All The Days of My Life by Hilary Bailey Page A

were hers to wander in, the shallow stream at the bottom of the watermeadows was hers to dam, to paddle in, to float twigs in, pretending they were boats. She would lie there for hours wondering how long it would take her to get to the sea if she followed the stream until it became a river and the river until it reached the sea. In autumn she and Jack got the best conkers from the trees on the estate. Sometimes, lying dreaming in a summer field, she would see planes fighting in the sky, in the distance, over the orchards and fieldsand hills. She would watch them spiral down in rolling columns of smoke but thought little about it, except to have a daydream about capturing a German airman and taking him to the village policeman. Sometimes she would pick up an extra large piece of shrapnel and lug it home for Jackie, who had the biggest shrapnel collection in Framlingham, but this, like the army trucks going up the main street or the burnt-out carcase of a plane growing among the ferns up on the hillside, was just another part of the landscape, no more interesting than the sight of a full moon moving silently among the clouds, or a sickle moon suspended above the oaks and the lakes in the grounds of Allaun Towers. Mary often stayed up at night in order to stare over the tiles at the darkness and the sky. She had to be very quiet or Mrs Gates, in the next room, would hear her. Their proximity, however, ended a year after she arrived, in an odd way.
    Mary came swooping up the drive after school one day in September with her deliberately unbuttoned mac blowing away from her in the wind. Jackie had been telling her about Dracula and, with typical egotism, she had instantly assumed the role of Dracula, rather than one of his victims. Leaves from the trees on either side of the drive were blowing round her head as she whirled and swerved. She stopped suddenly when she saw a long, low, black limousine parked in the semi-circle of gravel in front of the house. Looking at the car Mary wondered if it belonged to the mysterious “Sir Frederick” whose visit was expected shortly. They were a funny family, Mary thought. They never came home. Lady Allaun had once gone to see this “Sir Frederick” in London, when he was on leave. Another time she had gone to see her son, Tom, in Yorkshire, where he was staying with his cousin, Charlie. But none of the family ever came here. There’s enough room, Mary thought wonderingly, remembering for a moment the four small rooms at Meakin Street, where everyone was in the way of someone most of the time. Perhaps it was just too far to come, from where they were, she decided. But it would be a nice sight to see Sir Frederick in his soldier’s uniform.
    As she came through the back door she said to Mrs Gates, who was bending over to open the door of the kitchen range, “Is that Sir Frederick’s car?”
    â€œNo,” said Mrs Gates, straightening up with a baking tray of scones in her hands, “but whoever it is he’s important. Lady Allaun got a letter this morning and starts on about a proper tea, straight away. With cake – a proper tea, she says. She must think I’m Fortnum andMason’s. What I had to promise Twining for a pat of butter I daren’t tell you.”
    â€œIs there a cake?” said Mary eagerly. “Where is it?”
    â€œOn the table, in there,” Mrs Gates said, nodding in the direction of the drawing room as she put the scones on a rack.
    â€œDo you think they’ll leave any?” said Mary. “Can I have a bit if they do?”
    â€œA piece – you should say ’a piece’,” said Mrs Gates. “I expect they’ll leave some. Have to be fairly greedy to finish it all between the two of them.”
    From the board above the kitchen door the drawing room bell jangled. Mary’s game, when Mrs Gates and Lady Allaun were both out of the house for a little while, was to run all round the