If You Were the Only Girl. Anne Bennett

      Lord Heatherington could hardly believe what he was reading. ‘What is it, my dear?’ Lady Hetherington asked, noticing his agitation. ‘What’s upset you so?’

      ‘It’s Mosley’

      ‘Oswald Mosley?’ They had met the man many times when they had lived in England. ‘What’s he done?’

      ‘His damned party – the British Union of Fascists or some such rubbish they’re called – tried to march through the East End of London where a great many Jews live, apparently. Good God, Clive didn’t have to go so far to fight fascists; we have them on our own doorstep.’ He shook his head, bewildered. ‘I didn’t imagine for a moment that British people would get caught up in this racial hatred. To think, I have sat at the same table and had a drink with that man.’

      ‘But what happened?’ Lady Heatherington asked. ‘You said, “tried to march”. You mean they didn’t succeed?’

      ‘No, Mosley didn’t succeed, for the simple reason that, according to the paper, three hundred thousand decent human beings turned up to oppose him.’

      ‘Three hundred thousand?’ Lady Heatherington could hardly believe it.

      ‘There is unrest everywhere,’ Lord Heatherington said.

      About the same time as Mosley’s aborted march through the Jewish areas of London, two hundred men began another march from Jarrow to London to highlight the unemployment crisis in the Northeast. The march caught the spirit of the nation, as the men walked through towns and cities often plagued with unemployment themselves, and the papers showed them striding out jauntily to the music of a mouth-organ band. They reached London on 31 October, just a month after they began, and the Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin, not only refused to see them but told them they’d be arrested if they didn’t make their way back home again.

      Lord Heatherington listened to the account on the wireless. He knew Baldwin had refused to see the men because he was afraid of inciting unrest, but in his opinion he had made a grave mistake. Later that same evening, he said to Rory, as he helped him dress for dinner, ‘I tell you, Britain is a terrible country at the moment.’

      Rory was used to Lord Heatherington going on like this, using him as a sort of sounding board. He usually didn’t want any smart replies, and Rory would just answer, ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘And the King still knocking around with that bloody American divorcee, Wallis Simpson,’ Lord Heatherington went on. ‘Quite apart from her being entirely unsuitable, the woman is far too friendly with the Krauts for my liking. I think we could have trouble in that quarter before long. Clive saw it too. That’s why he wanted to fight and beat Franco, but God,’ he added with a sigh, ‘I miss him like a nagging tooth.’

      When Lord Heatherington had finished with the newspapers they went down to the kitchen, where Mr Carlisle would scan them before putting them with the kindling to help light the fires. That was when Lucy might squirrel them away. She had little leisure time to read but, like Lord Heatherington, she was anxious to learn as much as she could about Spain because Clive was involved. She would scan the news in any free time she got and so she learnt not only about Spain but also all about the trouble the King was in for his association with a woman by the unusual name of Wallis Simpson.

      So when in December Rory told them that the King was abdicating in favour of his younger brother, George, Lucy wasn’t as surprised as some of the other servants.

      Cook gazed at him open-mouthed. ‘You are kidding,’ she said.

      ‘I assure you I am not,’ Rory said emphatically. ‘He said that he couldn’t perform his duties as King without the woman he loves by his side. He did a broadcast on the wireless yesterday evening and I heard the words myself.’

      ‘Such a thing has never happened before, I think,’ Clara said.

      ‘No, it hasn’t. The announcer said as much,’ Rory agreed.

      ‘Well,’ said Cook, and the word spoke volumes. ‘That’s just poppycock. Duty comes before love, as far as royals are concerned, and that man has been trained to become King of England since the day he was born.’

      ‘I agree with you,’ Clara said. ‘And yet in the end we might be better off with George.’

      Lucy remembered that Clara hadn’t liked the idea of Edward becoming the king when she’d heard of his father’s death. ‘How d’you work that out?’ Mr Carlisle asked.

      ‘Well, he isn’t as flamboyant as his brother,’ Clara said. ‘With Britain in the state it’s in, do we really want such a playboy at its helm? George is far more level-headed, and maybe, as we live through these turbulent times, those qualities are needed in the leader of the country.’

      ‘You could be right, Mrs O’Leary,’ Rory said. ‘You are certainly spot-on as far as the state of the country goes. The General said the country is going to rack and ruin while he languishes here, and that there is nothing wrong with him now and he wants to go back to England.’

      ‘What, now?’

      ‘Well, December is not the time to cross the Irish Sea, if you have a choice about it, I’d say,’ Rory said with a grin. ‘But I bet by springtime we will be moving from here.’

      The three girls looked at each other. That night in bed they fell to discussing the move.

      ‘I’m for going with them if they’re agreeable,’ Clodagh said.

      ‘Are you?’ Lucy said. ‘What about your parents?’

      ‘What about them?’ Clodagh said. ‘This is my life, not theirs. They may kick up but I’m still going. I am determined about it. What about you, Evie?’

      Evie shook her head. ‘Not a chance,’ she said. ‘My parents are on about me staying on in Donegal every time I go home. Point is, my aunt is opening a grocery store and wants a girl to train up, and she asked my dad if she could consider me. I said no at the time but if the Heatheringtons decamp to England …’ She gave a shrug. ‘Let’s just say, I’m pretty certain that I won’t be coming.’

      Lucy shook her head. ‘Nor me,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t leave my mother.’

      ‘Oh, but—’

      ‘How could I go off like that, Clodagh?’ Lucy cried. ‘Even now I think going home once a month is not enough,’

      ‘Maybe not,’ Clodagh said. ‘I bet, though, your mother is grateful for the money you bring.’

      ‘Course she is.’

      ‘So how will it help her if you go back home? Evie might be all right but I doubt you’ll find it easy to get employment.’

      Clodagh was right and Lucy was well aware of it. If she were to return home, it would be to the poverty she had once endured. The few shillings Danny earned would not help much, especially with another mouth to feed and no laden basket of goodies from the Lodge each month.

      She bit her lip in consternation. ‘I’m due home this Sunday,’ she said, ‘providing the rail buses are running, and I will talk it over with Mammy. You never know, it might not be happening for a good while yet.’

      She saw her friends’ eyes fasten on her, full of sympathy, and she knew they didn’t believe that any more than she did. In the relatively short time she had been at the house she had realised that Lord Heatherington was a very determined man and that once he had decided something he wouldn’t be changing his mind.

      If she could forget about Master Clive in danger in some far-off land, Lucy could feel almost happy because she had been given a rise of sixpence a week in October. She didn’t tell her mother because she was used to the money she got, and there was a little more now that Danny was at work with Farmer Haycock, and she desperately wanted to buy presents for all her family for Christmas.

      So on the last half-day before her whole Sunday off she went into Letterkenny for some