‘Oh, yes please!’
It had never crossed their minds to consider that the threat of war might hamper this dream. Hadn’t the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, assured the nation that he had achieved ‘Peace for our time’, so why would they worry about such things?
‘I’ll be leaving by train from Uppermill on Friday morning.’
‘I’ve been ordered to leave first thing tomorrow. I’ll be staying with my friend, Cathie, in Castlefield.’
‘So you could meet me at Manchester Victoria? I should arrive by eleven at the latest.’
‘Of course,’ she’d said, kissing him again. ‘But we must make sure Sir Randolph doesn’t discover our plans. Were he to find out you intend to take me with you, he could change his mind and prevent you from going.’
‘We won’t tell a living soul,’ he’d whispered, cradling her in his arms. Then, with a little smile on his face, he’d shifted on to one knee and grasped her hand. ‘As soon as we’re settled in France and we’ve saved up enough cash from my much-reduced allowance, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’
‘Oh, Jack, I can’t think of anything I’d like more. I love you with all my heart.’
That had been the moment when Brenda would have been happy to give herself to him, her heart beating wildly. But even as passion had flared between them, both trembling with need, he’d gently released her. ‘Let’s not take any more risks, not until we’re safely away from this place. I suppose we’re taking a risk being here together now. If Papa realises we’re missing he could walk through these woods at any moment and find us, which would ruin everything.’
With great reluctance they’d parted, softly repeating their promises to each other. Brenda had spent the rest of the day saying sad farewells to Mrs Harding, Carter, Prue and even Kit the collie. Then she’d packed her small brown suitcase, and around dawn the next morning old Joe had driven her down the long winding hill to the station. She could remember watching the sun rise, lighting the sloping green hills with gold and pink, and thinking how she would miss this beautiful land. Yet she’d also felt an excitement burning inside her at the prospect of a new adventure in France.
When Friday came she’d stood by the clock at Victoria Station by ten in the morning, just in case Jack arrived early. Eleven o’clock came and went and just when she was nearly in tears of disappointment, he’d suddenly come walking towards her through the steam and smoke of the engine.
‘Sorry, the train was delayed, but here I am, my darling. Now we can be together forever,’ he’d said, lifting her into his arms and swinging her round, making her squeal with joy.
Fortunately, their journey to France had passed without incident, arriving just as Germany declared war. At first it hadn’t seemed real, as there were no major battles for some months, everyone calling it a ‘phoney war’. But German Jewish refugees were attempting to escape to America or England, synagogues were being burned, and realising things were about to get worse in France too, Jack and Brenda stopped bothering about saving up and quickly married in November that year.
It had been a wonderful wedding. Her gown of tiered cream silk, lent to her by Camille, was the most beautiful garment she’d ever worn in her life. Brenda had felt herself so fortunate, rich with love and happiness. And they had indeed possessed a marriage certificate. Sadly, she’d left it behind at Camille’s apartment and now it was gone, along with her son and darling mother-in-law. How would she survive without anyone she loved?
Getting to her feet with a sigh, Brenda called Kit to her, and set off back to find her old friend Prue.
Prue had been astonished to discover how much she loved gardening. It was far more interesting than parading herself at some fancy social function organised by Melissa, her supremely glamorous sister currently living in London, a city she considered far more appropriate for her. But then relations with her siblings, save for dear Jack, had always been thorny. Prue felt as if her family now were the serried rows of vegetables that lined the kitchen gardens, her pride and joy the tomatoes and cucumbers growing in the glass-house against the south-facing wall, or the new autumn variety of raspberries she’d cultivated.
It amazed her to see how quickly a precious plant could grow to full maturity, or just as easily die if it fell into neglect. Gardening was all about life and death, preserving and reproducing. Prue still felt a bit nervous of making mistakes, of pulling up a prize plant thinking it was a weed, of watering too much, pruning too fiercely or not pruning at all. But she was learning all the time. She loved the hens and sheep too. Were it not for the war Prue would have chosen to attend horticultural college, but at least she’d learned a great deal from the land girls who’d helped on the farm. They were now gone, and in their place the farm had been allotted a Prisoner of War.
His arrival had changed her life completely.
There had been times in the past when Prue would ask herself if she truly was content to live here in the Pennines, largely alone, and devote her entire life to tending the garden. What about her future? Didn’t she yearn, like every other young woman or war widow, to preserve and reproduce herself as well as the plants and animals? Didn’t she long to love and to be loved? Was that the reason she’d rushed into that stupid marriage, her father and siblings seeming most uncaring? Now she would sit in the small cottage she occupied on the edge of the estate, the ache in her heart not for her dead husband, but an entirely different young man.
This morning Prue was happily pruning raspberry canes, working hard as usual, when she spotted him approaching and her heart skipped a beat. He was at her side in seconds but before he could steal a kiss, a flippant breeze whipped her hair across her mouth, robbing him of its sweetness. She laughed out loud at the look of disappointment on his face.
‘I love the softness of your skin,’ he said, trailing his lips over the curve of her throat, sending a quiver of fierce passion through her as he found the sensitive hollows beneath her ears. ‘And you always smell so wonderful: of strawberries or flowers.’
‘And sometimes cow muck,’ she giggled. ‘Oh, Dino, am I allowed to tell you again how much I love you?’
‘The more often you say that, the greater my heart explodes with happiness. Ti amo troppo la mia cara, and I will always love you. How fortunate I was to be sent here. It is as if I have been waiting for you all my life.’
‘You must have suffered so much, being held in that prisoner-of-war camp,’ she said, stroking the crisp tufts of his dark hair, which had a slight curl to it. He was tall and fit, with powerful shoulders, long lean legs, and the gentlest brown eyes she’d ever seen.
‘More of an internment camp. At least now they are allowing me to get out and work, even though I’m taken back to a camp in Gorton, Manchester, each night. I love working here,’ he said with a grin.
‘And we love having you.’
‘At least you do. Not so sure about your brother. I’ve lived in Ancoats since I was a toddler and, unlike my parents, I hardly speak a word of Italian, apart from being able to say how much I love you. It didn’t seem right for me to be arrested. I feel British to the core, even if I might look foreign.’
‘You look wonderful to me,’ Prue said, kissing him, and he softly laughed.
‘You do appreciate that, however much we might feel as if we belong together, it is not going to be easy. Before being transported to the Isle of Man, I was taken to a reception centre in Liverpool. I vividly remember hundreds of us being made to walk to the docks, the roads lined with soldiers armed with fixed bayonets. Crowds filled the streets to jeer at us, hurling insults, all because Mussolini had decided to link up with Hitler’s Germany,