Page 59 of A Fresh Start at Bramble Cottage
“But . . . just like that? Vicky, do be sensible . . .”
Vicky rolled her eyes. “I am being sensible, Mum. What could be more sensible than living where you’re happy?”
“But what about Jeremy? What does he think about it?”
“It’s none of his business anymore.” Time to make the announcement. “I’ve ended our engagement.”
“But... I don’t understand.” She sounded totally bewildered. “Why?”
“I’ve decided not to marry him — that’s all there is to it.”
“But what about your job?”
“I resigned.”
“Oh, Vicky — have you gone crazy? What are you going to live on?” Now there was real distress in her mother’s voice. “You don’t know anyone down there. Oh dear... I don’t know what to say.”
Vicky smiled to herself. Her mother never had any trouble finding something to say.
“It’s all okay, Mum. It’s lovely here, and Aunt Molly has left me enough money to manage for a while.” She’d tell her the details another time. “Once I’ve got the place done up you’ll have to come down and visit me.”
“Well . . .”
“Did you know that Aunt Molly lived in France during the war?”
“What? I...” Her mother sounded confused by the abrupt change of subject. “Yes, I believe she lived near Paris. Why?”
“I was just wondering about her. Why did the family stay there when the war broke out? Why didn’t they come back to England?”
“Well, her mother had to stay to look after her grandmother. It’s hard to remember the details after all this time. If I recall, the old lady was an invalid, bedridden — she couldn’t be got away. Her father had already joined up, of course. And her brother — your grandfather — was at boarding school in England.”
“But Molly wasn’t evacuated?”
“Apparently not. I don’t remember why. It was probably thought too dangerous to send a little girl away on her own — more dangerous than staying with her mother. They didn’t live in the centre of Paris — it was somewhere on the outskirts. Boissy, or something like that.”
“Did she ever tell you about what it was like?” Vicky asked.
“Well... she said they were always short of food. Everything was rationed and they had to queue for hours to buy anything — but of course it was much the same here. And they couldn’t getshoes. She had a pair made of raffia, with wooden soles, or she wore her grandmother’s stuffed with straw. And coal — that was hard to get, too.”
“Did she tell you anything about the Resistance?”
A pause. Vicky could visualise her mother’s face, mouth puckered as she considered the question. “I don’t think so. She told me how there were German soldiers everywhere, but most of the time she was able to stay out of their way. And of course she was just a schoolgirl, so I don’t suppose they would have bothered her.”
“No...” Vicky smiled to herself. Sometimes her mother was wonderfully naïve. “Anyway, Mum, I’ve got a lot to do today — I want to make a start on the garden. Speak to you soon.”
“Yes, dear . . .”
Vicky ended the call before her mother could remember to ask any more questions.
Well, she’d done it. She’d burned her boats. Now she had a whole new life to make for herself. She rose to her feet and strolled through to the sitting room, and opened the French windows to step out into the garden.
It was hard to believe that she’d only lived here for a little over a week — it really felt like home already. Much more so than the smart apartment in London that she’d shared with Jeremy.
Could she really find a way to keep the cottage? If she was going to take on a mortgage to pay the inheritance tax bill, she’d need to find a job. Not as an estate agent — she’d had enough of that. But there was bound to be something.
* * *
Vicky stood watching as the trailer turned carefully out of the drive and down the lane, bearing Aunt Molly’s old motorbike and sidecar. Not ‘old’ she reminded herself, but ‘vintage’.
