approved. But I’d love to see yours. Maybe some fancy women I can recognise. One or two of the old ducks in here look at you in a knowing way. We can get Katya to bring our coffee upstairs to my room.” And maybe, she added to herself, I can see whether there’s any truth in what old Alf said about the young Roy Goodman.
• • •
ROY HAD BROUGHT along albums stuffed full of photographs, sepia and black-and-white, and later on colour snaps of families, prize cattle and sheep, and the occasional oldest inhabitant sitting in the sun outside a stone cottage.
“Your entire life is here,” said Ivy, smiling at him. “Perhaps we’ll do it in instalments.”
“Right, here we go. This one is my great-grandmother, Eliza Jane Wilson, with four of her six children. All girls! In those days you needed at least a couple of good strong sons to help on the farm.”
“I think my father wanted a boy,” said Ivy. “But there was just me.”
“I’m sure he was proud as punch of you, Ivy dear. And here’s her daughter Annie on her wedding day. And that’s when the Goodman name came in. My grandfather Valentine Goodman was not much of a man. Too fond of the ladies. But he and Annie had three boys and a girl, and the farm went well.”
“And one of the three boys was your father? Was your mother a farmer’s daughter?”
“No. Her father was a solicitor. I think it was a small family, and she was an only child. But she loved the farm, I remember. Became a pillar of the newly formed Women’s Institute, and was a champion bread maker.”
“And who is this?” said Ivy, pointing to a bonny baby, staring wide-eyed at the camera.
Roy chuckled. “That’s me, aged six months,” he said. “Good-looking even then, don’t you think?”
“Adorable,” said Ivy. “And no doubt spoilt rotten. But what’s happened here? Two pages stuck together. Shall I pull them apart?” she asked.
“No, no, don’t bother. Plenty more.”
But it was too late. Ivy had carefully separated the two pages and was peering at a studio portrait of two young people arm in arm and smiling broadly at each other.
“Roy, is that you?”
He sighed. “Yes, Ivy, that’s me.”
“And?”
“I forget her name. She was just a friend.”
“Rubbish! Of course you remember her name. ‘Just friends’ don’t have special studio portraits taken of themselves arm in arm. Who was she?”
“Her name was Ethel. Ethel Goodman.”
“As in the Settlefield Goodmans?”
“As in them, yes. She was a cousin many times removed.”
Ivy closed the album, and went over to the window, looking out for several minutes in silence. Then she turned.
“That’s enough for today, Roy. Time for coffee, I think. I’ll ring for Katya,” she said.
E ighteen
IVY HAD SPENT a miserable night and the whole of Saturday avoiding long conversations with Roy, who was obviously upset and puzzled at her attitude. Then last night she had again spent long hours awake and, when at last falling asleep, had been haunted by the pretty, laughing face of Ethel Goodman.
Was Ethel really special to him, and where was she now? At least she might discover whether Alf Lowe had spoken the truth when he said Roy had ditched her when she got herself up the spout. It couldn’t do any harm to find out a bit more.
“Morning, Miss Beasley,” whispered a voice. It was Katya, bearing her cup of tea and biscuits. “How are we this morning? Yesterday was not a good day for you, no? But the sun is shining and winter is in flight.”
“Poetically put, my dear,” Ivy said, and shook off an urgent desire to lie down and go back to sleep. “Thank you. I shall be up and dressed very shortly. We have an important church service to go to.”
• • •
GUS WOKE, CONVINCED there was some reason why he had to get up, though it was a Sunday. Then he remembered. The banns were being read in church for Ivy and Roy, for the second time of asking, and he and Deirdre had promised to
• • •
ROY HAD BROUGHT along albums stuffed full of photographs, sepia and black-and-white, and later on colour snaps of families, prize cattle and sheep, and the occasional oldest inhabitant sitting in the sun outside a stone cottage.
“Your entire life is here,” said Ivy, smiling at him. “Perhaps we’ll do it in instalments.”
“Right, here we go. This one is my great-grandmother, Eliza Jane Wilson, with four of her six children. All girls! In those days you needed at least a couple of good strong sons to help on the farm.”
“I think my father wanted a boy,” said Ivy. “But there was just me.”
“I’m sure he was proud as punch of you, Ivy dear. And here’s her daughter Annie on her wedding day. And that’s when the Goodman name came in. My grandfather Valentine Goodman was not much of a man. Too fond of the ladies. But he and Annie had three boys and a girl, and the farm went well.”
“And one of the three boys was your father? Was your mother a farmer’s daughter?”
“No. Her father was a solicitor. I think it was a small family, and she was an only child. But she loved the farm, I remember. Became a pillar of the newly formed Women’s Institute, and was a champion bread maker.”
“And who is this?” said Ivy, pointing to a bonny baby, staring wide-eyed at the camera.
Roy chuckled. “That’s me, aged six months,” he said. “Good-looking even then, don’t you think?”
“Adorable,” said Ivy. “And no doubt spoilt rotten. But what’s happened here? Two pages stuck together. Shall I pull them apart?” she asked.
“No, no, don’t bother. Plenty more.”
But it was too late. Ivy had carefully separated the two pages and was peering at a studio portrait of two young people arm in arm and smiling broadly at each other.
“Roy, is that you?”
He sighed. “Yes, Ivy, that’s me.”
“And?”
“I forget her name. She was just a friend.”
“Rubbish! Of course you remember her name. ‘Just friends’ don’t have special studio portraits taken of themselves arm in arm. Who was she?”
“Her name was Ethel. Ethel Goodman.”
“As in the Settlefield Goodmans?”
“As in them, yes. She was a cousin many times removed.”
Ivy closed the album, and went over to the window, looking out for several minutes in silence. Then she turned.
“That’s enough for today, Roy. Time for coffee, I think. I’ll ring for Katya,” she said.
E ighteen
IVY HAD SPENT a miserable night and the whole of Saturday avoiding long conversations with Roy, who was obviously upset and puzzled at her attitude. Then last night she had again spent long hours awake and, when at last falling asleep, had been haunted by the pretty, laughing face of Ethel Goodman.
Was Ethel really special to him, and where was she now? At least she might discover whether Alf Lowe had spoken the truth when he said Roy had ditched her when she got herself up the spout. It couldn’t do any harm to find out a bit more.
“Morning, Miss Beasley,” whispered a voice. It was Katya, bearing her cup of tea and biscuits. “How are we this morning? Yesterday was not a good day for you, no? But the sun is shining and winter is in flight.”
“Poetically put, my dear,” Ivy said, and shook off an urgent desire to lie down and go back to sleep. “Thank you. I shall be up and dressed very shortly. We have an important church service to go to.”
• • •
GUS WOKE, CONVINCED there was some reason why he had to get up, though it was a Sunday. Then he remembered. The banns were being read in church for Ivy and Roy, for the second time of asking, and he and Deirdre had promised to
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