lungful by lungful. She couldnât hear the guns out in France, the wind was blowing in the wrong direction, but she could still sense them. The same way you could sense a storm coming. A quiver in the air, a gust of wind, a flash of lightning and then thunder would crack through the sky.
But, if you could hear the guns here in London, what must it be like in France? Serving as a soldier out there on the Western Front, as her own father had done, having to live with the thunder of those guns, day after day, night after night; a continuous barrage of sound right over your head, the earth shuddering under your feet, seeing your friends and colleagues being blown apart? It was too terrible to imagine.
A clock chimed, then another, calling her back into the house. Jess stepped inside. She pulled the heavy front door shut behind her. She went back down the hall and into the dining room. She laid the hearthrug out on the wooden parquet floor in front of the fireplace.
She was working unpaid, just for her bed and board with one afternoon off a month, as she had no previous experience. But the Major and his wife had promised her mother that they would give her a reference. And a reference was what she needed in order to apply for a paid job. But for how long, how many days and hours would she have to work, to slave, before she got that reference?
Her mother had been in service but that didnât mean she had to be. Once she was sixteen there was nothing to stop her handing in her notice. With the men gone, it was the womenwho were now working on the land and in the factories: jobs that paid well. No one wanted to be a servant, the hours were too long and the pay was too bad. Which was why the Major and his wife had taken her on; they had been desperate.
But she knew what her mother would say. She was lucky. She wasnât cold and she wasnât starving. What more could she, or should she, want? And her mother would have been right. So she would stay where she was â at least for the moment.
âThe servant should now wash her hands and face, put on a clean white apron, and be ready for her mistress when she comes downstairsâ¦â
She froze. A loud and insistent knock hammered into her head like a nail being hammered into the lid of a coffin. It was too early for a delivery but not too early for a telegram.
âJess. Open the door.â
The Major was standing on the landing, his wife clinging to his arm. Both were still in their nightclothes.
âButâ¦â
âDo as I say. Open the door.â
She willed whoever was standing out there to go away, to find another house, another family to rip apart. It had happened to her family, to herself and her mother. And it had already happened to this family, twice, and it couldnât happen again. The pain would be too great. They had no more men to give.
She opened the door. A blonde-haired young man, dressed in military uniform, turned to face her. His eyes were the same piercing, bright blue as the cornflowers in her motherâs patch of garden.
TWENTY-ONE
âH AS HE LOOKED AT you? Really, and I mean really, looked at you?â
The youngest son had been home for two whole days and Ellie had talked of nothing else.
âNow come on, Jess, has he?â
The shopping list the Majorâs wife had given Jess that morning had been double its usual length. While the one and only surviving son was home on leave he would want for nothing.
âI donât know. How would I? Iâm not allowed to raise my eyes from the floorâ¦â
âBut Jess, there are waysâ¦â
Ellie lowered her head and keeping her gaze down to the pavement slid her eyes sideways.
âYouâll get stuck, Eleanor Baxter, when the wind changesâ¦â
It was what her mother used to say whenever she caught Jess sticking out her tongue.
âBeing all prim and proper, Jessica Brown, will get you nowhere. There arenât enough men to go
But, if you could hear the guns here in London, what must it be like in France? Serving as a soldier out there on the Western Front, as her own father had done, having to live with the thunder of those guns, day after day, night after night; a continuous barrage of sound right over your head, the earth shuddering under your feet, seeing your friends and colleagues being blown apart? It was too terrible to imagine.
A clock chimed, then another, calling her back into the house. Jess stepped inside. She pulled the heavy front door shut behind her. She went back down the hall and into the dining room. She laid the hearthrug out on the wooden parquet floor in front of the fireplace.
She was working unpaid, just for her bed and board with one afternoon off a month, as she had no previous experience. But the Major and his wife had promised her mother that they would give her a reference. And a reference was what she needed in order to apply for a paid job. But for how long, how many days and hours would she have to work, to slave, before she got that reference?
Her mother had been in service but that didnât mean she had to be. Once she was sixteen there was nothing to stop her handing in her notice. With the men gone, it was the womenwho were now working on the land and in the factories: jobs that paid well. No one wanted to be a servant, the hours were too long and the pay was too bad. Which was why the Major and his wife had taken her on; they had been desperate.
But she knew what her mother would say. She was lucky. She wasnât cold and she wasnât starving. What more could she, or should she, want? And her mother would have been right. So she would stay where she was â at least for the moment.
âThe servant should now wash her hands and face, put on a clean white apron, and be ready for her mistress when she comes downstairsâ¦â
She froze. A loud and insistent knock hammered into her head like a nail being hammered into the lid of a coffin. It was too early for a delivery but not too early for a telegram.
âJess. Open the door.â
The Major was standing on the landing, his wife clinging to his arm. Both were still in their nightclothes.
âButâ¦â
âDo as I say. Open the door.â
She willed whoever was standing out there to go away, to find another house, another family to rip apart. It had happened to her family, to herself and her mother. And it had already happened to this family, twice, and it couldnât happen again. The pain would be too great. They had no more men to give.
She opened the door. A blonde-haired young man, dressed in military uniform, turned to face her. His eyes were the same piercing, bright blue as the cornflowers in her motherâs patch of garden.
TWENTY-ONE
âH AS HE LOOKED AT you? Really, and I mean really, looked at you?â
The youngest son had been home for two whole days and Ellie had talked of nothing else.
âNow come on, Jess, has he?â
The shopping list the Majorâs wife had given Jess that morning had been double its usual length. While the one and only surviving son was home on leave he would want for nothing.
âI donât know. How would I? Iâm not allowed to raise my eyes from the floorâ¦â
âBut Jess, there are waysâ¦â
Ellie lowered her head and keeping her gaze down to the pavement slid her eyes sideways.
âYouâll get stuck, Eleanor Baxter, when the wind changesâ¦â
It was what her mother used to say whenever she caught Jess sticking out her tongue.
âBeing all prim and proper, Jessica Brown, will get you nowhere. There arenât enough men to go
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