Issuu

Chapter One

A host of women’s voices rang around the tiny, windowless room, all repeating the same phrase.

‘Connecting you now, caller.’

‘Hold the line, please, caller.’

Tensions ran as high below stairs at Buckingham Palace’s telephone exchange as they did above. The calls coming in and going out were incessant, every matter pressing and requiring immediate attention. There was no time for faults on the line or wires failing to connect, and there’d been no let-up in the months following the King’s death and Queen Elizabeth’s accession to the throne. The period of court mourning had been as full of telephone calls as always. Indeed, if anything, it had been even more frantic as the second Elizabethan age began and a coronation for the young Queen planned.

Calls from Whitehall or Westminster continued, the caller’s tone always urgent and waspish, along with the more personal communications for members of the royal family. The only occasions on which things slowed even a little were when the royal family stayed at another royal residence: Sandringham or Windsor. But even then, Buckingham Palace was home to equerries, lords- and ladies-in-waiting, secretaries, keepers and comptrollers, all of whom made and

received calls. And though their offices had now moved to Clarence House, Princess Margaret and Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother were still living at the palace and were on the telephone almost hourly, usually with the Queen Mother in tears. There was to be no discussion: the monarch resided at Buckingham Palace and that was that, requiring a move for the former Queen and her other daughter to Clarence House. The news of the move had not gone down well.

Helen Hill’s shift was nearing its end and her arms ached from repositioning wires up and down the enormous switchboard. The room was small: one of the smallest in the palace, which, considering the machinery inside, seemed rather silly to her. A sheen of sweat covered her upper lip and the muscles in her neck, tense from the weight of the headset, were strained. The summer had been unseasonably hot and her dry throat rasped from speaking for hours on end without a drink. As was often the case, her brain buzzed with halfheard snippets of conversation. Though she never purposely listened in, people often began speaking before she could switch the listening key to normal and remove herself from the conversation, and those voices rang around her head, merging into one cacophony of sound. Like listening to several radio plays all at once.

As soon as she had finished one call the next came in and Helen connected her headset to the switchboard. The small black clock on the wall slowly edged towards the half past five mark and she swallowed, moistening her throat and brightening her tone. ‘Buckingham Palace, Victoria 4832.’

‘Keeper of the Queen’s Archives, if you please.’

‘Hold the line, please, caller.’ She inserted the jack into the

correct point and waited for it to connect. Once the voice of the Keeper had answered, she said, ‘Go ahead, caller,’ and left the call, the voices fading as Mr Marshall, the exchange supervisor – a middle- aged man with greasy hair, large bushy moustache, and a wide, frog- like face – walked the corridor between the two banks of switchboards. His steady, soft tread was often lost amidst the noise of voices all speaking at once and most of the time, despite his straight-backed military bearing, they forgot he was even there.

Another call came through almost instantly and Helen pushed the heavy jack in. ‘Buckingham Palace, Victoria 4832.’

‘A call for the Princess Margaret from Peter Townsend, Comptroller of Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother’s household.’

Helen’s skin tingled as she said, ‘One moment, please.’

Group Captain Peter Townsend, who had been Deputy Master of the Household under King George VI , had become Comptroller of Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother’s Household and had moved with the offices in May. There had been rumours that his interest in Princess Margaret was more than just friendly and, given that he was married, with two children, and almost twice her age, the general consensus below stairs was disapproval. This sort of thing was exactly why they were bound by the Official Secrets Act.

Helen connected through to the royal apartment and a footman answered, confirming the Princess was in her bedroom. Helen thanked him and connected the jack to the correct location. Once the Princess had answered, Helen said, ‘Go ahead, caller.’

‘Hello?’ Margaret said sleepily. Helen flicked her eyes to

the clock once more. How could she be sleeping at this time of the day?

‘Your Royal Highness?’

‘Oh, Peter, don’t call me that. You know I prefer you to call me Margaret. Unless . . . is someone listening in at Clarence House?’ She giggled. ‘Is Mama there?’

Helen was just about to remove herself from the call when Peter Townsend suddenly said, ‘Hello? Hello? Your Royal Highness, are you there? Damn it, I can’t hear anything.’

Princess Margaret echoed his sentiments. ‘Hello? Peter? Are you there?’

Helen stepped in, speaking to Princess Margaret. ‘There seems to be a problem on the line, Your Royal Highness. I’m not sure what’s happened. Let me try connecting again.’

‘Who’s that?’ Princess Margaret asked crisply, though there was an undertone of warmth to her voice.

‘Umm . . . my name’s Helen, Your Royal Highness. Helen Hill.’

‘I recognise your voice. I’m sure I’ve heard you before. You sound like one of those chaps who introduce the Light Programme – or an actor playing a role.’

Thinking of them all sitting there in the tiny room, a small cog in the machine of Buckingham Palace, she answered without thinking. ‘Aren’t we all?’

Princess Margaret barked out a laugh. ‘Yes, I suppose we are. How funny.’

Helen straightened, glancing over her shoulder to see if Mr Marshall was listening. ‘Let me try and connect you again, Your Royal Highness. My apologies for the delay.’

She tried again and this time the call connected without

any problems to which the Princess responded with a surprising, ‘Thank you, Helen. Goodbye.’

Shocked, but aware of her duty, after checking again that the connection had worked, Helen immediately turned the listening key. It was always a thrill to hear or speak to a member of the royal family. Milly and Caroline, her friends, cleaners in the Royal Household, were unfazed by it now, having grown used to it, but to Helen it was still a surprise to hear the Queen’s calm, pleasant voice or Margaret’s sharp, energetic one.

Mr Marshall paused behind Rosamund Gestrell, a young slip of a thing who’d only started three months before. Helen hadn’t warmed to her. She was as bad as Lucy Brookes on the opposite switchboard when it came to gossiping. Eager to share the snippets of conversation she’d heard or talk about who had called whom. She was slow, too, and with the number of calls coming in and going out, no one could afford that.

‘Miss Gestrell,’ Mr Marshall barked, his voice penetrating the din. ‘What are you doing?’

She jumped and began fumbling on the desk, switching the listening key on the switchboard to normal. ‘Nothing, Mr Marshall. I was just . . . just—’

‘You were listening again, weren’t you?’ His voice boomed around the room, piercing Helen’s head and overcoming the voices travelling down the wires.

As his voice punctured the strident noise of the room, whispers, gasps and sighs could be heard between the familiar repeated phrases. The other telephone operators gave each other quick glances between tasks, eyes wide or eyebrows

raised. Helen tried as best she could to focus on her work, but her eyes kept darting to the scene next to her as if she simply had to watch it play out, to know what happened in the end.

Rosamund Gestrell turned to face him. Her mouth opened and closed, the red of her lipstick making her seem like a puppet whose strings were being pulled by an invisible hand. ‘I weren’t. Honest, Mr Marshall, I weren’t. It just took me a minute to get out of the call, that was all. I was just about to turn the key when—’

‘I don’t believe you, Miss Gestrell. Not any more. The first time, yes; the second time, only because you begged me; but not now. No more, Miss Gestrell. No more. I’ll not have my staff listening in to private conversations. This is absolutely unacceptable. How many times have I warned you already?’

‘But, Mr Marshall—’

‘There’ve been several leaks lately. Snippets of information finding their way to the press. People selling palace secrets—’

‘But I didn’t—’ Rosamund screeched, her tone high and shrill, interrupting him only to be cut off in return.

‘The finger is beginning to point squarely at this department. I’ll not have it. Who was that call from and to?’

‘It was . . .’ She hesitated and Helen feared that whatever she said next would be her undoing. ‘Mr Churchill for Her Majesty but I never—’

The two women next to her gasped and Rosamund’s panic intensified. It was well known, with Britain still facing such strict austerity measures and many goods still rationed,

conversations between the Queen and Winston Churchill were hardly ever inconsequential.

Mr Marshall glowered at them. ‘That’s enough of that, thank you.’ They turned back to their boards, connecting calls with more speed than they ever had before. ‘And what did you hear?’

‘Nothing, Mr Marshall. Honest. Nothing at all. I was just making sure they could hear each other when you—’

‘I don’t believe you. How long does it take to switch the listening key? Ten seconds? I watched you listening for much longer than that. Now what did you hear?’

She dropped her head, staring at the wooden floor of the room. ‘He said something about the mourning period ending but I promise I was just—’

Mr Marshall grew still, his hands clasped behind his back, his feet shoulder width apart. He lifted his chin, bringing it down again as he spoke as if delivering a blow. ‘Collect your things and leave immediately.’

‘What—?’ Rosamund’s face paled, all colour draining from it.

If she’d heard them move from greetings to a subject such as the end of court mourning, she had to have been listening for a while. Had she believed the warnings would go on forever? To Helen’s knowledge she’d already received two in the short time she’d been there and security was, as anyone would have expected, of paramount importance at Buckingham Palace.

She hadn’t yet moved from her chair, yet her eyes shot to Lucy Brookes over the other side of the room. Helen couldn’t be sure, but something in the look she gave her seemed

accusatory. As if she were saying this is your fault. ‘But . . . but—’

‘No “buts”, Miss Gestrell. Collect your things and leave immediately. This is the third breach of security I’m aware of in the very short time you’ve been here. There’ll be no reference for you either.’ Mr Marshall turned his body a fraction. ‘Miss Hill, please ask for two footmen to escort Miss Gestrell out.’

Helen was so shocked at the sudden turn of events that he had to repeat his request. ‘Yes, Mr Marshall,’ she replied a little slowly, removing her headset and standing. In the stuffiness of the room, she could feel the prickle of sweat under her armpits and her legs shook as she began walking, leaving with a final glance at the upsetting scene. Mr Marshall stood in front of Rosamund, her eyes pleading as she gazed up at him. Margaret had mentioned actors, and this was like the end of a tragedy, waiting for the curtain to come down.

For a moment, Helen couldn’t decide where was best to go; she settled on the Household Lounge as the most likely place to find two off-duty footmen who could be spared to help. Rosamund was lucky they hadn’t called the police. The click of Helen’s heels was softened by thick carpet the same bright crimson as that of the State Rooms, though a little bit more worn. The walls were decorated with paintings and though each one was probably worth more than Helen’s house, they were nothing compared to the priceless works of art that hung in the State Rooms and the royal family’s apartments above.

This strange world had been alien to her eight months ago.

Before she’d started working here, she would never have imagined just how many people it took to run the grand home or serve the royal family, but there were literally hundreds of staff running around the palace, many of whom lived on site. The staff quarters – far less grand than the main house – included a kitchen, Household Breakfast and Dining Rooms and a Lounge for relaxing in when off duty. There was a pharmacist’s and post office . . . everything you could ever need.

After winding through several corridors, she reached the Household Lounge a few minutes later, out of breath and sweating. Though the age of the building meant the corridors of Buckingham Palace were blessed with a slight draught, any benefit of it had been lost with the sapping summer heat and the pace with which she’d been walking. The door stood open, as did the windows; the staff resting there fanned themselves with magazines and papers or loosened collars as the stuffy air swirled around them. Butlers, cooks and housekeepers milled about, either waiting to start their shifts or taking breaks, and Helen surveyed the room looking for two footmen to call upon.

‘Everythin’ all right, Helen?’ Mrs Barnes, a senior member of staff, asked. She was out of uniform and sat in a matching blouse and skirt, her legs stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankles.

As cleaners in the Royal Household, Mrs Barnes, along with her niece, Milly, and Caroline – Helen’s friends – had the advantage of living on site as there was no telling when they might be needed, especially if there was a function or state visit: some important dinner that lasted until the small hours.

‘I’m surprised to see you here. You lookin’ for these two?’ She pointed at the two young women sitting next to her.

The first time Helen had met Milly and Mrs Barnes had been on her first day when she’d been running terribly late and ended up thoroughly lost within Buckingham Palace’s corridors, coming across them quite by accident. She’d warmed to them both immediately, especially when she’d knocked over and accidentally smashed a vase and Mrs Barnes had said she’d take the blame for it. After steering her in the direction of the telephone exchange, she’d come across Milly again later that day after Milly’s life had taken a turn for the worse. From there she’d met Caroline and they’d become firm friends.

‘Not this time, I’m afraid,’ Helen replied, running her tongue over her dry lips. ‘I’m after two footmen.’

‘Whatever for?’ asked Milly, smiling. ‘Rosamund Gestrell’s getting sacked.’

Caroline shot upright and gasped. ‘No!’

She was the youngest of the three of them, with wild red hair and pale, freckled skin.

‘Been listenin’ again, has she?’ asked Mrs Barnes, who seemed to know everyone and everything that happened below stairs at the palace.

Helen nodded, swallowing and trying to catch her breath. ‘Mr Marshall wants two footmen to escort her from the premises.’

‘Bloody ’ell,’ Caroline said, the cockney accent she normally tried to hide coming through with the drama of it all.

‘’Ere!’ Mrs Barnes scolded. ‘That’s enough of that, young lady. You watch your language.’

‘Sorry, Mrs Barnes.’ Pinkness flooded Caroline’s face as she dropped her head and twisted her hands together.

Mrs Barnes let her gaze linger on Helen’s chastened friend for a moment before shifting to two young men over the other side of the room, still dressed in their footmen’s uniform. ‘Dennis, Edward, you’re needed.’ They looked up and she pointed at Helen. ‘Go with Helen, please.’

‘But we’re not on duty—’ one of them replied, being instantly cut off.

‘You live at Buckingham Palace: you’re always on duty.’

Strictly speaking, Edie Barnes wasn’t a senior housekeeper and had no authority to be ordering anyone around, let alone the footmen who reported to someone else entirely, but she’d been at the palace for such a long time she was part of the furniture, and everyone respected her natural authority. Helen couldn’t help but think that if they had Mrs Barnes as their supervisor at the telephone exchange, rather than toad-faced Mr Marshall, staff turnover wouldn’t be half as high and no one would dare listen in to conversations. It would be more than their life was worth. She’d seen for herself how seriously Mrs Barnes took the job she’d had all her life, yet underneath her sometimes forbidding exterior beat a heart of pure gold.

Reluctantly, but without further argument, the footmen stood and made their way to Helen.

‘You’ll have to come back and tell us what happened later,’ Milly said, adjusting the bun of straw-blonde hair at the nape of her neck.

‘If I can. I’m off to see Dad tonight.’ The footmen stopped at her side, buttoning their jackets, and she led them away, leaving her friends with a small smile.

She walked quickly back through the corridors, glancing over her shoulder to ensure the footmen were keeping up, and eventually they were at the switchboard office. The scene had changed, and Rosamund Gestrell stood behind Mr Marshall, her head bent, hands shaking. Helen felt a twinge of sympathy for her. She shouldn’t have listened in to any of the conversations but to be sacked without a reference . . . It was going to be even harder for her to get another job now. What would she do for money? Helen’s mind ran to the letter from the bank she’d collected from the doormat that morning. The one left unopened in her bag. The familiar sick feeling that plagued her almost daily now returned and she pushed it from her mind. She moved back to her seat leaving Mr Marshall to speak to the footmen.

‘Can you two please see Miss Gestrell to the staff gate and ensure that she leaves immediately.’

They nodded, looking as uncomfortable at their task as Helen had been at fetching them. She felt somehow complicit in Rosamund’s sacking as if it were partly her fault and her skin prickled. The two footmen signalled for Rosamund to walk in front of them and she stepped out from behind Mr Marshall. Her eyes were glassy with tears and her cheeks burned with humiliation as she followed them.

A strange hush settled on the room, everyone answering calls as quietly as possible but looking to each other for reassurance and support. Mr Marshall retook the seat at his desk, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.

‘Are you all right?’ muttered Gloria next to her, her set curls fighting to spring back from the weight of the headset. ‘You look white as a sheet.’

‘Oh, I’m fine,’ Helen replied, glancing at Mr Marshall, head down, scribbling something on his notepad. ‘That was horrible, but it was much worse for Rosamund.’

‘Wasn’t it just. It’s not like she hasn’t been warned though, is it? And things are different now, aren’t they? Everyone’s talking about if the Queen will be up to the job. I guess they don’t want any of us listening in and talking to the press. ’Specially not a conversation between her and the Prime Minister.’

‘I suppose.’

But the leaks had all been gossipy things about the coronation planned for the following year. Speculating on who would take what role, who would be there and what the Queen would say in her speech.

‘Perhaps you should ask Mr Marshall if you can have a minute?’ Gloria said and Helen gave her a grateful smile.

‘Thanks, but I really am fine. Besides, I don’t think that would go down well. Remember it was Mavis’s time of the month and she asked to go to the loo before her allotted break? You’d have thought she’d asked for a hundred-pound pay rise.’

A small bulb lit up on her board and she answered another call aware that, behind her, Lucy Brookes was making the most of the incident. The noise had grown to its normal levels as a mouse scurried across the tabletop. Helen shooed it away without even blinking. They were a common sight in this room, though everyone else in the palace denied their existence, not wanting to acknowledge how much some areas needed attention. She just hoped they hadn’t eaten through one of her wires.

When Helen next glanced at the clock, her nerves still on edge, it was just gone six and she, along with all the day-shift staff, stood to allow their replacements to slide into their seats. Helen and the man who was replacing her – all night staff on the telephone exchange were men – traded pleasantries: a quick ‘good evening’ followed by a ‘best of luck’. The night shift had the advantage of a quieter time of it but at the expense of a good night’s sleep and Helen much preferred her day shift and being in bed by ten. She took a moment to steady herself, knowing the strangeness of the day would stay with her all evening.

She checked her watch, seeing if she had time to find Milly and Caroline. Sadly, with a bus to catch, and her father waiting, there was no time to head back to the Household Lounge and search for them. Helen made her way to the coat stand in the corner of the room, retrieving her cardigan.

‘Well,’ Lucy Brookes said, pushing back her loose dark hair, a similar colour to Helen’s, and whispering loudly to the woman next to her. ‘That was better than a ticket to the pictures.’ The other woman tittered her agreement. ‘I don’t know what she’ll do now. She’s given up a good job and what for? To listen in to boring old Churchill moan on about the government or Princess Margaret. I’d much rather listen to the Duke of Edinburgh. At least he knows how to have a laugh.’

‘How do you know that’s what he talks about?’ asked Helen. Normally she’d do her best to ignore them, but Lucy Brookes’s gossip was poisonous, and Helen hoped to take her down a peg or two, stop her enjoying someone else’s misfortune.

Lucy’s eyes narrowed a little. ‘I’m not saying he does. I’m just saying I bet that’s what he talks about. What’s it to you, anyway?’

‘Don’t you think today’s been difficult enough without gossiping about it all again now?’

‘No, I don’t. I think it’s natural to want to talk about it.’

Helen’s thoughts ran to the tasks still ahead of her this evening and the unopened demand from the bank sitting in her handbag. Perhaps Lucy needed more in her life if the miserable scenes today were entertainment to her. She ignored Lucy’s glare and grabbed her cardigan from the coat stand, bustling through the cram of people into the corridor and following them outside.

Lucy walked ahead of her over the gravel towards the guarded staff gate, speaking to her friend. ‘Here, shall we ask ’em if they were on duty when Rosamund left?’

They giggled like schoolgirls and Helen rushed past them. The air was only marginally cooler outside, and tiredness hung heavy on her body. The day’s events played on a loop, and she wished she could switch herself off, disconnect from it as easily as she did the telephone calls she dealt with every day by pulling a jack from the plug. If only she could go straight home and kick off her shoes, but there was one more thing she had to do first.

The knot in her stomach tightened.

Chapter Two

Helen hurried out of the guarded black iron gates, which gleamed in the evening sun, their gold tops blinding. She glanced behind her and her pace slowed a little as she was reminded of the significance of where she walked. Not only was it the residence of the new Queen, but the building was colossal. The pale, cream stone palace with its Roman- and Greek-inspired columns and elegant architecture loomed over her. If only the switchboard room had a little more space. And air.

The usual gangs of reporters stood at the gates, calling out, hoping to catch some gossip or tempt palace staff into revealing something. The ever-present police officers and guardsmen tried to keep them at bay with friendly warnings and the odd push back, but when the journalists were outside the gates, away from palace property, there wasn’t an awful lot they could do. Luckily most of them gave up pestering the staff when they were ignored but one or two were known to be a little more tenacious.

As Helen made her way towards the bus stop, a young man whistled at her, a pencil behind his ear and a small notepad open in front of him. ‘Evenin’, beautiful. I ain’t seen you before. What d’you do in there?’ He gestured towards the palace with his notebook.

‘Nothing to do with you,’ she replied, hurrying past him, making a mental note of his appearance. Young. Dark blond hair. A mole on his right cheek. She’d have to warn Milly and Caroline about him. He seemed more forward than the others as he fell into step beside her.

‘Come on now. Reckon you must be a secretary or something – nice- lookin’ girl like you. Anythin’ juicy been goin’ on today? Anything about the coronation? Is the Queen Mother still speakin’ to her daughter? Heard there’s been ructions since she was told to hop it to Clarence House.’

Helen swallowed down her rising anger. ‘Go and try someone else. You won’t get anything from me.’

‘Won’t I?’ He chuckled, enjoying the exchange far more than she was. ‘How’s Philip? Enjoying his new mansion? And what about little Maggie? Got any idea who her latest beau is? We got bets on Johnny Dalkeith. His father’s a duke. Be just up Margaret’s alley.’

Helen came to a sudden stop, turning to face him. ‘Haven’t you got a home to go to?’

The reporter stumbled, realising she was no longer putting up with his nonsense, meekly walking by. Perhaps it was the glare in her eyes or the set of her mouth that told him he’d gone too far. He held his hands up in surrender. ‘All right, love. Calm down. Just doin’ me job. Didn’t mean any offence.’

‘I suggest if you want to know anything about the royal family you contact the Press Office rather than hounding people like me who are trying to go home after a—’ She was going to say ‘difficult day’ but knew this would only

ignite his curiosity again. She quickly changed tack. ‘—a long, hot day.’

‘All right, all right.’ He left her as abruptly as he’d joined her, returning to the throng of journalists and photographers. ‘Bet she’s single,’ he muttered to his friends as she walked on.

The insult sent her skin flaming and she shot a glance over her shoulder at him, but it wasn’t worth arguing further. The last thing she needed was something to appear in the newspaper about a Buckingham Palace worker who’d shouted at a reporter.

‘Horrid little man,’ Helen mumbled as she stepped off the kerb to the blaring sound of a bus horn. Turning her head, she saw a large bus was rapidly coming towards her. Her heart pounded in her chest as she suddenly realised she’d stepped out into the road without looking. She scrambled backwards, tripping up the kerb as her heel almost missed it. ‘Crikey!’ she muttered, regaining her balance, pressing a hand to her chest and trying to calm her racing heart.

‘That was a close one!’ said a man beside her. His deep, baritone voice was calm and authoritative, strangely reassuring in her current state.

Helen turned to see a handsome man pushing a pair of thick-rimmed glasses up his nose. He had warm grey eyes, flecked with green, and thick dark lashes. He smiled and reached out, gently placing a hand in her mid-back to steady her. His touch was light, but it was enough to make her feel grounded. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t discern what it was.

‘Are you all right, miss?’

‘Yes,’ Helen replied, taking a deep breath in and feeling it flitter out of her lungs again. ‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you.’

‘That was a close one. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sit down or something?’

‘No, I really must get going.’

‘Of course. Can I walk you somewhere? You’re still very pale. That must have been an awful shock.’

Helen smiled. ‘All right then. But I’m only going to the bus stop over there.’ She pointed down Constitution Hill. ‘And I really must hurry. I can manage on my own.’

‘I won’t hear of it.’ He motioned for her to lead the way and they began walking down the tree-lined street. The bushy leaves offered refreshing shade from the glaring sun and the light dappled through, casting shadows that danced on the ground. ‘You seem very familiar.’

‘Do I?’

He stopped suddenly. ‘It’s not Helen, is it? Helen Hill?’

She faced him more fully, still unable to place him. ‘It is, but I’m sorry, I . . . Do I know you?’

‘It’s Jake. Jake Walker. We lived down the street from you. I thought it might be you telling that journalist what’s what but then I thought no, it can’t be. What are the chances of running into you at Buckingham Palace of all places?’

Recognition finally dawned and a smile lifted her face and her spirits. ‘Jake Walker? Gosh! You look so different.’

He’d grown from a gangly, long-limbed youth into a broadchested and handsome man. His hair had darkened from sandy to dark toffee-coloured blond and his skin had bronzed in the sun. Something stirred inside her: a feeling she hadn’t experienced for an age. A part of her that had lain dormant

for far too long awoke like a sleeping animal rousing into life. The beat of her heart sped up as she took in the man he had become.

There hadn’t been a girl at school who didn’t have a thing for him at one time or another and Helen had certainly been of that number. Then one day after school, he’d asked to walk her home and they’d gone via the park. There’d been a kiss. But after that the event had never been repeated. Not because of anything either of them had done. It just seemed to be the way of things as teenagers. She hoped the heat growing inside her wasn’t showing on her cheeks.

‘It’s been a long time,’ she replied.

‘It has. A long time.’ He met her gaze. ‘Helen Hill.’ He said the name slowly, rolling it around his mouth, drinking her in. She enjoyed the feel of his eyes on her, the crackling of the hot summer air between them. Her life had been so vacant of romance of any description, she wanted to enjoy this moment, knowing that within seconds they would part ways and likely never see each other again. ‘It is still Hill though, isn’t it?’ His eyes flicked down to the ring finger of her left hand.

The hint of hope in his voice excited her. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘Right.’ They began walking again and though Helen knew she’d now most likely miss her bus and have to wait for the next, she didn’t care. ‘And you’re still in Conway Road?’

‘Yes, but it’s just me now. Dad had to go into a nursing home recently. He has Parkinson’s disease.’

Genuine sorrow filled his face, darkening his eyes. She watched them change colour, the grey taking over again, mesmerised by them. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. After Mum and

Dad moved to Bexhill, they didn’t keep in touch with anyone here. If I’d known, I’d have popped by.’

She smiled her thanks. ‘How long have you been back in London?’

‘A few years. I’d have looked you up sooner if I’d known you were still here. So you work at Buckingham Palace? That’s rather special.’

‘It’s not as exciting as it sounds. I’m on the switchboard.’

‘Not exciting? I’d say that’s rather incredible. Listen—’ He pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers and rocked on to his heels. ‘Have you got time for a drink or something?’

A surge of excitement rushed through her but was rapidly replaced by a wave of disappointment. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t.’ She checked her watch. ‘In fact, I really must be going, or I’ll miss my bus.’

‘Oh, right.’ His shoulders slumped in disappointment and Helen bit back a smile. It had been a long time since someone had been so saddened at missing her. ‘Well, it’s been lovely to see you, Helen. You look very well indeed.’

‘Thank you.’ She thought about suggesting the following night for a quick drink, but she simply couldn’t muster the courage and if she didn’t leave now, she’d most likely miss the next bus too. Her father would already be wondering where she was. ‘I—’ She stuttered. She simply couldn’t be so forward as to ask him if another night might be possible. ‘Goodbye then.’

Under his watchful gaze she turned and made her way to the bus stop, trotting as elegantly as she could. Her bus was just pulling away as she neared it, and she pumped her legs

harder to catch up. Thankfully the traffic was heavy, and she just managed to jump on the back, grabbing hold of the pole for support as it pulled away. Her chest was heaving, her lungs burning and sweat trickled down her temples. She wiped it away with the back of her hand and retrieved her compact mirror. Carefully, Helen pressed some powder on to her nose to deaden the shine and returned it to her bag. The crisp white envelope bearing the bank’s name on the back stared at her, urging her to open it, reminding her she couldn’t ignore it forever. She snapped the clasp shut and stared out of the window, her mind returning once more to Jake Walker.

The journey passed quickly as Helen mused on the reappearance of the boy she’d once thought herself in love with. She used to go around with her group of girlfriends, none of whom she kept in touch with now, and they’d snicker and giggle if he passed, but that was years ago and they had been children still. Her brow suddenly crinkled. Had it been she who’d asked him to the park? A smile played on her lips. She was almost certain it had been.

Helen was so busy replaying the memory that she almost missed her stop and leapt off the bus just as it was setting off again, to the consternation of the conductor. His shouted warning was overtaken by the chug of the engine as the bus moved away and she was suddenly dying for a cigarette. It had been hours since she’d last had one and her body craved the hit of nicotine to calm her. Visiting her father was always difficult. She hated seeing the man she’d known slide away as his body failed. When this was over, she’d have one: a full stop placed on the day.

The entrance to Millford House Nursing Home was a short walk down a wide street punctuated every few yards by blossom trees. The red-bricked building, set back from the road, looked rather more like a large house than a care home. The glass of the windows was polished to perfection, the front step, cleaned weekly, shone, and the bright white windowsills reflected the remains of the evening sunlight. Yet, no matter how she tried to think of it as a home, Helen’s heart ached when she pictured her father sitting inside.

Over the last few months, the Parkinson’s disease that had kept him virtually bedbound at their house in Southgate had grown worse to the point that she could no longer leave him unattended as she had always done before. Even though their kindly neighbour, who often delivered pies or casseroles for their dinner, stopped in every few hours or so to check on him, the number of falls had increased, and it had become too much to ask Mrs Jenkinson to cope with it. Age and illness hadn’t ravaged her body as it had his, and she was still sprightly and cheerful, but she was older than Helen’s father. The guilt had become overwhelming when Helen began to return home regularly to find Mrs Jenkinson had had to help her father off the floor and back into bed after a fall.

If only her mother had still been alive to help them. Perhaps then he would have remained in the house they’d always lived in: the one Helen now occupied alone with only memories for company. She glanced down at the gold band on her right hand: the wedding ring that had once belonged to her mother. She’d died when Helen was only a baby and

it had been her and her father for her whole life. She missed him dreadfully.

Rearranging her face into a happy smile, Helen pushed open the door to the nursing home to be met by Nurse Webb in her white cap and with her usual rather forbidding expression.

‘Miss Hill. Here to see your father?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Wonderful. He’ll be ever so pleased to see you. He’s in the drawing room, by the window. He hasn’t eaten much today, and it was shepherd’s pie – his favourite – but hopefully he’ll eat some more tomorrow, and I’ll try him on some toast before bed.’

‘Is he any better?’

When they’d made the decision for him to move to the home, Helen had hoped it would be for only a short while, that he might soon be able to come home again, but the doctors had made it clear this was the beginning of the end. Even though she knew she shouldn’t hope for things to change, she couldn’t stop herself wishing. The doctors hadn’t been able to tell her when things might take a turn for the worse and not knowing if it would be today, tomorrow or months away was the hardest part.

The nurse smiled kindly, her face transforming from stern to sympathetic. ‘He’s comfortable, my dear. Which is all we can ask for.’ She touched her arm and Helen started a little, conscious how rare it was she should be touched twice in one day.

Without her father at home and without a husband, human contact could be scarce, and she realised how much

she missed it, those gentle reminders that she was alive, and that she mattered. She had her friends, of course, but they had their own lives. Milly was now stepping out with Robert, one of the cooks, and if Caroline wasn’t visiting her own family, she was off to night school learning shorthand and typing.

Helen nodded her understanding, pushing down the wave of sadness that swept over her as the nurse removed her hand.

‘And just to warn you, dear, Mrs Eades is on the lookout for you.’

Helen immediately looked around, wishing more than anything to avoid another confrontation after everything with Rosamund earlier. The bank wasn’t the only one chasing her for money. Her father’s fees were mounting up and with only her wage coming in to pay his medical bills, the mortgage and cover everything else, there simply wasn’t enough to go around. Her eyes scanned each room, but the manageress was thankfully nowhere to be seen.

‘If I were you,’ Nurse Webb said, ‘I’d head straight to the drawing room.’

Helen made her way inside. Her father sat by the window, looking out at the beautiful and well-tended gardens beyond, a blanket over his knees though it had been too hot today to need one. She took an empty chair from nearby and turned it to face him.

‘Hello, Dad. How are you today?’

He was paler than usual, thinner too. His appetite had been one of the first things to go when he’d been at home, and she’d blamed her cooking – she’d never been a great

cook – but it had soon become clear it wasn’t that. He’d found it difficult to eat, to spoon the food to his mouth and to work his jaw. Yet despite the sickness exuding from him, his eyes were bright: a solid, cobalt blue that Helen herself had inherited.

‘Helen! My darling, I’ve been birdwatching today.’

‘Really? What have you seen?’

‘Oh, I won’t bore you with that. How was work? Are you seeing your friends this evening?’

‘Not this evening, no, the day after tomorrow. I’m joining them for dinner in the Household Lounge then we’re going out for a drink. Milly has sorted it all out with Mrs Chadwick, the cook.’

Only resident staff were supposed to have their meals provided and though Helen wasn’t strictly allowed one, Mrs Chadwick, the cook, was a great friend of Milly’s Aunt Edie and had been happy to oblige her friend on production of her ration card.

‘How lovely. So I’ll see you tomorrow night, will I?’ His weak voice wavered, and she couldn’t tell if it was the disease or sadness.

‘I’ll be here straight after work. I can cancel dinner with Milly too if you’d rather I came here instead?’

‘Of course not.’ He waggled a finger at her, as he used to do when she was younger, and mischief suffused his face. ‘You should go and see your friends too. Have fun. You deserve it.’ He took her hand in his and patted it. Through the paper-thin skin, she could feel sinew and bone. ‘I’m looking forward to coming home soon though. I do miss you, you know.’

Her breath hitched as she forced a brightness to it. ‘I miss you too. So, which birds have you seen today?’

They chatted genially, but it wasn’t long before she could see weakness overcome him. His speech grew slower, and he took longer and longer between sentences. Once the conversation had drawn to a natural conclusion, she stood.

‘I’d better be off then, Dad. Leave you to have a good night’s sleep.’ She bent to tuck the blanket tighter around him.

‘And will I see you tomorrow?’

Helen frowned in confusion. ‘I said so, didn’t I?’

‘Did you?’ He looked uncertain, awkward.

‘I think so. I’ll be here tomorrow but not the day after that. All right?’

‘I must have forgotten.’

A wave of unease ran over her. His forgetfulness was becoming more and more frequent and though she wanted to put it down to tiredness she knew that was no longer the case.

‘And make sure you eat, please. I know you don’t always want to, but you need to keep your strength up. Do you know what you’ve got tomorrow?’

‘I think it’s cheese and potato flan with bread-and-butter pudding after. Or maybe it’s shepherd’s pie.’

‘No,’ Helen said, her voice brittle with concern. ‘That was today.’

‘Oh, yes. Of course.’

‘Well, cheese and potato flan sounds splendid. Make sure you eat it all up.’

‘I will, I promise. When I come home, you’ll have to make me one of your lovely minced-beef pies. They don’t make them as well as you do here.’

Helen couldn’t find the words and instead placed a kiss on the top of his head. She said her goodbyes, wishing she could make him a cocoa, as she would have at home, while they sat and listened to the wireless. She walked away and turned back to wave, but only once the tears had dried from her eyes. He raised his hand feebly in reply.

Out in the corridor, Helen relaxed a little. The show was over. She didn’t have to pretend any more. She could let the shock of today and the usual grief she felt at seeing her father wash over her instead of having to battle it down. She had just neared the entrance when a door to her left opened and the manageress came out.

‘Ah, Miss Hill. I was hoping to see you this evening.’ Mrs Eades pulled down the jacket of her well-cut suit. The skirt skimmed her hips ending on her calves, giving her an elegant silhouette, and her light brown hair was perfectly styled in a bouffant. Helen secretly marvelled at its height and size. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask again but we really do require payment of your father’s fees. I realise times are tough. Indeed, they are for all of us, but nearly three months is now owing and I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t put it off any longer. I don’t want to have to ask your father about it but—’

‘No, don’t do that.’ Helen felt her cheeks redden as she checked around to see who else could hear. A couple of other nurses were shuffling uncomfortably nearby, stepping as far away as possible. ‘I quite understand, Mrs Eades, and I’m very sorry for the delay, but I can assure you I’ll make payment this week.’ Her mind worked quickly, trying to calculate some sort of solution. ‘I get paid on Friday and can call in after work if that would be convenient.’

Mrs Eades didn’t look convinced, and Helen didn’t blame her. It wasn’t the first time she’d made this promise. Only, the mortgage had been due and she was already in arrears with that, then the milkman needed paying something, and she had to pay for her bus fare to and from work. She’d already cut down on everything else and had even missed meals when there hadn’t been any other choice. The unopened letter from the bank seemed to shout from her handbag that it too needed attention.

Mrs Eades crossed her arms over her chest. ‘I’ll be here till seven o’clock. After that it’ll be the night manager. But I suppose you can always give it to him.’

‘Thank you. That’s very kind. I’m afraid it won’t be the full amount, but I can assure you I’ll be making up any arrears as soon as possible. You understand that being an only child and with my mother deceased, I am having to pay for it all myself.’ Helen lifted her chin, determined she wouldn’t cower with shame though her body was rife with it.

‘And how long will that take? Miss Hill, you must realise we can’t extend this sort of credit forever, I’m afraid.’ She’d added the last part as an afterthought. As though she felt she really ought to say something to soften her words but would have preferred not to.

Helen had no answer. If only she did. She couldn’t borrow any money off her friends. Not only did they not have any, they had no idea of the depth of debt she was in. She’d been keeping it a secret from them, ashamed of what they’d think of her. She was searching for some suitable excuse, some platitude to placate Mrs Eades, when the formidable Nurse Webb called her over.

9781804945469

PENGUIN BOOKS

PENGUIN BOOKS

June 1952

Chapter One

Chapter Two