their victory.
‘You are so amazingly resilient,’ Camille said as Brenda switched on the small gas fire to warm up the cool bedroom. ‘But you mustn’t work too hard, my dear. You and that little one you are carrying need rest, so do take an afternoon nap each day.’
Sleep was not something Brenda felt in need of right now. Whenever she closed her eyes, her mind would vividly replay all she’d learned about the manner of his death. Reliving how he must have run for cover when he’d heard guns going off all around him. Was his memory of her his last thought on this earth? Brenda would prefer to think he died instantly, not lying on the ground in pain and anguish, waiting for the end to close in upon him. Terrified of such nightmares, she found that keeping busy was the only solution. Retiring to her bed only when exhaustion overwhelmed her, Brenda could manage to sleep more deeply and avoid them. It also gave her a reason to go on with life.
‘Exercise is good for me,’ she smilingly replied, settling herself in the armchair opposite. In addition, she was doing her utmost to persuade Camille to eat more, as she was increasingly thin, a sad fragility about her. She’d never been particularly robust. Despite only being in her early fifties she’d aged considerably since her son’s death, her golden blonde hair turning silver grey almost overnight.
‘Did you hear any news while you were out shopping today?’ Camille politely enquired, her tone of voice flat as she sliced up the tart.
‘When I bought our bread this morning the boulanger told me that although the southern part of France around the spa town of Vichy is seen as a zone libre, Marshal Pétain, who is in control, still insists upon cooperating with Hitler. He apparently believes the state has greater rights than the people. So the area may not be as free as he claims it to be.’
Camille’s pale-blue eyes narrowed as she considered this. ‘That may well be the case. The man does have strong fascist sympathies.’
‘The boulanger also said I should take care, as there’s a growing resentment among some French that the British haven’t done enough to help prevent the German invasion.’
‘An attitude which will make them anti-British as well as anti-Nazi. Perhaps you should go back to England while you can, dear girl, to be safe.’
‘Would you come with me?’
The older woman’s eyes frosted over as she avoided meeting Brenda’s gaze. ‘As you know, I have no wish to return to my over-controlling husband. I was born and brought up here in France. This is my home.’
They both fell silent following this familiar response, concentrating on enjoying an unexpected treat, the eggs made available thanks to a neighbour who kept chickens. Were it not for her fondness for this dear lady, and the fact she was expecting Jack’s child, Brenda knew she would have returned to Manchester long since. She missed it badly, and her many dear friends, particularly Cathie whom she’d known for most of her life, as well as Jack’s sister Prue. There were times when she ached to hear a northern voice cracking jokes with their deliciously dry sense of humour. But here she was, stuck in France.
Thousands of Parisians had already fled the city. Just days before the invasion, at Camille’s insistence she and Jack had tried to leave. They’d found the Gare de Lyon packed out. There were hundreds of people carrying mountains of luggage, desperate to get on a train and escape the threat of occupation. There were women wheeling babies in prams, young men barging about, and children and dogs running everywhere. Then a station porter had called out, ‘Il n’y a pas de trains.’ As there were no trains, with a resigned sigh she and Jack had drifted back to the apartment.
As summer progressed Brenda noticed many neighbours who had escaped returned home, having suffered from starvation, bombing raids and severe losses to their families or belongings out on the open roads. Some were ordered back by the Germans, yet other people were still desperately striving to get away. And who could blame them? France was in complete turmoil: shops and restaurants closed, clothes, shoes and even furniture littering the streets. Chaos reigned as the Germans now occupied and ruled most of the country.
Brenda’s