Merryn Allingham - The Secret of Summerhayes

He turned to go back the way he’d come. It was only then that he became aware he was not alone. Through the long stalks of grass, a pair of eyes peered at him, fixing him in an unnerving gaze. It was as though the grass itself was deciding whether he were friend or foe.

Then a small voice broke the silence. ‘Are you lost?’

Bethany Merston turned into the drive of Summerhayes and saw the Canadian army had well and truly arrived. The estate had been a military base for years now, the house and grounds requisitioned at the outbreak of war, but this was altogether a far larger invasion. For several days past the clatter of men and trucks had been a noisy backdrop to life. The advance party, she’d guessed, but now it appeared the entire battalion had taken possession of the estate. And the men on either side of the drive – parking jeeps, carrying supplies, marching briskly between temporary shelters – were larger, too. They made the local population look weaklings. Unlike the natives, they’d not endured years of rationing, nor an interwar period of poor nourishment and intermittent work.

This morning, as the first trucks had rolled in, she’d walked to the village for whatever supplies she could forage, but returned with little. Neither she nor Alice nor Mr Ripley would get too fat on what her solitary bag contained. But at least she’d managed to buy cocoa powder for Alice’s night-time drink. Only a few ounces, and it would have to be sweetened with the honey she’d bartered for last week, but it would keep the old lady going a little longer. If Mrs Summer had cocoa at bedtime, she slept well. Even the drone of German bombers flying low towards London didn’t disturb her, and that meant that Beth slept well, too.

She crunched her way along the gravel drive taking care to avoid the whirlwind of activity, but walking as swiftly as she could. If the noise had penetrated to the upstairs apartment, Mrs Summer would be anxious. On reflection, her working life had altered little except to exchange the care of thirty small bodies for one elderly one. Looking after an old lady wasn’t that much different from looking after a young child. Both needed reassurance and practical help; both blossomed with kindness.

A few months ago a stray bomb falling on Quilter Street had obliterated the Bethnal Green school where she worked. It was a miracle it had happened at night and there had been no casualties, but it had left her jobless. Thank goodness, then, for the advert in The Lady . Within weeks she’d found the post at Summerhayes, though it was one she had never imagined for herself. But in wartime needs must, and a war spent here was as good as anywhere. The Sussex countryside was beautiful and the estate, though fallen into disrepair, still retained a little of its former glory. Above all the place was tranquil and, coming from a ravaged London, she was grateful for its peace, though now the Canadian army had arrived in force, peace might be a lost treasure.

One or two of the soldiers glanced curiously at her as she made her way to the side door, but she managed to slip into the house without attracting too much attention. She slid past the drawing room, catching a brief glimpse of several officers’ caps on the mantel shelf, past the dining room where desks were being shifted and typewriters arranged, and then up the stairs to the apartment she shared with Alice, all that was left for the old lady of the magnificent Arts and Crafts mansion she had once inhabited. Almost certainly the senior officers would be billeted in the house, while junior officers and their men were consigned to tents in the grounds. Or maybe this time they would build more permanent structures, though she doubted it. Rumours of invasion were rife and the battalion was unlikely to stay long.

Everyone was aware that the military had increased hugely of late, a steady flow of army units turning into a flood. The whole of Sussex had become a vast, armed camp. Mortars and artillery had long been familiar sounds on the South Downs, along with the screech and clatter of tank tracks in the surrounding villages, but now you couldn’t walk a country lane without being passed by a ten-ton truck or a speeding jeep. On her last visit to the village, she’d had to jump into a ditch to avoid a rogue tank trundling down the narrowest of roads and filling it from hedgerow to hedgerow.

She had reached the cramped staircase to the apartment when the wailing hit her. Mrs Summer! She raced up the remaining stairs, fumbling for the key as she went. The new girl from the village had begun work today and Beth had thought it safe to disappear for an hour and leave her to keep an eye. Molly had been cleaning the small kitchen when she’d left, but when she finally burst through the door, the girl was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Beth found the old lady in the sitting room, hunched into the corner of a wing chair, her body rocking back and forth to the rhythm of her cries. Beth glanced wildly around and her heart sank. A white envelope. Another letter. Ripley had been told to make sure that no such letters were delivered to his mistress, except via Bethany. But the former footman was an old man, a pensioner now rather than a worker, and he would be lying down on his bed for a morning nap. She had given the same instructions to Molly before she left, but the girl had clearly forgotten.

‘Mrs Summer, it’s all right, I’m here.’

She flung the bag to the floor, unmindful that their week’s rations would be squashed out of recognition, then knelt down at the elderly woman’s side and took her in her arms, holding her close and trying to calm the demented rocking. Very gradually, Alice became still and the sobs ceased. Beth stroked the thin, grey hair into place and fished in her pocket for a handkerchief to dab tears from the deeply lined cheeks.

‘But it’s not all right.’ Alice looked up, her eyes pools of sadness. ‘It’s not all right,’ she repeated. ‘She isn’t coming.’

Beth took the envelope that the old lady was still clasping and extracted a single sheet of paper. With growing anger, she read: The journey has been difficult but I’ve arrived in London at last. I will try and get to you soon. You know that is what I want above all else. But I’m feeling so tired that I’m not sure now I can make it as far as Sussex. I will write again when I feel better.

Someone was playing tricks, Beth was sure. It was cruel beyond belief. The letters were typewritten and never signed, but Mrs Summer had become convinced they came from a daughter who had disappeared thirty years ago. Why the old lady believed this, Bethany wasn’t sure. It was perhaps a simple longing for it to be true. Elizabeth Summer, she’d learnt, had never contacted her family since the day she’d eloped to marry a man of whom they disapproved. Could a much loved daughter be so callous as never to have written? Beth thought not. After all these years of silence, it was most likely that the woman was dead.

When Beth had first met her employer, it seemed that Alice Summer had thought so, too. But then the letters had started to arrive – as far as Beth knew, none had come earlier – and the old lady had become convinced that Elizabeth was still in the world. It was pointless to argue away her belief. In some corner of her mind she must always have kept her daughter alive. Hadn’t May Prendergast said that despite her long standing opposition, Mrs Summer had eventually agreed to employ a companion on the basis of a single name? Bethany, Beth, Elizabeth. The letters must have ignited a long suppressed desire and given it heart. Beth hadn’t told May about the letters, and Mr Ripley and Molly Dumbrell knew only to intercept them. The fewer people who knew of Alice’s fantasy, the better.