The Secret of Summerhayes - Merryn Allingham

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had reached the cramped staircase to the apartment when the wailing hit her. Mrs Summer! She raced up the remaining stairs, fumbling for the key as she went. The new girl from the village had begun work today and Beth had thought it safe to disappear for an hour and leave her to keep an eye. Molly had been cleaning the small kitchen when she’d left, but when she finally burst through the door, the girl was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Beth found the old lady in the sitting room, hunched into the corner of a wing chair, her body rocking back and forth to the rhythm of her cries. Beth glanced wildly around and her heart sank. A white envelope. Another letter. Ripley had been told to make sure that no such letters were delivered to his mistress, except via Bethany. But the former footman was an old man, a pensioner now rather than a worker, and he would be lying down on his bed for a morning nap. She had given the same instructions to Molly before she left, but the girl had clearly forgotten.

      ‘Mrs Summer, it’s all right, I’m here.’

      She flung the bag to the floor, unmindful that their week’s rations would be squashed out of recognition, then knelt down at the elderly woman’s side and took her in her arms, holding her close and trying to calm the demented rocking. Very gradually, Alice became still and the sobs ceased. Beth stroked the thin, grey hair into place and fished in her pocket for a handkerchief to dab tears from the deeply lined cheeks.

      ‘But it’s not all right.’ Alice looked up, her eyes pools of sadness. ‘It’s not all right,’ she repeated. ‘She isn’t coming.’

      Beth took the envelope that the old lady was still clasping and extracted a single sheet of paper. With growing anger, she read: The journey has been difficult but I’ve arrived in London at last. I will try and get to you soon. You know that is what I want above all else. But I’m feeling so tired that I’m not sure now I can make it as far as Sussex. I will write again when I feel better.

      Someone was playing tricks, Beth was sure. It was cruel beyond belief. The letters were typewritten and never signed, but Mrs Summer had become convinced they came from a daughter who had disappeared thirty years ago. Why the old lady believed this, Bethany wasn’t sure. It was perhaps a simple longing for it to be true. Elizabeth Summer, she’d learnt, had never contacted her family since the day she’d eloped to marry a man of whom they disapproved. Could a much loved daughter be so callous as never to have written? Beth thought not. After all these years of silence, it was most likely that the woman was dead.

      When Beth had first met her employer, it seemed that Alice Summer had thought so, too. But then the letters had started to arrive – as far as Beth knew, none had come earlier – and the old lady had become convinced that Elizabeth was still in the world. It was pointless to argue away her belief. In some corner of her mind she must always have kept her daughter alive. Hadn’t May Prendergast said that despite her long standing opposition, Mrs Summer had eventually agreed to employ a companion on the basis of a single name? Bethany, Beth, Elizabeth. The letters must have ignited a long suppressed desire and given it heart. Beth hadn’t told May about the letters, and Mr Ripley and Molly Dumbrell knew only to intercept them. The fewer people who knew of Alice’s fantasy, the better.

      She took the sheet of paper and folded it back into the envelope. She would destroy it, as she had with the others, and hope Mrs Summer might forget she had ever received it. She stayed kneeling by her side, continuing to cuddle the meagre frame until she felt Alice relax a little. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ she said brightly. ‘We can talk over tea – I’ve some news for you from the village.’

      She’d hoped this might spark interest, but the elderly woman continued to stare into her lap.

      ‘I met May,’ she pursued.

      ‘May Lacey?’ Alice lifted her head.

      ‘Her mother sends you her very best wishes. She’d love to come and see you, but May says that she’s almost bed-bound now.’ Mrs Lacey had once been the housekeeper at Summerhayes.

      ‘She was a good worker,’ Alice mused, the past as always having the power to animate. ‘A trifle sharp at times, but a good worker. And her daughter – she was a bonny girl. She did well for herself, she married the curate – May Prendergast she became – and then she got to be the vicar’s wife. Fancy that. It was a shame he died. It’s not a happy thing being a widow and this new man at the church – tsk. I’d not give him the time of day. He is far too opinionated, far too sure of himself.’

      That was probably what a vicar should be, Beth reflected, but the thought remained unspoken; it was clear that Alice liked her religion vague. ‘Mrs Lacey may not be able to visit, but May will come.’ She paused at the sitting room door. ‘She’s promised to call in later this week. She has some new children to settle in the village first. They’re evacuees from Brighton – apparently the house they’ve been staying in has been declared unsafe.’

      She looked forward, as much as her employer, to May’s visits. Despite their age difference, the two of them had become good friends in the few months she had been at Summerhayes. It had been May who had placed the advertisement in The Lady.

      We had the devil’s own job to persuade her to get help, May had said. Me and Mr Ripley between us. She doesn’t like change and the thought of someone new in the house sent her frantic. But then she saw your letter – you’d signed it Beth – and that was enough.

      Beth never used her full name if she could possibly help it. Bethany had been her father’s choice, but it served to remind her always of an old shame and of her difference from the new family her mother had created. In this case though, it had worked to her advantage. A letter signed Beth had won her the job, that and the fact that she was not much older than Elizabeth Summer had been when she had disappeared. Alice must have been thinking of Elizabeth long before the letters arrived. Letters and long lost daughters, it was an alchemy, but it had given her employment when she was desperate for work and desperate to avoid a forced retreat to the home she hated and the family who didn’t want her.

      ‘Will Ivy come with her?’ Alice asked. ‘When May visits?’

      ‘Ivy is married now, remember? That’s why May advertised in the magazine. That’s why I’m here.’

      ‘I remember. Of course I remember. Dear Ivy. Such a stalwart girl. And she was Elizabeth’s maid before she was mine.’

      ‘I know, Mrs Summer.’ Alice must have told her a dozen times already. It was as though the missing girl had come to dominate her mind to the exclusion of all else.

      ‘Yes,’ the old lady was saying, ‘she and Elizabeth were maid and mistress, but that didn’t matter. They grew up together and were the best of friends. Ivy knew all Elizabeth’s secrets.’ Alice turned to look out of the window. The scene below was one of frenetic activity, but it was clear that she saw none of it. ‘All her secrets,’ she repeated, ‘except where she’d gone. Elizabeth never told her that. She didn’t want to get the girl into trouble.’

      The old face drooped and a tear formed in the corner of her eye. She looked hopelessly around, then caught sight of the letter still in Beth’s grasp. With difficulty she wriggled to the edge of her seat, tensing her feet on the floor, as though she would launch herself forward. Then, with both hands, reached out for the oblong of white paper.

      ‘I’ll put it on the mantelpiece for now and make the tea,’ Beth said hastily.

      The kitchen was looking bright and clean. At least Molly knew her job even if she couldn’t remember instructions. They rarely drank tea before evening and Beth hoped there would be enough to last them the next seven days. Standing in the grocer’s this morning, it seemed as though the number of coupons in their ration books shrank by the week. She put the kettle to boil and found two clean cups. It was then she became aware that the kitchen table was smothered in flowers: a wonderful bouquet of yellow freesias and white lilies. Molly must have taken delivery of them before she left. There was a card attached

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