suggested games of cribbage or croquet, whilst guessing rightly that they’d bore their Wincanton visitor. There were birthday parties, too, and, as summer came round, picnics, to which Beatrice sometimes found herself invited. But, conscious of her parents’ reduced circumstances, the plainness of her clothes, and the fact that she could never return these invitations, she knew she acted shy and awkward with the others. She did earn, though, the distinction of being good at dares. If there was a wall to climb or cartwheels to turn, she would try harder than anyone else, so getting Bea to perform became a regular entertainment at some of these gatherings. She got on with it grimly, but it gave her no pleasure, and sometimes she elected not to accompany Angie, even when she was specifically invited.
It was one such afternoon in June of 1937, her fifteenth year, that she remained behind at Carlyon, reading on the terrace and fortified by sips of Cook’s cloudy lemonade. She heard a car draw up outside the house. Surely it was too early for everyone to return? Mrs Wincanton had dropped Angie at a party at a neighbour’s and gone on to Truro in search of new shoes for Hetty, after which they were meeting friends for tea.
There came an exchange of voices – Brown the maid’s and a deeper, male voice – and then a man stepped out through the french windows. He was dressed in a camel-coloured suit and shiny brown brogues. It was Angie’s father. Beatrice half-jumped to her feet, clutching her book to her chest.
‘Beatrice, hello. They tell me you’re the only one here. No, no, don’t get up. Didn’t they get my message, the blighters?’
‘Nobody said they received one. Really, I’m certain they weren’t expecting you. Angie wouldn’t have missed you for anything.’
‘No, of course she wouldn’t.’ He settled himself on a chair near hers, dug out a pipe from his jacket, blew through it and filled it with tobacco, tamping it down with his thumb. He was a broad, muscular man in his early forties, with a handsome, cleanshaven face and sandy hair. She watched him light the pipe, then shake out the match. Every movement imparted masculinity, strength and purpose. He regarded her thoughtfully through a wreath of smoke and she crossed her ankles, feeling self-conscious.
‘I had a less busy patch, thought I’d motor down for a few days. Is everybody well?’
She had met the Hon. Michael Wincanton MP several times now and he’d always been polite and warm enough, but she usually hung back, knowing that he really came to see his family. Today was the first time she’d found herself alone with him. She searched about desperately for topics of conversation, about what everyone had been doing, nervous that she’d bore him.
‘And how’s your father?’ he asked. She was touched that he remembered, but stumbled out that he was managing quite well. All the time, she was aware of his eyes on her, a slightly amused look on his face. She was getting used to men noticing her. It made her feel awkward. When she woke up in the morning, sometimes it felt like bits of her had grown in the night. This man made her feel slightly uncomfortable, as though her hem was down or her hair was a mess. She wriggled under his gaze.
‘What’s that you’re reading? Anything good?’ he asked, but when she showed him the novel he didn’t seem that interested.
‘You said you were less busy,’ she asked bravely. ‘Is Parliament still sitting?’
‘No, we’re in recess, though there’s business to attend to here. It doesn’t do for a Member of Parliament to neglect his constituency or he won’t get re-elected. Now, when do you suppose my wife will return?’ He stood and began to pace about and Beatrice was rather relieved when he announced he was going up to change. Later, after the others came back, he insisted on his own driver taking her home. That night she dreamed about him: big, warm, masculine, with smoky breath.
The
It was one such afternoon in June of 1937, her fifteenth year, that she remained behind at Carlyon, reading on the terrace and fortified by sips of Cook’s cloudy lemonade. She heard a car draw up outside the house. Surely it was too early for everyone to return? Mrs Wincanton had dropped Angie at a party at a neighbour’s and gone on to Truro in search of new shoes for Hetty, after which they were meeting friends for tea.
There came an exchange of voices – Brown the maid’s and a deeper, male voice – and then a man stepped out through the french windows. He was dressed in a camel-coloured suit and shiny brown brogues. It was Angie’s father. Beatrice half-jumped to her feet, clutching her book to her chest.
‘Beatrice, hello. They tell me you’re the only one here. No, no, don’t get up. Didn’t they get my message, the blighters?’
‘Nobody said they received one. Really, I’m certain they weren’t expecting you. Angie wouldn’t have missed you for anything.’
‘No, of course she wouldn’t.’ He settled himself on a chair near hers, dug out a pipe from his jacket, blew through it and filled it with tobacco, tamping it down with his thumb. He was a broad, muscular man in his early forties, with a handsome, cleanshaven face and sandy hair. She watched him light the pipe, then shake out the match. Every movement imparted masculinity, strength and purpose. He regarded her thoughtfully through a wreath of smoke and she crossed her ankles, feeling self-conscious.
‘I had a less busy patch, thought I’d motor down for a few days. Is everybody well?’
She had met the Hon. Michael Wincanton MP several times now and he’d always been polite and warm enough, but she usually hung back, knowing that he really came to see his family. Today was the first time she’d found herself alone with him. She searched about desperately for topics of conversation, about what everyone had been doing, nervous that she’d bore him.
‘And how’s your father?’ he asked. She was touched that he remembered, but stumbled out that he was managing quite well. All the time, she was aware of his eyes on her, a slightly amused look on his face. She was getting used to men noticing her. It made her feel awkward. When she woke up in the morning, sometimes it felt like bits of her had grown in the night. This man made her feel slightly uncomfortable, as though her hem was down or her hair was a mess. She wriggled under his gaze.
‘What’s that you’re reading? Anything good?’ he asked, but when she showed him the novel he didn’t seem that interested.
‘You said you were less busy,’ she asked bravely. ‘Is Parliament still sitting?’
‘No, we’re in recess, though there’s business to attend to here. It doesn’t do for a Member of Parliament to neglect his constituency or he won’t get re-elected. Now, when do you suppose my wife will return?’ He stood and began to pace about and Beatrice was rather relieved when he announced he was going up to change. Later, after the others came back, he insisted on his own driver taking her home. That night she dreamed about him: big, warm, masculine, with smoky breath.
The
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