The Chestnut Tree Read online

  THE CHESTNUT

  TREE

  Charlotte Bingham

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Also by Charlotte Bingham

  Prologue

  August 1939

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Early 1942

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Winter 1942

  Chapter Fourteen

  December 1943

  Chapter Fifteen

  Interlude London, March 1944

  1944

  Chapter Sixteen

  Interlude St Aubin, Normandy, June 1944

  London, May 1945

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781409057338

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

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  a division of The Random House Group Ltd

  RANDOM HOUSE AUSTRALIA (PTY) LTD

  20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney,

  New South Wales 2061, Australia

  RANDOM HOUSE NEW ZEALAND LTD

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  RANDOM HOUSE SOUTH AFRICA (PTY) LTD

  Endulini, 5a Jubilee Road, Parktown 2193, South Africa

  Published 2002 by Doubleday a division of Transworld Publishers

  Copyright © Charlotte Bingham 2002

  The right of Charlotte Bingham to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 0385 600666

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  To those women who lost their lives in the cause of Victory, 1939–1945, and whose courage remains unrewarded, their exploits unsung – but who are remembered always by those who loved them.

  Also by the Author

  CORONET AMONG THE WEEDS

  LUCINDA

  CORONET AMONG THE GRASS

  THE BUSINESS

  IN SUNSHINE OR IN SHADOW

  STARDUST

  NANNY

  CHANGE OF HEART

  GRAND AFFAIR

  LOVE SONG

  THE KISSING GARDEN

  THE BLUE NOTE

  SUMMERTIME

  DISTANT MUSIC

  THE MAGIC HOUR

  FRIDAY'S GIRL

  OUT OF THE BLUE

  IN DISTANT FIELDS

  THE WHITE MARRIAGE

  GOODNIGHT SWEETHEART

  THE ENCHANTED

  THE LAND OF SUMMER

  THE DAISY CLUB

  The Belgravia series

  BELGRAVIA

  COUNTRY LIFE

  AT HOME

  BY INVITATION

  The Nightingale series

  TO HEAR A NIGHTINGALE

  THE NIGHTINGALE SINGS

  The Debutantes series

  DEBUTANTES

  THE SEASON

  The Eden series

  DAUGHTERS OF EDEN

  THE HOUSE OF FLOWERS

  The Bexham trilogy

  THE CHESTNUT TREE

  THE WIND OFF THE SEA

  THE MOON AT MIDNIGHT

  Novels with Terence Brady

  VICTORIA

  VICTORIA AND COMPANY

  ROSE'S STORY

  YES HONESTLY

  Television Drama Series with Terence Brady

  TAKE THREE GIRLS

  UPSTAIRS DOWNSTAIRS

  THOMAS AND SARAH

  NANNY

  FOREVER GREEN

  Television Comedy Series with Terence Brady

  NO HONESTLY

  YES HONESTLY

  PIG IN THE MIDDLE

  OH MADELINE! (USA)

  FATHER MATTHEW'S DAUGHTER

  Television Plays with Terence Brady

  MAKING THE PLAY

  SUCH A SMALL WORLD

  ONE OF THE FAMILY

  Films with Terence Brady

  LOVE WITH A PERFECT STRANGER

  MAGIC MOMENT

  Stage Plays with Terence Brady

  I WISH I WISH

  THE SHELL SEEKERS

  (adaptation from the novel by Rosamunde Pilcher)

  BELOW STAIRS

  For more information on Charlotte Bingham and her books,

  see her website at www.charlottebingham.com

  ‘One sees great things from the valley,

  only small things from the peak’

  G. K. Chesterton

  Prologue

  Everyone in the village loved the chestnut tree. It had become a part of their lives, something for the boys to climb, and for the girls to sit under on summer evenings pretending to talk, while all the time watching the boys watching them.

  Over half a century’s growth had seen the tree reach a height sufficient to dominate the green sward that lay in front of so many of Bexham’s houses and cottages. On fine days, weekends, and, naturally, bank holidays, the older people would sit themselves in deck chairs under its now thick branches and wait for a cricket match to start, leaving it only to stroll across the green to the pub for much needed liquid refreshment.

  Inevitably, initials were carved all over the trunk of the tree, hearts circling a good many of them, hope and romance entwined for ever in the rough but still shining bark. Many of the younger owners of those initials must have been completely ignorant of the circumstances of the tree’s origin – that it had been, and still was, such a potent symbol to those who had planted it.

  ‘We have known it since it was hardly more than a conker,’ the older women liked to joke, stroking it, and often one or other of them would start to sing the old wartime song: ‘Under the spreading chestnut tree, Neville Chamberlain said to me, if you want to get your gas mask free – join the blinking AR Pee!’

  Originally, the singing of that song would often have stopped just as suddenly as it had begun, to be replaced by the sound of a siren, and the village green would have hurriedly emptied, mothers catching their children’s hands and heading for the shelter, far ahead of the older people, who always seemed more concerned with the whereabouts of their library books and their umbrellas before falling in at the end of the orderly queue that led to the reinforced basement under the cricket pavilion. Nowadays that same pavilion echoed not to the wail of a siren but to applause for Bexham’s cricket team, to the sound of talk and laughter, to those particular feelings of ease and contentment that are known, collectively, as peace.

  AUGUST 19
39

  Chapter One

  The sudden hush was eerie, a blanket of silence so complete it seemed as if even the pigeons and the London sparrows had decided to fall into line, ceasing all activity. From Chelsea Town Hall all the way back up the King’s Road to Sloane Square people were stilled, such was the power of the electrifying wail that filled the air. For a moment, as the siren finally fell silent, it seemed that all that could be heard was the gentle rhythmic flap of a newspaper lying in the gutter, and the faint and distant mewing of a cat somewhere. It was an odd scene, made doubly so by the absence of children, all of them already safely despatched, together with pet dogs, to the country. No one moved, or spoke. For a second it was as if they were frozen into immobility, until on cue, everyone began to make for the places to which they had been instructed to go. The customers from Peter Jones department store, the shoppers in the King’s Road, the passers-by in the side streets and the people who had been standing at bus stops, all heading for their designated roped-off refuge stations in strict and orderly fashion.

  Yet still there was no panic. It was as if everyone had been waiting for this particular moment, which indeed many people had, and for months now. At the sound of the warning, every car had slowed and pulled to one side in order to allow past the ambulances and fire engines which had, of a sudden, appeared on the streets, their bells clanging noisily as they sped to perform their duties, coping with the anticipated high explosive bombs, putting out fires, attending the wounded, and digging the dead out of the rubble.

  ‘Oh God, I wish I had put on more comfy undies,’ Meggie sighed, staring up at a little patch of sky just in front of Peter Jones. ‘My brassiere’s killing me. By the way, what are you doing after this show’s over, Judy?’ She turned her head sideways and stared at her friend, who was lying beside her.

  ‘I was meant to be driving down to meet Walter’s family. But if the balloon’s really gone up, I daresay his leave will be cancelled.’

  ‘I’ll bet it hasn’t.’ Meggie put her hands behind her blond-haired head and rested on them with a contented sigh as if they were an exceptionally comfortable and much loved pillow. ‘I mean the balloon’s having gone up, not Walter’s leave. How long’s he been in uniform? Not that long, surely?’

  ‘Three months now. And anyway, length of service is nothing to do with it. Not if the balloon’s gone up.’

  ‘I always wonder where that phrase comes from? The balloon going up.’

  ‘No idea, I’m afraid. Something to do with the Great War, I expect.’

  ‘I say, Judy, what do you think they’ll call this one when it’s over – the Little War?’

  Judy sighed and closed her eyes, blotting out the brilliant summer day. Despite everything, the coming war, her fears for everyone, despite all that, all she could think about was Walter. He had a weekend’s leave coming up, and if this emergency presaged the real thing, then this might be the last chance they had of seeing each other for quite some time.

  Or even ever. Somehow, before today, the implication of Walter’s being in military uniform had not quite sunk in. His volunteering for the Senior Service had simply seemed rather dashing and heroic. But now as she and Meggie lay on the hard London pavement waiting to be attended by some of the multitude of nurses who were now converging on Sloane Square, while all around them the air raid wardens scoured the skies for signs of enemy aircraft, Walter’s joining the Navy became a reality.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Meggie giggling.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Meggie exploded, pulling a face and nodding her head in the direction of a body of women advancing on them. ‘Just don’t look – or, rather, just do!’

  Judy closed her eyes in disbelief, before opening them again and starting to shake with suppressed laughter. The women ARP wardens had obviously not had the benefit of a fitting for their uniforms, the result being that the seats of their newly issued trousers reached down to their knees, a sight that was made all the more hilarious when they bent down over the bodies lying about Sloane Square.

  ‘Well, this is one person who will not be joining the ARP and wearing those little numbers, darling . . .’

  Meggie rolled her eyes in mock horror, and they both laughed.

  Even the announcement that followed on the loudspeakers, warning everyone of the imminent arrival of enemy bombers in eight minutes’ time, only added to Meggie’s amusement.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, that is just too much! How on earth do they know they’ll be arriving in eight minutes? Why not six? Or even two?’

  ‘Making trouble as usual, Miss Gore-Stewart?’

  ‘Heavens above! Dobsie!’

  Meggie half sat up again, flicking back her hair from her eyes and staring up in unaffected delight at a tall, well-upholstered warden who was smiling down at her from under her tin hat.

  ‘Miss Gore-Stewart. How are you, dear?’

  ‘Miss Dobbs was my old piano teacher, Judy. Dobsie, this is Judy Melton, a friend of mine. We were having such a giggle, Dobsie, I mean to say, those trousers, have you ever seen anything less modish?’

  ‘This isn’t a garden party, you know, this is very serious,’ Miss Dobbs told Meggie, responding to a frowning look from another warden. ‘So if you wouldn’t mind resuming your recumbent position, Miss Gore-Stewart, while I find a nurse to attend to your wounds.’ She stared momentarily at the blood on Meggie’s long, elegant legs.

  ‘Sorry, Dobsie.’ Meggie lay back down. ‘Didn’t mean to get you into hot water. It’s just so good to see you, but really – takes me back a bit, I can tell you.’

  ‘There’s been a slight misunderstanding. These wounds are so bad, surely this young woman should be taken to the ambulance?’

  But perhaps because of Meggie’s carefree demeanour Miss Dobbs’s question fell on deaf ears, and Meggie was left firmly where she was, despite her obviously bloody wounds.

  ‘So you’re a warden now, Dobsie,’ Meggie said, settling herself once more on the pavement. ‘I was thinking of doing something like that, as a matter of fact. I was thinking of being a warden. Or driving something. Someone I know is driving a taxi with a trailer pump – you know, for the fire service.’

  ‘I can’t see you doing that, Meggie.’

  ‘No.’ Miss Dobbs nodded in agreement with Judy as she signalled in vain for someone to start bandaging Meggie. ‘Not the sort of thing you’re cut out for at all, Miss Gore-Stewart.’

  ‘I don’t know. You could hardly say Henrietta Clive was exactly cut out for it either. Up till now, the only thing she’s really driven before last week was her fiancé dotty. Anyway, I rather fancy the fire service as it happens. According to Henrietta it’s giving all the men a purple fit, having girls join. And the best thing of all – you’ll never guess. The head of the fire service is called Mr Firebrace.’

  ‘I just hope if you do join you don’t get called out to me, dear.’ Miss Dobbs prepared to go in search of a nurse. ‘We’re going to have our hands quite full enough without running after the likes of you.’

  Meggie smiled at no one in particular, and then gave a contented sigh.

  ‘Good old Dobsie. She was so cantankerous teaching me the piano. Used to threaten to drop the lid on my hands when I got a scale wrong. There’s always something very Nazi about music teachers, don’t you find, Judy?’

  Miss Dobbs was back as quickly as she had gone, busy instructing the young nurse as to the extent of Meggie’s and Judy’s injuries.

  ‘This one is an artery,’ she said, pointing to Meggie’s leg. ‘Femoral, obviously. And the other casualty is a fracture – hence the bone sticking out of the lower leg.’

  ‘Ugh.’ Judy pulled a face.

  ‘Double ugh,’ Meggie agreed. ‘And very painful, you bet.’

  ‘I hate pain.’

  With a mutual sigh the two young women lay back while the nurse began to see to their imaginary wounds; as she did so, despite the whole exercise being only, as Dobsie had just said, a dress re
hearsal for the real thing, Meggie and Judy found they had both stopped believing England was still at peace.

  Perhaps because of this, as they tidied themselves up later at Meggie’s flat in Wilbraham Place and Judy got ready to drive down to Walter’s parents in Sussex, the jokes seemed to have stopped.

  Washing off her wounds in the bathroom Meggie said, ‘God, I hate the sight of b for blood, really I do. It’s just so – bloody.’

  ‘It was only an exercise.’ Judy sat back to examine her newly applied lipstick in the looking glass. ‘And – you know, Meggie – I mean who knows? We are still at peace, after all. I mean, we are not yet at war, are we?’

  ‘Meaning as in it may never happen?’ Meggie glanced at her friend as she brushed out her hair. ‘Not now Hitler’s repudiated Munich. I hardly think so, Judy, hardly think so. No, we are at war already, and we all know it. It’s just a question of time before peace is finally knocked for six.’

  ‘Maybe that’s all the Germans want. You know, peace? Even after Czechoslovakia. That’s what some people say. There is no harm in hoping, after all, is there?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I think we’ve had it, actually.’ Meggie put down her silver-backed hairbrush, giving her fair hair a final careful adjustment with her hand. ‘Everyone thinks so, except for some politicians. You should hear my grandmother on the subject. She says the politicians should have stood up to Hitler years ago, and by heavens I absolutely agree. But anyway, here we are, and I suppose we’ve just got to make the best of it. I mean who knows? We could all be dead in a few weeks.’

  ‘I wish you hadn’t said that just before I see Walter again. I won’t be able to think of anything else all weekend.’

  ‘It’s just how it is – we have to accept it.’ But because her voice suddenly sounded flat Meggie gave a brilliant smile.

  ‘It’s just that I’d rather not think about it right at this moment. I don’t want to think – you know, that this is the last time I might see Walter.’