12
WELLINGFORD HALL, JUNE 1940
Audrey opened the French doors that led from Wellingford Hall’s drawing room to the garden and searched the gray sky for the airplanes thrumming overhead. The sound interrupted the serenity of her peaceful estate as planes took off and landed at the new airfield nearby. The Royal Air Force had built dozens of airfields, radar stations, and repair sheds all over the once-peaceful countryside, making it commonplace to hear their activity. Audrey always looked up to see if they were RAF, having learned to tell British Hurricanes and Spitfires from German Junkers and Messerschmitts. Not that she’d seen a Luftwaffe plane flying above Wellingford—yet. But after what she and Eve had witnessed in Dover a few days ago, she feared it was only a matter of time.
The jangling telephone echoed through the foyer. She closed the drawing room doors and hurried to answer it before Robbins did. She lifted the receiver with hope and dread. “Wellingford Hall. Miss Clarkson speaking.”
Her brother’s laughter greeted her on the other end. “Are things that bad at home, Sis, that you have to answer the phone yourself? Has our butler joined the Army, too?”
“Oh, Alfie! Thank God you’re alive!” Her vision blurred as she sank onto the hall bench, weak with relief. “I’ve been waiting for days to hear from you!”
“Yes, I’m alive. And grateful to be off that hellish French beach.”
“Where are you? Are you coming home? Shall I fetch you at the village station?”
“I’m not at the station—”
“Then I’ll drive to London straightaway. I need to see for myself that you’re all in one piece.”
“I’m not in London, either. I’m not supposed to say where I am, but I’m back on British soil and digging in to defend us from the Hun.”
“Oh, it’s so wonderful to hear your voice! I’ve been frantic with worry ever since driving home from Dover—”
“What were you doing in Dover? Do you have a driver again? Is Williams back?”
“They put out a call for ships of all sizes for the rescue operation, so I went to London and got Eve Dawson. She and I drove down to Folkestone to offer the Rosamunde. We sailed it to Dover ourselves and loaned it to the Royal Navy. Then we stayed and helped serve tea to all the soldiers. We searched and searched for you, but there were so many men!”
Alfie whistled in admiration. “I’m proud of you, Sis.”
“I got word from the marina yesterday that the Rosamunde made it back safely.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Eve gave me the courage to sail it by myself. And she even taught me to drive the car on the way back to London. She’s a good friend, Alfie. And she cares so much for you. Does she know you’re all right? Did you telephone her?”
“I didn’t think you approved of me seeing Eve.”
“Of course I do, but Mother and Father won’t. Please don’t hurt her, Alfie. I know you have no shortage of girlfriends, but Eve is—”
“Hang on a minute, Sis . . .” Audrey heard muffled voices in the background, and Alfie speaking to someone. Then, “I have to go, Audrey. Tell Father and Mother I’m well. Call Eve for me, too, will you? Hope to see you soon.” He rang off.
As soon as she hung up the telephone, Audrey doubled over on the bench and wept for joy, her days and sleepless nights of worry over. For now. Alfie was safe.
When she scrubbed her eyes and looked up, Robbins and Mrs. Smith stood in the doorway to the servants’ quarters, waiting as if steeled for bad news. It embarrassed her to be seen weeping. “It’s good news,” she told them. “Alfie is alive and well and back in Britain.”
“Thank God,” Mrs. Smith breathed. Their relief seemed nearly as great as her own.
“Yes. We must thank Him straightaway!” She would ride her secondhand bicycle into the village and go to the church and . . . and she wasn’t quite sure what she should do once she got there but perhaps the vicar would know. She started to rise, then remembered that she’d promised to call their parents and tell them the news. And she must call Eve. “Do you know how to contact Father?” she asked Robbins.
“He left some numbers where he might be reached.”
“Please call him for me and relay the news. And . . . and will you call Mother at the town house, too?” She couldn’t explain her reluctance to speak with her mother, but she couldn’t deny it, either.
“Yes, Miss Audrey. They will be very happy to hear that Master Alfred is well.”
“I have to make one other call first, but I’ll need to run upstairs and fetch the number from my room.” Eve was at work when Audrey called the boardinghouse, but the landlady promised to give her the message. Audrey scribbled a quick letter to Eve in case she didn’t get the phone message, then rode into the village to post it. Afterwards, she propped her bicycle outside the church and went up the front steps, longing to say something or do something to show the Almighty her gratitude for sparing Alfie’s life.
The small stone church was cool inside and whisper-quiet. She paused in the vestibule near a message board overflowing with pinned notices and meeting schedules and ARP bulletins. She felt like an intruder. And she was unsure how one went about thanking God properly. The notices reminded her of the church in Dover where she and Eve had volunteered. The women there worked as a team, and she had so enjoyed helping them.
Audrey slipped into the silent sanctuary, tiptoeing down the long aisle to the front, reluctant to disturb the Almighty or anyone else. She sat in the Clarkson family pew, where she and Alfie used to sit with Father on special occasions such as Easter and Christmas, her brother fidgeting to contain his boundless energy, jiggling his foot and squirming in his seat. Father never reprimanded him and seemed just as eager as Alfie to hurry away when the service ended. Audrey couldn’t recall Mother ever attending with them.
Alfie was safe! She rested her forehead on the pew in front of her. “God, thank You . . . thank You!” It was all she could manage before dissolving into tears. Mother would be appalled at her lack of control. Proper ladies didn’t parade their emotions in public for all to see. But how else to convey her enormous gratitude and relief to God?
Audrey lifted her head when she thought she heard footsteps. She turned, recognizing Rev. Hamlin in his dark suit and clerical collar, hesitating in the doorway behind her. She quickly wiped her eyes and sat up straight. “Good afternoon, Vicar.”
“Forgive me, Miss Clarkson. I didn’t mean to disturb you, but if there’s anything I can do, I’m happy to help.” He was a lean, pleasant-looking man in his fifties with curly white hair that reminded her of lamb’s wool. From his sermons in the few months she’d been attending church regularly, Audrey thought him an intelligent, caring man. His tanned, muscular arms and work-worn hands hinted that he was unafraid to share his parishioners’ labors.
“Thank you for your concern, Reverend. I just heard from my brother, Alfie, who’d been on the Continent with the BEF. He’s fine, thank God, and I wanted to . . . to thank Him.”
“Indeed. That’s very good news. I’ll leave you, then.” He turned to go.