Now, and working on his own as an architect, he made a decent living here in the village, sufficient for his needs at any rate. The commission from Hope and Edmund to build them a spacious six-bedroom house with echoes of the Arts and Crafts movement was by far the biggest commission he had been given to date.
He took Annelise down some steps in the garden so that she could have the best view of what he’d designed. Once again, he examined her face for her reaction.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said at length. ‘And quite unique. I love how the ground floor seems to be made almost entirely of glass, and curves in that sinuous way, and the way the two wings reach out like a welcoming pair of arms.’
He hardly dared ask the question, but he had to. ‘You approve of it, then?’
She turned to look at him, her blue eyes wide and clear in the afternoon sun. ‘What a strange question, of course I do. I love it! I can understand now why Mums is in such a hurry to move in.’
Filled with relief, and pride, he said, ‘Talking of your mother, I’d better get you to Island House before she starts to wonder what’s happened to you.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ Annelise said, still staring up at the house. ‘She’s probably working and lost track of the time.’
‘What time is Isabella arriving?’
Annelise smiled. ‘I’ve no idea. But you know Isabella, there’s no pinning her down.’
No, thought Stanley, but then the same was true of Annelise.
Chapter Seven
London to Suffolk
October 1962
Isabella
As an actress, Isabella Hartley was more than used to being stared at, but the man sitting opposite her in the first-class train carriage was making her feel distinctly uncomfortable. Ever since he’d removed his raincoat and dumped it on the seat next to the one he was occupying, he hadn’t stopped staring at her while pretending to read his crumpled copy of the Daily Mirror. He might just as well have had flashbulbs going off in his eyes for all his subtlety. Some men really had no self-respect.
Mind you, when she thought about some of the things she’d had to do to get where she was, she wondered about her own self-respect. All those slobbering men she’d had to charm and flutter her eyelashes at. But if that was what it took to get to the top, then she’d grit her teeth and do it. Though she had her limits. Her compliancy only went so far.
Acting wasn’t for the weak; she’d learned that when she was at RADA. It was a world in which only the fittest survived, and she had no intention of not surviving. She wanted to be the best. She wanted the kind of stardom she had always dreamt of since being a child, and nothing was going to stop her.
The man opposite her was still making a lousy job of pretending to read his newspaper. There was a strong smell of alcohol coming off him and a dusting of dandruff on his shoulders. He had moved his legs so that they were stretched towards hers. She pulled her fur coat around her as though it would shield her from his gaze, and pointedly jerked her head to stare out of the window at the passing countryside.
This was a rare few days off for her; it was ages since she had last been home to Melstead St Mary and she was looking forward to seeing everybody. People often didn’t believe her when she said her work schedule was so demanding. But it was. At the theatre six days a week, she seldom made it back to her flat before one in the morning. Her habit was to sleep in until nearly midday, unless it was a day when she had a matinee performance to do as well as the evening one. It was an antisocial way of life.
But for all the hard work and frustration, she had to confess that she loved what she did. Particularly seeing herself on screen. She knew just how to make the most of her looks. Her striking face with its wide cheekbones, full lips and sultry eyes, together with her long dark wavy hair and curvy body, were her greatest assets. She had been dubbed the British Sophia Loren, a moniker she was more than happy to play up to.
She was now beginning to be recognised when she went out. She loved it when she was asked for her autograph and always made a point of smiling and exchanging a few words with the person who’d asked for it. It was possible that the man looking so lasciviously at her knew who she was.
Lulled by the rhythmic clackety-clack of the train, she wanted very much to close her eyes and sleep for the rest of the journey, but there was something about the man in the compartment with her that made her reluctant to do that. She decided to go in search of another compartment, hopefully one that was empty. She was just reaching for her suitcase in the overhead rack when the man sprang to his feet. ‘Allow me,’ he said, his hand on the handle of her case.
‘I can manage,’ she said.
‘I’m sure a beautiful woman like you could do just about anything she wanted,’ he said. ‘Especially with the right encouragement.’
There was a sheen of sweat above his top lip and she could smell the sourness of his beer-soaked breath. Revolted by him, and what he was implying, she snatched her suitcase from his grasp, slid open the compartment door and hurried away down the narrow corridor of the train.
Changing her mind about wanting to find an empty carriage where the man might follow her, she headed to where the second-class seats were located.
‘Isabella? Is that you?’
She glanced at the young man who had just called her name.
‘It’s me, George,’ he said.
She stared at him blankly as the other passengers looked up interestedly. Then she smiled. ‘George Minton,’ she said, ‘fancy seeing you here.’
‘Are you going home for the party?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘You too?’
He nodded. When he indicated the empty seat next to him, she declined. ‘Come with me,’ she said, leading him to the empty first-class carriage she had spotted before.
‘But I don’t have the right ticket,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry about that, I’ll buy you one if the ticket collector comes round again.’
When they were settled, and grateful for his company after her encounter with that repulsive man, Isabella tried to remember when she’d last seen George. ‘Was it Christmas when we last saw each other?’ she asked.
‘It probably was,’ he said.
‘And how are your parents?’ She felt badly that she didn’t make more of an effort to stay in touch with Florence.
Some of her earliest memories were of sitting on Florence’s lap and being cuddled. That was during the war when she lived at Island House with Florence, Annelise and Hope, along with Stanley and dear old Mrs Partridge, their cook. Florence had run the household while Romily was away flying with the ATA. There had also been an Austrian refugee who had helped with the chores, leaving Florence to look after the children. Later memories included Isabella playing with George, and then his younger sister, Rosie, when she was old enough to join in with their games. Her cousin, Annelise played with her too, as did Stanley. Isabella and Annelise referred to each other as cousins, but strictly speaking they weren’t related.