A Scent of Lavender. Elizabeth Elgin

no! Mind, I haven’t been sending any signals. He isn’t my type. Don’t worry. I’d soon slap him down if he came-it with me. But why do you suppose the Army is interested in the manor?’

      ‘Why shouldn’t they be? Probably want it for a billet. After all, they’ve got to find somewhere to put all the soldiers who came back after Dunkirk. How many were at the manor?’

      ‘There was the one Rowley spoke to, with rank up, plus a sergeant and an ATS girl, sitting in the biggest car. She didn’t get out. Suppose she was the major’s driver. And there was another. I didn’t see him. The MO, they called him.’

      ‘Medical Officer. Maybe he was giving the place the once-over – hygiene, sort of. It must be filthy inside, after all that time empty. Maybe he was checking the water supply and the sanitation. It’s going to be interesting – seeing if they’ll come, that is. The government can take any house it wants, empty or not. They gave quite a few farmers their marching orders, then pulled down the farmhouses when they wanted to build the aerodromes. A shocking waste of good agricultural land, William said at the time. And talking about my husband – there was a letter this morning. He’s fed up. He says it looks like the Army doesn’t know what to do with him, once they’ve got him. Says he seems to spend his time doing useless things, or trying to look busy. He hates wasting time. Time is money, he always said. Well, he would I suppose, being an accountant.’

      ‘And no mention of me?’ Ness ventured.

      ‘No. I think he assumes that once having told me he didn’t want you in the house, I would ask you to go. Once, I might have done; my own fault, I suppose. Grandpa spoiled me, then William took over. They both used to think for me, tell me what to do, and I let them. After all, Grandpa only wanted what was best for me; tried to make it up to me because – well, because of what happened to my mother.’

      ‘Your mother died? Your grandparents brought you up? Where was your father, then? Why didn’t he – ’

      ‘My father. Never knew him …’ Her voice trailed away and Ness knew that already too much had been said – or had slipped out.

      ‘If you’d rather not talk about it – I mean – losing your mother must be pretty awful. I’d go berserk if anything happened to Mam.’

      ‘Yes, but you’ve had your mother for twenty-five years. I can’t even remember mine. She died before I was three. I came here to Ladybower, to my grandparents. Grandma died when I was seven. I only vaguely remember her. Of course, Grandpa spoiled me and fussed over me. I was all he had left.’

      ‘And your father?’

      ‘He wasn’t around. He’d taken off, I believe, as soon as my mother’s morning sickness started. A pity. She loved him very much, even up until the day she took – she committed –’ She stopped, eyes downcast.

      ‘Your mother took her own life?’ Ness whispered.

      ‘An overdose of aspirin, washed down with gin.’

      ‘Oh, lovey, I’m so sorry. How did we get onto the subject?’ Ness whispered.

      ‘My fault. And I’d be glad if you didn’t mention it again. I shouldn’t have told you. So long ago – water under the bridge.’

      ‘I wouldn’t blab, Lorna. You know I wouldn’t.’

      ‘Doesn’t matter, really, if you do. Nance Ellery knows and they know at Glebe Farm, too. A nine-days’ wonder in the village, though I think it hastened my grandmother’s death. A long time ago, for all that.’

      ‘Yer right, queen. Now you’ve got William to look after you and you’ve got this lovely house. There’s a lot of people far worse off!’

      ‘I know. And I should be grateful, but sometimes I’m not. I’ve done as I was told all my life, you see. I obeyed Grandpa, then I married William and now I obey him. So it was quite something, me insisting that you stay here.’

      ‘Now, what say I give you a hand with the dishes?’ Best change the subject, talk about other things. Lorna was getting pink-cheeked. ‘Sorry I can’t wash up – my blisters – but I’ll dry and put away. Then can we sit in the garden?’

      ‘Fine by me. I’ve cleaned the house and written to William – nothing better to do. You like the garden, don’t you, Ness?’

      ‘Oh, yes. Better than a back yard, if you see what I mean? And make the most of it, eh? You might not have it for much longer – not if you listen to what the government is saying.’

      ‘About growing food, you mean? About flowerbeds and it being wrong, all of a sudden, to have a lawn? Produce food, must I?’

      ‘I don’t see why not. Or you could keep hens. Mrs Wintersgill has her hens in arks.’

      ‘Yes. In the little field, behind the cow shed.’ Triangular contraptions like a bar of Toblerone in wood and wire netting. ‘But you aren’t suggesting we have hens on the lawn? And where would I get a hen ark, anyway? I don’t think they’re available to people like me, now that timber is in such short supply.’

      ‘But wouldn’t you like your own hens, Lorna? The man from the egg packers told Mrs Wintersgill that eggs will be the next thing to be rationed. Be nice to have our own – real fresh. But I suppose William wouldn’t like hens on his lawn …’ She said it sneakily, tongue in cheek.

      ‘William? It’s my lawn as well, Ness, if push comes to shove. I don’t have to ask my husband if I can keep poultry. Come to think of it, I’d get a few hens if it were at all possible.’

      ‘But there aren’t any arks nor hen huts nor hen runs any more – well, only for farmers …’

      ‘Exactly. Now I’ve been very good all day – only made one tiny pot of tea, so I think we can spare a spoonful for a cuppa. Have it in the garden, shall we?’

      ‘OK. You take the cushions out and the little table; I’ll make the tea,’ Ness smiled.

      And she continued to smile as she set a tea tray and put the smallest teapot to warm, because having hens would be a lot better than digging up the lawn to grow vegetables. Ness liked hens; loved to see the way they scratched, feathery bottoms wobbling from side to side, and she liked it when they laid an egg and cackled like mad afterwards; knew too that in summer a hen would lay at least four eggs a week, fresh and brown, for breakfast. And, would you believe, it just happened that behind the hay barn at Glebe Farm, she had seen two arks in need of repair and obviously unwanted by the farmer. Been shoved there, she shouldn’t wonder, to be chopped up for firewood. Surely Mr Tuthey at the Saddlery could make something of them? A splice of wood here, a few nails there – and the netting wire repaired? Six hens they would be able to keep on scraps and gleanings from the field. Eggs aplenty in the laying season. Ness Nightingale was a quick learner, knew about the laying season and how to feed and water hens, and in the morning she would ask Kate Wintersgill about those thrown-away arks, and could she and Lorna have them, please?

      ‘Won’t be a minute,’ she called, so concerned with Ladybower’s hens that the matter of Lorna’s early life, about her poor mother and a father who had left her, slipped into the depths of her mind.

      But for all that, thoughts of Lorna’s childhood came easily to her that night in bed. The soldiers at the manor, hens and hen arks, were not of such importance when you thought about a small child with both parents gone. Sad, really, even if Lorna had had a good grandfather to bring her up and leave her all his money and possessions. Was nowhere near as good as having a Mam and a Da and a Nan. And Auntie Agnes – until recently, that was. She, Ness, had been lucky in her rearing, lucky all her life, really – until Patrick, that was. Patrick, ever ready to take over her thoughts even now, if she would allow it.

      She closed her eyes and hugged herself tightly. She had loved him so very much. He had filled her heart, her life, and then one day it had all ended.

      She opened her eyes wide then blinked them against tears that threatened. She