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Dear Reader,
After fifty years of storytelling, I have decided the time has come to write my final novel.
I first had the idea for Adam and Eve when reading a speech Adolf Hitler made in 1940 that caused Winston Churchill to respond in kind in the House of Commons later that year.
Churchill’s words inspired me to read several more speeches by both war leaders, while at the same time seeking advice from two eminent historians, even before picking up my pen to write Adam and Eve.
The idea itself was simple enough: if Hitler hadn’t changed his mind, three times, on 15 September 1940, concerning Operation Seelöwe, could the Second World War have ended within days, and which side would have been the victor? If Hitler had stuck to his original plan, would history have taken a different course?
But, as a writer, how do you tackle such a momentous challenge? I decided to tell the story through the eyes of two young people who came from totally different backgrounds. One was the daughter of an Earl, the other was the son of a shepherd, but they had one thing in common: they were both born on the eleventh day of the eleventh month in 1918, when the First World War ended.
You can follow their lives, from their birth on that day, to the fifteenth of September 1940, when they caused Hitler to once again change his mind, which not only changed their lives, but possibly all of our lives.
I’ve spent many happy hours over the past fifty years since writing Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less in 1976 (3,000 copies sold in hardback), Kane and Abel in 1979 (now in its 132nd reprint), and more recently, from 2018, The William Warwick series. However, Adam and Eve has now proved to be my most satisfying writing endeavour, and I can only hope you will feel the same way.
Allow me to end by thanking all my readers from around the world, in 119 countries (translated into 51 languages) from Sydney to Toronto, from Buenos Aires to New York, from Mumbai to Tokyo, while not forgetting my homeland, which has allowed this simple storyteller the privilege of spending so many hours in your company. I should have been Prime Minister, captain of the England cricket team, or won an Olympic gold for the hundred metres, but then we can all dream.
As Marcel Proust reminded us: ‘We always end up doing the thing we’re second best at.’
I can only hope that you’ve discovered what you’re second best at.
– Jeffrey
ADAM & EVE
CHAPTER 1
November 1918
He was dreaming when there was a knock on the door.
Bill Turner turned over and buried his head in the pillow, still hoping it was a dream, but the knocking ignored his wishes. If anything, it was louder and more persistent. He reluctantly opened his eyes and blinked at the bedside clock: 4.11. One of the perils of being a family doctor. He rested for a moment, but when he looked again the clock had moved on to 4.12, as if in agreement with whoever was knocking.
The doctor slowly pushed himself up, pulled back the covers and placed his feet gingerly on the carpet. He put on his dressing gown and slippers, padded across to the window and looked down to see the Earl’s butler staring up at him.
Mr Frampton had served the Brancaster family for the past three decades as a page boy, footman, under-butler and ultimately butler to the seventh, eighth and now ninth Earl. He was not a man who panicked under pressure, but the look on his face revealed an anxiety the doctor had not experienced in the past.
Pulling up the window, Dr Turner called out, ‘Good morning, Frampton.’
‘The Countess has gone into labour,’ said Frampton, without returning the salutation. ‘The Earl has asked if you could—’
Dr Turner turned back and began putting on yesterday’s clothes before Frampton could finish the sentence. The Countess of Brancaster would be giving birth at least six weeks early, so he didn’t have a moment to lose.
As the doctor pulled on his socks and shoes, he glanced across at his wife, who hadn’t stirred. But then, not even a world war could wake Edna.
He quietly closed the bedroom door behind him and jogged down the stairs while still doing up his waistcoat buttons. When he reached the bottom step, he grabbed his doctor’s bag from the hall stand and opened the front door.
The butler was holding open the back door of the Rolls-Royce, engine running – there wasn’t a moment to spare.
‘Good morning,’ repeated the doctor, as he climbed inside.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Frampton, as he closed the door and joined the chauffeur in the front.
Dr Turner had barely sat down before the car took off, heading for the Hall at a speed he had not experienced before. As the Silver Ghost sped along the country lanes, the doctor took a handkerchief out of his top pocket, bent down and began to polish his shoes. He’d never been in the presence of the Earl unshaven and wearing yesterday’s clothes, even if they were his Sunday best.
He sat back up, his thoughts returning to the more immediate problem. The Countess of Brancaster had already suffered two stillbirths – two boys who’d both entered this world, but had never seen the light of day. Dr Turner had advised the Earl against putting his wife through the same ordeal a third time, but, while his lordship had accepted his judgement, the Countess had insisted that, despite the risks, they should make another attempt to produce the son and heir they both so desired. In fact, only a few months after being invalided back from the front and returning to Brancaster, the ninth Earl proudly announced to his assembled staff that the Countess was with child. He would never have uttered the word pregnant.
Everyone had rejoiced at the news, except for the doctor, who kept his counsel. Whenever asked, the Earl would just say the oft-repeated phrase ‘third time lucky’. After all, if Anne produced a son, the boy would, in the fullness of time, inherit not only Brancaster Hall, along with its eleven thousand acres of arable land, but, more importantly, he would succeed to the title as the tenth Earl of Brancaster. If not, the title and estate would eventually pass to the Earl’s younger brother, Dudley, who was described, both above and below stairs, as the black sheep of the family.
As the Hall came into sight, Dr Turner gazed out of the window at the magnificent Andrea Palladio mansion, which dominated the landscape as far as the eye could see, with its four identical façades and a portico of Ionic columns, crowned by a hemispherical dome, creating one harmonious whole.
The Rolls-Royce skidded to a halt on the gravel path outside the entrance, and Dr Turner leapt out of the car before Frampton could open the back door. He rushed up the steps to find the front door already open and, not breaking his stride, continued across the great hall and up the sweeping marble staircase, past portraits of the eight previous Earls of Brancaster.
The doctor could hear screaming coming from the bedroom long before he reached the ninth holder of that title.
Charles Clarence Arthur Pierpoint Brancaster was pacing up and down the corridor outside his wife’s bedroom, while two young Labradors remained stationed by the door.
Dr Turner glanced at the Earl. His usual air of self-confidence had been replaced with a look of anxiety that revealed his youth. Indeed, the ninth Earl of Brancaster was only in his early thirties, having acceded to the title following his father’s premature death from lung cancer.
The Earl came to an abrupt halt the moment he saw the doctor. ‘Thank God you’re here,’ were the only words he uttered.
‘Good morning, my lord,’ said the doctor Dr Turner, giving the Earl a slight bow before walking straight past him and entering the master bedroom.
He closed the door behind him and took a deep breath as he hastened towards his patient.
The scene before his eyes told the doctor all he needed to know. As the Countess let out a feeble moan, he turned to the midwife, who took him by surprise when she said, ‘I think it might be twins.’
The doctor nodded.
The next fifteen minutes were spent in a desperate attempt to save the Countess’s life, but her cries were growing fainter by the moment, until she finally fell silent.
Dr Turner checked her pulse, a pointless exercise as his patient had already departed this world, and his single purpose now was to save the twins.
He quickly extracted a scalpel from his bag and set about cutting open the womb. Carefully, gently, he removed a tiny, wrinkled, vernix-coated boy, whose eyes never opened, followed moments later by a girl whose eyes did open, but she was so tiny that Dr Turner assumed that, like her brother, she could not hope to live.
Bill Turner waited for a few minutes before he stepped back out into the corridor to face the expectant father. How did he begin to tell the Earl he’d lost his wife and a son but should be thankful he had a daughter; not that he could be sure even she would survive.
Charles Brancaster stopped pacing, a ray of hope in his eyes.
‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of such sad news, my lord,’ said the doctor quietly, ‘but I was unable to save the Countess. However, I safely delivered one of the children.’
‘One?’ repeated the Earl in a daze.
‘Yes, a little girl, whom we must pray will survive.’
‘And the other child?’ asked the Earl.
‘A boy,’ said Dr Turner, ‘who was sadly stillborn. There was nothing I could do to save him.’
When the Earl finally spoke, his words were barely audible.
‘A boy, you say?’
The doctor nodded.
No further words passed between them, as there was nothing more the doctor could do to alleviate the pain. He’d attended enough births that had ended sadly to be well aware what the Earl was going through.
If only the Earl and Countess had taken his advice, although he accepted he could never again mention the word ‘twin’ in his presence.
Another two hours passed before Dr Turner was finally able to leave the Hall, having done everything he could for his latest patient. He left the midwife in charge and was driven slowly back home to find that his wife was now awake.
As he took off yesterday’s clothes, Edna asked, ‘Who got you up at such an ungodly hour?’
He told his wife about the tragic death of the Countess and her son, and the birth of a girl. ‘However,’ he said, his voice almost a whisper, ‘I’ll be surprised if the little mite survives the day.’
‘How sad,’ said Edna. ‘If only the Earl and Countess had heeded your warnings—’
The doctor placed a finger to his lips. ‘I wish I’d been more insistent,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps I might have been, with a less important patient. Let’s pray the girl will still be alive when I return to the Hall later today, but I wouldn’t count on it.’
His wife left to prepare breakfast, while he disappeared into the bathroom. He sharpened his cutthroat razor on the thick leather strap hanging from the wall, covered his face with lather and set about removing yesterday’s stubble. He cut himself while thinking about the newborn child and her chances of survival.
After a quick check in the mirror, he returned to the bedroom and dressed in a dark – blue double-breasted suit and a white Van Heusen shirt with a starched collar that his wife had laid out for him.
As he came back downstairs, he spotted the morning paper lying on the mat. The front page brought a smile to his face.
GERMANY RUINED.
—————-
IMMEDIATE SURRENDER
ONLY WAY TO AVOID DESTRUCTION.
—————-
MR LLOYD GEORGE’S SPEECH.
He sat down at the kitchen table and began to read an article reporting that the armistice would be signed that morning. At last, something to rejoice about.
His wife removed a three-and-a-half-minute boiled egg from the saucepan and placed it in her husband’s egg cup. He picked up a spoon, tapped the egg firmly and deftly removed the top, to watch a dribble of yolk run down the shell.
‘Perfect,’ he announced, just as there was another knock on the door.
Dr Turner reluctantly put down his spoon and let out a deep sigh, assuming Mr Frampton had returned to confirm his worst fears.
When he hurried out of the kitchen and opened the front door, it wasn’t the butler he found standing on the doorstep but a farm labourer, cap in hand, head bowed.
‘It’s Preston, isn’t it?’ enquired the doctor.
‘Yes, sir. Sorry to bother you at this time in the mornin’, but I think my Maisie is about to deliver.’
The doctor was well aware that my Maisie worked at the Hall, under the watchful eye of Frampton, while her husband, Tom, was the Earl’s head shepherd. But then, almost every family in the village had someone who worked for the Earl.
Abandoning his breakfast, Dr Turner once again grabbed his doctor’s bag from the hall stand, stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
‘This will be your first, if I remember correctly,’ he said, as Preston joined him on the front seat of his Bullnose Morris.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Preston.
‘No doubt you’re hoping for a boy,’ said Turner. Like the Earl, he was about to add, but stopped himself just in time.
‘I’d prefer a girl,’ said Preston, ‘so she’ll never ’ave to go to war.’
‘Then you can’t have heard the news,’ said the doctor, as he headed for the farm labourers’ cottages on the far side of the estate.
‘What news?’ asked Preston, who never read a paper and didn’t possess a wireless.
‘Germany has finally surrendered, and the armistice will be signed in a railway carriage in the French Forest of Compiègne at eleven o’clock this morning.’
Preston shrugged. ‘But how long before those Krauts are at it again?’
Dr Turner didn’t offer an opinion as he drew up outside Tom’s home.
The doctor’s first thought, as he got out of his car, was that the contrast between Brancaster Hall and the shepherd’s small thatched cottage couldn’t have been greater. No butler holding open the back door of a Rolls-Royce. No grand marble staircase to mount. No midwife waiting to assist. No Labradors on guard – just a sleeping collie lying by the bed, eyes closed, head resting between its legs.
Maisie Preston delivered her child at the end of the ninth month, and she didn’t scream once. The doctor proceeded in a calm and measured way to assist the birth, and was relieved when a little head popped out, eyes wide open. A baby boy appeared, looking as if he couldn’t wait to start his life. He began to scream just as a peal of bells started to ring out from the local church – the sign that the armistice had been signed and the war was over. The dog sprang up, stretched and wagged its tail.
Dr Turner didn’t leave Mrs Preston until the baby was cradled in his mother’s arms, contentedly asleep, having feasted on his first meal.
When the doctor left the cottage, he checked his watch: twenty past eleven. He decided to return to the Hall and check on his other patient. During the journey, he noticed that a couple of sheep had escaped from their pen and the birds were chirping at the tops of their voices, as if even they knew the war was over. He passed several farm labourers who were celebrating – one or two of them were already the worse for wear, although it was not yet midday.
As he approached the crested wrought-iron gates, he couldn’t fail to notice that the family standard on the roof of Brancaster Hall had been lowered to half-mast. He offered up a silent prayer in the hope he would not be signing a third death certificate that morning.
CHAPTER 2
January 1919
Only one person ever entered the Earl’s study without knocking.
Charles turned around and immediately rose as the door opened, and he didn’t sit back down until his mother had taken the seat on the other side of his desk.
The look on her face rather suggested this wasn’t going to be a casual meeting.
The Dowager Countess had always played an important role in Charles’s life, not least because he had acquired the title at such a young age. She still resided at Brancaster Hall, where the East Wing had become her domain. However, during the three months since his wife’s premature death, Charles had come to rely on her judgement even more. It was the Dowager Countess who had swiftly employed a nurse for her granddaughter to take care of all the tasks of a surrogate mother.
The Earl would be eternally grateful. The loss of Anne weighed heavily on his mind, and he hadn’t stopped thinking about what might have been, if only he’d heeded the doctor’s wise advice and been less selfish. He should have tried to persuade Anne more firmly – he should never have let himself be persuaded to allow her to try one more time. How unimportant producing a son and heir seemed now that he’d lost the only woman he’d ever loved and the son they had both so yearned for.
‘I’d like to make a suggestion,’ said his mother.
Charles wondered why his mother’s suggestions always sounded like pronouncements, but he thought it best to remain silent.
‘You may or may not be aware,’ she continued, ‘that one of your farm labourers’ offspring was born on the same day as your daughter.’
He wasn’t aware, but he continued to listen, knowing his mother would take her time getting to the point.
‘I think it would be a splendid idea,’ said the Dowager Countess, ‘if the vicar were to christen both children on the same day.’
Charles was about to protest, but his mother hadn’t finished.
‘Since the war to end all wars is now behind us, we must face the fact that a new order has appeared on the horizon. And given the circumstances, it might be wise for you to be seen taking the lead rather than being dragged reluctantly into the twentieth century,’ suggested the Dowager Countess. ‘Try not to forget that several of your men sacrificed their lives in the cause and have not returned to their homeland.’
This was something the Earl was well aware of, but he didn’t comment.
‘I keep reading in the press,’ continued his mother, ‘that the trades unions are beginning to flex their muscles, so perhaps it would be better for you to be seen as a benevolent employer rather than an entitled landlord.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Charles, not sounding at all convinced.
The Dowager Countess wasn’t fooled, but was well aware she had gained the upper hand. ‘No need to bother yourself with the arrangements, my dear,’ she assured him. ‘You can leave the finer details to me.’
He didn’t have any doubt about that. ‘What’s the other child’s name?’ he asked.
‘I have no idea,’ admitted the Dowager Countess, ‘but no doubt we’ll find out at the christening.’
Maisie wasn’t able to hide her surprise when the vicar told her that Adam would be christened at the same time as the Lady Evelina. Surprised but delighted, and she couldn’t stop telling anyone and everyone she came across, while her husband remained silent on the subject.
Mr Frampton raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.
On the day of the double christening, Brancaster parish church was packed to overflowing. On one side of the aisle sat the Dowager Countess, next to her eldest son, Charles, Earl of Brancaster. At the far end of the row perched the nanny, who was clinging on to the Earl’s daughter, though not altogether successfully.
In the second row – order being everything in the Brancaster household – sat the Hon. Dudley Brancaster, the Earl’s brother, with his wife, Susanna, no longer able to hide the fact that she was pregnant. In the third row, Mr Jack Whittingdale, the family solicitor, sat alongside his wife, Winifred, with Dr Turner and Edna on their right. The only other person seated in that row was Mrs Victoria Fraser, widow of the late Major Arthur Fraser MC, the Earl’s closest friend, who had been tragically killed during the assault on Mormal Forest only days before hostilities had ceased.
The estates manager, Iain Munro, along with his wife and two children, occupied the pew behind. Behind them, Frampton sat next to the housekeeper, Mrs Sullivan. The head gardener, cook and under-butler were seated in the pews towards the back, well aware of their place.
It had been ever thus.
But not for much longer.
On the other side of the aisle sat Mr and Mrs Tom Preston, heads bowed, though not in prayer. Mrs Preston held firmly on to her son, who was peering at his betters across the aisle, while Maisie’s mother and younger sister, Rose, cooed over him. Behind them, in no particular order, sat Tom’s mates and their wives, for whom first come, first served seemed to be the order of the day. They were all dressed in their Sunday best, which paled in comparison with the tailored attire displayed on the other side of the aisle.
The remainder of the pews were packed with parishioners, not all of whom attended church regularly on a Sunday, but this was one occasion they were not going to miss. Several wives sat alone, reminding everyone of the ravages of war.
The vicar, the Very Reverend Simon Townsend, had served as a padre in the Earl’s regiment during the war, before returning to take up the position as vicar of Brancaster, a much sought-after living.
While the congregation remained seated, the vicar stood on the altar steps and waited for the church clock to strike eleven times. When the bells ceased, he began the service with a blessing:
‘Grace, mercy and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ be with you.’
‘And also with you,’ the congregation declared in unison.
After prayers, the vicar invited his flock to turn to hymn number 237. Once the organ had struck up, the congregation sang lustily, though not all in unison:
‘O God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come . . .’
Following the hymn, the vicar invited the two families and the respective godparents to join him at the font for the service of baptism, which turned out to be no more than a prompt for the Earl’s daughter to burst into tears.
Tom’s son glanced across at her with a faint air of disapproval.
The Earl felt ill at ease, finding himself standing at the altar alongside his head shepherd and a kitchen maid while he attempted to comfort the child in his arms, with even less success than the nanny.
After rescuing the child, the vicar dipped his finger in the holy water, before turning to her godparents, saying, ‘Name this child.’
‘Evelina Charlotte Elizabeth Pierpoint Brancaster,’ Jack Whittingdale and Victoria Fraser chorused in unison.
‘I baptize thee in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen,’ pronounced the vicar.
This only caused her ladyship to raise her protest by several decibels, lest anyone should forget she was the star attraction.
The vicar swiftly transferred his attention to the baby boy, who had remained silent in the presence of the Lady Evelina. He took the child carefully from Maisie, dipped his finger in the holy water and once again enquired the name of the child.
‘Adam Thomas Preston,’ his two godparents replied.
‘I baptize thee in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen,’ declared the vicar.
The Reverend Townsend then made the sign of the cross on the children’s foreheads, before pronouncing, ‘We receive both of these children into the congregation of Christ’s flock, and do sign them with the Cross . . . Amen.’
‘Amen,’ replied the congregation.
After the vicar had pronounced the final blessing, the Earl led
the assembled gathering out of the church, with the Dowager Countess on his arm with the nanny following behind carrying the Lady Evelina.
The Preston family remained in their places until the vicar nodded, and then they filed out into the churchyard behind the Earl’s staff, followed shortly by the rest of the congregation.
Those who had been seated on the right of the aisle put on their hats and coats and made their way in a variety of motor cars and carriages to Brancaster Hall to enjoy champagne and canapés in the Henry VIII’s Gallery, while those seated on the left, caps in hand, strolled across the road to the Brancaster Arms to sup a pint of the local ale and enjoy a choice of ham or cheese sandwiches.
Only the Reverend Simon Townsend and Dr Bill Turner attended both celebrations.
The Dowager Countess glanced around the packed ballroom, satisfied with the turnout of the great and good who’d come to witness the christening of her granddaughter.
Several of the guests had travelled a great distance to attend the joyous occasion, and the laughter and raised glasses were in contrast to the last time they had all met in this room following the funeral of Charles’s wife, Anne.
The only notable absentee was the Dowager Countess’s younger son, Dudley, who had already left for London – on urgent business – leaving his pregnant wife to attend the celebrations.
Second sons of noble families – often referred to as spares – could prove a problem at the best of times, and the Honourable Dudley Cecil Oliver Pierpoint Brancaster was no exception, preferring to spend his time in London nightclubs gambling away his allowance and his new wife’s dowry, rather than attending to his duties.
Dudley had been born in 1888, two years after his brother Charles, and despite his mother’s best efforts had turned out to be what she described as a ‘feckless wastrel’, although she had to admit he didn’t lack charm, or the ability to persuade those of a lesser rank to do his bidding. He had inherited her innate cunning, without any of her wisdom or common sense.
Dudley had married a Miss Susanna Roach, who was neither beautiful nor bright. But she was the daughter of a successful Birmingham arms dealer, which allowed Dudley to continue his feckless life, without any suggestion he might ever do a day’s work.
And now Susanna was carrying Dudley’s child.
The Dowager Countess didn’t need to be reminded that, if Susanna produced a boy, not only the title but also the estate would, in the event of Charles’s death, be passed on to Dudley and then his son. The Dowager Countess fell on her knees each night and prayed that Susanna would have a daughter, but she wasn’t willing to leave it all in the hands of the Almighty. With that in mind, she had already prepared a shortlist of candidates for consideration as the next Countess of Brancaster, without Charles becoming aware of what she was up to. Naturally, she would need to allow a suitable period of time to pass before she could put her plan into action. It would all be in the timing.
Her thoughts were interrupted when Charles strolled across to join her. ‘I think we can agree, Mama,’ he said, ‘that the christening went off satisfactorily, although I still can’t understand why you thought the Preston boy should be included.’
‘I believe I made my reasons perfectly clear,’ she replied, before sipping her drink. She had dismissed a glass of champagne in favour of her usual double gin and tonic. ‘And I think you’ll find your tenants and employees all approved of the gesture. Now, may I ask by which of my granddaughter’s three names I should address her?’
‘Evelina,’ said the Earl, without hesitation.
‘My dear mother’s given name – how appropriate.’
‘I’m so glad you approve, Mama,’ said the Earl, as he raised his glass of champagne.
‘You have not yet reached an age, Charles, when you can be sarcastic with me,’ chastised the Dowager Countess. She glanced across the room to where the Lady Evelina was pulling her nanny’s hair. ‘Perhaps she’ll be the first woman in our family to go to university.’
‘Perish the thought,’ said the Earl, before once again being taken to task.
‘I may be old-fashioned, Charles, but you are what is currently described as a “fuddy duddy”. To hear you talk in the House of Lords, one would think you were three times the age you are. Sometimes I fear you are completely unaware of how the war has changed things. Don’t forget – when Evelina grows up, she will be able to vote.’
‘Not until she reaches the age of thirty,’ the Earl reminded his mother, ‘and only then if I settle sufficient property on her. An amendment to the Representation of the People Act that I happily supported when it came before their lordships in the Upper House.’
‘Perhaps it will take another war to change that,’ remarked his mother, as Frampton replaced her empty glass with a fresh gin and tonic. ‘If the war proved one thing,’ she declared, ‘it was that women played more than their part in the final victory, so the least they could expect was to be granted the right to vote – Victoria being a prime example.’
Charles glanced across at Mrs Fraser, who was on the other side of the room, chatting to Dr Turner. Victoria had married Charles’s oldest friend, Arthur, a few months before war was declared, only for their time together to be cut short. Arthur had been killed just days before the war had ended. Indeed, Charles had still been recovering from the news of his closest friend’s death when he lost his wife. If Arthur had still been alive, he would certainly have been one of Evelina’s godfathers.
His mother was right to say that Victoria was a prime example. During the war, she had taken up a teaching position at the local school, as so many schoolmasters were no longer standing at the front of a classroom, chalk in hand, but were stuck in trenches awaiting the order to go over the top. Arthur had approved of his wife’s selfless decision to play her part in the war effort.
‘But the average woman is nothing like Victoria,’ said Charles, turning back to his mother.
‘Well,’ she replied, with a faint smile, ‘at least that’s something we can agree on.’
* * *
‘Now, you listen to me carefully, Tom Preston,’ said Maisie, as they crossed the road to the Brancaster Arms. ‘You are not, I repeat not, to get drunk. Do I make myself clear?’
‘But—’ began Tom.
‘No buts,’ said Maisie. ‘This is Adam’s christening and must be remembered as such, and not the day you had to be carried home legless.’
‘But—’ Tom attempted a second time.
‘And don’t forget, you’ll be expected to propose a toast to your son and then say a few words.’
‘A very few,’ mumbled Tom.
‘That will be just fine,’ said Maisie, ‘as long as you remain sober.’
‘Got the message,’ said Tom, as they entered the pub, to be greeted by row upon row of pint glasses lined up on the counter.
Tom grabbed one before joining his mates at the bar, while Maisie took her place in the snug with her mother and her sister Rose, who were taking turns to hold Adam in their arms. Maisie kept her eyes on the bar, not allowing the possible miscreant out of her sight.
‘Another pint, Tom?’ suggested the landlord, after he’d quickly downed his first.
‘Can’t risk it, Ted,’ replied Tom, aware that Maisie’s gimlet eyes were still fixed on him. ‘Got to make the toast, ’aven’t I?’
‘But it’s your son’s christening,’ said the landlord, as he refilled his glass.
‘Don’t remind me,’ said Tom, glancing back over his shoulder. ‘But if my Maisie so much as sees me . . .’ he began, as the vicar climbed up onto the stool beside him. ‘Just the man I need,’ whispered Tom, trying not to sound desperate.
‘How can I help?’ asked the vicar.
‘I’m a simple man, Padre, not educated like you, but my better ’alf expects me to make a speech before I give the toast, and I ’aven’t got a clue what to say.’
The vicar glanced across at Mrs Preston, who, glass of sherry in hand, was deep in conversation with her mother.
* * *
Maisie was relieved to see that Tom hadn’t touched his second pint. All around them, their friends, family members and fellow workers from the Brancaster estate were sipping drinks, chatting and laughing. There were a few familiar faces missing, brave young men who hadn’t returned from the front; nevertheless it was a joy to have so many of them back together again, with something worth celebrating for a change.
‘Who’s proposing Adam’s health?’ asked Maisie’s mother, who’d travelled down from Leeds to attend the christening.
‘Tom,’ said Maisie, her gaze still fixed on her husband. He was looking more anxious by the minute.
Rose chuckled and handed Adam over to his mother so that she could sample a ham sandwich. ‘Let’s just ’ope he’s still sober when the time comes for ’im to address us.’
‘He’d better be,’ said Maisie, ‘otherwise he’ll be sleepin’ in the hayloft tonight.’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ said her mother.
Rose laughed, but Maisie didn’t.
Back at the bar, the landlord leaned over to Tom and said. ‘Are you ready?’
‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ replied Tom, ‘so I might as well go over the top.’
The landlord thumped the bell on the counter, but it was still some time before any semblance of order was achieved.
When Tom almost fell off the stool, he thought his legs would give way. He tried desperately to recall the opening line the vicar had suggested, but nothing came to mind. He looked down at the ground, from whence no inspiration came.
‘Get on with it.’ shouted a voice, which didn’t exactly help.
‘Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking . . .’ Tom began, which had not been part of the vicar’s recommended script and was greeted with jeers worthy of a football crowd. ‘It gives me great pleasure,’ he said, back on script, if not on the correct page, ‘to ask you to raise your glasses in a toast to my son, Adam.’
‘To Adam.’ rang out the response, in different states of sobriety, and the loud applause that followed gave Tom a little time to try to recall the vicar’s second line. He vaguely remembered he was supposed to make the toast at the end of the speech, not the beginning. Unperturbed, Tom battled on, ‘I’m a shepherd,’ he continued.
‘The head shepherd,’ said Maisie, loud enough for all to hear.
‘And proud to ’ave a boy who will one day follow in my footsteps—’
‘Not if I have anything, to do with it,’ said Maisie under her breath, as she looked at her sleeping son. ‘This one is destined for higher things.’
‘Like what?’ asked Rose.
‘Estates manager, for a start,’ replied Maisie. ‘They say it’s a new world, now the war’s over, so let’s find out if that’s true.’
Dr Turner, who was standing not far from Maisie, overheard her words and couldn’t resist a smile.
By then, the final sentence had come back to Tom, although he was fairly certain he’d left out quite a lot in between. ‘Can I ask you to rise, charge your glasses, and toast the health of my son, Adam.’
The vicar was the first to jump off his stool, hold his glass high in the air and say, ‘To Adam.’
Everyone leapt up and followed his lead.
Tom collapsed back on his stool, only too delighted that the ordeal was over and he could now enjoy his second pint.
‘It could ’ave been worse,’ said Rose.
‘Far worse,’ said Maisie. ‘Right, I reckon it’s time for me to leave before Adam thinks the Brancaster Arms is his second home. Mum, would keep your eye on—’
‘Don’t you worry about Tom,’ said her mother. ‘Once he’s finished his next pint, I’ll drag your other child home.’
Maisie laughed as she rose from her place, cradling Adam in her arms. She gave her husband a warm smile before making her way towards the door.
Tom returned his wife’s gesture, but he didn’t touch the third pint until he’d seen the pub door swing closed.
‘Well done, Tom,’ said the vicar before he departed. ‘Sorry to leave the celebrations early, but I’ve got just as many parishioners waiting for me at the Hall.’
Tom raised his glass in thanks and was about to enjoy his third pint when he spotted his mother-in-law staring at him. She had clearly taken over from Maisie as watch commander.
He smiled at her, raised his glass, and downed the pint in one.
‘. . . and if the war has taught me anything,’ said the Earl, ‘it is that perhaps the time has come for women to play a more important role in society.’
Several of the guests cried ‘Hear! Hear!’ while others remained silent.
The Dowager Countess pursed her lips and whispered to Victoria, who was standing at her side, ‘I don’t care for the word perhaps.’
Victoria was among the few people who were aware of the Dowager Countess’s close friendship with Emmeline Pankhurst. Her late husband had been appalled when he’d discovered that his wife regularly visited the avowed suffragette in prison. Their son had inherited his father’s views, and would no doubt have a heart attack if Lady Evelina one day declared a preference for university lectures over becoming a debutante.
‘And I’m rather hoping,’ continued the Earl, ‘that Evelina will be among them. I invite you to raise your glasses and toast my beloved daughter.’
Everybody raised their glasses.
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ whispered Victoria, ‘but I’m not convinced Charles really believes it.’
‘No need to whisper your opinions any more,’ said the Dowager Countess. ‘You should shout them from the highest rooftop, my dear. I have a feeling my granddaughter could learn a lot from you. In fact, when the time comes—’
She would have continued if Dr Turner hadn’t walked across to join them.
‘What an excellent speech,’ he said. ‘I particularly enjoyed his lordship’s thoughts on the rights of women, which I am sure Anne would have agreed with wholeheartedly.’
‘Unquestionably,’ replied the Dowager Countess. ‘But do tell me, Dr Turner, how did the celebrations go at the Brancaster Arms for young Adam Preston?’
‘Most enjoyable,’ replied Turner, as Frampton handed him a glass of champagne, ‘if a little more boisterous than at Brancaster Hall.’ He glanced around at the guests chatting amiably to each other. ‘However, I must warn you that Mrs Preston has plans for young Adam that don’t include ending up taking care of sheep.’
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ said Victoria. She was surprised to find the Dowager Countess nodding her approval, so she decided to test the old lady’s resolve. ‘Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad thing for two children born on the same day to be rivals,’ she went on to suggest, fully expecting the Dowager Countess to finally protest at the idea of the son of a shepherd being a worthy rival for her granddaughter.
But, to Victoria’s surprise, the Dowager Countess simply smiled and said, ‘Then let battle commence.’
