‘None of your cheek, young man,’ said Mrs Nettles. ‘Now get yourself down ’ere. I’m taking you ’ome, where you belong.’
‘But I don’t want go ’ome, I want to stay ’ere.’
‘Why you bleedin’ little devil! Get down ’ere before I’m tempted to tan your hide!’
‘Come on, Mrs Nettles,’ intervened Romily. ‘Let’s go and sit down and sort this out calmly over a cup of tea, shall we? You must be thirsty after your journey.’
‘There ain’t nothing to sort out,’ snapped the woman, ‘and I ain’t thirsty.’
‘You can sort it all you like,’ cried Stanley, ‘I ain’t going nowhere. I like it ’ere! This is my ’ome!’
‘We’ll see about that!’ With a swiftness that took Romily unawares, Mrs Nettles shot up the stairs towards her son. Dodging out of her grasp, Stanley turned and went crashing into Hope, who had appeared with Annelise on the landing, Allegra close behind them; clearly they had heard the noise and had come to see what was going on. They weren’t the only ones to appear. Mrs Partridge had now joined Romily and Florence in the hall, just as Bobby bared his teeth and began to growl warningly, his head low, his eyes glinting. Suddenly it seemed as though they had all been caught frozen in time, with nobody moving or appearing to know what to do next.
It was Florence who spoke first, in an admirably authoritative voice, the like of which Romily had never heard from her before. ‘Lay one finger on that boy, Mrs Nettles,’ she said, ‘and I shall telephone for the police. And don’t think I won’t. Now come down here and leave Stanley be.’
With Bobby still growling, and perhaps realising they’d reached an impasse, and that to continue in the same manner would leave her looking more foolish, Mrs Nettles made no further attempt to grab hold of her son.
‘Stanley,’ said Romily, ‘perhaps you’d like to go and wash your hands and then come down for your tea. We’ll be in the dining room waiting for you. Won’t we, Mrs Nettles?’ she added pointedly.
With her mouth set in a red hard line, the woman retreated down the stairs, but not before throwing Stanley a look that shook Romily with its venomous hatred. The thought of letting the boy leave with such a gorgon filled her with despair, but they could hardly stop a mother taking her own child back to his real home, could they? The law was most definitely on her side.
In the end, and after the most excruciating tea party Romily had ever known, letting Stanley go was what they had to do. Clutching the pillowcase he had arrived with, packed with the few things he’d brought with him, he stood in the hall to say goodbye, staring grimly down at the floor.
Other than the shoes and clothes he wore, there was no question of Mrs Nettles allowing him to take any of the other clothes Romily had bought him, or the birthday sweater Florence had secretly knitted for him. The gifts of books and games, including those from Tony Abbott, were abandoned upstairs in the room that had been Stanley’s since September. Even the wrapped remains of the birthday cake Mrs Partridge had done her best to bake with so little butter and sugar had been refused. Her son’s ration book stuffed into her handbag, Mrs Nettles made it clear she wanted no reminders of his time spent at Island House, and poor Stanley went along with it without a word of argument. There was no repeat of the brief display of defiance they’d witnessed earlier on the stairs. He probably knew that his mother was a force to be reckoned with, that it was pointless to fight back or reason with her. Romily observed him sadly, feeling as if all the joy and zest for life he’d acquired while in their care had drained out of him. His face was blank; his body stiff and detached.
It was only when he bent down to say goodbye to Bobby that Romily saw his expression soften with a glimmer of emotion. His lower lip wobbled and he buried his face in the dog’s neck. Around him, Allegra, Hope, Mrs Partridge and Florence looked on in silent distress. Annelise was not so silent, though, and suddenly started to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ in a bright sing-songy voice. It was the last straw for Romily and with a sorrow that clutched at her heart, she willed herself not to cry.
‘Well, Stanley,’ she said with forced heartiness, ‘best you go now or you’ll miss that train. And remember, please write to let us know how you’re getting on. We’d love to hear from you. As I’m sure would Miss Flowerday.’
Stanley let go of Bobby and looked up at Romily, his eyes brimming with tears. She would have given anything to change the situation, but she knew she couldn’t; instead she tried one more time to offer to drive him and his mother to the station.
But Mrs Nettles shook her head adamantly. ‘We can manage on our own. We don’t need the likes of you shoving your charity down our throats.’
From the doorstep, with Romily holding Bobby by his collar, they watched Stanley and his mother walk the length of the drive, then disappear from sight. There was no last wave from Stanley, not even a backward glance.
‘It’s not going to be same without him here,’ said Mrs Partridge, wiping a tear from her eye.
‘We should have stopped that awful woman taking him,’ Florence muttered as they turned to go back inside the house.
‘How?’ said Romily despondently. ‘What could we have done? She’s his mother.’
‘A mother who doesn’t deserve him,’ said Hope quietly.
‘I don’t disagree with you,’ Romily said tiredly. ‘Rarely have I encountered a person so full of vindictive bitterness.’
‘Other than Ruby Minton,’ murmured Florence.
‘Other than Arthur,’ added Allegra.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Arthur looked around the dinner table at their guests and wondered if he’d ever been more bored.
Strictly speaking, they were Irene’s guests; she was, after all, the one who fancied herself a great society hostess, which, no matter how hard she tried, she would never truly be. Ironically Irene was too pretty for her own good; she was all froth and no substance. So far in life she had got by on her appearance, and to a degree she had been successful in gathering a coterie of friends around her. Or so-called friends. For what poor stupid Irene didn’t realise was that these women she counted as close associates were the very ones who thwarted her attempts to be truly accepted.
His proof of this was during a weekend house party at the home of Diana and Claude Charleston. While Irene had been lying down with ‘one of her heads’, Arthur had been in the garden and had overheard the women discussing her behind her back. ‘If it weren’t for her prettiness there really would be very little of worth to her,’ the ringleader, and their hostess for the weekend, had said with malicious pleasure.
‘Oh yes,’ another had joined in. ‘Beneath the superficial gloss and fluttering eyelashes one always suspects there’s nothing but a very dull and vacuous woman staring back at one.’
