The Secret of Orchard Cottage Read online

  Copyright

  Harper

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  First published in Great Britain by Harper 2016

  Copyright © Alexandra Brown 2016

  Cover design by Alexandra Allden © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

  Cover images © Ivary / Getty Images (orchard scene); Shutterstock.com (all other images).

  Alexandra Brown asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780007597420

  Ebook Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9780007597444

  Version 2016-05-04

  Dedication

  For all the ordinary women everywhere,

  doing extraordinary things

  ‘Treasure this book always, for it will stand the test of time’

  – Winnie Lovell, 1941

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Keep Reading ...

  About the Author

  Also by Alex Brown

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  Tindledale, June 1941 …

  As the early morning sun sauntered over the apple trees in the orchard next to the cottage, bathing her bedroom in strands of glorious spun gold, Winnie Lovell tucked the last letter into an envelope and stowed it inside her handbag along with the others for posting later. Then, after replacing the lid of her fountain pen, she crouched down and swept the rug aside to lift a wonky floorboard to the left of the wardrobe and reached in between the rafters to retrieve an old wooden apple box containing her diaries dating back to when she was a little girl. Winnie placed the pen inside the box and took out the pressed purple violet one last time and held it up to her cheek, allowing herself a brief moment of contemplation before hurriedly secreting it all away back under the floor. She stood up and straightened her stockings in silence, reminding herself that this wasn’t the time for sentiment. No, absolutely not. Her mind was made up. Resolute. And there really was no going back now.

  Winnie buttoned up her new khaki uniform jacket and straightened the collar, proud to be a part of the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, or FANY as everyone said, and cast one last glance around the rose-print-papered bedroom in the eaves of the honey-stoned cottage that had been her home for all of her twenty years. She really would miss this old place, Orchard Cottage, a special place on the outskirts of Tindledale, the village where she had grown up. With its tiny school with the clock tower on the roof and the cobbled High Street, flanked either side with black timber-framed, white wattle-walled shops with mullioned windows, surrounded by lush, undulating fields full of hops, hay, lambs, cows, strawberries, buttercups and delicate pink cherry blossom in springtime that swirled all around like confetti in a breeze. All the familiarity, and there was a certain beauty, comfort even in the predictable, seasonal routine of a life lived in a rural village. But constraint too, and as much as she loved Tindledale, Winnie knew there was a whole new world waiting for her beyond the bus stop in the village square. Adventure. That’s what this was. She had waited her whole life, or so it seemed, for this very moment. She had already fulfilled her duties in the Women’s Land Army, teaching the city girls how to work the land. Luckily the base hadn’t been that far away so she had been able to hop on the bus home when she had leave, but this time it was different. As soon as the next part of her training was completed, she would go into the field and then who knew when she might next come home? But Winnie was determined to give it her all. Do her bit for the war effort. Her patriotic duty. And her parents had been so proud when Bill the postman had cycled up to the apple barn door to deliver the letter requesting her to report to the special FANY training centre located over two hundred miles away. Before war had been declared, the furthest Winnie had been was to Market Briar, the market town on the other side of the valley, and she had certainly never travelled on a train, which reminded her – she looked at the alarm clock on the cabinet beside the bed – it really wouldn’t do to be late! The next bus, on the hour every hour, left the village square at ten sharpish, and it was already nearly nine o’clock.

  Winnie folded her new hand-knitted cardy into her suitcase – made especially for today with some wool unravelled from an old blanket. Make do and mend! That’s what all the women in the village were chatting about, along with ‘beauty is your duty’. So she checked her hair and make-up then applied a little more lipstick in Scarlet Pimpernel – having swapped a stick of liquorice and a book for a selection of tester sticks and a block of mascara with a couple of younger girls in the village. (Hettie and Marigold; one had an aunt who worked on the Yardley make-up counter in a department store.) She then gathered up her hat, gloves, handbag, suitcase and, lastly, the ugly gas mask in its square cardboard box with a length of string for a handle, and closed the bedroom door behind her. Winnie made her way down the rickety old staircase and into the kitchen where the homely aroma of a traditional fry-up greeted her.

  ‘Eggs and bacon for you, Winifred?’ her mother Delphine asked, with the hint of a French accent, lifting the edge of her apron to wipe her hands as Winnie slipped into the chair next to Edith, whose cheeks were flushed red like a pair of plum tomatoes from having been outside in the fields since the crack of dawn. As little sisters went, Edith – or Edie, as she liked to be called – wasn’t too bad. And Edie loved working in the orchards, crating up the apples and pears and tending to the horses, which was just as well now that it all came down to their father, George, and their neighbour, seventy-year-old Albert from three fields over, to keep things going, since both of their brothers had left the farm at the start of the war, having enlisted right away. Which was even more reason why Winnie was determined
to do her bit. Yes, the Land Army had been fun, hard work too, but she was quite used to that, having grown up helping her father in the orchards. But now she wanted to do more; properly support the war effort like her brothers and saw no reason not to just because she was a woman. So after using every shilling she had, and with some help from her parents, she had managed to buy her uniform and was now ready to show what she could really do to help stop the Nazis in their tracks.

  ‘Ooh, yes please Mum,’ Winnie said, knowing better than to refuse, given that the rationing of bacon had come into force last year. Nerves and anticipation had seen to her appetite, but Winnie knew that her mother had saved the rashers, cut as generously as could be afforded during war time by Bessie up in Cooper’s the butchers’ shop in the High Street, especially for her farewell breakfast, just as she had for each of her brothers. So it would be churlish to turn it down and risk the wrath of her father who was a stickler for citing that old adage of ‘waste not want not’ and gratitude really was next to godliness, as far as he was concerned.

  Winnie poured herself some tea from the knitted tea-cosied pot before smoothing a starched white linen napkin into her lap – her mother always liked to look her best and to keep an immaculate home too, and certainly saw ‘no reason to let standards slip just because Hitler has seen fit to turn our lives upside down’, as she frequently reminded them all. Their father begged to differ, and said that it was Delphine’s chic French ancestry that made her a perfect petal amidst the ‘ruddy-cheeked horrors’ that he had grown up with toiling the fields surrounding Tindledale. Talking of which, both parts of the kitchen stable back door burst open and George appeared, stamping the mud from his boots on to the mat before pulling Delphine towards him for a hearty morning kiss.

  ‘Ew! Enough of that,’ Delphine shooed him away, pretending to chastise. ‘You’ll make my face all mucky and that really won’t do when we venture up to the village square later on.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that – handsome woman like you. You’re the best looker in Tindledale!’ George puffed out his chest as he reluctantly let go of his wife. Delphine patted her neatly prepared pin curls back into place.

  ‘You always were a charmer, George.’ Delphine pecked his cheek, before bringing proceedings back to the importance of the day. ‘Now, there’s a fresh shirt hanging in the wardrobe next to your good suit. But first …’ Delphine delivered two perfectly poached eggs on to a plate, ‘eat your breakfast up!’ And she smiled contentedly. Delphine was in her element and at her happiest when feeding and fussing over her family.

  ‘Right you are,’ George replied, doing as he was told. He sat at the kitchen table and popped the filmy yolk of an egg with the corner of a hunk of home-baked crusty bread. ‘Want to look my best too for waving off our Winnie,’ he added, winking at his eldest daughter. ‘It’s been smashing having you home again for a bit love, and so grown up you are now.’

  Winnie smiled; she wasn’t the naïve girl she used to be. Not like she was when she first went off to the Land Army at the start of the war. But so much had changed since then … courting for starters, that had come as a pleasant surprise. And quite unexpected too. She smiled at the memory of that morning when she first met him – she’d just finished showing the girls how to crate the apples correctly, when someone from the nearby army base at Market Briar had requested a volunteer who could drive.

  ‘And it’s not every day one of our own gets chosen for driving duties,’ George went on. ‘For the top brass no less. I knew my showing you how to drive would come in handy one day.’ He punctuated the air with the prongs of his fork. ‘You didn’t even know how to switch on the apple lorry’s engine before I showed you.’ He took another big bite of his bread.

  ‘Daaad.’ Winnie gave him a pretend exasperated look. ‘It’s hardly the same – an open-back truck crammed full of apples bobbing all over the place every time the tyres hit a pothole. No, the “top brass”, as you call them, enjoy a very smooth ride in a proper car, thank you very much.’ Winnie took a sip of her tea and pondered again on her good fortune in having spent the last couple of months in and out of the army base where she had been noticed, something that never would have happened if she’d stayed milking cows and digging for victory in the fields with the other girls.

  ‘You’ll be driving ambulances now though!’ Edie blithely chipped in, before turning her attentions back to the infinitely more interesting dollop of homemade blackberry jam that she had just let plop from a knife on to her toast. Winnie turned to study her little sister, half wishing that she still possessed Edie’s innocent view of the world. But there was a war on, and already Winnie had seen first hand the real effect it was having on the country. What her parents didn’t know was that one of Winnie’s driving duties had taken her to Brighton – she hadn’t wanted to alarm them with accounts of what she saw there, preferring they enjoy their still near-idyllic lives out here in the countryside – but the devastation that the German bomb had caused when it landed on the cinema in Kemp Town would stay with Winnie for always, especially the four children amongst the fifty-five people who were killed.

  ‘And doesn’t she look a picture in her uniform?’ Delphine joined in, smoothing a proud hand over Winnie’s right shoulder with a formidable look on her face, as if warning the tiniest speck of fluff to so much as dare go near her daughter’s immaculate jacket.

  ‘Indeed she does,’ George nodded, equally proud.

  *

  As the emerald green and cream split-window Bedford bus chugged away from the village square, Edie dashed after it, along with several other girls from the village, all waving white cotton hankies with stoic smiles fixed firmly in place as they treasured last glimpses, potentially, of their soldier sweethearts. But it was different for Edie: she loved her big sister, of course she did, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t a tiny bit gleeful that Winnie had signed up to join the FANY, driving ambulances and doing first aid, and it wasn’t as if she was going somewhere really dangerous like her brothers. No, Winnie would be having the time of her life at the training centre, and it wasn’t for ever. Winnie would be back before they knew it, which was why Edie didn’t feel quite so bad for having already boxed up all her belongings ready to move into her big sister’s bedroom for the duration. After their parents’ room, which was set at the front of the cottage overlooking the single-track lane, Winnie’s attic bedroom, with its very own pastel-pink vanity unit and dual-aspect windows with views of the surrounding fields, really was the perfect place to be in Orchard Cottage.

  Present day …

  In the bedroom of a 1930s bungalow in Basingstoke, April Wilson slipped off her pink hand-knitted cardy and placed it back on the padded hanger before putting it away inside the wardrobe – managing, as she had become accustomed to doing, to avoid making eye contact with her late husband’s shirts still hanging neatly on his half of the hanging rail.

  Graham had died eighteen months ago. Motor neurone disease. Ten years her senior, but with a zest for life befitting a far younger man, Gray had been the proverbial life and soul of the party until the cruel disease had taken hold, and then when his breathing muscles had degenerated so severely, he had slipped away one night in his sleep. And April would always be grateful for that. Having given up her nursing career to care for Gray, it had been his wish right from the start, on that sad, drizzly autumn day in the consultant’s room at the hospital when the diagnosis had first been given, to be at home in his own bed when the end came.

  ‘Only me,’ the effervescent voice of April’s stepdaughter, Nancy, cut through her reverie as the door opened slowly. ‘Sorry, am I disturbing you? Only these arrived a few minutes ago addressed to Mrs Wilson.’ And a gorgeous array of vibrant red and orange roses appeared in the gap between the door and the frame.

  April quickly closed the wardrobe doors and pulled on a polka-dot towelling robe, before smoothing down her curly brown hair, which had got mussed up from tugging the dress off over her head.<
br />
  Gray used to help her with the zip.

  April stopped moving.

  Instinctively, she inhaled sharply and squeezed her right hand, pressing the fingernails hard into her palm to stop herself from going there. It was the best way. And it was always the little things that still managed to catch her off guard. But she’d get out her sewing machine and alter the zip, build in a small ruched panel on either side of the waist to create a looser fit and the problem would be solved. No more tugging at the dress and her heartstrings while yearning for Gray to be there beside her. Of course, that feeling would never completely disappear, but for now, April needed at least some of her waking hours to feel normal, to be free from the near-physical pain of her battered heart.

  ‘No, I was just getting changed, come on in sweetheart.’ April smiled, tying the belt as she walked across the room to take the roses from Nancy. ‘Oh they’re absolutely lovely, thank you so much.’ She pressed her nose into the highly scented flowers, figuring they must have cost quite a bit by the looks of the gorgeous white wicker trug and elaborate puff of scarlet tulle ribbon wrapped all around it.

  ‘Oh, don’t thank me,’ Nancy grinned. ‘The cookery book and that melt-in-the-mouth steak were your birthday treats from me – flowers are a waste of money in my opinion,’ she added in her usual matter-of-fact way before bouncing down on to the end of April’s bed. Just like her dad, thought April; Gray had been a pragmatist too. ‘Here, see who they’re from,’ and Nancy plucked an envelope from a wire stem and handed it to April.