The Henhouse Roof

By PD Watts

born in a quiet country village prior to the onset of the second world war, simon brand’s life is quickly and inextricably interwoven with the clare-thompson family and their country estate which borders the village. his mother moves them away from the village after the war, and an honours degree in economics at cambridge sees him opting for what proves to be a brilliant career as a business/financial consultant in the City.
at the end of a day of goodbyes in Cambridge, his eyes meet those of an exquisitely beautiful young woman through the window of a bus. they smile at each other as their respective buses depart in opposite directions, and despite attempting to find her, he begins to fear they’ll never meet. he dreams about the woman; emily lorenzo de pasquale—who becomes an absent but essential part of his life. in due course, he finds himself leading a bid to save the clare-thompson family company, during which he finally meets emily.
the tragic events that follow prompt his subsequent actions and colour his attitudes for the rest of his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: PD Watts
• Release date: Oct 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301454167

PD Watts

Back in the day I was a professional athlete who loved the sound and music of words but had no time to write. Now I enjoy expressing ideas as concisely and unselfconsciously as I can. I enjoyed reading Sidney Sheldon and Hemingway--both sadly missed--prefer Shakespeare's sonnets to his plays; apologies to the Earl of Oxford, and far and away my favourite poet is Dylan Thomas.At this stage in my life I want to enjoy everything I read and expect each book I write to be better than the last.

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The Henhouse Roof.

A novel by PD Watts.

Smashwords edition.

Born in a quiet country village prior to the onset of the Second World War, Simon Brand’s life is quickly and inextricably interwoven with the Clare-Thompson family and their country Estate which borders the village.

His mother moves them away from the village after the war, and an honours degree in economics up at Cambridge sees him opting for what proves to be a brilliant career as a business/financial consultant in the City.

At the end of a day of goodbyes in Cambridge, his eyes meet those of an exquisitely beautiful young woman through the window of a bus. They smile at each other as their buses depart in opposite directions, and despite attempting to find her, he begins to fear that they’ll never meet.

He dreams about her—Emily Lorenzo de Pasquale—and she becomes an absent but essential part of his life.

Later, finding himself called upon to lead a bid to save the Clare-Thompson family company, he eventually meets her.

The tragic events that follow prompt his subsequent actions and colour his attitudes for the rest of his life.

The quote in Gramma’s letter to Millicent is an extract from Echoes, a poem by the author.

So shall I walk among the trees, upon the earth, beneath the skies, to listen for the echoes of my life.

Who made this man to feel the elemental force, at odds with time but friend of nature’s seasons, too, and yet to breathe alone?

How can a fleeting summer’s breath caress the soul; cause wonderlands of mind to dance and sing beneath the stars, yet leave that soul alone?

Why does a mind that conjures images of phantom worlds; images that may shine forever on the page of stars, yet leave this man alone?

I, this child of dust, this man alone, needs therefore walk among the trees, upon the earth, beneath the skies, to listen for the echoes of my life.

In Chapter 7, Oscar’s reaction to Collins’ comments following his first Board meeting are the words of John Dryden: Tomorrow do they worst, I have lived today.

Copyright © PD Watts 2013. All rights reserved.

This work is copyright. Apart from uses permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

The book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

Smashwords Edition. Licence notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share it with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Cover photograph by Sarah Watts, courtesy, August 2013, of the wonderful Swancar Farm, Country House Wedding Venue, Nottingham.

Cover layout by Philip Walters.

www.ladybird-design.co.uk [e-mail]

The Henhouse Roof

a novel by PD Watts

Prologue

As if in answer to the prayers of every woman in the household—young, old, single and married—the Clare-Thompsons’ son was not even remotely like his father. A shy, unassuming Second Lieutenant in the Royal Field Artillery, he’d been at home on the family Estate for most of that summer—his life hanging by a thread, or so the gossips had it—a seemingly endless series of surgical procedures succeeding in terrifying his mother and eventually saving his shell-shattered leg.

Indeed, it was all Elizabeth Clare-Thompson could do not to weep when he returned from his walk that August Sunday morning declaring himself fit to rejoin his regiment—when he announced without warning or apparent concern for her feelings that he was packed and ready to go back to France and the war. And she was speechless with astonishment when, scarcely pausing for breath, he went on to ask that she take special care of her new lady’s maid for him. He appeared to have been careless, as he so casually put it, and she seemed to be with child.

Indeed, his behaviour had been so disturbingly uncharacteristic that even a week after his leaving she remained in a state of mental disarray—particularly as she found herself having to order a selection of clothing for herself and the girl to be thrown into a trunk along with bed-linen, blankets and pillows—hurrying out of her sitting-room insisting, perhaps as much to reassure herself as to pacify the girl—that the Master hadn’t really meant to hurt her when it was clear to them both that he had.

The chauffeur; her general purpose manservant, bodyguard and oftentimes chef during their stay by the sea, was despatched to bring the local midwife when Edith’s time came, the contractions coming at five minute intervals. As the day had approached, Elizabeth had done her best to convince the girl she’d find the confinement easier if she managed to relax and stay calm.

And although she’d said nothing, Edith had tried—tried very hard—on their walks along the shoreline wrapped and buttoned against the wind in the pale winter sunshine—during their outings up and down the coast in the comfort of the car; and to her surprise she’d given birth to her daughter imagining warm sand beneath her feet; the hiss and chatter of shingle running with the tide—a soft summer breeze gently tugging at her hair. Begging your pardon, Madam, she said, restored to alertness when it was over, but I’ve been wondering all these months why the Master was so angry?

Elizabeth’s husband had repeatedly written to his wife at the beach-house—begging forgiveness; apologizing for his attack on the girl—offering a variety of excuses for his cowardly conduct, none of which she was inclined to believe. Hush girl and rest, she ordered, sensing that the resourceful young Miss had known the answer to the question before it was asked. You have a beautiful daughter—now think about a name.

Not expecting to be consulted, Edith had nonetheless gone ahead and chosen the names soon after arriving at the beach-house. Millicent Emily, Madam.

Elizabeth surprised her in this as she’d begun to do in other ways, repeating the words as though in a dream. "Oh yes—Millicent Emily—Millicent—Emily—Clare-Thompson; such a beautiful name."

She was standing at the window gazing high over the shoreline and far out to sea; so quiet and still that it seemed to Edith she wasn’t there at all. My son’s heart is broken, she whispered at last. "Your daughter was born to a woman of high rank, Edith Graham—a Countess, I think. She was silent for a moment, drying her eyes. A beautiful Countess he met and married in France—killed, may the good Lord forgive me, nursing our boys at the Front. Taking a determined deep breath, she turned back to the bed. Do you understand what I’m saying, girl?"

Edith nodded.

Her Mistress went on. We have the absence of a wife to consider. The Countess was exquisitely beautiful and so full of life. I shall shed a timely tear, saying that her passing is too tragic for words; hard to bear for those of us who knew her, and that I’ve been over to France to bring my granddaughter home, entrusting her to the care of Edith my maid until this terrible war is over and my son can come home to England and choose a Nanny for himself.

Marvelling at her Mistress’s ingenuity, Edith slept soundly that night.

§

Edith looked out of her window, her memory undimmed. Over the willows weeping by the waterfall—smaller then, she recalled, and less to weep about she thought sometimes—out beyond the stream and the water-meadow, deep into the quiet corner of the wood she’d visited that August Sunday morning a long time ago.

She’d been attractive in those days—too attractive by far in the opinion of some: more full of herself than was fitting. Figure trim, hair the colour of ripe corn, lips full and inviting, she’d learned at an early age how to please men. But she’d never stopped asking herself why servants were invariably thought inferior to people born to wealth and position. Her Mistress was considerate and kind, and had clearly done nothing to deserve her brute of a husband, but it was for all that one set of rules for the rich and another for the poor. One day somebody was going to teach that man a lesson—the sooner the better as far as she was concerned.

May I walk with you? the son had asked. The doctors say walking does wonders for the leg.

‘Do it’, she’d told herself—‘before his pig of a father beats you black and blue and throws you out.’ She’d hesitated, taking an anxious deep breath before nervously summoning a tear and claiming that his father had repeatedly forced his way into her bed, grunting and sweating over her like a demented, wild animal, mouthing obscenities and threatening much worse, and most important of all that she was carrying his child. It had been so well conceived it was perfect—and most of it true.

Please don’t cry, he’d mumbled, trying to conceal his embarrassment by searching for a handkerchief to wipe away her tears.

"But I shall have to tell Madam, sir, won’t I? And the Master will beat me and send me away. Please don’t let him, sir—please."

She’d waited, her heart racing, her face buried in his sleeve. "But you must swear never to repeat what you’ve told me—never—not to anyone, he’d eventually answered. Do you understand what I’m saying?"

Oh yes, sir—yes. Never—I swear it. The promise had been studiously meek and demure; submissively compliant.

He’d studied her intently. Very well—I’ll inform your Mistress that I am the father of your child.

She’d thrown her arms around him. Oh, bless you, sir, bless you. You won’t let the Master beat me—you won’t, sir, will you?

He’d shaken his head and she’d known it was done.

He’d hated lying to his mother. She was too chaste; too pure; too proper in her ways to understand extra-marital relationships or the fate that befell children born out of wedlock. He’d risked breaking her heart by declaring himself fit to rejoin his regiment; announcing that he was packed and ready to go back to France, going on to ask that she take special care of Edith for him. I appear to have been careless, he’d told her, conceding that his leaving was unfortunate but his duty to his comrades left him no choice.

His father was no stranger to Edith’s bed even if he hadn’t come near since she became his wife’s maid, but believing she’d succeeded in saving herself and the child in her womb, she’d walked into her Mistress’s sitting room with a vase of fresh flowers and found him lying in wait. Foolishly, she’d taunted him. ‘Lieutenant Clare-Thompson knew how to satisfy a girl. He was a real man.’ He’d flown into a rage and hit her, and but for his wife’s intervention might have taken her then and there on the sitting room floor.

Instructed to help Edith to the car, the chauffeur had loaded their luggage and driven them out to the beach-house—far from the Master’s anger and the gaze of prying eyes.

Tears filled Edith’s eyes as she remembered their return to the house with Millicent coinciding with the arrival of a telegram informing the family that Lieutenant Clare-Thompson had been killed. He’d died bravely, it said—selflessly protecting his men—a credit to King and Country.

Elizabeth, as Edith was now at liberty to call her in private, had been inconsolable. The gulf between Mistress and servant had remained, but their relationship was noticeably less formal. Even prior to their leaving the beach-house, Elizabeth had so engrossed herself in inventing a suitable wife for her son; a credible mother for his child; so meticulous in rehearsing Edith in what to say on their return—how beautiful the Countess had been; how brave—how devoted to little Millicent—that they’d laughed together like school-girls when she’d overlooked the necessity to give the Countess a name. No—she’d finally decided, they’d call her, the Countess. It would add an air of mystery to her granddaughter’s life.

Millicent wasn’t a Clare-Thompson, of course. Indeed, Edith was well aware of the identity of the father of her child, but their daughter had been accepted into the family and now stood first in line to inherit the Clare-Thompson fortune. So, Nanny Graham as she’d quickly become known, had kept the knowledge to herself, moving into the rooms she’d called home ever since. They were on the first floor above the dining room—bedroom, bathroom, sitting room—armchairs, a sofa, carpet on the floor, pictures on the walls, all of her own choosing; everything in its place and neatly arranged. She’d been provided with everything she could have wished for, Elizabeth even turning a blind eye down the years to her occasional liaisons with men.

Dear Elizabeth, she whispered, sad to see the old lady so frail. Thank you; thank you for everything.

Her Mistress surprised her by opening her eyes and reaching for her hand.

Your son lied to you, Edith confessed. He was never my lover—never—not once in all the time I knew him. He was trying to protect us—me from his father, you from what he believed to be true. He was a good man, Elizabeth—a kind man.

Was he? Elizabeth asked weakly. Do you really think he was?

Oh, yes. I told him I was carrying the Master’s child knowing he’d do anything to keep the knowledge from you. I had to. I had to protect Millicent.

The old lady’s eyes were suddenly bright with tears.

I lied, Edith continued. "There was no other way. Millicent is not a Clare-Thompson. I swear it—by father or son."

Elizabeth drew her close; smiling—clasping her hand in both of her own. We did well—you and I, Edith Graham—neither was my son.

1

September 1940. Not a happy month for Britain, or for Toby Collins. Two-four-two squadron had transferred from Coltishall to Duxford; part of Twelve Group; soon to be known to many as Bader’s Big Wing. The Krauts were bombing our airfields, and Collins was exhausted, his oil pressure intermittently falling to zero all the way to and back from the coast. Trembling with relief, he slid back the hood, parked the aeroplane under cover, and taking a shuddering deep breath, clambered out down the wing to be met by his ground crew.

See that? he snarled, pointing to a fierce mesh of bullet holes splashed across the fuselage. Well, that’s down to you. And what was it this time? He waved his arms. "Yeees—all together now—fucking oil pressure again. ‘Where’s Collins?’ somebody will ask. ‘Bought it, the poor bastard,’ someone will answer. ‘Thanks to a fucking ground crew who were BONE FUCKING IDLE.’

Well, fuck you and fuck the war. I’m not going through that again—waiting for the engine to seize while a bunch of arseholes in Messerschmitts think Christmas has come early. And he’ll go fucking berserk if the heap of junk’s grounded."

He stalked out of the hanger, overdressed in a flying jacket in the hot afternoon sun, hitched a ride to the mess, downed a cold beer, saying nothing to anyone, and stripping himself naked, slumped full length in his bunk. What a fucking way to live. And Bader could go fuck himself. Let him fly the fucking thing.

He woke two hours later to find Bader standing at the foot of his bed. What’s wrong with your engine?

He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus. Oil pressure keeps disappearing.

Why?

How the fucking hell should I know?

"How the fucking hell should I know, SIR!! Bader snapped. Get over there and find out. And while you’re at it, report for debriefing. He stabbed the stem of his pipe at the airfield. Christ, Collins, you of all people."

Collins sat up, still rubbing his eyes. "Oh, shit—apologies, Douglas, it won’t happen again." He lit a cigarette, pulled the smoke deep into his lungs and dragged himself to his feet.

A master of the verbal onslaught, Bader never lost his temper. Everyone was exhausted, but it couldn’t be allowed to interfere with the job. Thank you, Collins. Apology accepted. Turning awkwardly as he always did, he walked stiffly from the room.

There was no love lost between them, but Collins was Bader’s second in command; his very definite right hand. They relied on each other, leading by example and doing it from the front—an understanding between them that would last for as long as they survived or as long as it took.

They demanded more from themselves than from anyone; exemplary conduct, unrelenting dedication. They were engaged in a crusade against the Luftwaffe; a crusade it occurred to neither of them they may not win. Addicted to the rush of adrenaline when they punched a hole in a Nazi—another one of the bastards who wouldn’t be going home—they used ammunition in two second bursts; sparingly—knowing they were outgunned—tactics talked through in detail and followed without fail. But it was nonetheless terrifying, and other than the Canadians in the squadron, too many flying with them were little more than kids. Collins was forever exhorting them to get stuck in. There was no better way to go, old boy, if your number came up. ‘Give the bastards what for.’ Unadulterated bullshit but they seemed to like it in the Mess.

They’d discovered a loose connection to his oil gauge when he finally got over there. Close to heart failure from take-off to touch down, urging himself to turn back while he could—"Bastards!" His voice echoed out across the hanger, but he was too tired for genuine anger and the moment had passed. His feet were back on terra firma and he would fight another day. They should have fixed it the first time, but they were as exhausted as he was; working round the clock.

Any other problems? he asked, failing to stifle a yawn.

She’s in pretty good nick—considering what she’s been through, the sergeant shouted above the roar of the engine starting up to be tested.

What could he say? Collins laughed and slapped him on the back. I’m glad one of us is.

Built at the end of the first war, the hangers at Duxford were perfect places to park, the sheer scale of them extraordinary given the technology of the time. No expense had been spared in their construction. Under different circumstances he would have found the architecture fascinating, not to say reassuring; so many vast wooden trusses and huge folding doors. Now they were sheds—sheds filled to overflowing with exhausted mechanics and a thousand spare parts.

§

Returning from the pub in the village as night began to fall, Collins stopped his three-fifty BSA at the guardhouse, the sound of its engine and his laughter carrying easily on the still warmth of the evening. Formalities complete, he slammed the bike in gear, accelerated wildly, failed to negotiate the attempted ninety-degree turn at full throttle, crashed on to his side, slid across the verge and ground to a halt less than three feet from disaster.

People emerged from the guardhouse and began running towards him. Fortunate to have encountered grass and not concrete between the back of the footpath and the all too solid hanger wall, he jumped to his feet and waved them away, discarding a thick leather gauntlet.

Sorry about that, old son, he grunted, extending an apologetic hand to the young pilot officer, whom guilty of nothing but passing, had dived to one side and been lucky to escape.

That’s all right, sir, the visibly shaken airman insisted, dusting himself down.

Call me Collins, dear boy, Collins added. Everyone does.

"Thank you, er—Collins—Merridale—Roger Merridale."

So what d’you think, then, Merridale? He threw a conciliatory arm around the pilot officer’s shoulders. No—don’t answer that. All over the fucking place, wasn’t I, like a mad woman’s shit?"

The man had to be a lunatic. "Sorry—Collins, but I’m not altogether sure—"

"No, no—you got it in one—into it earlier and more from the left. Kick her arse round, then bang her wide open. He gesticulated extravagantly to illustrate his point. New boy, aren’t you?"

Six one one—

Whoa! Walls have ears and all that. He picked up the miraculously unscathed motor bike and kicked its reluctant engine back to life. Hop on.

The world was dangerous enough.

Oh, come on man, it won’t bite. I’m on my way to Ops. Come and meet a few people.

Not the sensible thing to do, but faced with Collins’ seniority, Merridale accepted the lift, surprised to find him circumspection personified in delivering them safely to the Operations Room door. Predictably, he hadn’t bothered with a pass. Equally predictably, it was more than the sentry’s life was worth to let them in without.

"Uncle— Collins shouted at the door. Uncle—come and tell this good fellow we’re on the same side."

I’d say that’s a matter of opinion, a bespectacled Squadron Leader grumbled as his head came round the door. Merridale heard laughter from within. For God’s sake, Collins, do you always have to shout? And who have we here?

Merridale. One of the new boys from six one one. Thought I’d bring him along to see what he’s up against.

Uncle, Merridale discovered, was Squadron Leader Gerald Chilcote. Having provided them with a pass and apologized to the sentry for the Squadron Leader’s oversight, he lit a cigarette from the butt of his last and ushered them in.

Collins winked at the four girls seated down below. Be warned, old son, he said to Merridale. "This lot wouldn’t know a Messerschmitt if it peed up