The Secret of Summerhayes. Merryn Allingham

occupied. Beth hoped she wasn’t aware of the damage several changes of military personnel had caused to the splendid house she had once called home.

      ‘I know about the studio, Mrs Summer, but a sketch pad and pencil is all I need. I’m not a genuine artist – just a writer and illustrator. It’s a hobby for me.’ But one day, it might not be. One day, it might be a serious undertaking and earn sufficient money to bring her true independence. In the meantime, it was useful in deflecting Alice from her obsession. Though apparently it wasn’t going to deflect her today.

      ‘Elizabeth was an artist,’ she announced. ‘I have the pictures she painted – somewhere.’

      ‘There’s one in your bedroom, I think. And very good it is, too.’

      The old lady looked gratified. ‘There are others. Lots of them. Maybe in the old studio?’

      Beth had been there once and found it a chaotic jumble of mouldering furniture and broken boxes. She’d had to push past thick, furry cobwebs to get into the room and when she did, had seen immediately that part of the roof must have lost tiles because a steady drip of water had found its way through and was pooling the floorboards. She’d got Mr Ripley to fetch a bucket and asked him to remember to empty it whenever it rained. But she’d said nothing to Alice of the state in which she’d found the place. Fortunately, the old lady never went further than her own few rooms – a sitting room, a bedroom and a bathroom. Beth herself slept in what at a stretch could be described as a box room and Mr Ripley bravely inhabited one of the spare attics.

      ‘Let me see.’ Alice leant forward. ‘The trees are beautiful.’ She pointed to the tall, slender columns of birch that Beth had drawn, fingering their outline on the page. Their delicate leaves shadowed the winding path that the small girl would tread. ‘It is such a pity that you don’t paint. Colour would bring the image to life.’

      She feared the mention of paint and colour would bring Elizabeth into the conversation once more. ‘Shall I draw Izzy into the picture? I think she’ll be happy on her adventure – to begin with at least.’

      ‘Yes, do that.’ Alice’s voice was weary now, her eyes heavy-lidded, and before Beth had finished the illustration, the old lady was breathing heavily. She fetched a blanket from the bedroom and tucked it around the sleeping woman. She should just have sufficient time to find Ralph and haul him up the stairs for his lesson. He was bound to be in the grounds somewhere, though finding him amid the mayhem of a military arrival could prove difficult. But if she knew the boy, he would most likely be sitting on the largest tank or questioning the gun crew on their stock of ammunition. She edged the front door shut and sped down the stairs.

Chapter Four

      The small boy had emerged from the thicket of grass, but he was inches away before Jos could see his entire person: his hair a thatch of light brown, his smile engaging, and his bare knees scratched and muddied.

      ‘I’m Ralph.’ He held out his hand.

      ‘Jos Kerrigan.’ They exchanged a solemn handshake. ‘You seem to know your way around this wilderness,’ Jos said. ‘Do you live here?’

      ‘Not here but next door – at Amberley. It’s much more fun here though. We don’t have any soldiers at Amberley.’

      ‘So can you show me how to get out of this darn place? Or is it all like this?’

      Ralph considered the question judiciously. ‘This is the worst bit, I think, but the whole estate is pretty run down.’ That seemed an understatement to Jos. ‘I can take you to the main camp, if you like?’

      ‘I’d like that fine. Do you spend a lot of time there?’

      ‘When I’m allowed to,’ the boy said simply. ‘There’s been a camp for ages, but this week there’s been loads going on. And I’ve made a special friend.’

      He was intrigued. ‘And who’s that?’

      ‘His name is Eddie. Eddie Rich.’

      ‘Is that so? He just happens to be my special friend, too.’

      Ralph’s grin spread across his face. ‘He’s the bee’s knees, isn’t he?’

      Jos’s deep blue eyes lit with amusement. ‘He sure is.’

      ‘It’s getting hot out here.’ The boy patted several stalks of grass away from his face. ‘Shall I take you to him?’

      ‘I’d appreciate that, Ralph.’

      ‘C’mon then.’ He turned round and traced a path along what Jos thought must be the thinnest line of flattened grass he’d ever seen, just wide enough for a nine year old’s feet but way too narrow for his own size twelves.

      ‘I’m crushing a heck of a lot of grass here,’ he called to Ralph, a few steps ahead. ‘Will it matter?’ Why it would, he couldn’t imagine.

      ‘It doesn’t matter at all. No one comes here except me, and it will make it easier the next time I go to the secret garden. That’s what I call it. It’s where you came in. It will make it easier for you, too, if you want to go back.’

      He had no intention of ever returning to this maze of heat and bother. The grass tickled at his nose and infiltrated his ears, and on occasions he had to sway to one side to avoid a giant fern or be knocked uncomfortably into the rough trunk of a palm tree.

      ‘So why aren’t you at school?’ he asked conversationally, more to distract himself from the discomfort of the journey, than from any real desire to know.

      ‘My school’s been closed. It was just outside London, and they said it was too dangerous for us to stay.’

      ‘You lived at the school?’

      ‘Of course. I was a boarder.’

      He’d heard that English families often sent their young children away to school but he’d never really believed it.

      ‘And now?’

      ‘The school moved up to Cheshire. At least, I think it was Cheshire. I don’t really know where that is.’ Neither did Jos, but it seemed strange that the child hadn’t moved with it. He must have felt settled in the school, had friends there. It seemed like a lonely life for him here.

      ‘My father didn’t want me to go,’ Ralph explained. ‘When I was at school near London, I could come back at weekends, you see, but Cheshire was too far. I don’t think he wanted to be on his own at Amberley all the time.’

      He didn’t like to ask about the boy’s mother, fearing there had been some kind of wartime tragedy, but then Ralph said, ‘My mother’s a long way away. She’s in New York. She’s American.’

      ‘So it’s just your dad and you?’

      ‘That’s right. Well,’ Ralph said over his shoulder, ‘there are other people. Quite a few actually. There’s the butler, and the footman, and the parlour maid, and cook and a kitchen maid, and the gardener and the chauffeur…’

      ‘I get the picture.’

      ‘I could have gone to the village school, but Daddy didn’t want me to. He was going to hire a tutor and then Miss Merston came and she’s teaching me instead. It’s heaps better.’

      ‘And who is Miss Merston?’

      The ground had gradually been sloping upwards, but in the last few yards it had taken on an even steeper incline. Beneath the weighty backpack, he was beginning to puff slightly and that didn’t please him. He’d thought himself fit enough, but he’d need to be a good deal fitter come invasion day.

      ‘Miss Merston is great. She rescued a bird’s nest with me last week and I’m helping the eggs to hatch. She’s a school teacher.’ Ralph sensed a little more explanation was needed. ‘She doesn’t have