Springwell

Julia Drum

Description

Christine Preece's dramatic entry into the world heralds a life of mixed fortunes. Her relationship with her first love, Andrew ('Finchie'), ends in an unwanted direction. However, her marriage to Oliver, a work colleague, writer and passionate supporter of the 60s' peace movement, helps resolve some of both their traumas. During Oliver's recovery from cancer, Christine researches the history of Springwell, an 18th century mansion she had visited as a child, and it is there that an unexpected visitor provides an opportunity to tell her story. But who is she telling and why is it so important to them both?

Sujets

• Romance

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 28 février 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528948128
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Springwell
Julia Drum
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-02-28
Springwell About the Author Dedication Copyright Information Acknowledgements Part 1 Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Part 2 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Part 3 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Part 4 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36
About the Author
Julia Drum has worked in theatre, broadcasting and management training. More recently, she has coached and supervised other coaches, supporting people in the public sector, as well as in private organisations. She is married and has a son and daughter and three grandchildren. This is her first novel.
Dedication
To my family, both nuclear and extended
Copyright Information
Copyright © Julia Drum (2019)
The right of Julia Drum to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788788595 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528948128 (E-Book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgements
Many thanks are due to friends and relatives who unwittingly inspired or shared information leading to the people, places and situations in this work of fiction.
Special thanks go to Sally Cakebread, Jacky Hyams and other friends who chivvied me ‘to get on with it’ and demonstrated their faith in my ability as a storyteller.
Thanks, too, to the addictive effect of sports shown on television, which gave me the time to write while my husband and son were engrossed in watching Formula One, athletics, football and rugby.
I also appreciated the praise and insightful comments from Hilary Johnson and colleagues when I submitted an early draft. Their suggestions about structure and reducing the number of characters stimulated a major rethink.
Thank you especially to the team at Austin Macauley, who, apart from adapting my book to their publishing style, left the story unaltered.
Part 1

Chapter 1
Today is the day my lover died. I will never know whether he still recognised me. We lived, together yet apart, in an elegant house built in the late 18 th century amidst 34 acres of land, Springwell. One day, an unexpected visitor arrived to be with him in his last hours. I can, at last, share my story with someone who will understand and for whom it may be important.
As we sit here in the grounds, let me tell you about my birth and early life.
My name is Christine Rose Preece. My parents had lived on the first floor of a shared house in Tooting, South West London. My father, Alfie, had been killed on active service in 1943. He had been on a week’s leave during February that year and only reluctantly returned to his regiment in Chatham, where he’d been trained as a welder. From there, he and his fellow Military Engineers travelled to France to help assemble bridges replacing those blown up by the Germans. He and my mother had spent those precious passionate few days making up for lost time during their war-induced separation, and in the process created a baby.
The other occupants of the house were Mrs Aldrich and her husband. They lived on the ground floor and grew vegetables in the rear garden. Lately, they had acquired a few chickens who provided us all with the occasional egg, supplementing our meagre rations. Mrs Aldrich had also started growing flowers over the Anderson shelter at the end of the garden. Mr William Aldrich, known by everyone as Billy, was acting as a Fire Warden for the offices at the end of our street. Being too old for active service he had volunteered to sit on roof tops at night sharing a tin helmet with two other wardens, (resisting the temptation to smoke his Woodbines) in order to give warning of any fires from bomb strikes or watching out for other unusual happenings in the surrounding area. He had often spotted looters rummaging through bombed homes and had identified some of them to the police.
Suddenly, the siren! Another air raid. The ascending moan crescendoed until it found its sustained note. It was November, Rose Preece had been having contractions for several hours. She was standing in the kitchen, holding onto the cooker during a painful contraction. A kettle was starting to boil on the back burner. The siren continued. She squatted down.
“Come on Mrs P; get into the shelter,” Billy called up the stairs as he grabbed his tin hat and gas mask on his way to his roof top shift.
All he heard in reply was a scream, followed by another.
“I’ve got to get the others,” Billy said to his wife. “Go and bring her down.”
“I think she must have started,” said Mrs Aldrich above the urgent sound of the siren.
“Go and get her!”
“If you see the midwife, tell her to come quickly.”
“If I see her.”
Mrs Aldrich ran upstairs as fast as her thick legs could manage, and was just in time to see my mother start pushing me out.
“You’re doing well, keep pushing, the midwife will be here soon.”
She turned off the boiling kettle, and squatted down and saw the crown of a hair-covered head starting to emerge.
“I can’t, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can, you’re nearly there; a couple more pushes and…”
A pause while primeval noises emerged from my mother’s mouth and Mrs Aldrich led the baby’s slippery body onto the floor between Rose’s legs.
“It’s fine, well done, it’s a girl.”
Hoisting herself up heavily, Mrs Aldrich found a pair of scissors, poured some hot water from the kettle on them over the nearby sink, and cut the cord.
She quickly wrapped the baby in a drying up towel.
“Get up, get up, we’ve got to get to the shelter.”
“I can’t, I just can’t.”
“Give yourself a minute, and we’ll get you there.”
“Take the baby, take the baby,” screamed my mother as nearby explosions shook the house. “Take her, take her.”
Mrs Aldrich ran with the baby and reached the Anderson shelter. She could hardly make herself heard above the noise of bombs exploding nearby.
“Is the midwife here?” she shouted. “It’s Mrs P from upstairs.”
“Oh my Lord,” said a woman sitting with her 3-year-old son in the shelter. “Give it to me,” and she took the baby, and started sobbing. “You go and get Rose.”
Mrs Aldrich ran back to find Mrs P in the hall delivering the placenta.
“Come on, come on; no time for that,” and tried to pull her towards the door. The bleeding was heavy and the new mother fainted. Mrs Aldrich ran out to get help and just then the house was hit.
Mrs Aldrich staggered to her feet, dizzy, covered in dust and blood, but alive.
There was no sign of Rose under the rubble in the hallway.

Chapter 2
I grew up knowing that Mrs Aldrich had saved my life. She became a surrogate grandmother when I was taken to live with my Auntie Vi. Violet Walker was 18 years old. She worked as a Nippy at Lyons Corner House in the Strand. She’d had ambitions to be a dancer, and had trained at a local Ballet School on Saturdays until the war intervened. Her elegance and beautiful deportment had got her the job. The Nippies had a reputation to maintain and her supervisor there had hopes that Violet would work her way up to manage one of the floors. My mother, Rose Walker, was 5 years older than Violet and had trained as a seamstress, taking after her mother and helping her with alterations for Oxford Street stores and occasional dressmaking for women in Tooting. When she married her childhood sweetheart, Alfred Preece, she had been 18 and expecting a child. Sadly, Rose miscarried a month after the wedding, and then Alfie had been called up.
Violet greeted the baby’s arrival with a confusing mixture of emotions. She’d lost her beloved sister and she knew little about looking after a baby. She loved her job, particularly the glamorous soldiers and airmen who frequented the Corner House when they were on leave. She had hopes that one of them might turn out to be Mr Right. But Mrs Aldrich’s arrival when the All Clear sounded would put a stop to that.
“Look,” said Mrs Aldrich, “I know it’s not ideal, but you are her family.”
“But when she’s screaming, what do I do? I don’t even know how to change a nappy.”
“I’ve made some arrangements; I hope you won’t mind, but in the shelter there was a woman whose baby was stillborn 2 weeks ago. She still has milk. I’ve asked her if she could feed the baby, and she did while we were in there waiting for the All Clear.”
“Then give her to her.”
“No, it’s not right. She must be with her family.”
“Have you told our mum?”
“Not yet.”
“She’ll be back shortly. She was collecting some alterations from a place near Oxford Street. How am I going to tell her about Rose? She adored her.”
“Well, I’m sure she’ll adore the baby too.”
Mrs Walker ran in.
“I heard about the bombing. Is Rosie alright? I can’t get anyone to tell me.”
Mrs Aldrich told Violet to put the kettle on.
“We don’t think so. She was in the hall when the bomb struck; they’re trying to get at her now.”
“Her baby’s due next week. I was so looking forward to being a grandmother.”
“You are a grandmother!”
Gwen burst into tears.
“Oh my Christ! Oh my Christ! I’m sorry to swear, but oh my Christ! And where’s the baby; what was it? Is it alright? Where did it go?”
“It was a girl. I don’t know what it weighed but it was born around the