EPISODE SIX

 

The Swinging Sixties

 My next occupants didn't move in until the end of 1963 by which time my garden was completely overgrown. Daisy's beloved flowerbed was covered with weeds, and brambles had sprung up between the raspberry and gooseberry bushes. The Toplin's move had been delayed due to their sale in North London falling through at the last minute.

Mark Toplin worked in London and as there was a direct train service to Victoria, the family decided to settle by the sea. Mark's wife Sandra was a stay-at-home housewife, their son Robert would be starting college in the autumn, daughter Vicky was coming up for her 'O' Levels while four-year-old Amanda was due to begin school in September.

1963 proved to be the worst winter for nearly twenty years, with snow piled up by the kerbs until April. The youth of the country exploded into life with adolescents being renamed teenagers; pop stars and boy bands were venerated with the Beatles topping the charts; June saw the first woman to go into Space and the Profumo scandal hit the headlines. Even more shocking was President Jack Kennedy's assassination in November.

Things changed in the town too with the opening of a new swimming pool and a Ten Pin Bowling Alley. On the downside the Rivoli Cinema was destroyed by fire and seaweed, floating in from further along the coast, covered the beach causing an environmental problem.

Before moving in, Mark and Sandra discussed the renovations needed. Fourteen-year-old Vicky came up with suggestions but sixteen-year-old Robert was too busy sulking because he was going to miss his girlfriend. By common consensus, it was agreed that the Stokes' little green bird wallpaper would have to go and Mark said he would get in a builder to remove the dining-room fireplace. Both bathroom and kitchen would need renovating.

'A yellow bathroom suite, I think,' said Sandra, her brow wrinkled and a pensive look on her face as she imagined the finished result. 'Dark blue tiles are the 'in' thing these days. As for the kitchen, farmhouse style with a breakfast bar. The walls would look nice in cream with bright orange curtains at the window.'

Sandra liked bright colours and this penchant for colour reflected the Toplin family's relationship. They laughed a lot, played cheerful music and even owned a colour television set. By and large, it looked as if I could look forward to a rosy future.

 

 

'I'm so happy we found this house,' said Sandra, snuggling her wavy red mane against Mark's shoulder when they went to bed for the first time in their new home.

'I like it too,' replied Mark, 'but I hope the kids settle down in their new schools.'

'Robert is the only question mark but I think he'll soon get over Cindy and find another girlfriend.'

'Let's hope so,' said Mark turning away to switch off the bedside lamp.

Mark had taken two weeks holiday in order to supervise the removal of the dining-room fireplace. He started decorating the attic room at the top of the house, which was going to be his study. Sandra had argued that it was better to start from the bottom and work up but Mark was adamant. Their three-bedroom house in Pinner had not allowed him the luxury of a place of his own in which to hide away and make his model aeroplanes. Trying to fashion such intricate models in the living room had always frustrated him. Come meal-times and Sandra would order him to clear away his mess so that she could lay the table.

Sandra liked to call herself the proverbial earth-mother. 'I love staying at home and looking after the family,' she said when any of her more career-minded friends asked her why she didn't get bored. 'Bored? Not me. I love cooking and there's always my needlework and knitting. Besides, Mark hasn't got time to look after the garden. That task falls to me.'

She hadn't worked since Robert was born and, in truth, after all this time she wouldn't have felt comfortable catching up with all the latest office equipment: electric typewriters and such like. She had great plans for the garden, spending her evenings sketching out designs for additional flowerbeds and, of course, a patio where they could eat outside during the summer.

Her red hair was frequently tossed over her shoulder and her bright blue eyes were forever flashing with enthusiasm. Mark always said that the old axiom 'the eyes are the windows to the soul' was certainly true in Sandra's case. He was a past master at reading her thoughts.

By contrast, he was easy-going although when roused, his anger could be intimidating. In company, he liked to take a back seat and let his wife take the limelight. Not that Mark was overly reserved or ineffectual. When it came to important issues, he would take charge. He was a tall man with dark hair and eyes. Keen on sport, he was determined to join the local cricket club and become a member of the golf club as soon as work allowed.

By mid-August most of the building work, except for some additional decorating, was finished and the family were able to enjoy the rest of the children's school holiday by spending time on the beach and taking long walks on the Downs. Robert often missed out on these activities, saying that he'd rather go to the swimming baths or try out his new roller skates along the promenade.

'We ought to get a dog,' said Sandra on one such countryside walk. 'It would be lovely to have a cocker spaniel or a Yorkshire terrier.'

'And who would take it for walks? Mark asked.

'I would.'

'I would.'

Both his daughters volunteered but he laughed and shook his head. 'You,' he said, pointing at Amanda, 'are too little to take a dog for a walk on your own, and you…' He swung his pointed finger in Vicky's direction, '…wouldn't have time because you've got to concentrate on your schoolwork.'

'I could walk it,' chirped up Sandra.

Mark waved her offer away. 'No, darling, no dog - end of story.'

Of course, it wasn't the end because Sandra chipped away at his refusal until, for the sake of peace, Mark gave in and they went along to the Animal Rescue Shelter and came home with a mixed breed terrier. The children agreed to call him Patch because he was predominantly black with just a small white patch on his nose.

 

By October, the Toplins had settled into their new home. Mark had got used to his daily commute to London; Robert had forgotten about Cindy since meeting a girl at college; Vicky had made friends at her comprehensive and Amanda had taken to primary school like a duck to water.

This left Sandra with time on her hands since despite her claim that she had plenty to do - and she did - she missed her Pinner friends. Most of those who were following a career only worked part-time so she had frequently met up with them. Here she knew nobody. The neighbours on one side were out at work all day and, on the other side, there was an old widow living alone. Being of a friendly nature, Sandra decided to call on her and introduce herself. It took a long time for the woman to open the door.

'Yes?' Her greeting didn't sound encouraging.

'We've recently moved in next door and I just wanted to say "Hello" but if this is an inconvenient time...'

'I know you moved in.'

Sandra put out her hand to shake. 'I'm Sandra Toplin.'

'Are you?' This didn't seem to be going too well.

'I thought it might be nice if you came in for a cup of tea one afternoon so that we could get to know one another.'

'I don't know about that…' came the grunted reply.

'Oh well, I'd better leave you in peace.' Sandra turned to go.

'Just a minute, could you wait while I put my teeth in?'

Sandra nodded. So that was the reason why the old dear was reluctant to engage in conversation. A few minutes later she came back, having removed her apron and combed her hair as well as putting in her false teeth.

'My apologies,' she said, 'you took me by surprise; no one ever calls on me these days.'

'I'm sorry to hear that,' said Sandra, her blue eyes full of sympathy, 'haven't you got any family?'

'They've all moved away.'

There was no answer to that so Sandra repeated her invitation for tea and this time, it was accepted. The following day, the good lady appeared on her doorstep at three o'clock precisely, smartly dressed in a navy skirt and white blouse with a hand-knitted Fair Isle cardigan over it. The latter gave Sandra the lead into conversation - not that Sandra was ever at a loss for words - as knitting was clearly a mutual pastime.

'I love your cardigan, Mrs Maybridge.' She had learnt her neighbour's name by now. 'What a delightful mix of colours! Did you knit it yourself?'

Mrs Maybridge plucked at the cardigan's sleeve. 'As a matter of fact, I did.'

'I love to knit. Perhaps you could lend me the pattern some time.'

'Of course, dear…'

They talked about many things with Sandra asking her neighbour to let her know if the children or the dog were too noisy. 'I would hate them to disturb you,' she said.

'To tell you the truth, I miss hearing children playing,' Mrs Maybridge replied, 'my last neighbours were very noisy but not in a good way. They were always quarrelling.'

'Oh dear…!' Sandra furrowed her brow in sympathy. A slip of the tongue by the young woman from the Estate Agents when they were being shown around the house had already revealed that the previous owners had, by all accounts, been difficult people.

Mrs Maybridge chatted on about how nice the town was, how convenient it was having the shops just up the road and about the favourable climate.

'It's much warmer down here than where I used to live,' she told Sandra. 'You see, I come from up north and they can have bitter winters. Here, it seldom snows.'

Sandra laughed. 'Don't tell that to my children.'

 

The removal of the fireplace made the dining-room seem much bigger and now that the plaster had dried, Sandra was impatient to get the room decorated. The old carpet had been pulled up and it was while she was sweeping the wooden floorboards beneath that Vicky found a little key.

'Look, Mum, isn't it dinky?' she cried. 'It's got a fancy edge and a little flower thing in the middle. Can I keep it?'

'You may as well but I don't think it will be much use to you,' replied her mother.

Vicky held it up between finger and thumb. 'It's really sweet,' she said, 'I wonder what it opens.'

'It must be something really small.'

'I shall try every lock in the house until I find one it fits.'

It didn't take long for the matching lock to come to light. The following day her father started stripping off the Stokes' green bird wallpaper, revealing the secret cupboard Jack had fashioned for Daisy.

'Well I never, it actually fits,' said Mark, 'shall we open it?'

'Let me!' cried Vicky, hopping up and down with excitement. Her little sister immediately joined in, crying, 'It isn't fair, I want to do it.'

'Well, Amanda,' said their mother, 'Vicky was the one who found it so I think she should open it.'

They all stood watching while Vicky tried the key. The little door swung open, it's hinges as functional now as they had been in Daisy's day.

'What's inside?' burst out Amanda, pulling at her big sister's sleeve.

'Give me a chance to find out.'

Vicky put her hand into the cupboard and drew out a small notebook.

'Let me see?' Her mother wanted to make sure it didn't contain anything unsuitable for her daughter to read. 'Why, it's some sort of a diary.' She flicked through the pages. 'I don't think you'll find anything very interesting in it, Vicky.'

Nobody noticed the folded sheet of paper that had fallen out of the back of it. Vicky all but snatched the notebook from her mother's hand. Turning tail, she bolted upstairs to her bedroom, leaving Amanda howling that it wasn't fair.

 

She threw herself onto her bed, stomach down and resting her elbows on the pillow, opened the notebook. The first page bore a name: Hetty Parker and underneath in brackets (née H-Bonneville). Vicky turned to the next page which described the walks the writer had taken along the seafront. It wasn't until she got further in that she realised her mother had missed something. The diary was the account of a love affair and Vicky's teenage eyes widened as she read the passionate language filling the pages.

At one point she rolled onto her back and held the notebook at arms-length, repeating aloud Hetty's loving sentiments. She lowered the notebook musing that Freddie Egan wasn't a very romantic name. She wouldn't have settled for anything less than say, Fitzwilliam Darcy or Edward Fairfax Rochester - she was studying Jane Austen and the Brontës at school. Even Rhett Butler would be better - her mother had dragged her to see a showing of Gone with the Wind only a week or two ago. She had tried to wriggle out of it but by the time the film ended, she had quite fallen for Clark Gable. She read through almost the entire diary but when she got to the part where Freddie reveals that he favoured the politics of a politician called Mosley, she felt puzzled.

That evening at dinner, she asked her father. 'Dad, who's Oswald Mosley?

 'Why on earth do you want to know that?'

Vicky shrugged. 'Just interested…'

Her father went on to explain that just before the Second World War Mosley had tried to form a fascist party but ended up in prison because favouring fascism was tantamount to being a traitor.

'Were the British fascists friendly with Hitler?' she asked. She knew a little about the War from lessons at school.

'Yes, and of course, we had to put a stop to it.'

Robert poked a forkful of sausage into his mouth and said, 'Why are you interested in all that rubbish?'

'Don't talk with your mouth full, Robert,' reprimanded Sandra.

He swallowed a large chunk and asked the question again.

'I heard someone mention it and I was curious, that's all,' replied his sister.

 

But Vicky's curiosity had been aroused. She read on, learning that shortly after Freddie's revelation, poor Hetty broke up with him. No wonder she was heartbroken: her lover was a traitor, an enemy of the country. She flicked through the pages again and was surprised when a folded sheet of paper dropped out. It had somehow become stuck to the inside of the back cover of the notebook. She smoothed it out and saw that it was a charcoal sketch of a man. The charcoal had smudged a bit but she could still see that he was young and good-looking. With a deep sigh, she dropped the picture to her lap. So this was the man Hetty was head-over-heels in love with. What a pity, there wasn't a picture of Hetty too! Vicky's eyes glazed over as she conjured up the image of a beautiful heroine struggling between love and patriotism.

That night she couldn't sleep. Thoughts about Hetty whirled round and round her head until, in the early hours, she made a decision: she would do all she could to find out what had happened to Hetty. Was she still alive? Of course, she would be a very old lady by now but perhaps she went on to find a new love. Without telling her parents, she went to the library, spending time in the Reference Department looking up old records. She became such a frequent visitor that the librarians began to acknowledge her and when she summoned up enough courage to ask for help, one of the ladies promised to see what she could find out.

 

'I'm off to the library, Mum.'

'Again? Make sure you're back in time for tea Vicky, and don't forget you've got to do some studying. You can't get away with it just because it's half-term.'

'Okay, Mum.'

Sandra heard the front door slam and paused in the middle of the letter she was writing. Why was her daughter, who generally loved to spend her spare time out of doors, so interested in going to the library? She had never been a bookworm. Could her fourteen-year-old have a boyfriend? Sandra shrugged off that possibility; so far Vicky had shown no interest in the opposite sex, she was too keen on tennis and netball. And, unlike her brother, Robert, who was nearly always top of his class and had a university place in his sights, Vicky needed to be goaded into studying for her 'O' Levels.

 

Vicky ran along the road to the library. She ran everywhere; in her eyes walking was akin to loitering. The lady at the check-in greeted her.

'Hello again, have you finished that book already?'

'No,' replied Vicky, 'I'm only half way through it.' In truth, she had only taken out the book to justify her frequent visits to the library. 'Can I go up to the Reference Department?'

'Yes of course.'

She made straight for the woman at the desk who was bent over the task of repairing the cover of a book.

'Hello, Miss Pelling,' she said.

Miss Pelling looked up. 'Shh! You're supposed to talk quietly up here.'

'Sorry,' giggled Vicky.

Beckoning her closer to the desk, the librarian smiled and said kindly, 'I've found out a little about your Hetty.'

Vicky's eyes lit up expectantly.

'It's not very much I'm afraid. The name Hetty Parker threw up nothing but the surname Bonneville is listed in Who's Who. Hetty could be short for Henrietta and you'll never guess, I came up with someone called Henrietta Bonneville.'

'Could that be her?' Vicky could hardly contain her excitement.

'I'm not sure. What puzzles me is the reference to H-Bonneville in the notebook.'

'Could that be Henrietta?'

'I suppose it could be, although there is another possibility.'

'Yes?' Now Vicky was agog with excitement.

'I had a flash of inspiration…' smiled Miss Pelling, '…I started looking through the double-barrelled names and low and behold, I found this reference.'

She twisted the book in front of her to face Vicky and pointed to an entry.

'Henrietta Hastings-Bonneville!' squealed Vicky.

Miss Pelling put a finger to her lips and gave her a warning look. 'I thought you'd be pleased. Tomorrow, I'll do some more research now I've got the full name. Come back in a couple of days' time.'

Vicky left the library and ran all the way home. She was on cloud nine and once indoors, she raced straight upstairs to her room to take another look at the contents of the notebook.

'Tea's ready, Vicky.'

Her mother's voice reached her from the bottom of the stairs.

'Coming, Mum.'

Putting the notebook in the top drawer of her desk, she went downstairs. 'Where have you been, Vicky?' demanded Amanda. 'You promised to play doctors and nurses with me this afternoon.'

'Sorry, I forgot, I'll play with you tomorrow.'

'I shall be the nurse and you'll be the patient,' said Amanda firmly.

'Whatever you say…'

Sandra looked at her eldest daughter with surprise. Usually, she wasn't so obliging with Amanda. 'Did you get a book out of the library?' she asked.

'Erm, yes,' came Vicky's non-committal reply.

For Vicky, the next two days seemed to drag although she had plenty of revision to do. She would sit at her desk facing the window and after reading a couple of paragraphs from her history textbook, her gaze would be drawn to the gently swaying trees in the garden and she would think about Hetty Parkeretty ParkerH. On the second afternoon, Sandra allowed her out to play rounders with her friends on the green near the beach.

The next day, she couldn't wait to get to the library but she was destined for disappointment. It transpired that Miss Pelling was off sick.

'When will she be back?' asked Vicky.

'I'm afraid I don't know. She's got a chest infection and it could take some time to clear up.'

Vicky felt close to tears. She knew Miss Pelling with her grey hair and wrinkled neck was old, at least seventy, although that wouldn't make sense because at that age she wouldn't still be employed by the library. She dawdled home and, once again, went straight upstairs to her room.

Sandra was in the kitchen and she heard the front door open and close. She also heard her daughter stomp upstairs instead of racing up two at a time. Rinsing flour from her hands, she abandoned the pastry she was rolling out and went up to Vicky's room.

Vicky didn't answer when she knocked at her door. She knocked again and said, 'Can I come in?'

'If you want to.'

Sandra went in and found her daughter curled up on the bed. She went to sit down next to her. 'What's the matter, Vicky?'

'Nothing.'

'I know when something's wrong; tell me what it is.'

All at once, Vicky felt the compulsion to confide in her mother. Jumping up from the bed, she fetched the diary.

'You've still got it!' exclaimed Sandra.

'Yes, it's not what you think.'

'What d'you mean?'

She opened the book and pointed out the name at the beginning then flicked through until she came to the very last page. Very deliberately she read out Hetty's words: 'I can't bear to stay here any longer. Walter is better off without me, the twins are independent. I won't be missed…'

Sandra was horrified. 'Is this a suicide note?' she gasped.

'Suicide?' Vicky shook her head. 'Oh no, Hetty wasn't going to commit suicide. Listen to the rest…' She went back to the notebook. 'I'm going to sign up as an ambulance driver for war duties. I'm going to play my part. Freddie is a traitor so I must compensate for his actions.'

'Who's Freddie?' Sandra was intrigued now.

Vicky proceeded to give her mother a garbled account of what the diary had revealed. 'You see, Mum,' she said, 'Freddie was involved with the fascist movement; that's why Hetty stopped seeing him, even though it broke her heart.'

'What a romantic story!' Sandra whispered when she had finished. 'And now I understand why you've been going to the library. What have you found out?'

Vicky explained about Miss Pelling being ill and her worry that perhaps she wouldn't come back to work.

'I expect she will. Listen, darling, next week you'll be back at school but we'll go down to the library on Saturday and try and find out more. No wonder you're interested and now you've got me hooked too.'

She went to leave the room then remembered the sheet of paper that had slipped out of the diary when Vicky had found it. Without paying much attention, she had picked it up and shoved it among some papers stacked on a shelf in the kitchen. Was it still there?

'What is it, Mum?' Vicky followed her downstairs.

'Look!' Sandra triumphantly handed it to her daughter. 'I think it's a portrait of Hetty.'

 

Miss Pelling was off sick for several weeks and Vicky began to despair that she would ever find out about Hetty. But when she returned she had some news.

Mother and daughter went to see her together. Vicky introduced her mother.

'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting for so long, Vicky,' said Miss Pelling, 'but while I was at home I made some enquiries and you are going to be surprised when you hear what I've found out.'

Vicky could hardly keep still and Sandra was hanging on the librarian's every word.

'Well, it transpires that your Henrietta Hastings-Bonneville was a brave lady.'

'Was?'

'Yes, sadly she's no longer with us; she died in 1944. After Dunkirk, she volunteered as an ambulance driver serving abroad. Apparently, she died in France although the exact circumstances are unclear…' Miss Pelling's words petered out, prompting Sandra to suspect that she was holding something back.

She gave the librarian a searching look but Miss Pelling wasn't forthcoming.

'What a shame,' said Vicky, sniffing into a tissue, 'I was hoping we could get in touch with her.'

Sandra put her arm around her daughter's shoulders and gave her a gentle hug. Then she said, 'I remember reading something about her a long time ago but I didn't take much notice.' She sighed. 'What an interesting story, to think that Henrietta Hastings-Bonneville used to live in our house!'

Vicky smothered a sob, making Sandra realise how much her daughter had become attached to Hetty and her story. 'Mum, show Miss Pelling Hetty's picture,' she whispered.

Miss Pelling adjusted her glasses and studied the faded charcoal drawing. 'Where did you find this?' she asked.

Sandra explained how it had fallen out of the notebook and been put away among some other papers.

Miss Pelling smiled. 'Well,' she said, 'that is a find. It's faded but you can see what a beautiful woman Hetty was. If you're interested, I daresay you will be able to get hold of a copy of her Obituary now that you have all the details.' Handing back the diary and the portrait, she added, 'You've got a piece of history there, Vicky my dear, treasure it.'

 

Although Hetty's story was no longer a mystery, Sandra wanted to know more. Without telling Vicky, she got in touch with a company who specialised in storing old newspapers. Miss Pelling had provided them with the date of Hetty's death and it wasn't difficult to trace the newspaper in which her obituary had appeared. A copy of the paper dated 30th June 1944 arrived several days later.

Sandra couldn't wait to open the package. And there it was: Henrietta Hastings-Bonneville's Obituary. She read it eagerly.

 

"IN LOVING MEMORY OF

HENRIETTA PARKER

(NÉE HENRIETTA HASTINGS-BONNEVILLE)

 

Henrietta Parker, known as Hetty was born in France on 11th August 1902 and died in Brittany on 19th June 1944. Her parents, Brigadier Bernard Bonneville and Ellen Hastings were British. Henrietta was the eldest of three siblings, having a brother Paul and a sister Sybil. Married to Walter Parker in 1921, she was mother to twin daughters, Patricia and Paula.

In 1940 Hetty Parker left her home on the South Coast to volunteer as an army ambulance driver. The following year she was recruited as an agent when it was discovered that she was a fluent French speaker with a working knowledge of German. Because of her familiarity with the Brittany landscape, she was frequently parachuted into that territory by the RAF.

During her time as an agent Hetty constantly put her own life in danger while helping British soldiers and airmen escape from the Gestapo and French collaborators. In June 1944, just prior to the Normandy Landing, she was caught by the Germans while escorting escapees through a Brittany forest. She died by firing squad the following day.

Henrietta Parker has been recognised posthumously by the British and French Governments for services to both countries during WWII. She is survived by her two daughters."

 

There was also a photograph which portrayed an older Hetty, a Hetty who had seen too much bloodshed.

When Vicky arrived home from school that day, Sandra had to suppress the urge to tell her about the find right-away. But the exams were imminent and she decided to wait until they were over. When Mark got home, she told him about it but he didn't seem very interested and she let the subject drop. It was another two weeks before she was able to break the news to Vicky.

'Darling, you remember that information Miss Pelling kindly found out about Hetty Bonneville, well I've delved further into it and look what I've discovered?'

She produced the yellowing newspaper to show her daughter.

'Wow Mum, that was clever of you.'

Vicky spread the broadsheet out on the dining-room table and scrutinised the fading print. 'Crikey, look at this Mum, Hetty was a heroine, a wartime spy and look…' She pointed a finger at the bottom line, '…Hetty's daughters are still alive, why don't we get in touch with them?'

This possibility had not occurred to Sandra and, instinctively, she held up her hands in rejection. 'I don't think we should do that, dear.'

'But Mum, wouldn't it be cool to actually talk to someone who knew Hetty.'

'Let's not be hasty, Vicky, they may not like our interference…' Sandra clenched her hands together. '…and besides, we don't have their address or addresses. They are probably both married so they won't have the same surname.'

Vicky looked disappointed. 'I didn't think of that.'

 

Despite her wise words to Vicky, Sandra couldn't stop thinking about Hetty's family. By rights, the diary belonged to them as next of kin but if she managed to trace one of the daughters, would Vicky be willing to relinquish her find? She fretted about what to do for several weeks until, one day, finding herself in the library she went up to the Reference Department to look through the telephone directories from various parts of the country. There was no harm in looking and the possibility of locating either Patricia or Paula Parker was so remote as to alleviate her conscience.

She started with local areas first and found there were quite a number of ''Parkers''. Then she moved on to outer London and there she found a Paula Parker listed. She made a note of the number and went home.

Now she had a further dilemma: should she tell Vicky before or after telephoning the number, or indeed, should she telephone the number at all? In the end, unable to let it go, she took the plunge one afternoon while Vicky was at school.

The phone rang several times and she was on the point of replacing the receiver when a woman answered.

'Hello,' she reeled off the number.

'Hello,' said Sandra, finding to her surprise that her heart was beating rapidly and her throat had gone quite dry. 'Can I speak to Ms Paula Parker please?'

'Speaking...'

'Hmm…' Sandra cleared her throat. 'Forgive me for asking, but did you once live at Number Seven…'

She didn't finish the sentence because the other woman interrupted her. 'Yes…but who are you?'

Sandra went on to explain that she now lived there and had discovered the Parkers had been former residents.

'My father sold the house to a mother and daughter. Let me think, the mother's name was Cora something or other, would that be you?'

'No, my name's Sandra Toplin and I live here with my husband and children.'

'I thought you couldn't be Cora because she was quite elderly and you sound young but…' There was a pause. '…may I ask why you are phoning me?'

It all came out then: Vicky finding the diary, the search through library records and the discovery that Hetty Parker had been a heroine.

'Oh my goodness, to tell the truth after Patsy and I left home we seldom went back. Once Mummy left, we occasionally visited Dad…'  Again she paused. '…actually I still feel a little guilty about Daddy.'

Did Sandra detect a sob in Paula's voice? All at once she too felt guilty. If the daughters didn't know about the diary, the likelihood was that they didn't know about their mother's affair with Freddie Egan. By showing them the diary she would be letting the cat out of the bag.

'I hope I haven't upset you,' she said 'I wasn't sure what to do. Look, forget I rang.'

'Don't go!'

Sandra bit her lip, wishing she hadn't made the phone call.

Paula started speaking again. 'What did you say your name was?'

'Sandra Toplin, I live at…' She stopped realising that, of course, Paula knew exactly where she lived.

'Look, I'd like to get in touch with my sister and then perhaps we could come and visit you.'

Things were getting out of control. 'Yes…' Sandra replied hesitantly.

'It would be at your convenience of course.'

The warmth in Paula's voice convinced Sandra. 'Yes, of course you can come. We'd love to meet you. My daughter and I were so impressed by your mother's heroism. You must be proud of her.'

 

The visit was arranged for the following Saturday. Robert said he would be out with friends and Mark promised to take Amanda and Patch to the park so that Sandra and Vicky could greet their visitors on their own. At three o'clock, they were both on tenterhooks as they waited for the doorbell to ring.

'Suppose they don't come, Mum,' said Vicky anxiously.

'They will.' Sandra was confident although by three fifteen, she too was beginning to wonder whether the Parker sisters had changed their minds.

They turned up at twenty past, explaining that their train had been delayed. Paula introduced herself and her sister, who's married name was Stevenson.

'It was lucky that I was able to trace you through the name Parker,' said Sandra.

'Yes, if I'd kept my married name after my divorce you wouldn't have found me,' agreed Paula. 'You see, I reverted to Parker for business purposes.'

If they hadn't been dressed differently and hadn't worn different hairstyles, Sandra would not have been able to tell them apart. They sounded alike too and broke into one another's sentences, using the same gestures when they explained anything.

Sandra let Vicky make the tea while she broke the ice because she knew that her daughter was feeling shy.

'It was such a surprise to find out about your mother's exploits during the War,' she said, taking a seat opposite them. 'My daughter's search began as a bit of a schoolgirl lark but when I started looking into it with her, we realised that this was a piece of history.'

'I suppose it is,' said Paula.

Patsy leant forward eagerly. 'We can't wait to see the diary. I remember Mummy writing notes in that funny little notebook of hers but I didn't realise she was keeping a diary, did you, Paula?'

Her sister shook her head and Sandra experienced a frisson of apprehension. How would they feel after reading it?

Patsy spoke again. 'If you're worried about some shady goings-on coming to light, we already know about Mummy's affair. Actually, we were there when she met Freddie Egan or Uncle Freddie as we used to call him.'

Sandra's eyebrows shot up. 'So you knew him?'

At this point, Vicky came in carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. 'Knew who?' she asked.

'Paula and Patsy knew about their mother's affair all along.'

'That's cool!'

As the conversation progressed, it became clear to Sandra that Patsy was the more dominant twin. She laughed a lot and something told her that she was the daughter who most resembled her mother. Each sister skimmed through the diary in turn, Patsy with a smile of amusement, Paula looking perturbed. 'I didn't realise Mummy was so much in love with him,' she said.

Patsy frowned. 'Well, you know what Mummy was like: fun-loving and flirty. I'll never understand why she married Daddy.'

'There was nothing wrong with Daddy,' snapped Paula.

'I didn't say there was but you have to admit, he was a bit dull.'

'Just because he was quiet and liked reading doesn't make him dull.'

'Do you think he knew?'

'Of course he knew. And he must have known about Uncle Freddie being a fascist.'

'Why didn't he stop her seeing him then?' retorted Patsy.

Sandra began to feel uncomfortable and, changing the subject, asked, 'From her obituary, it seems your mother received posthumous awards, did you attend the ceremonies?'

'We did in England but neither of us was able to go to France for the French award.'

Sandra suddenly remembered the charcoal sketch of Hetty and went to fetch it. The twins scrutinised it eagerly. 'Fancy Mummy never showing us this portrait,' said Patsy. 'Was it with the diary?'

'Yes.'

Paula sighed, 'Mummy was very beautiful.'

Patsy laughed. 'What a pity she didn't pass her good looks on to us!'

Sandra wanted to contradict her but thought better of it. As regards looks, the twins were well endowed but, by all accounts, their vivacious mother had outshone them. She recalled the sketch of Freddie but instinctively felt that it would be better not to mention it.

Vicky had kept quiet for most of the afternoon and Sandra couldn't help noticing that her daughter's gaze was constantly drawn to the diary as it was passed from twin to twin. She's realised that she will probably have to part with it, thought Sandra, dreading the moment when either Patsy or Paula would ask to keep it.

At half past four, Mark and Amanda returned. Patch bounded in and Sandra had to stop him from jumping all over their visitors. Amanda was fascinated by the identical twins and went to sit between them on the sofa.

'I have a daughter called Amanda,' said Patsy.'

Amanda jumped to her feet and waved her arms, bursting out, 'Is she the same age as me? I'm nearly six.'

'My Amanda is grown-up and has a family of her own,' revealed Patsy, giving Sandra to understand that the twins must be a little older than she was.

Mark greeted them politely before excusing himself by saying he had to fix a broken fence panel in the back garden.

'Down, Patch, down!' ordered Sandra when Patch started getting a bit excited again.

'We never had a dog,' said Patsy, 'but we had a cat called Mimi. Do you remember her, Paula?'

Paula chuckled. 'She was so sweet and we had a job persuading Daddy to let us keep her, but I suppose you couldn't blame him; after all he was allergic to cats.'

'I wonder what happened to Mimi after Mummy left.'

'I suppose Daddy gave her away. I'm sure he didn't take her with him when he moved.'

Mention of their father gave Sandra a jolt. 'Is your father still alive?' she asked.

'No, daddy died a long time ago. He was a heavy smoker and suffered from emphysema.'

'I'm sorry.'

Patsy explained, 'We wanted him to come and live near one of us but he refused saying he preferred to live by the sea. He sold the house and rented a flat so that he could give us each enough money for a deposit on a property. It was very generous of him.'

'Indeed it was,' agreed Sandra.

This conversation reminded Sandra that Number Seven had once been home to Patsy and Paula. 'Would you like to have a look round?' she said.

'Yes please. I expect you've made quite a lot of alterations since our time here,' said Paula.

Sandra led them upstairs and showed them the en-suite shower room they had added to the main bedroom. She explained that the attic box room was now Mark's study. It was five o'clock by the time she had shown them the rest of the downstairs and proudly escorted them into the garden, which she had so painstakingly re-landscaped.

'The garden's lovely and I think you've made the house look very nice too,' said Patsy, and Paula agreed.

The conducted tour completed, they all went back indoors and Sandra watched as Patsy picked up the diary from the coffee table. Vicky's gaze was fixed on her and, for a dreadful moment, she was afraid her daughter would try to snatch it back. She needn't have worried.

With Paula nodding in agreement, Patsy said, 'Sandra, we would like to take that sketch of Mummy but we think Vicky should keep the diary because, after all, we know our mother's history, but it was your daughter who found this.' She handed the diary to Vicky. 'Please take care of it for us.'

Vicky's eyes lit up. Losing her shyness, she threw her arms around Patsy's neck and then around Paula's. 'Thank you so much,' she cried.

 

Mark and Sandra had always harboured great hopes for Robert. He was a smart boy, had no trouble with his studies and was more than capable on the sports field. He was also popular with his peers and once he had got over leaving Cindy, Sandra saw a succession of his girlfriends pass through Number Seven.

He had passed his 'O' Levels with flying colours and was now studying for his 'A' Levels but Sandra had begun to notice a change in him. He no longer seemed motivated, rarely communicated with his family and cleverly avoided any questions about his studies. He started staying out later than the agreed curfew time, and at home he locked himself away in his bedroom playing recordings of the Rolling Stones or the Beach Boys loud enough to drown out the television.

One evening Mark lost his temper and stormed upstairs to his son's room. From downstairs, Sandra could hear every word of their altercation, their voices raised above the music. When it was suddenly switched off, the row between father and son was even more audible.

'What's the matter with you, Robert, don't you realise that racket can be heard halfway down the street?'

'It didn't sound all that loud to me.'

'What about your studies?'

'I was studying, Dad…'

'You can't study and listen to music at the same time.' Mark pointed at a sheet of paper his son had hastily shoved under his exercise book. 'And what's that?'

'Nothing Dad.'

'Let me see.'

Before Robert could stop him, Mark had snatched the paper from off the desk. 'Another bloody drawing,' he said, tearing it into two pieces.

'Don't Dad.'

'You should be studying not doodling.'

'I'm not doodling, I'm drawing.'

'Well, no more drawing until you've passed your exams, d'you hear me?'

Robert muttered something almost incoherent. His father frowned. 'Mind your tongue!'

Sandra could picture the two of them facing one another in Robert's small bedroom. At eighteen, the boy was already taller than his father and strong too. If it came to fisticuffs she knew who would win.

'Music helps me study,' Robert's voice was petulant.

'Not any more. Keep it switched off for the rest of the evening and get your head down over those books. If you switch it on again, I'll confiscate it.'

Sandra didn't catch Robert's reply as Mark came stomping downstairs, anger clouding his brow.

'What's the matter with that boy,' he ranted, '…doesn't he want to do well? He won't get a place at uni if he doesn't study.'

Sandra tried to placate Mark. 'He's just going through a teenage phase, darling. Keeping on at him will only make things worse.'

'He deserves a good thrashing. My father wouldn't have stood for me answering back like that.'

Sandra could remember Mark's father, a formidable figure trapped in a Victorian mindset. She knew her husband had not had a very happy childhood, unlike her own which had been wonderfully easygoing.

But Mark's tough stand did the trick and by 1966 Robert had passed his 'A' Levels with adequate grades although they didn't show the potential his 'O' Level results had shown. Sandra got ready to drive him to various universities so that he could decide which ones he would apply to. Thus it was a shock for her when, one Saturday afternoon, she came home from a shopping spree in Marks and Spencers to find Mark and Robert sitting in front of the television with glowering expressions on their faces.

'What's up?' she asked, dumping her shopping bag down on the floor, her intention to show Mark her purchases forgotten.

'Ask him,' snapped Mark.

Sandra turned to her son. 'Well, what's happened?'

'Nothing…'

'Don't grunt at your mother like that.'

In response to his father's reprimand, Robert got up and stormed out of the room.

'Come back here!' shouted Mark, also getting to his feet.

But it was too late. Before he could reach the hall, the front door slammed shut.

Feeling deflated after the high she had been on after the shopping spree, Sandra sank down onto the sofa. 'You'd better tell me what's going on,' she said.

Mark's features were taut with anger. 'He's doesn't want to go to university, that's what's going on.'

'Doesn't want to go?' repeated Sandra.

'That's what I said,' snapped Mark.

'But that doesn't make sense…'

'No, it doesn't make sense.'

'Mark, for goodness sake, explain...'

'He wants to go travelling.'

Sandra let out a sigh of relief. In her mind's eye she saw a much worse scenario: drugs or crime or Robert getting a girlfriend pregnant.

'What's wrong with that? He can always take up his university place when he gets back, after all they're crying out for engineering students and, besides, lots of young people take a gap year.'

'He doesn't want to be an engineer.'

'Well, I expect his grades are good enough to let him switch courses.'

Mark was so red-faced that Sandra was afraid he'd have a heart attack. 'Calm down,' she said, 'this is only a passing phase; he'll come to his senses.'

'He wants to be an artist.' Mark enunciated each syllable.

'What?' For a moment Sandra was astonished then she remembered the number of times she had seen her son busily sketching and she had to admit that he was rather good.'

'Sandra, he's serious. He says he wants to go to Australia to gain some life experience and build up a portfolio, I ask you!'

'I'll put the kettle on.' Sandra stood up and went into the kitchen.

'Weren't you listening, Sandra?' said Mark following her.

'Yes, I heard every word but he's only young.' She switched on the kettle and went on, 'Did you know what you wanted to do at eighteen?'

'He's nearly nineteen,' Mark corrected her, 'and yes, I did know what I wanted to do when I was his age.'

'Leave it to me, I'll talk to him,' said Sandra, planting a kiss on her husband's cheek.

Mark turned away abruptly and went back to sink into an armchair in front of the television to watch the football results.

 

In actual fact, Sandra wasn't as confident as she appeared. She knew how obstinate Robert could be once he got an idea in his head. She recalled the fights they'd had about getting his hair cut and the occasion when Mark had nearly hit the roof when his son had come home wearing a pair of doc martens, saved up for with his paper round money. She decided to leave it until the following day to approach him.

The next morning as soon as she heard movement coming from his room, she went to knock at the door. 'Robert, can I come in?'

'There's nothing stopping you.'

'I know that but I won't come in if you don't want me to.'

'Come in, Mum.'

She found him sitting at his desk looking through a pile of travel brochures.

'If this is what you've come to talk to me about, you can forget it,' he said, planting his hand firmly on the top of the pile.

'Well…you did give your father and me a bit of a surprise. We thought you were all set to go to uni. What changed your mind?'

He swivelled round and reached for her hand. 'Look, Mum, I like studying and I've worked hard but engineering isn't what I want to do.'

'What do you want?'

He looked somewhat sheepish and said, 'I want to be an artist. Please don't laugh.'

'I'm not laughing.'

'Dad laughed; he made me feel like an idiot. What's wrong with being an artist?'

'Nothing, darling but it's an uncertain career whereas engineering could bring in good money.'

He wrinkled his brow. 'I know, but I must give it a try.'

'Why not get your university degree first then…'

Robert shook his head. 'I've made up my mind. I've already booked my flight to Sydney.'

'You've what?'

'I didn't take the decision lightly, Mum,' he said earnestly.

'Where did you get the money?'

'I've been working, you know that and…'

'And what…?' Sandra was beginning to get worried.

'You know those premium bonds you took out for me when I was little? Well, as they were in my name, I've cashed them in. Please don't be angry. I don't want to leave home under a cloud.'

Sandra reached out and hugged her son. 'That won't happen, at least not from me. I would only ask one thing. Please keep your university place open so that if you change your mind, you can take it up next year. It's not much to ask, is it?'

Robert held his mother at arms-length and smiled down at her. 'For you, Mum, I'll do that.'

 

Robert departed a month later. Waved off by his disgruntled father and his tearful mother, he checked in at the airport, encumbered by an enormous rucksack. His intention was to backpack around Australia, working in bars and restaurants. It was going to be a great adventure and he was up for it.

During the journey his excitement grew and much as he tried to catnap he failed. In consequence, he was bleary eyed and had a thumping headache by the time he landed in Sydney the following afternoon. It was getting late and finding digs was of paramount importance and when a stranger offered to show him a respectable hostel, he readily agreed. It turned out to be in a back street but it looked all right: basic but clean.

Thinking how friendly the Aussies were, he thanked the man, paid for two nights and slumped down on the narrow bed without bothering to unpack. He slept for sixteen hours, waking up when he heard voices in the corridor. Getting up, he stumbled out of the room to look for the bathroom, which he had been told was halfway down the hall.

When he got back, he decided to change into some clean clothes and it was then that he noticed his rucksack was unfastened. He frowned, trying to remember whether he had opened it the night before. Concerned now, he emptied everything out. His clothes and washing accoutrements were all there. He delved into the side pockets. His passport was there and so was his visa but the wallet containing his Australian dollars was missing and so was the expensive camera he had saved up for with his dad providing the shortfall. He sank back onto his haunches: Robert Toplin had been conned on his first day in Oz.

 

Sandra rushed to greet the postman, who handed her an airmail envelope. She tore it open and started to read Robert's letter. It was cheerful and gave an account of his journey, clearly scribbled during the flight. Then the tone changed. He seemed a bit lost, said Australia was very expensive and money was tight. "…but don't worry, Mum, I've already found a job." Feeling puzzled, Sandra dropped the letter to her lap. Before leaving, he had assured his parents that he had sufficient money to last at least two months before he needed to look for work as he intended to do some sightseeing first.

Sandra's intuition was seldom wrong and the more she thought about the letter - rereading it several times - the more convinced she was that something was not quite right. When she showed the letter to Mark he shrugged off her concerns.

'I expect he's decided to test the waters on the job front before striking out on his travels,' he said. 'That sounds sensible for once.'

For a while she was reassured but a second letter increased her concern when Robert confided that his beloved camera had been stolen. Sandra paced the floor, the letter screwed up in her hand. If only she could speak to him but so far he had not given them an accessible telephone number. The minute Mark came home from work, she spilt it all out.

'The young fool!' Mark was angry. 'How did he let that happen? Hasn't he learnt to look after his belongings yet?'

Sandra jumped to Robert's defence. 'Have a bit of sympathy,' she insisted, 'he's far away in a foreign country…'

'It's not as though they don't speak English over there, Sandra. Being in Oz is home from home for us Brits.'

Sandra lost her temper. 'I think you're being terribly unfair. He's only a lad, just out of school, give him a break.'

'Give him a break! I'd break his neck if he was here. That camera was top of the range, cost a fortune.'

'There's worse,' said Sandra quietly. 'He says he needs money, his earnings from bar work barely cover his food and accommodation.'

'Where's he staying for God's sake,' thundered Mark, 'in a five star hotel?'

Mark stomped upstairs to change from his work suit into jeans and a t-shirt, leaving Sandra close to tears. She gave a sniff, knowing that her husband would eventually calm down. In any case, she decided, she would despatch the necessary funds over to her son the very next day.

 

And so, with his mother's help, Robert was able to continue his tour of Australia but he had to cut his stay down to nine months instead of a year. Armed with a cheap instamatic, he hitch-hiked whenever he could, sometimes taking the Greyhound bus. But the incident taught him a lesson and he began to realise that, although up until now things had invariably gone his way, there was no guarantee that this would continue and he started to think seriously about taking up his university place.

But fate has a way of showing its face in extraordinary ways. During a ride on the Greyhound bus he met a girl from Wales, who was also on a gap year. They decided to continue travelling together. Her name was Bethan and she was due to start a Textile Design Course at Leeds University the following autumn. When she heard that he wanted to be an artist, she enthusiastically went into details about the course she was about to take.

'Have you done much drawing?' she asked him.

'I'm always sketching something or other.'

'Let me see some of your sketches.'

As the bus sped along the long straight road, Robert raked through his backpack and took out some of his more recent drawings. Heads touching, they poured over them together.

'These are really good, Robert,' she said, looking up at him, 'why don't you apply for a graphic design course?'

'I don't think my dad would take kindly to that idea.'

'Has he seen your drawings?'

Robert shook his head. 'I've shown them to Mum and Vicky but Dad isn't interested.'

Bethan got excited. 'You should apply to Leeds; that's where I'm going. It would be great, Robert, you'd love it.'

Robert couldn't help smiling as, in her eagerness, Bethan's Welsh accent became more and more pronounced.

'When I was looking to take an engineering degree Leeds didn't crop up but I suppose if I changed direction, I could apply.'

'Your grades are good enough; did you take A Level Art?' He nodded so she went on. 'Why don't you take a foundation art course first and if you do well, you can apply to Leeds next year? It would be great us being at the same university.'

Robert thought about this and persuaded by Bethan's enthusiasm, he wrote to his mother asking her to make enquiries. Her response was positive although he wasn't sure whether she had mentioned this to his father. He decided to wait and find out about that when he got home.

 

Nine months sped by and just before Christmas 1965, Robert kissed Bethan goodbye at the airport. He would be home for Christmas; she was due to fly home in the New Year. His parents were at Heathrow to meet him and he hoped his father would have mellowed during his time away. While they were in the airport concourse nothing was said but once the luggage was stashed in the boot of the car and he was sitting in the front passenger seat, his father brought up the subject of his change of direction.

'So you've definitely decided to switch courses?' said Mark as he manoeuvred the Audi into the correct lane. 'An art course…?'

In an endeavour to justify his decision Robert didn't choose his words very sensibly. 'Honestly, Dad, it'll be a blast, ' he said.

His father's response was not encouraging. 'Son,' he said with a deep sigh, 'we didn't keep you at school until you were eighteen for you to have a blast but I suppose at the end of the day, you have to do what you want to do.' He cast a brief glance in Robert's direction. 'And thanks to your mother, it looks as if you've gained a place at Leeds provided you enrol for a foundation course first at a local college to prove yourself capable.'

'I will, Dad, I'm so relieved; I thought you'd go ape when I told you.'

'Mum says you met a girl down under and that's why you chose Leeds University. Was that the draw?'

Here we go, thought Robert. 'No, Dad,' he said firmly, 'it's just that Bethan showed me the way I can fulfil my ambition.'

He knew his mother, sitting in the back of the car, was smiling. She had always been on his side. He promised himself that he would make up for all the hassle he had caused her.

 

Time waits for no man and it wasn't long before Robert and Vicky had fled the nest. They were both at university: Robert doing his second year at Leeds and Vicky her first year at Durham. Although Amanda often brought friends home, the house seemed quiet without them, prompting Sandra to look for a part-time job.

She found employment in a florist and with her hours filled with flower arranging and dealing with customers, she felt content. Surprisingly it was Mark who became restless.

'How about we move house, darling,' he said one day.

Sandra was taken aback. 'I like it here,' she said, 'besides it wouldn't feel right for Robert and Vicky to come home to a different address.'

'Maybe you're right.'

Much to Sandra's relief, Mark let the matter drop and they remained at Number Seven for a few more years, by which time, Mark was beginning to think about retirement.

Robert's marriage to Bethan in 1973 was quickly followed by Vicky's engagement to a fellow history student.

'We're losing our children,' wailed Sandra.

'Gaining a daughter and son-in-law you mean,' Mark corrected her.

'The family hasn't been together at Christmas for years and now we've got to share our son and daughter with two other families.'

'Would you rather they didn't get married and have families of their own?' Mark huffed.

'Of course not, I want to be a grandmother while I'm still young and fit enough, not an old biddy who can hardly prise herself out of a chair.'

Mark laughed. 'You'll never be like that.'

By 1975 Bethan was pregnant, giving birth to baby John during the autumn and much to Sandra's delight the family congregated at Number Seven for Christmas. Sandra was concerned about their son's future. Robert and his wife had so far managed to make ends meet but now they had a baby to care for it looked as if, for a while at least, they would have to rely solely on Robert's income.

'You can't worry about them forever, darling,' Mark told her, 'Robert made his choice. If he'd gone for engineering like he was supposed to, his future would be assured.'

Sandra gave a guilty shudder. Hadn't she been the one to encourage her son to follow his dream?

Once the festivities were over, Mark sprang a bombshell on her. 'I've decided to take early retirement.'

'Won't you get bored being stuck at home all day long?' She flashed him a quick glance, 'I'm not giving up my job.'

'Are you sure about that?'

'What d'you mean?'

'Well, darling, I've got plans for us.' Leaning forward, he touched her knee. 'Let's do something daring.'

'What do you mean?'

'Let's sell up and go and live in Spain. You know how much you love it there, all that sand, sea and sun…'

'You're not serious?'

'Of course I am. Now that Amanda's at uni, there's nothing to stop us.'

'Don't be silly, Mark…damn, now look what you've made me do, I've dropped a stitch.'

'Fuck the dropped stitch, just listen to me, Sandra.'

'Mark!'

'Sorry, darling, but I am serious about this. Hear me out.'

Sandra put her knitting down on the chair beside her and clasped her hands together, resting them on her knees and looking rather like a school girl waiting to be reprimanded by the head teacher.

He leant closer and said, 'I've thought about this a lot and now that I'm going to retire and the children are off our hands, I don't see why we can't do it.'

Sandra had never seen Mark so animated. Usually he was the most unenthusiastic person in the world. Over the years she had been the one to plan holidays and suggest outings.  She saw in her mind's eye the Costa del Sol's coastline, soft sands, surfers and sail boats. Mark's idea was appealing.

'They're not completely off our hands,' she said, 'remember Amanda's only eighteen.'

'Old enough to marry, drive a car and to vote…'

Sandra laughed. 'Old enough but not yet wise enough.'

'And,' went on Mark, 'properties are cheaper there and we'd have a nice little sum in the bank in case of emergencies…'

'Emergencies…?'

He shrugged. 'So we could help Robert and Bethan out if they were in trouble; you know how unpredictable the art world is'.

Sandra burst out laughing. 'Oh, I see…'

'Well?' He caught her hand and squeezed it. 'Does the idea appeal to you?'

Sandra blinked and adjusted her glasses. 'Of course but I'm still doubtful about Amanda?'

'Why?'

'She'd have nowhere to come home to at weekends and half-term.'

'She could fly over to join us or stay with either Vicky or Robert.'

'Yes, I suppose…'

Sandra frowned as she considered the drawbacks but these were fading fast as she thought about the positive aspects. It would be wonderful if they could afford a villa large enough to accommodate the whole family during the holidays. Their little grandson would love playing on the beach and Amanda could spend her entire summer break with them.  She sighed. Was she ready to move out of Number Seven?

 'I'll have to think about it,' she said, picking up her knitting.

Mark went back to his newspaper, smiling smugly, confident that in a year's time they would be soaking up the sun on an Iberian beach.

 

*****

 

Next up: ‘THE IRON LADY’