Page 2 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)
Sir Percival Parke, who was a cousin to both Jessie and Polly, had always hated his given name and had never been known as anything but Bertie.
He had served with distinction in the war, one of the few to fight all the way from 1914 to 1918, winning the DSO and the VC, ending as a brigadier and working afterwards in the War Office.
Now he was happy to spend his days quietly at home, farming his estate and enjoying the company of his adored wife and three children.
He was very fond of Polly, and admired the way she had thrown herself into running the Morland Estate.
She had bought it from her brother James when death duties had threatened its dissolution.
Her late husband, Ren, had left her a large fortune, and James, though a countryman to his fingertips, had no head for business.
Polly’s head, Bertie reckoned, was as hard as any man’s: she had run her own fashion house in New York before her marriage, and that was no mean task.
He was studying milk records when his wife ushered Polly in, saying, ‘Can we disturb you, dearest?’
‘I can’t think of anything nicer. What’s happening?’
‘Polly needs advice,’ said Jessie.
As well as the radiator there was a fire in his room, for cheerfulness. Bertie moved chairs and got them all settled around it before inviting Polly to ‘tell’.
Polly told. ‘I thought an Englishman’s home was his castle,’ she concluded. ‘Magna Carta and all that sort of thing. Is John right? And who dreamed up such a terrible law?’
‘Well, I suppose you could say it was an extension, in a way, of the old Enclosure Acts,’ Bertie began.
‘She doesn’t want a history lesson, darling,’ Jessie intervened.
‘Oh, it was a rhetorical question, was it?’ Bertie said, with an indulgent smile.
‘They can’t really force me, can they?’ Polly asked hopefully.
‘I’m afraid they can. And before you howl again, think about things like the railways, and new roads.
And airfields during the war. On a tiny island like this they could never get them built if landowners could refuse to sell.
’ Polly was still looking mulish. ‘You wouldn’t want to be without the railway, now, would you?
Quite a bit of Morland land had to be given up for that, if I remember rightly. ’
‘But this isn’t for a railway,’ Polly said.
‘Compulsory purchase is allowed for projects that are considered to be in the public interest.’
‘Why do you object so much?’ Jessie asked.
‘Because Papa spent his life building up the estate. He worked and slaved to buy back all the land Uncle George sold, so that he could pass the estate on intact. He’d have a fit at the thought of selling it again.
I would never part with any of my land – it would be a betrayal of everything Papa stood for. ’
‘I wonder,’ Bertie said. ‘After Morland Place and his family, the one thing Uncle Teddy really loved was York.’
‘And the railways,’ Jessie added.
‘He loved the railways because they brought prosperity to York,’ Bertie said. ‘He supported anything that benefited the city. Don’t you remember how he started the York Commercials during the war?’
Jessie smiled. ‘Oh, yes – because Leeds had its Pals unit, so York had to have one too.’
Polly looked from one to the other. ‘So you’re saying he’d approve of the slum clearances?’
‘He helped with some of the early ones,’ Bertie said.
‘And you think he’d like there to be a council estate on Morland land?’
‘I don’t think he would fight against it,’ Bertie said.
‘If you clear a slum, the people have to go somewhere. Another thing to consider,’ he went on, seeing that she still wanted to argue, ‘is that if you sell at the first approach, rather than waiting to be forced, you may have some say over exactly where the building will be sited. That’s worth having. ’
Polly sighed. ‘I suppose one has accept change,’ she said reluctantly.
‘I’m afraid there may be more on the way,’ Bertie said.
‘I had a chat with Jack on the phone last night.’ Jack was Jessie’s brother, who had been a flier in the war and was now working in aircraft design.
‘He said that Hugh Dowding told him there’s going to be a big reorganisation in the RAF.
It will mean a lot of new airfields being built. ’
‘Now, darling, don’t start Polly worrying about that,’ Jessie said. ‘To change the subject, tell me, what are James’s plans? Does he have any? I thought he was only coming home for Christmas, but here we are in February and he’s still at Morland Place.’
‘He’s waiting to hear from Mr Bedaux. He and his wife went to America for Christmas and didn’t need James with them.’
Charles Bedaux was an American production engineer whom James had met when invited to join his expedition across British Columbia in 1934, and had since worked for in various capacities.
‘But I think James is worried he’s plunged into some new scheme and forgotten all about him. I don’t mind for my own part – I like having him around. I was quite dreading him going. But, of course, now Lennie’s coming for a visit, so I’ve got that to look forward to.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Jessie said. ‘It’ll be lovely to see the dear boy again. We must have a dinner for him.’
‘When is he expected?’ Bertie asked.
‘Towards the end of March,’ Polly said. ‘I hope he stays a long time. It was lovely when I lived in New York and we saw each other all the time.’
‘Perhaps he’ll stay for good,’ Jessie suggested. ‘After all, he’s got nothing to go back for, really, has he?’
‘Except his business empire,’ Bertie said drily.
Polly thought about her cousin Lennie – after her father, the person who had always been the most devoted to her.
She imagined him at Morland Place, imagined them riding together, walking together, talking.
They had so many memories in common. ‘We’ll have to find something for him to ride while he’s here,’ she said happily, and the conversation turned, as it so often did quite naturally, to horses.
In Whitley Heights, above Los Angeles, the morning air was cool and scented with pine, and the sun threw long shadows across the terrace from the orange trees that shaded one end.
Lennie, dressed as far as trousers and shirt, looked out over the hills, where the early light lay like silver gilt across the dark trees. The only sound was of birdsong.
On the first terrace below, the gardener was raking a few leaves together on the rectangle of lawn; on the second terrace, the turquoise pool rippled gently, reflecting the sky.
Everyone on Whitley Heights had a pool, but lawns were not natural to California.
It was that emerald oblong, maintained at such expense, that marked Lennie out as a rich man.
He shook his head at the idea. He had made his first million dollars so long ago he never thought of himself as rich.
Yes, it was agreeable to have the money to invest in his interests and to see them flourish.
It hardly mattered that, flourishing, they then made him even more money.
For the last nine months nothing much had mattered to him.
His pregnant wife had been killed in a car smash back in June, and his life had been dark.
Only recently had he felt his internal landscape shifting, and this morning he was aware that something heavy inside him had settled into a new position.
The day was something to be looked forward to, rather than merely endured.
And in this sweet early morning, the planning of the trip he was intending to take was no chore but part of the pleasure.
He had a few more things to settle, to ensure that his business would carry on without him, and some last-minute presents to buy.
Then there would be just his packing to do.
Wilma, his housekeeper, would want to do the packing herself, and would argue strenuously about it, but holding his own against her would be another sign that he was getting back to normal.
She had taken a loving stranglehold on his life these last eight months.
She had been with him for ten years, ever since he first came to California, and together with Beanie, his driver, formed the nucleus of a tight, loyal household.
The way they schemed to protect him, he sometimes thought they believed him to be a lovable imbecile.
He heard Wilma come out of the house behind him: the slip-slap of the dreadful broken-down slippers she insisted on wearing was unmistakable.
‘Breffus about ready, Mr Lennie. You want it out here?’
He turned to smile at her. ‘Might as well,’ he said. She would have squeezed him juice from his own oranges; and her coffee was the best on the west coast. Perhaps she would have made him pancakes.
She didn’t smile back. Her lower lip, reliable gauge of her mood, was sticking out. ‘Might as well get all o’ God’s good sunshine you can, ’fore you go to England. How folks can live in all that fog beats me.’
‘The sun shines in England too, you know,’ he said.
‘Nu-huh,’ she countered. ‘I seen it on the movies. Everybody creeping about in the fog. Enough to make you crazy. They say English folk are all mad. You should stay here, Mr Lennie, an’ let me take proper care of you.’