Page 26 of The Stranger in Room Six

Mabel tried to comfort Frannie just as her friend had comforted her when she’d first arrived.

Yet, while Frannie’s father was dead, there was still a chance that Mabel’s papa could be alive.

Mabel kept hugging this hope close to her heart, constantly asking God to make sure he was safe and promising him all kinds of things if he listened to her pleas.

Always being polite to Aunt Clarissa; doing extra sums; folding her clothes more neatly at night.

Yet at the same time, she felt so guilty because for Frannie, there was no hope.

At least the Colonel had organized for a tractor load of wood to be delivered to them so the fire didn’t go low.

‘It is very good of him,’ Frannie said dully. She had lost the sparkle in her voice. She didn’t even want to go swimming any more.

Mabel tried to throw herself into the war work.

Before rationing made it difficult, Mama had taught her to bake cakes.

Here, people had their own cows, so butter and milk were in plentiful supply.

‘Your cakes are delicious,’ the other women told her when she brought them down for a tea break during the camouflage netting sessions.

‘Your mum would be proud of you.’ Their praise made her feel both warm and sad.

Autumn was here, with blackberries bursting out on hedgerows. Mabel tried to coax Frannie into picking them with the other children after school, which her friend did, but without talking.

Mabel was beginning to enjoy the company of the other children more and more, though they were all so much better at arithmetic than she was.

The teacher suggested that her aunt help her, but in truth, they both grappled with what Clarissa called ‘the complex mysteries of the times tables’.

The eight and nine times were definitely their least favourite.

Mabel preferred to write what her aunt called ‘essays’ but which she saw as stories. One day she wrote about a little girl who woke up to find that her sister had disappeared.

‘Are you thinking about Annabel?’ asked her aunt with a softness she usually reserved for the Colonel.

Mabel nodded.

‘She’s not coming back, I’m afraid,’ said her aunt quietly. ‘And nor is my sister.’

In the past, Clarissa had always said ‘your mother’. Never ‘my sister’.

‘I know that now,’ whispered Mabel. ‘But Papa might.’

A tear ran down her aunt’s face. ‘Give me a minute will you, child?’

Mabel sought comfort in the kitchen with Cook. ‘We’ve got some pheasants left over from yesterday. Why don’t you take them down to Frannie’s mother this afternoon? They were from the Colonel’s shoot but I don’t reckon he’ll notice.’

Ugh! Holding them away from her, she made her way through the woods, past the cottage which Frannie had pointed out as the lacemaker’s home. Her friend’s words came back to her. ‘She can tell people’s futures.’ Was that her, digging up potatoes in the garden outside?

‘I can see you’re not enjoying that very much,’ the woman said, looking up from her task and nodding at the birds in Mabel’s hands. ‘You’re the girl from the big house, aren’t you? My goodness, you look just like your mother did at your age.’

A thrill shot through her. Any connection to her darling mama was so precious now she was gone. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Mabel said. ‘I didn’t know you knew my mother.’

‘Well, she and her sister weren’t allowed to mix with the likes of us, but I remember how kind and gentle she was. Your aunt was always very different from your mother, God rest her soul.’

As she spoke, the sky darkened and huge drops of rain began to fall.

‘Come into the cottage with me. You can shelter from this storm and I’ll put on the kettle for a cup of tea.’

Remembering Frannie’s words (‘We’re all a bit scared of her’) Mabel was about to make up an excuse. But the rain was so heavy that it was stinging her face. ‘Thank you,’ she found herself saying.

The lacemaker settled her down into a small but comfortable chair by the fire. Scattered round the room were several spools of lace. Mabel wanted to touch them but was conscious of her stained hands. ‘You can wash them in the sink,’ said her hostess, as if reading her mind.

She gave Mabel a large bar of carbolic soap. Mabel scrubbed and scrubbed but the pheasant blood wouldn’t come out.

‘Let me help.’ As she turned Mabel’s left hand over, she began tracing the lines on her palm and then gave a small gasp.

‘What is it?’ asked Mabel.

‘Goodness me. You’re going to have an extraordinary life,’ she whispered.

Mabel felt as if the hairs on her arms were standing on end. ‘How can you tell?’

The lacemaker’s face was so close that she could smell her breath. It reminded her of cinnamon.

‘You see this line here? It’s very long. That means you’re going to reach a good age. But challenges will come for you along the way. You will get through them, though you may doubt it at the time. Then, towards the end of your life, you’ll …’

She stopped. Her face went pale.

‘I’ll what?’ asked Mabel.

The lacemaker dropped her hand suddenly as if it was scalding her. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said with a tremor in her voice.

‘Please. Tell me.’

The woman’s eyes bore into hers. ‘I can’t, Mabel. However, I will give you one piece of advice. You must learn what to say and what not to say. It could save your life.’

Mabel found something soft being pressed into her hand.

‘Keep it and you will have peace one day. The rain’s stopped now – you should go.’ The lacemaker almost pushed her out of the door, the promise of tea forgotten.

Mabel ran without stopping to Frannie’s cottage, the pheasants in one hand and the gift clenched tightly in the other. Just before knocking, she opened her left hand to find a beautiful piece of cream lace, which she put carefully into her pocket.

‘Thank you, love,’ said Frannie’s mother when she gave her the birds.

‘It’s not from me, it’s from Cook. The Colonel shot them, but we didn’t think he’d miss them.’

She stiffened. ‘I see.’ Then she looked worriedly at Mabel. ‘You’re very flushed. Are you all right?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ lied Mabel, deciding not to talk about her experience on the way. ‘How are you?’

‘We must soldier on,’ Frannie’s mother said, gesturing at her knitting. Like many of the women in the village, she was making scarves and mittens for the brave boys on the front. ‘It’s what my husband would have wanted.’

A pair of heavy boots sounded at the door. It was one of Frannie’s brothers.

His eyes flew straight to the brace of pheasants. ‘Where did they come from?’

Frannie’s mother’s voice quivered. ‘The Colonel and Lady Clarissa.’

‘Did they indeed?’ His brows knitted with anger. ‘Then there’s only one place for them.’

Whipping the pheasants from his mother’s hands, he threw them out the back door. ‘We can’t have anything to do with that man.’

‘Stop.’ Frannie’s mother’s voice sounded angry in a way Mabel had never heard. ‘Do you want to bring harm on everyone in this family?’

She turned to Mabel with a pleading look on her face. ‘Please don’t tell the Colonel or your aunt any of this.’

‘I won’t,’ stammered Mabel. Then she remembered the lacemaker’s words. You must learn what to say and what not to say. It could save your life.

Shaking, she walked back home. There were voices coming from the library. ‘The date has been set,’ the Colonel was saying excitedly. ‘I’ve told the others. The time is coming, Clarissa!’

A date? Perhaps they were getting married.

Before, she would have been excited, but Frannie’s brother’s angry words and his mother’s look of fear made Mabel wonder if there was more to the Colonel than met the eye.

If she was honest with herself, there was something about him that she had never trusted.