‘Absolutely not. The last thing you need is people gossiping about you and I sense that there could be a few here who might derive pleasure in a bit of neighbourly gossip.’
Cassie smiled. ‘The Enforcers definitely would.’
‘Who?’
‘The cabal of Cheryl and Joanne who enforce the Hope Hall rules. You need to watch them. If they find out about Bon-Bon’ – Cassie covered the dog’s ears with her hands – ‘they’ll come for you with pitchforks and flaming torches.’
Venetia smiled. ‘Thank you for the advice, I’ll be sure to heed it. Now, why don’t you go back home to Ben while I take Bon-Bon for a wander so he can stretch his legs and do his euphemistic business.’
‘If you don’t mind,’ Cassie said, ‘I’d like to walk with you and then we can go back together. Is that okay?’
‘More than okay, I shall enjoy your company.’
They’d only gone a short distance, following what had become a regular route for Venetia, when Cassie asked her the question Venetia had known she would.
‘What really brought you here to Hope Hall?’ asked the younger woman.
Why not tell her? Venetia pondered. It was always going to come out in the end. It was just that old habits die hard. Her natural inclination was always to say as little as possible while encouraging the other to do all the talking. As she just had with Cassie. She’d learnt that as a child, to keep things to herself, to lock them away in her heart so they couldn’t be taken or destroyed.
‘This was where I grew up a very long time ago,’ Venetia said. ‘I lived here when it was a children’s home.’
Chapter Twelve
Naturally, just as any child couldn’t possibly know or remember anything about their very early years, the story Venetia had been told was that in the spring of 1945, a month before the end of the war, she had been found wrapped in a towel inside a cardboard box on the front steps of Hope Hall Children’s Home. It was, so she was later told, her ferociously loud cries in the dead of night that announced her arrival.
The police were notified, and a notice put in theCambridge Gazettefor the mother of the abandoned newborn to come forward, but nobody did. Being an abandoned wartime baby wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, in fact there had been a surge in illegitimate births resulting in unwanted babies, so what was one more to add to the tally?
Some of the children at the home were there because their families couldn’t afford to keep them. Sometimes the parents returned months or even years later to reclaim them. Every so often they would all be scrubbed clean and dressed in what passed for their Sunday best with ribbons in their hair for the girls and, for the boys who were old enough to wear them, tightly knotted ties. Encouraged to behave well, they would be introduced to couples who, if they saw what they liked, and having been thoroughly vetted by Lady Constance who ran the home, would be considered prospective parents for the chosenones. These couples usually wanted a baby, the more attractive the better, not some red-faced goblin, as one of the older children once described Venetia when she’d been a baby.
From red-faced goblin she grew into a quiet, reserved toddler who flatly refused to smile on demand at strangers in the hope they might like her and take her home with them. She wasn’t much better when she turned five. She was more than happy to stay where she was. She liked it at Hope Hall. It was home for her, so why would she want to be anywhere else, living with strangers? The older children shared frightening tales of children being put in cages and sent to live thousands of miles away in Australia, where they were put to work on farms where there were snakes and deadly spiders as big as dinner plates. The stories gave her nightmares, and it wasn’t until Lady Constance winkled out of her what was worrying her that she was assured no child from Hope Hall would ever be sent to Australia.
Lady Constance Morton-Granger, to give the woman her full name, was well-known for being a wealthy philanthropist who, when she inherited Hope Hall in a dilapidated state, decided to put it to good use and turn it into a home for unwanted children. It was to be a place of hope where they could feel loved and wanted and where they could be educated. She made a point of always telling the children that each and every one of them was special in their own unique way. It was Lady Constance who had given Venetia her implausibly posh name the night she was discovered on the doorstep. The surname of Randall was given to her because Lady Constance had had a brother with that name to whom she’d been very close, but he had sadly died in the war.
A great believer in education, Lady Constance was determined that when it was time for the children to leave the home, they should leave fully equipped with the necessary skills to get on in life. She was what was known as a progressive and believed that girls and boys should learn not just the three Rs, but how to cookand sew, as well as know their way around a set of woodworking tools. She also instilled in them an appreciation of art and music as well as the Classics, literature and poetry. She taught some of the classes herself and in all ways, she was a genuinetour de force.The members of staff she employed were extremely loyal and stayed with her for years.
The other hugely important woman in Venetia’s life was Edie Buckle. She came to work at the home as a nurse when Venetia was six years old. She was a kindly, rosy-cheeked woman who made a fuss of all the children when they were ill, but she took a particular shine to Venetia, and not just when she was unwell. Many a time when lessons were over, Venetia would slip upstairs to the sickroom just to be with Edie.
Years later, Venetia discovered what drove Edie to be the big-hearted woman she was. She had lost her husband at Dunkirk and then her two children during the Blitz in London, but rather than give in to her grief, she assuaged it by devoting herself to the care of other children. Venetia loved her dearly and there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for Edie. Or Lady Constance for that matter. She was devoted to them both.
In time though, somebody else came into her life, somebody for whom she would also do anything. Which she did. But that was far off into the future. Until then, Hope Hall lived up to its name and really was a place of hope for her.
Not that Venetia told Cassie all of this while they were walking back to the Hall by the light of her torch and with Bon-Bon now safely concealed in her tote bag. The general picture was all that was required, just a few broad strokes to satisfy her young friend’s curiosity.
Chapter Thirteen
If the media, with its many hysterical headlines was to be believed, the heatwave that was sweeping across Europe, including the UK, might well herald the end of the world. But to look at Cambridge, as tourists and young folk lazed by the river and on the parched grass of Parker Green, as well as the cafés and pubs with their limited outdoor space, annihilation seemed like the last thing on anyone’s mind.
It certainly wasn’t on Nina’s mind, but then maybe she was guilty of fiddling while Rome burned. Procrastination had, after all, become something of an art form for her. There again, if the end was nigh, then what did any of her worries count for? Maybe she would be better off living for the moment and not caring about tomorrow. That seemed to be Jakob’s philosophy, to take each day as it came. But then he had the luxury of knowing that tomorrow was probably taken care of for him, in financial terms that was. Although it was possible she was assuming too much and doing him a disservice. He might be one of those lucky people who never let anything faze him.
They were sitting either side of her desk with a large pile of gallery catalogues for the upcoming exhibition which was to be held at the end of August, and would showcase the work of a Norfolk artist who specialised in seascapes. Most of what Nina sold was fine art, but she liked to support contemporary artiststoo. While she slid catalogues into envelopes and pressed down the self-sealing flap, Jakob stuck on address labels which he’d just printed.
‘We work well as a team,’ he said, taking an envelope from her.
‘Yes,’ she said, surprised by the comment, which had that Norwegian lilt to it that could have made it either a statement of fact, or a question. Was he worried that she was going to say she no longer needed him? She couldn’t think why he might think that as he’d more than proved himself since starting work for her. He was always reliable and prepared to go the extra mile.
‘We do,’ she confirmed, wanting to reassure him. ‘We’re making light work of these catalogues together.’
A few more envelopes added to the growing pile, he said, ‘I was wondering if you would like to go for a drink after work this evening?’
