Читать книгу: «The Secret of Orchard Cottage: The feel-good number one bestseller»
Copyright
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
The News Building
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by Harper 2016
Copyright © Alexandra Brown 2016
Cover design by Alexandra Allden © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016
Cover images © Ivary / Getty Images (orchard scene); Shutterstock.com (all other images).
Alexandra Brown asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007597420
Ebook Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9780007597444
Version 2017-10-20
Dedication
For all the ordinary women everywhere,
doing extraordinary things
‘Treasure this book always, for it will stand the test of time’
– Winnie Lovell, 1941
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Keep Reading …
Also by Alex Brown
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
Tindledale, June 1941 …
As the early morning sun sauntered over the apple trees in the orchard next to the cottage, bathing her bedroom in strands of glorious spun gold, Winnie Lovell tucked the last letter into an envelope and stowed it inside her handbag along with the others for posting later. Then, after replacing the lid of her fountain pen, she crouched down and swept the rug aside to lift a wonky floorboard to the left of the wardrobe and reached in between the rafters to retrieve an old wooden apple box containing her diaries dating back to when she was a little girl. Winnie placed the pen inside the box and took out the pressed purple violet one last time and held it up to her cheek, allowing herself a brief moment of contemplation before hurriedly secreting it all away back under the floor. She stood up and straightened her stockings in silence, reminding herself that this wasn’t the time for sentiment. No, absolutely not. Her mind was made up. Resolute. And there really was no going back now.
Winnie buttoned up her new khaki uniform jacket and straightened the collar, proud to be a part of the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, or FANY as everyone said, and cast one last glance around the rose-print-papered bedroom in the eaves of the honey-stoned cottage that had been her home for all of her twenty years. She really would miss this old place, Orchard Cottage, a special place on the outskirts of Tindledale, the village where she had grown up. With its tiny school with the clock tower on the roof and the cobbled High Street, flanked either side with black timber-framed, white wattle-walled shops with mullioned windows, surrounded by lush, undulating fields full of hops, hay, lambs, cows, strawberries, buttercups and delicate pink cherry blossom in springtime that swirled all around like confetti in a breeze. All the familiarity, and there was a certain beauty, comfort even in the predictable, seasonal routine of a life lived in a rural village. But constraint too, and as much as she loved Tindledale, Winnie knew there was a whole new world waiting for her beyond the bus stop in the village square. Adventure. That’s what this was. She had waited her whole life, or so it seemed, for this very moment. She had already fulfilled her duties in the Women’s Land Army, teaching the city girls how to work the land. Luckily the base hadn’t been that far away so she had been able to hop on the bus home when she had leave, but this time it was different. As soon as the next part of her training was completed, she would go into the field and then who knew when she might next come home? But Winnie was determined to give it her all. Do her bit for the war effort. Her patriotic duty. And her parents had been so proud when Bill the postman had cycled up to the apple barn door to deliver the letter requesting her to report to the special FANY training centre located over two hundred miles away. Before war had been declared, the furthest Winnie had been was to Market Briar, the market town on the other side of the valley, and she had certainly never travelled on a train, which reminded her – she looked at the alarm clock on the cabinet beside the bed – it really wouldn’t do to be late! The next bus, on the hour every hour, left the village square at ten sharpish, and it was already nearly nine o’clock.
Winnie folded her new hand-knitted cardy into her suitcase – made especially for today with some wool unravelled from an old blanket. Make do and mend! That’s what all the women in the village were chatting about, along with ‘beauty is your duty’. So she checked her hair and make-up then applied a little more lipstick in Scarlet Pimpernel – having swapped a stick of liquorice and a book for a selection of tester sticks and a block of mascara with a couple of younger girls in the village. (Hettie and Marigold; one had an aunt who worked on the Yardley make-up counter in a department store.) She then gathered up her hat, gloves, handbag, suitcase and, lastly, the ugly gas mask in its square cardboard box with a length of string for a handle, and closed the bedroom door behind her. Winnie made her way down the rickety old staircase and into the kitchen where the homely aroma of a traditional fry-up greeted her.
‘Eggs and bacon for you, Winifred?’ her mother Delphine asked, with the hint of a French accent, lifting the edge of her apron to wipe her hands as Winnie slipped into the chair next to Edith, whose cheeks were flushed red like a pair of plum tomatoes from having been outside in the fields since the crack of dawn. As little sisters went, Edith – or Edie, as she liked to be called – wasn’t too bad. And Edie loved working in the orchards, crating up the apples and pears and tending to the horses, which was just as well now that it all came down to their father, George, and their neighbour, seventy-year-old Albert from three fields over, to keep things going, since both of their brothers had left the farm at the start of the war, having enlisted right away. Which was even more reason why Winnie was determined to do her bit. Yes, the Land Army had been fun, hard work too, but she was quite used to that, having grown up helping her father in the orchards. But now she wanted to do more; properly support the war effort like her brothers and saw no reason not to just because she was a woman. So after using every shilling she had, and with some help from her parents, she had managed to buy her uniform and was now ready to show what she could really do to help stop the Nazis in their tracks.
‘Ooh, yes please Mum,’ Winnie said, knowing better than to refuse, given that the rationing of bacon had come into force last year. Nerves and anticipation had seen to her appetite, but Winnie knew that her mother had saved the rashers, cut as generously as could be afforded during war time by Bessie up in Cooper’s the butchers’ shop in the High Street, especially for her farewell breakfast, just as she had for each of her brothers. So it would be churlish to turn it down and risk the wrath of her father who was a stickler for citing that old adage of ‘waste not want not’ and gratitude really was next to godliness, as far as he was concerned.
Winnie poured herself some tea from the knitted tea-cosied pot before smoothing a starched white linen napkin into her lap – her mother always liked to look her best and to keep an immaculate home too, and certainly saw ‘no reason to let standards slip just because Hitler has seen fit to turn our lives upside down’, as she frequently reminded them all. Their father begged to differ, and said that it was Delphine’s chic French ancestry that made her a perfect petal amidst the ‘ruddy-cheeked horrors’ that he had grown up with toiling the fields surrounding Tindledale. Talking of which, both parts of the kitchen stable back door burst open and George appeared, stamping the mud from his boots on to the mat before pulling Delphine towards him for a hearty morning kiss.
‘Ew! Enough of that,’ Delphine shooed him away, pretending to chastise. ‘You’ll make my face all mucky and that really won’t do when we venture up to the village square later on.’
‘Don’t worry about that – handsome woman like you. You’re the best looker in Tindledale!’ George puffed out his chest as he reluctantly let go of his wife. Delphine patted her neatly prepared pin curls back into place.
‘You always were a charmer, George.’ Delphine pecked his cheek, before bringing proceedings back to the importance of the day. ‘Now, there’s a fresh shirt hanging in the wardrobe next to your good suit. But first …’ Delphine delivered two perfectly poached eggs on to a plate, ‘eat your breakfast up!’ And she smiled contentedly. Delphine was in her element and at her happiest when feeding and fussing over her family.
‘Right you are,’ George replied, doing as he was told. He sat at the kitchen table and popped the filmy yolk of an egg with the corner of a hunk of home-baked crusty bread. ‘Want to look my best too for waving off our Winnie,’ he added, winking at his eldest daughter. ‘It’s been smashing having you home again for a bit love, and so grown up you are now.’
Winnie smiled; she wasn’t the naïve girl she used to be. Not like she was when she first went off to the Land Army at the start of the war. But so much had changed since then … courting for starters, that had come as a pleasant surprise. And quite unexpected too. She smiled at the memory of that morning when she first met him – she’d just finished showing the girls how to crate the apples correctly, when someone from the nearby army base at Market Briar had requested a volunteer who could drive.
‘And it’s not every day one of our own gets chosen for driving duties,’ George went on. ‘For the top brass no less. I knew my showing you how to drive would come in handy one day.’ He punctuated the air with the prongs of his fork. ‘You didn’t even know how to switch on the apple lorry’s engine before I showed you.’ He took another big bite of his bread.
‘Daaad.’ Winnie gave him a pretend exasperated look. ‘It’s hardly the same – an open-back truck crammed full of apples bobbing all over the place every time the tyres hit a pothole. No, the “top brass”, as you call them, enjoy a very smooth ride in a proper car, thank you very much.’ Winnie took a sip of her tea and pondered again on her good fortune in having spent the last couple of months in and out of the army base where she had been noticed, something that never would have happened if she’d stayed milking cows and digging for victory in the fields with the other girls.
‘You’ll be driving ambulances now though!’ Edie blithely chipped in, before turning her attentions back to the infinitely more interesting dollop of homemade blackberry jam that she had just let plop from a knife on to her toast. Winnie turned to study her little sister, half wishing that she still possessed Edie’s innocent view of the world. But there was a war on, and already Winnie had seen first hand the real effect it was having on the country. What her parents didn’t know was that one of Winnie’s driving duties had taken her to Brighton – she hadn’t wanted to alarm them with accounts of what she saw there, preferring they enjoy their still near-idyllic lives out here in the countryside – but the devastation that the German bomb had caused when it landed on the cinema in Kemp Town would stay with Winnie for always, especially the four children amongst the fifty-five people who were killed.
‘And doesn’t she look a picture in her uniform?’ Delphine joined in, smoothing a proud hand over Winnie’s right shoulder with a formidable look on her face, as if warning the tiniest speck of fluff to so much as dare go near her daughter’s immaculate jacket.
‘Indeed she does,’ George nodded, equally proud.
*
As the emerald green and cream split-window Bedford bus chugged away from the village square, Edie dashed after it, along with several other girls from the village, all waving white cotton hankies with stoic smiles fixed firmly in place as they treasured last glimpses, potentially, of their soldier sweethearts. But it was different for Edie: she loved her big sister, of course she did, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t a tiny bit gleeful that Winnie had signed up to join the FANY, driving ambulances and doing first aid, and it wasn’t as if she was going somewhere really dangerous like her brothers. No, Winnie would be having the time of her life at the training centre, and it wasn’t for ever. Winnie would be back before they knew it, which was why Edie didn’t feel quite so bad for having already boxed up all her belongings ready to move into her big sister’s bedroom for the duration. After their parents’ room, which was set at the front of the cottage overlooking the single-track lane, Winnie’s attic bedroom, with its very own pastel-pink vanity unit and dual-aspect windows with views of the surrounding fields, really was the perfect place to be in Orchard Cottage.
Present day …
In the bedroom of a 1930s bungalow in Basingstoke, April Wilson slipped off her pink hand-knitted cardy and placed it back on the padded hanger before putting it away inside the wardrobe – managing, as she had become accustomed to doing, to avoid making eye contact with her late husband’s shirts still hanging neatly on his half of the hanging rail.
Graham had died eighteen months ago. Motor neurone disease. Ten years her senior, but with a zest for life befitting a far younger man, Gray had been the proverbial life and soul of the party until the cruel disease had taken hold, and then when his breathing muscles had degenerated so severely, he had slipped away one night in his sleep. And April would always be grateful for that. Having given up her nursing career to care for Gray, it had been his wish right from the start, on that sad, drizzly autumn day in the consultant’s room at the hospital when the diagnosis had first been given, to be at home in his own bed when the end came.
‘Only me,’ the effervescent voice of April’s stepdaughter, Nancy, cut through her reverie as the door opened slowly. ‘Sorry, am I disturbing you? Only these arrived a few minutes ago addressed to Mrs Wilson.’ And a gorgeous array of vibrant red and orange roses appeared in the gap between the door and the frame.
April quickly closed the wardrobe doors and pulled on a polka-dot towelling robe, before smoothing down her curly brown hair, which had got mussed up from tugging the dress off over her head.
Gray used to help her with the zip.
April stopped moving.
Instinctively, she inhaled sharply and squeezed her right hand, pressing the fingernails hard into her palm to stop herself from going there. It was the best way. And it was always the little things that still managed to catch her off guard. But she’d get out her sewing machine and alter the zip, build in a small ruched panel on either side of the waist to create a looser fit and the problem would be solved. No more tugging at the dress and her heartstrings while yearning for Gray to be there beside her. Of course, that feeling would never completely disappear, but for now, April needed at least some of her waking hours to feel normal, to be free from the near-physical pain of her battered heart.
‘No, I was just getting changed, come on in sweetheart.’ April smiled, tying the belt as she walked across the room to take the roses from Nancy. ‘Oh they’re absolutely lovely, thank you so much.’ She pressed her nose into the highly scented flowers, figuring they must have cost quite a bit by the looks of the gorgeous white wicker trug and elaborate puff of scarlet tulle ribbon wrapped all around it.
‘Oh, don’t thank me,’ Nancy grinned. ‘The cookery book and that melt-in-the-mouth steak were your birthday treats from me – flowers are a waste of money in my opinion,’ she added in her usual matter-of-fact way before bouncing down on to the end of April’s bed. Just like her dad, thought April; Gray had been a pragmatist too. ‘Here, see who they’re from,’ and Nancy plucked an envelope from a wire stem and handed it to April.
After placing the trug on top of the chest of drawers, April opened the envelope and pulled out a gold-embossed cream card.
To my amazing and beautiful wife on her birthday. Seize the day my darling, wherever or however that may be, as life really is too short.
Bye for now.
Love always.
Gray xxx
April pressed the card to her chest and gasped. Trust him to have remembered, even from beyond the grave, but then Gray always was so thoughtful, and they had joked about this bonkers idea years ago – it was over Sunday lunch in the local pub, shortly after the diagnosis, when they’d all been keen to keep spirits up and put on brave faces. Gray had said he was going to pay his sister, Jen, a florist, up front, to send roses every year on April’s birthday. Gray had then teased April, telling her, ‘But just don’t be living until you’re a hundred years old or the money will have run out by then and you’ll end up getting a measly bunch of dandelions.’ They had all laughed, and then later Jen had taken April aside and explained that she intended on honouring Gray’s wishes no matter what. April would have roses on her birthday. It was the least she could do after all the love and care she had already shown her brother. And April had smiled and shrugged, for she liked taking care of people, loved it in fact; it gave her a purpose and made her feel like she was making a difference. It was the reason she had trained to become a nurse in the first place.
And then so much had happened since to keep her busy: there had been the funeral to arrange, sorting out his financial affairs and the memorial service – Gray had been a renowned research scientist, involved in pioneering work developing cures for a number of life-limiting illnesses, which Gray had often said was actually very ironic really, given the fate of his own health. And of course there was the grieving process to work through. That had hit April hard and somehow all the brave facing and wry jokes while Gray had still been alive had made it even harder once he’d gone. Back then it had been easy for April to occupy her thoughts and time by caring for Gray as he deteriorated: making sure all his needs were met; showing him she was strong and would be OK without him. It had been important for April to give Gray that, to ease the burden of worry for him, as she knew his biggest fear after the diagnosis was for those he loved and was used to looking after, and would ultimately leave behind – his family. Twenty-two-year-old twins, Freddie and Nancy, how would they cope? Their mother lived on the other side of the world in New Zealand, having emigrated there with her new husband when they were teenagers. But the twins had coped remarkably well, in that robust, resilient way that many young people seemed able to do. Of course, there had been ups and downs, but April admired them, their strength, and having spent some time with their mother they now seemed OK and were starting to normalise … which was more than could be said for her.
Gray had worried so much about April; often confiding in Jen, asking her to look out for his wife and to support her through his demise and when he was no longer here. Because, although Gray and April had been together for a while, they had only been married for a year when the diagnosis came, and Gray had said he would completely understand if April wanted to end things with him then and move on. Make a life for herself with somebody new. Somebody fit and vibrant. Instead of ‘saddling herself with a sickly, older, and quite often grumpy git like me’ (Gray could be quite self-deprecating at times). It was a lot to expect of her to stick by him, but April was having none of it. In sickness and health. That’s what she had vowed, and gladly so. She wasn’t a quitter, never had been.
And caring for Gray had given April a purpose, something to live for, and God knows she had needed it, because if the truth be told, her world had fallen apart that day in the consultant’s office. April had hidden it well of course, put on a brave face, stoic, and she was good at that, having trained at Great Ormond Street hospital where nursing seriously ill children required an ability to protect one’s self, close off emotions when required – maintain an emotional distance, if you like. It really wouldn’t do for a nurse to cry. No, that was for other people. April’s job was to be strong so that everyone else around her could cope. Hence, she hadn’t cried once in front of Gray or the twins. Or burdened any of her friends from the knitting group or gym classes that she used to do in the local leisure centre before Gray became seriously incapacitated. And April used to love knitting: sitting next to Gray on the sofa of an evening, they would watch TV together and he’d tease her about the chunkiness of her size 12 needles for a cosy Aran jumper that had been her last project. It was the simple, everyday ‘doing nothing’ stuff that April missed most. But now, well … it just wasn’t the same on her own. The happy association of knit one purl one and laughing along to Gogglebox wasn’t there any more.
‘Are you OK?’ Nancy asked, leaning forward to stroke April’s arm.
‘Yes, sure. Sorry darling, I was miles away.’
April shook her head as if to clear her thoughts, and then smiled at Nancy.
‘Don’t apologise,’ Nancy smiled back. ‘We all knew today would be extra tough for you. Another birthday without Dad.’ She shuffled her bottom backwards over the duvet and then patted the bed, indicating for April to sit beside her.
‘Actually, today has been better than I anticipated,’ April replied, conscious that underneath the veneer of being OK, Nancy was still grieving too, and she didn’t want to upset her stepdaughter by appearing to be ‘getting over her father’s death’ too quickly. But deep down April knew that she most likely would never really ‘get over’ Gray. Yes she’d learn to live without him, be happy again perhaps, a different kind of happiness, she hoped, one day, but still …
‘Good,’ Nancy stated. ‘You know, Dad would never have wanted you to be “moping” all over the place.’ She paused to do quote signs in the air and April winced. ‘Especially on your birthday.’ A short silence followed. ‘Um, sorry, not that you are,’ Nancy added. ‘Gosh, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, you aren’t … um, haven’t been “moping” at all, in fact you’ve been amazingly strong and kind and lovely as always to me and Freddie, putting everyone else before yourself. Sorry, me and my big mouth. I really must engage my brain before opening my gob and just letting words blurt out.’ Nancy pulled a face and shook her head, making her fiery red hair swish around her shoulders. ‘I just meant that … well, you know how practical Dad was about stuff, being a scientist and all. I didn’t mean to be so insensitive, God no, but somehow it always comes out that way.’
‘It’s OK,’ April replied. ‘Like father like daughter, eh?’ and she nudged Nancy with her elbow, before both women exchanged glances and a smile.
‘Hmm, I guess so.’ Nancy pressed her hands together as if to break the moment and lift the mood, buoy them both back up. ‘I know! How about we watch an old film together? Mamma Mia, you love that one.’ April’s smile widened. ‘Whaaaat? What’s so funny?’ Nancy lifted her shoulders and pulled a face.
‘Mamma Mia!’ April laughed. ‘It’s hardly an old film …’
‘Hmm, weeeeell … it is to me. Or would you prefer to watch something really ancient, like Dirty Dancing perhaps?’
‘Or how about Some Like It Hot?’ April couldn’t resist, and Nancy creased her forehead.
‘Sounds like filth to me.’ Nancy folded her arms. ‘April, you fox! Never had you down as a porn fan,’ she teased.
‘Noooooo!’ April protested, her cheeks flushing. ‘Oh gosh no, nothing like that. It’s a classic, starring Marilyn Monroe. With Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon – they dress up as women and—’
‘Cross-dressing! Hmm, guess that could be cool.’ Nancy raised her eyebrows.
‘Hmm, it’s a bit more than that,’ April said.
‘Well, I’ve never heard of it!’
‘Ha! Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ April gave her stepdaughter’s thigh an affectionate pat. ‘You know, I feel reeeeeally old now.’ She shook her head and let out a long sigh.
‘Oh don’t be daft! You’re still young. A million miles away from the menopause.’ April shook her head; trust Nancy to be so blunt. ‘Tell you what … why don’t I do your hair and make-up this afternoon? I could do your nails too; we could have a girly makeover party. I’ll get us some chocolate and maybe a cheeky bottle of bubbles … what do you say?’
‘That sounds lovely, are you sure though?’ April said, surprised, as it wasn’t really Nancy’s thing.
‘Yep. It’s your birthday and I want to make it nice for you. And you love all that beauty and pampering stuff.’ A short silence followed. April swallowed, hard. And then Nancy added, ‘Weell,’ she hesitated, ‘you used to before Dad died, and I know it’s hard, I really still miss him too, but he’d want us to make an effort on your birthday and you made an effort on mine, even though I bet you didn’t really feel up to it.’ She pulled herself off the bed and went in search of April’s beauty paraphernalia. She opened the top drawer of a chest. It was full of underwear. ‘Sorry,’ she said, closing it again. ‘Nail polish?’
‘No problem,’ April replied, ‘it’s in the basket on the shelf in the ensuite.’ She paused and fiddled with the belt of her dressing gown. ‘And I say that a pamper afternoon is a very lovely idea, thank you sweetheart.’
‘Great!’ Nancy chimed. ‘But I’m sensing a big but!’ She stopped moving and turned to look at April.
‘It’s just that I thought my hair looked OK! Why didn’t you tell me before we went out for lunch?’ April pretended to admonish, but knew seriously that she hadn’t really bothered with all of that since Gray went, often wondering what was the point. Of course, she always made sure her hair was brushed and that she looked presentable and had clean clothes on, that sort of thing (well … underwear at least), but she had found it hard to muster up much enthusiasm for applying make-up or painting her nails. To be honest, the last eighteen months had seen her operating as if on autopilot, going through the motions really.
‘April, your hair looks lovely. Honestly. I just thought it would be something nice to do for the rest of your birthday.’
‘Ahh, OK. Then thank you, and sorry, ignore me, I’m just being oversensitive. Come on, you grab the chocolate and champagne and I’ll sort out what we need up here,’ April chivvied, seizing the opportunity to busy herself and be in her preferred state.
‘Perfect.’ Nancy walked towards the door. ‘Ooh, before I forget – this came too. It’s addressed to “Miss W. Lovell”, no idea who that is, but it looks like a birthday card and Lovell was your surname before you married Dad so I’m guessing it’s for you.’ She pulled out a crumpled lilac envelope from the back pocket of her jeans and gave it to April. ‘Sorry for squashing it.’
