***chapter 44***
***A Bitter Winter***
At a little over seven-and-a-half years old, The Honourable Miss Dora Maddocks had finally mastered the art of reading the time and a framed certificate, signed by her almost despairing maths tutor, was hung on the bedroom wall to prove it. Thus being expert in her field, she looked confidently at the ornamental pony bedside clock. Ten past nine. She was a whole hour and ten minutes late being woken up! She picked up her watch and shook it. (Dora had no idea why, but she'd sometimes seen adults shaking watches when they were puzzled about the time and so thought she ought to.)
It was strange that Millie or Ann-Marie or Jeanette or any one of the usual maids hadn't yet arrived to run her bath and oversee her dressing. And it was a Saturday too! Saturday was the day she had to be especially nicely dressed because it was also the day she breakfasted with her parents. For some reason she couldn't fathom, Jimmy had insisted that they eat breakfast with their daughter at least once a week.
Dora had wanted to tell him that she preferred eating in the kitchen, but he'd been really pleased when Mummy and Daddy announced the "new dining arrangements" to her, and he'd seemed quite upset when he spoke to them about it, so she never told him she'd accidentally overheard the conversation and pretended that she was really pleased about it too. Anyway, it didn't really matter that her parents had to be there as long as she was with Jimmy. In storybooks, children had Mummies and Daddies (or a fairy godmother or kindly woodsman). Dora, who considered herself far more mature than children in storybooks, had Jimmy and all the House staff. She loved eating breakfast and lunch in the servants' quarters, where she felt quite at home. And Saturday breakfasts were just about bearable because Jimmy was there, which meant Mummy and Daddy were always more relaxed and much nicer.
Evening meals with her parents were an ordeal, especially when they had company. She hated being told to sit up straight and she had to use exactly the right cutlery and to remember things she couldn't remember, like "a young lady must always finish her soup by tipping the bowl slightly away from herself." It was much more fun in Mrs Geraghty's kitchen, where everybody laughed and joked as they came in from work and Ada might be taking a batch of freshly-baked pies or cakes out of the oven, and nobody minded if Dora broke up bits of bread, stirred them round and round in her soup and pretended she was eating floating bread-fish or if she made a river of gravy in her mashed potato for "sausage ships" to sail through. She'd got into terrible trouble the day she sat down to dinner and announced chattily to the Baroness of Somewhere or T'other (at least Dora had heard Jack say to a deliveryman she was the Baroness of Somewhere or T'other though she suspected there was no such place and the baroness was only pretending) "Me belly thinks me throat's cut" though the servants said things like this all the time. And they never got to eat fun food like bangers and mash; it was all very serious and served up very seriously by specially hired waiters and waitresses, and Larry and his wife Rowena, the two chefs who, like her tutors, were far too important to mix with the other House staff, "created" strange fancy dishes that everybody except Dora thought tasted wonderful. Still, the little girl was happy enough and content with the status quo. Until today.
Not being woken had never happened before. Puzzled, Dora got out of bed and pulled open the long velvet curtains that swished on the thick pile carpet. Beauty and Magic, the two wooden horses that had belonged to Jimmy's children, chipped and scraped now despite Jimmy often re-varnishing, stood guard, as always, on either side of the window-sill, and, as she always did, she kissed each on its head in greeting. They were almost real to her and Dora was glad to have them there for company on such a strange morning. She held them to either side of her face and all three peered out into the snowy world.
xxxxx
Jack Stanford was distracted. Uncharacteristically, he didn't immediately report for duty after his hastily-granted leave for personal reasons or go to see his good mate Jimmy, as he usually did when he needed to share a problem. Instead he keyed in his security code and, glancing round furtively, slunk through the gates of Saxe Coburg Mansion, originally built as a "spillover" for Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, renamed Windsor Manor during the War Years, and, after its brief delusion of non-grandeur, reverting to its old name, and home to Lord and Lady Maddocks and their only child.
Blinking at the ever-thickening snowflakes that flew in his face through the icy wind, Stanford made his way to one of the sheds on the allotments, relieved but surprised to realise nobody was about. Granted, not much work could be done in the wintry conditions, but normally a couple of gardeners might be busy in the greenhouses or Bob, The Quiet Man, so nicknamed because he rarely spoke and flinched if anyone raised their voice, with maybe Les or George helping out, would have been given the task of clearing the paths.
He sat on a workbench and pulled a packet of Embassy and engraved silver lighter from his inside pocket, cursing the breeze that crept under the door to blow out the long yellow flame every time he flicked it alight. But at last he managed to succeed and he took a long drag on the cigarette and watched clouds of smoke curling into the air. It was freezing, but the late December snow was the least of his troubles and he paid it little heed. He had a lot to think about. Lydia was pregnant. Jack was the father. It wasn't a subject he'd feel too comfortable discussing with Jimmy. Being a Christian, Jimmy didn't agree with sex before marriage. And Jack, being in bad humour, was in contrary mood. Could do without a bloody lecture, he thought, even though he knew Jimmy would never lecture him. Could do without bloody religion and white weddings and churches. Look at Bob, orphaned as a young kid, brought up in a religious Care Home for Boys and…well, folk said things had happened to Bob at that Home.
In spite of Jack's belief the weather had nothing to do with him, the weather thought otherwise. Unable to ignore the cold any longer, he picked up an old car blanket that lay folded on the tool shelf, discovering underneath it someone's forgotten transistor radio. Desperate for warmth, ignoring its musty smell and paint stains, he shook the blanket free of wood chippings, dirt and dead insects, wrapped it tightly around himself and turned the dial on the radio. The Beatles' Love Me Do could just about be heard behind the crackling air waves and he turned the volume as high as it would go. Twenty-seven years old and he was going to be a Dad! He'd have to get married. He'd have to pack in the smokes and start saving. No more nights out with the lads whenever he wanted. No more spending as much as he liked on beer or records or footie matches. There'd be bills to pay and sleepless nights and a kid to feed and clothe. And he did love Lydia and he had planned to marry and have kids with her, he just hadn't planned on it all happening so soon. He pressed the radio to his ear and lit another cigarette, making the most of what remained of his freedom, the weight of the world on his shoulders.
If he hadn't been so preoccupied, if he had known about Jimmy, maybe Jack would have been the one who made the Maddocks realise Jimmy's death broke Dora's heart.
None of the House staff thought to check on Dora that day. They imagined, quite naturally, that Lord and Lady Maddocks had already broken the news to their daughter and would now be comforting her. The Duchess of Hunterwood, having indulged in a little too much champagne while partying the night before, had stayed with a friend and thus knew nothing of recent events (and, I must be honest with you, even at the risk of slander, I doubt it would have occurred to Daphne that her charge might be upset, and so perhaps her presence or otherwise is of little consequence to our story). Sadly, although they were broken-hearted themselves over Jimmy's sudden death, the notion Dora might be too didn't cross the mind of either Prudence or Arthur.
Let her sleep on, they said, as they sobbed together, saying a private goodbye to their old friend. She would only be in the way of such adult matters. And besides, they added, displaying an alarming lack of empathy towards the very young, children didn't have the same deep feelings as grown-ups. All that was needed was a new toy or dress or day out and she would soon be over the loss.
XXXXX
Frost had laced the window with cobwebby fingers and misted the view. Dora set down the wooden horses, breathed hard on the pane and rubbed the cuff of her nightgown over the patch though it made little difference to the blurry Christmas card scene outside. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass. Thousands of snowflakes were swirling wildly about as if unsure where to go, until they gave up searching and fell defeatedly into the pure white carpet covering the land. Usually at around nine o'clock the servants would be starting work, chattering and laughing, shouting to each other, clanging ladders and buckets. But it was oddly quiet and not a single footprint marked the snow. It was almost as if nobody had ever lived there and nobody ever would. Dora frowned. Where was everybody? Curiously, her parents weren't the first people she thought of asking. It was Jimmy.
Jimmy would know what had happened. If she headed towards his cottage, she would pass the dining room on the way and know whether he was already at breakfast or not, although she thought it very unlikely he would start without her. Her clothes had, as always, been laid out by a maid the night before, but Dora ignored the pretty dress and chose jeans and an embroidered top. Her outdoor clothes were kept in a downstairs wardrobe room and she was in a hurry and didn't want to be waylaid by one of the servants, who might stop her from going outdoors. So she tugged on two woollen sweaters and, with sudden inspiration, draped a cardigan over her head, tying its sleeves under her chin. Two pairs of socks to compensate for the fact her indoor shoes would be poor protection in ice and snow; another pair of socks on her hands in lieu of gloves and she was done.
She had spent so much time with the House employees that she knew every entrance and every exit of Saxe Coburg Mansion. Not a soul was about as she slipped down the back stairs and into the "secret passage" (this was actually a connecting corridor that Lord and Lady Maddocks had added in the late 1940s to shelter kitchen staff when carrying dishes to and fro, but the little girl preferred a more romantic explanation). Dora needed to leave before she reached the kitchen quarters however. She stopped halfway down the corridor, pushed open a "secret" door and stepped out into the snow…