Читать книгу An Orphan’s Wish: The new, most heartwarming of christmas novels you will read in 2018 - Molly Green, Molly Green - Страница 17

Lana opened her bedroom curtains to a dull, drizzling first day of May. Not the best weather for dancing round the maypole. She quickly got ready and dressed in a dark pleated skirt and cream twinset. Gazing at her reflexion she wondered if it was too severe for a walk over to the orphanage to introduce herself to Maxine Taylor. The skirt swung around her knees as she turned this way and then the other. Oh, dear. She wasn’t sure. Did it make her look old before her time? With the rationing, her wardrobe was limited to clothes appropriate for a teacher, together with a couple of summer frocks and a Sunday best outfit. She shrugged. Most women were in the same boat.

She spent the morning marking children’s compositions, noting that Priscilla’s was a couple of pages of short, jerky sentences, with an occasional description of sudden brilliance. She was a child worth nurturing back to her full potential, Lana decided. She made herself a sandwich in the cottage, unusually quiet since Janice had gone to see her aunt for a couple of days. It was heaven to have the place to herself. She wouldn’t stay at the orphanage for long this afternoon. Time on her own was too precious and she wanted to make the most of every minute. Janice would be back tomorrow evening ready for school again on Monday, and then there’d be no more peace.

She sat and read a few chapters of her book, then looked at the clock. Quarter past three. Much too early. But she could start slowly walking, maybe having a wander round the gardens – see how Priscilla was getting on. It would be good to get some air. She rose to her feet and washed her cup and saucer, then collected her raincoat from the peg in the hall.

Lana enjoyed walking along the country lane admiring the trees now in leaf. In spite of the dull sky her heart lifted because she was actually here, beginning her new life. Yes, it was without Dickie, but she knew she’d be doing something important for the future – making sure the children were continuing their education no matter what Jerry threw at them. Dickie would have approved.

She came to a small neat sign: Bingham Hall. The orphanage.

Strolling up the drive, she passed a cottage on the left, which looked as though it was going through some major repairs, and a little further on she saw several tall chimneys cutting through the clouds. She blinked. Built of red brick the house had a turret to one side and a crenellated front, reminding her of a castle. She had to admit it was an imposing house – well, more of a mansion – probably built in early Victorian times, the same as the village school.

What would it be like to work there? Grim, she supposed. All those children, some of whose parents had probably been killed in the war, thrown together with no blood ties, maybe losing brothers and sisters as well. Lana was suddenly grateful to teach at a normal school. An orphanage could never represent ‘home’ to her.

She could hear an accordion playing and smiled. The children were obviously not letting the dreary rain put a dampener on their day. Screams of laughter became louder as she got nearer.

Another sound. The purr of an expensive-sounding engine behind her. She pressed her back into one of the lime trees to give room to a large black motorcar. It was moving slowly, crackling the gravel. Out of habit, as it drew parallel, she glanced inside. She was vaguely aware of two men in the back seat, but it was the blond-haired man in the front passenger seat, masking the driver, that caught her gaze. He was only a few feet away and she couldn’t help looking at him. His eyes were fixed firmly ahead, his profile rigid. But she was struck by the power of his features: the well-shaped nose, the firm set of his jaw, and what she could see of his solemn mouth.

As though he felt her eyes upon him he turned to his left, and for long seconds he looked directly at her. Through her. His eyes were deep-set and she thought they were blue but she couldn’t be sure. A quiver ran along her spine. It was as though there was no rain-spotted window forming a barrier between them. He was more handsome than any man had a right to be. Telling herself not to be so silly, but more than a little embarrassed, she swung her gaze from his and fixed her eyes on the rear of the car. Yes, she was right. It was a Rolls. Her brothers hadn’t wasted their time teaching her to recognise all the makes and models for nothing. Oh, what she would give to be behind its wheel. But what was a top-class motorcar like that doing at an orphanage?

She shrugged. It was none of her business. She saw the two men emerge from the back of the Rolls-Royce and walk towards the entrance of the house, leaving the driver and his front passenger in the car.

Who were these men arriving in such a grand car? More specifically, who was the blond man? He must be someone important to have his own driver. Maybe he was a local dignitary, yet he didn’t look like a local man. Ah, perhaps he was a Dr Barnardo’s inspector, though surely either position wouldn’t warrant a driver and a Rolls.

Two young women appeared at the front door of the orphanage, the taller woman wearing a smart navy dress. Lana wondered if she might be Maxine Taylor. One of the men said something and the taller woman answered but Lana was too far away to hear the words. The man loped off and in the space of two minutes returned with the front passenger.

The blond man was exceptionally tall, even by her standards, and unusually he was hatless. The sun, out for the first time that day, glinted on his hair. He looked like someone in command with his confident stride. He glanced once towards the children dancing round the maypole. The accompanying man almost had to run to keep up. It would have been amusing at any other time, but there was something unnerving in the scene unfolding in front of her. After several moments the two women and three men disappeared into the house.

Lana strolled over to where the children were playing, trying to shake off the image of the man who looked different from anyone around here, thinking she might ask where Priscilla was. She watched the children for a few minutes. They certainly looked well cared for, but their expressions wore a kind of resilience – she couldn’t quite explain it, but it was as though they’d had to face more than most children, which of course was true. Maybe she was being fanciful, but she didn’t think so.

Two of the boys were watching her with open curiosity.

‘Are you a new teacher, Miss?’ one of them piped up. He looked to be about nine or ten with ginger hair.

Lana smiled. ‘I’m the new headmistress at the village school. I’ve come to meet some of you and Matron.’

‘She’s gone inside,’ the other boy said. ‘Some men came in that motor.’ He pointed. ‘It’s a Rolls-Royce,’ he added, the awe in his voice unmistakable. ‘Isn’t it smashing?’

‘Yes, it certainly is a beauty,’ Lana said with feeling. One day she’d have her own car, though maybe not a Rolls to start with, she thought, smiling to herself.

‘I’m having one of them when I’m grown up,’ the ginger-haired boy said, a determined expression fixed on his freckled face.

‘I’m sure you will if you want it badly enough.’

He nodded.

‘Have you seen Priscilla?’

‘No. She’s too toffee-nosed to play with us.’

‘I’m sure she doesn’t mean to be,’ Lana said, surprised. ‘I think she’s shy.’

The boy grunted. ‘She was helping Cook last time I saw her.’ He and his friend shot her another look, then dashed off.

So long as Priscilla was well cared for, Lana thought, though it was a pity she hadn’t mixed with the others.

It was only a tentative arrangement to see Maxine Taylor at four o’clock, but already it was coming up to that time. The matron would be busy at the moment. She’d have to wait until the meeting, or whatever it was, was over and until then she’d wander round the gardens. No one seemed to be taking any notice as she walked over to the vegetable garden where the gardener had erected wigwams of beanpoles ready for planting runner beans. A boy, bent nearly in two, struggled with a tough-looking weed. A little brown dog watched the boy’s every move. The dog cocked his ear, then ran towards her, giving little whines of delight, his tail wagging excitedly. The boy stood up.

‘Freddie! Here, boy! Come here!’

Freddie stopped in his tracks and looked round, uncertain as to what he should do – welcome the newcomer or obey his master?

‘He’s all right,’ Lana called, swiftly closing the gap between them. ‘Good boy.’ She patted the dog’s silky head.

‘I have to keep watch on him,’ the boy said importantly. ‘He’s only allowed here if he behaves. He used to live here but he only comes to visit now.’

‘He’s just like most dogs when someone new comes along. He wants to be friends.’

The boy looked at her directly with very blue eyes. Lana took in a quick breath. There was something about him. As though she’d seen him before. But that was ridiculous. She didn’t know any of these children.

‘Well, I know Freddie’s name now, but I don’t know yours.’

The boy hesitated, and Lana had the feeling he didn’t want to answer. But finally he said, ‘Peter – Peter Best.’

‘That’s a good manly name.’ Lana smiled again, but the boy didn’t smile back.

He looked much too serious for a child who couldn’t be more than nine or ten years old. Dear oh dear, these children must all have the most awful stories to tell – the way they lost their parents. The very idea made her feel sick at heart.

‘I’ll leave you to the weeding,’ she said. ‘I do hope I’ll see you and Freddie again.’

Peter nodded but his expression was one of indifference.

Lana decided it would be better if she saw the matron at a quieter moment. But when she noticed a group of small girls playing ring-a-ring-o’roses on the lawn, and a dark-haired woman who she guessed was a teacher keeping an eye on them, she thought she’d wander over and say hello.

The woman turned her head at Lana’s approach.

‘Hello. I’m Lana Ashwin, the new headmistress at the village school.’ Lana extended her hand.

‘Dolores Honeywell. I’m fairly new here, too, and pleased to meet you.’ She smiled at Lana. ‘I saw you and wondered who you were.’

‘Mrs Taylor invited me over to meet some of the children,’ Lana said. ‘I was looking for Priscilla really.’

‘Well, there’s Matron.’ Miss Honeywell motioned towards the front door. ‘She’s with Mrs Andrews – or June, as she was known – who used to be the matron before she married, but I don’t know who that tall fair-haired man is.’ She paused. ‘Oh, he’s going over to the greenhouses. Wonder why. He doesn’t strike me as a gardener.’ Dolores Honeywell turned her attention back to the children.

Lana watched as the blond man walked slowly over to the vegetable plots where she’d left Peter and Freddie just a short while ago. She thought she heard someone whistling. From where she stood she couldn’t see the boy clearly, but she saw him standing very still, his back to the man. Then to her astonishment he whirled round and she heard him shout, ‘Papa!’ and hurl himself into the stranger’s arms.

Peter’s father?

The tall man held the boy tightly and kissed the top of his head. Lana couldn’t take her eyes off the two of them. Bingham Hall was an orphanage, yet it seemed as though Peter had unexpectedly been reunited with his father. She felt the tears prick and turned away, not wanting to encroach on their private moment.

This wasn’t at all the right time to speak to Maxine Taylor who’d probably had no idea at all that these gentlemen would be turning up when she’d suggested Lana go over to introduce herself around teatime. She’d leave quietly and telephone the matron in the morning to apologise and make a firm appointment next time.

She slipped amongst the trees lining the drive, the children’s shouts and squeals of laughter sounding far away now, and made her way back to the school, the image of the tall blond man gathering his son close to his chest still sharp in her mind. She wiped a tear away with the back of her hand and smiled to herself for being so sentimental, but somehow it was comforting to know that in this interminable cruel war, the scene that had unfolded in front of her looked as though it had all the elements of a happy ending.

But there was no happy ending for Priscilla, Lana thought sadly, as she turned the key to open the cottage door, imagining the young girl in her mind’s eye watching such a reunion.

Lana put the kettle on, feeling a little light-headed as she remembered the way the blond man’s eyes had held hers. Why had he made such an impact?

She drank her tea without tasting it.