Barbara Bradford - The Cavendon Luck

The drone of a low-flying aircraft cut off Cecily’s thoughts, and she jumped up, lifted her head to the blue sky, and that first flash of fear dissipated at once.

The small plane did not bear the emblem of Nazi Germany, the swastika. It belonged to Noel Jollion, the nineteen-year-old son of Commander Edgar Jollion of the Royal Navy, who lived on the other side of Mowbray village, near High Clough. The commander had built an airstrip in a long field on his land at Burnside Manor because his son loved flying.

Returning to the garden seat, Cecily sat down, and tried to throw off her concern about the war. But she was finding it difficult this afternoon. It was on her mind.

Last week Hanson had taken her and Miles down into the vast cellars of Cavendon, and had shown them the preparations he had begun to make for war.

The cellars were always crisply clean, with whitewashed walls and well-swept floors. Hanson had pointed out a stack of camp beds which he had brought out of storage. There were sofas, armchairs and small tables, all of which had been in the attics. The Earl had told him to make the cellars as comfortable as possible, in case they had to live in them. Also all of the paintings and other objets d’art would be placed in the lower vaults as soon as there was a declaration of war between Britain and Germany, he had told them.

It seemed to her that Hanson, as usual, had been very efficient. There was even a refrigerator which had been purchased at Harrods and delivered by a Harrods van. What would they do without Hanson? He was supposed to retire in December. He was seventy-six and had been in service at Cavendon for fifty years. She for one hoped that wouldn’t happen. He looked as fit as a fiddle and they needed him.

Reluctantly, Cecily left her sanctuary, and continued on her way to her parents’ house in the village. But first she must stop at the Romany wagon where Genevra lived. She needed to talk to her.

When Cecily turned the bend in the dirt path, she immediately saw Genevra, who was sitting on the steps of the wagon, waiting for her. As usual, she was wearing an old Cecily Swann frock, given to her by Cecily’s mother. It was red-and-white striped cotton, a summer frock, and it suited her.

The gypsy raised her hand and waved.

Cecily waved back, smiling. She noticed that there was a wooden chair waiting for her. This thoughtfulness pleased her.

Genevra had an excited expression on her face, an expectancy about her. She was thirty-nine, the same age as Miles, though she did not look her age, appeared to be much younger. She was still a good-looking woman – dark, exotic – and her abundant hair was as raven-black as it had been in her youth.

When they had moved their wagons to the lower field five years ago, Genevra had invited Cecily into her wagon for the first time for a glass of mint tea. Not wishing to hurt her, feeling bound to accept this invitation, Cecily had gone inside and had discovered, to her enormous surprise, a treasure trove.

Genevra was an artist, and a talented one at that. The paintings on the walls of the extremely neat living area had astonished Cecily. They were landscapes of Cavendon for the most part, and executed in brilliant, vivid colours. Later, DeLacy had told her they would be categorized as Naïve art.

Yet they had a style, a genuinely unique style of their own. Genevra’s style, Cecily called it. The paintings were bold, commanding, caught the eye at once. But it was the shimmering look of the bright colours, the odd sheen on the canvas that captivated everyone, and at once.

Cecily had soon found out that Genevra had been painting since her childhood. Her brother Gervaise had encouraged her, and when she was older he had bought her canvases and oil paints when he could afford them. She was totally self-taught, a natural and gifted artist.

Cecily had instantly asked if she could buy one of them. Genevra had refused that day. Instead she had offered her a painting as a gift. In the end, Cecily had chosen one that was evocative, and very meaningful to her. The painting showed a corner of the high wall in the rose garden, and a profusion of late-blooming roses, a fusion of many different pinks and faded reds against a portion of the grey stone wall.

Genevra came down the steps to greet Cecily; as always she did a little bob, a sort of curtsey, as she took Cecily’s outstretched hand in hers.

‘I put out a chair, Mrs Miles,’ Genevra said, indicating the wooden chair.

‘Thank you,’ Cecily murmured, and sat down.

Genevra returned to her place on the steps.

Cecily stared at Genevra, frowning. She thought she looked a bit pinched, tired. ‘You haven’t been sick again, have you?’ she asked worriedly. She had not seen her for ten days.

Genevra smiled faintly. ‘No. Not sick. Good .’

‘You look a bit peaked to me.’

‘I’m not sick, liddle Ceci,’ Genevra muttered, eyeing her knowingly. ‘I’ll be first ter knows that. Then I’ll tell yer, and yer’ll be the second ter knows. Not dying. Not yet.’

‘Don’t be cross. I care for you, Genevra.’

‘Aye, I knows that, Mrs Miles.’

‘I’m going away on Monday with Miles. We’re going to visit Lady Daphne and Mr Hugo in Zurich. If you need anything whilst I’m gone, my mother will help you.’ She smiled at her. ‘You just have to go and see her.’

Genevra nodded. ‘Yer going on holiday. Mrs Alice tell me that.’

‘Just for two weeks. Miles needs a rest …’ Cecily’s voice trailed off. She had suddenly noticed a strange look on Genevra’s face. ‘What is it? Is there something wrong?’

‘The sight. It just comes over me. Yer knows that.’

Cecily nodded, remained quiet. After all these years, she knew she had to be still. And mute.

‘Yer’ll have ter be brave, liddle Ceci, as yer’ve allus been. There’ll be deaths. War is coming. Big war. Bad times. Terrible things coming.’ The Romany woman halted, closed her eyes. After a moment she opened them, added, ‘Yer’ll rule at Cavendon. I’ve allus knowed that.’

‘Why now?’ Cecily asked, a frown settling on her face.

‘What do yer mean?’ Genevra sat staring at Cecily.

‘Why are you telling me this now ? Usually you’re rather secretive, not always so open.’

‘Cos I knows yer believe me, tek me predictions as truth … understand ’em.’

‘I do, yes, that’s true, Genevra.’

‘The future. Yer’ll have that, Ceci. And yer will rule.’

‘With Miles?’

Genevra did not answer, staring up at Cavendon Hall, towering on the hill high above them. The golden house, shimmering in the sunshine. A blessed house.

‘When you sound strange like this I don’t really understand what you mean,’ Cecily protested, returning Genevra’s hard stare.

‘Bad times are coming.’

‘Do you mean the war?’

Genevra inclined her head. ‘ Life . Hard times. Bad times. Death, destruction, sorrow, pain. Much suffering. All coming.’

Turning her head, Genevra looked at Cavendon once more. Unexpectedly, tears filled her eyes. The golden sheen which usually gilded the walls had vanished. It was no longer golden. It was doomed. The great stately home was covered in shadows … shadows growing darker and darker. In her mind’s eye she saw huge black clouds floating around its rooftop. She heard thunder; there were streaks of white lightning.

After a while, Genevra finally opened her eyes, said in a low tone, ‘ Turmoil. Chaos. ’ She shook her head, became silent, and wiped the tears from her face with her fingertips.

There was a long silence.

Genevra smiled faintly. ‘Swanns rule.’

Cecily said, ‘Cavendon has been lucky over the past few years. The luck will last, won’t it? Nothing will change, will it?’