Charlotte Bartlett was in labour, and whilst she had heard horror tales of searing pain and ripping flesh, her overwhelming sensation was one of immense irritation. The imminent arrival of her offspring had been long awaited but there was another present in the room who sought to spoil the mood with her own selfish preoccupations. The fresh and freckle-faced nurse, daintily framed but with an oversized bosom squeezed into an ill-fitting uniform, was the source of Charlotte’s contempt. Between her mild mannered, muffled instructions to push she kept sniffing back sobs and wiping away a trickle of tears and snot with the back of her trembling arm. Highly unhygienic and incredibly annoying Charlotte considered. It was her misfortune to be assigned a snivelling creature whose mind appeared elsewhere - on death and destruction: which was prevalent in the thoughts of most people at the time. But she was in no position to complain. She knew that sacrifices had to be made. And although her husband had sought assurances from his medical colleagues that she would receive the very best care, he was in no position to oversee such promises were carried out.

Charlotte found it actually helped with her own discomfort - to transfer her suffering - by focusing on the pained expression on the young nurse’s puffy face. She didn’t want to show any emotion of her own. For ten weeks, since mid-August, she had attempted to rid herself of hurt. On that day she had risen from the bed, to which she’d been confined with heat and pregnancy and more recently grief. She had pulled the curtains aside to face a beautiful, clear sky above the rooftops in Earls Court Road and she had declared to the empty room that she would never shed another tear. Now, as she silently pushed and thrust her baby out from within her, she was forced to come to terms with a new and unfamiliar feeling, one associated with motherhood: the need to protect. When she first saw the shock of black hair on the infant’s head she had whispered into its tiny ears a promise, to keep it from harm and free from pain. As her blood spilled out and engulfed the child she recognised this as the symbol of her sacrifice: from now on her life had one purpose only and that was to fulfil this promise.

The young nurse managed a weak smile through her still falling tears, and choked out the words: ‘Congratulations, Mrs Bartlett you have a beautiful baby boy.’ But such was the combined effort of speaking, crying and performing medical procedures that on the arrival of a tall, authoritative looking man into the room, the nurse apologised profusely, gathered her skirts and rushed out through the door. The tall man uttered his own apologies as he approached the bed, berating himself for his absence from the delivery. Then he offered the new mother his sincere congratulations and clasped her hand tightly before liberating the placenta and mopping up the blood.

He turned his attention to the squalling bloodied baby, delicately wiping away the white, sticky vernix whilst checking him over for any flaws. ‘Everything seems fine here Charlotte. Sophia did a good job. He looks absolutely perfect. Congratulations. A son for Donald, he would be very proud.’ Charlotte nodded as she reached out to take her young son in her arms. ‘So dreadfully sorry I wasn’t here with you myself. I was needed in theatre. That’s two legs, an arm and the remains of a left buttock I’ve removed already this morning and they’re still bringing them in thick and fast. Trains coming in to London from the continent are full of such poor souls. And there’s no sign of this one in Wipers letting up.’ He paused and looked down at his patients. His tone changed. ‘I don’t suppose you want to hear this right now? Let’s just hope this battle ends it all and this little one here never knows what it’s like to fight in a war, eh?’

He leant over, and instinctively stroked the baby’s wet, sticky forehead. Charlotte’s reaction was to pull the child away, hug him tighter to her breast. The Doctor appeared hurt, confused but dismissive. ‘You must be very tired; I’ll leave you to rest.’ Charlotte mumbled her gratitude: ‘Thank you Douglas, we’ll be fine. A rest will be good.’ But on the contrary, Charlotte felt strangely invigorated. Finally she understood what it had all been for: the pain, the anguish, the loss. She suspected that she may have offended her friend, or at least her husband’s friend; but she’d been irritated by him too, by his ignorance and complete lack of understanding. Of course this baby, her boy, her Thomas, would never know what it felt like to go into battle. She would make sure of that. And behind some of her curtness was resentment. Why was Douglas Coomb able to touch her son whilst his own father could not? Douglas Coomb and Donald Bartlett had been born six months apart and had met at Medical School. They’d qualified together, shared many whiskies the night they’d graduated and then started their first jobs on the same day. But whereas Donald, a married man, had volunteered for the Front, Douglas, a bachelor, had remained in England citing a congenital weakness with his ears. Charlotte had implored her husband not to go, begged him to put her before patriotic duty. And all Donald’s assurances that he would be fine, that he wouldn’t be on the Front Line but patching up soldiers in the clearing stations had been meaningless. He wasn’t to return home, would never hold his baby son; a stray howitzer shell at the start of the Third Battle of Ypres, back in the beginning of August had seen to that.

But here in her arms was the tangible reminder of the man she held so dear: the new-born baby with a mass of thick, curly hair - which was as black as charred remains. Donald was alive still, here in her son. As long as he breathed so Donald would breathe on and she wouldn’t be forced to keep her husband alive in her own memories. She wanted to forget, to expel the pain of his loss. She allowed herself one final reflection before she attempted to banish him from her mind. She closed her eyes tight and remembered the smell of her husband’s breath that last time. It had been earlier in the year, in January. Snow was falling outside. She’d watched it settle on the front steps fearing it would prevent him returning home. He was due for a short period of leave, before the spring offensives were set to begin. He needed a rest, having tasted but survived the horrors of the Somme. He had seen so many killed, and was due to see more. Even the journey home delivered death and worse. He had volunteered to accompany a train of especially badly wounded infantrymen back to London. It had been a horrendous journey. As the train jolted and shuddered so the men on board had moaned and screamed. The smell of seeping wounds and rotting flesh had hung oppressively in the stagnant air of the confined carriages.

By the time Donald had crunched up the snowy steps of the large, imposing home he shared with his wife on the affluent end of the Earls Court Road in the London borough of Kensington and Chelsea, he was shaking visibly and his speech was mildly incoherent. He smelt of alcohol and cigars. He’d made a longer than anticipated detour to his Gentleman’s Club before the reunification with Charlotte. He’d not wanted her to see the fear in his deep brown, almost black eyes or taste the despair on his mouth. Better she thought him a drunk than a coward. But as they’d made love she’d sensed it, sensed the part of him that was missing and remained on the fields in Flanders. A part that was alert to the sound of incoming ambulances or to the thuds and screeches which signalled a heavy bombardment and heralded a big push; and the part of him that was frightened by it all.

And as when he had come home and left a part of himself in Belgium, so when he returned he left a permanent part of himself in England. For despite being almost forty five years old and his wife only three years younger, and in the face of nearly twenty years of apparent infertility, the seed that Donald had planted that night bore fruit. News of his fecundity arrived at the Front on the very day three peasant Portuguese children had witnessed the image of the Virgin Mary in an oak tree in Fatima. It was a day to learn of miracles. When news came that Donald had joined the long list of fatalities, Charlotte’s belief in her pregnancy as a gift grew. But so did her desire to be left alone. She still accepted the medical advice and help from the experts – she owed that much to her foetus and its father- but she recognised that all relationships were transient and she couldn’t afford, emotionally to allow herself to rely on other people. People left, even her own beloved husband had gone. Charlotte understood her world from now on rested solely on her soon to be born child.

1940

Lucy Bartlett was in labour, but her overwhelming feeling of pain and fear was soon superseded by one of sheer terror followed by total blankness. Death and destruction lay all about and not only in people’s thoughts. She’d never envisaged such a violent entry for her much-wanted baby. The infant arrived amidst a cacophony of sound, not least piercing screams. But none of them belonged to the baby’s mother who lay unconscious. As she’d prepared her final push, had squeezed her eyes tight in effort and pain a siren wailed out its warning. But before steps could be taken a lone Luftwaffe plane dropped its load overhead. No one heard the new-born’s first cries or saw it take its first breaths, inhaling the dust of falling masonry.

It was almighty opportune that the bomb blast had thrown mother and child beneath the protective canopy of a bed. The other occupants of the room, an elderly Doctor and a young nurse had been killed outright. Lucy Bartlett’s survival was altogether a miracle and so was that of her daughter. The birth was even recorded in the newspapers, making the third page in one respected national. The lone plane had soon been followed by many others. It was December 1940; the fourth month of Hitler’s relentless bombing campaign of Britain’s Capital City. And on the 29th day of that month the second great Fire of London occurred as the Guildhall, five mainline stations, sixteen underground stations, nine hospitals and even St. Paul’s Cathedral were hit. But the readers wanted to skip these facts and instead flicked to the article which described how fire fighters were alerted to a new born baby’s cries amidst the rubble.

The nurse who’d been assisting the birth was a young, angelic faced and smiling girl Lucy would recollect, though unsure whether this was reality or a dream. The fire-fighters and newspaper reports failed to mention that the poor nurse’s hand was found, severed at the wrist and held in a firm grasp in Lucy’s own. Her name was recorded in the papers as Lillian Norris and so Lily was the name Lucy chose for her daughter, and was secretly grateful she’d been delivered a girl. The dead doctor, a Douglas Coomb, was described in more detail and had earned himself a separate obituary for he’d once been a highly regarded physician, though since retired. He’d been there in his capacity as a family friend and godfather to the patient’s husband.

Dr Coomb had stood before the young woman’s bed and mused over the repetition of history: how he’d again pulled in favours and parted with good quality whisky to secure superior treatment for members of a special family. He thought of his dear old friend, Donald Bartlett, who had been dead for nearly a quarter of a century and now had another member of his family he would never meet. He thought of Donald’s son, Thomas, who he’d looked out for and been fond of all these years. It was on this latter man whose Lucy’s mind was also focussed. As she was led into the ill-fated delivery room it was his face which she summoned in her mind, trying to concentrate on what to her was beautiful and good, attempting to banish the fear of the birth and her sense of sadness at her solitude.

It was the faces of an elderly man and middle-aged woman wearing the steel helmets of air raid wardens which she first saw on regaining consciousness. Both were uttering encouraging and soothing noises as they eased her onto a sodden stretcher and rushed her to a makeshift hospital in the church hall. Here her healthy baby had been placed in her arms; and Lucy saw for the first time her baby’s crown of thick curly hair, as black as charred remains. She’d wept tears of joy and relief followed by tears of sadness that Tommy wasn’t with her to share the moment. Instead she asked a female volunteer worker to fetch a pen and some paper and she composed a letter to her husband. She described the beauty of their baby and the circumstances of her birth: the Bartlett family had another miracle baby.

The moment little Lily Bartlett fought to take her first breath her father was facing his own battle – with sea sickness. Whether it was the movement of the ship or fear of where it was sailing to which fed his nausea he wasn’t sure. The young man of twenty-three was a jigsaw of emotions. He had just celebrated his first Christmas as a married man, not with his dependable, sweet-mannered wife who was expecting his child; but with a collection of crude, confused and nervous soldiers who together were venturing into the unknown. Christmas morning had begun with a vivid dream: he’d been with Lucy aboard a boat. The vessel had taken the form of a houseboat and a troop ship at different times. He’d felt his wife’s arms wrapped round him and sensed her breath on his neck. But as he anticipated virtually making love, the moment had been interrupted and his sleep broken by the arrival of a packet of cigarettes hitting his head and the ironic accompanying words of ‘Merry Christmas!’

A few days later as Thomas’ daughter made her brave journey through one canal the troopship he was on board was entering another – the Suez. By the time he learnt of the successful delivery, the newspapers which described it had been discarded or burned and his family had returned to their run down home and their landlord, Mr Limpet’s, ferocious wind. The thought of these cramped, icy cold lodgings filled his thoughts. They were in strong contrast to the heat of North Africa which his own body was adjusting to. As Thomas underwent gruelling training exercises, his mind too was extraordinarily active. It was focussed back in England, where he deliberated over the alternatives. He composed a long, loving letter to his wife in which he assured her of his pride, his immense love; his regret at not having shared the experience of the birth of their child with her. He wrote a second letter to his daughter, welcoming her into the world and congratulating her on making it in the circumstances. He promised her that he was doing his bit to make it a better place. Then after a lot of thought, much deliberation and several failed attempts, he wrote a third letter.

Thomas hadn’t communicated with his mother since 26th May 1939. He remembered this day for three reasons. Firstly it was the date the British Government published The Military Training Act. As Hitler’s ambitions appeared ever increasingly aggressive and war with Germany was becoming inevitable, all British men aged twenty and twenty-one were called upon to undertake six months of compulsory military training. On this date, Thomas Bartlett was twenty one years and seven months. Secondly, partly in anticipation of the first event, he was due to be married and thirdly; on this day, his mother vowed never to speak to him again.

On thinking back to that time, Thomas liked to picture the sweet smile on Lucy’s face; the feel of her fine fingered, feminine hand grasped in his larger, more masculine one as they left the Registry Office in Chelsea; husband and wife. Then, of course, there was the feel of her later. Their surprising shyness as they had slipped between the sheets in the shabby hotel in Brighton which had been a last minute booking. Things had changed for them that day and neither one were sure how this new state of affairs meant they were supposed to relate to the other.

But now, more than ever as he tried to picture Lucy on their wedding day, the image that came to the forefront was that of his mother: her face a mixture of pain and anger. He remembered the shock of seeing her cry for the first time. Her whole body was racked with violent sobbing. She had collapsed to the floor as her legs gave way and water and snot had cascaded from her face. He knew nothing of the trillions of tears she’d shed before a beautiful August morning, prior to his birth or of the pact she’d made herself back on that day.

Although his mother rarely spoke of the past, from what he had learned this was not due to the unhappiness of her life; quite the contrary. He did know his mother was the only child of Irish immigrants. His grandfather, Richard O’Brien had died just days before his daughter was due to be married. And his wife, Charlotte’s mother Bridget, who had wailed with grief throughout the wedding service, had followed soon after. Richard O’Brien had crossed the murky waters of the Irish Sea with his new bride and a ship-load of ideas. With some charm and a lot of luck he’d become co-owner of a gun making factory in Chelsea. Charlotte’s husband’s family too were wealthy. But unlike the agnostic, mildly alcoholic O’Brien’s, the Bartlett’s were devoutly Presbyterian and somewhat aloof. They lived in a dark-bricked gothic castle on the banks of a Loch somewhere in Scotland. Charlotte had visited them once when a new bride but had been appalled by the austerity of the family and the greyness of the skies. Her in-laws played little part in her life. A present of surprisingly significant financial value had been sent to the new born grandson but it had been accompanied by a note welcoming him to the Presbyterian Church. Charlotte’s return correspondence had included the aforementioned present and its own note which though expressed her gratitude, assured them that no child of hers would worship a God that sent men off to fight a pointless war. As a consequence, all further communication, albeit it limited, from the Bartlett seniors was confined to polite enquiries after health and more vehement urgings to make peace with God. Charlotte welcomed their general lack of interest in her: it prevented her from being rude.

Thomas’ thoughts turned to another person at home: a tiny figure who stood at less than four foot tall, on tip-toes. When Donald Bartlett had married his young bride at the end of the nineteenth century and bought her the beautiful four storeyed stucco house in the middle class inner suburb of Kensington and Chelsea, he also brought her a bank of staff to help with the household chores. But Charlotte referred to them all as confounded bores and had dismissed them one by one. There was only a tiny teenager, suffering from a form of dwarfism, who Donald introduced as he signed up to fight, who won her respect and something amounting to affection. Charlotte admired the unbroken spirit and appreciated the humour and warmth of Blanche MacDonald. When Charlotte brought her new born baby home it was only in to Blanche’s arms that he was passed. Blanche had loved Thomas as soon as he was placed there and in turn, Thomas adored her; which was fortunate because for months and later, years on end she was the only person, apart from his mother, whom he was allowed to see.

For the first four years of Thomas’ life he recognised only three voices - his mother’s, Blanche‘s and Dr Douglas Coomb’s. He caught snippets of others. He occasionally heard laughter or shouting from the neighbours, but this was rare. The houses were large and the hedges high. It was easy to forget that others existed beyond the boundaries of number 73, Earls Court Road. There had been children once, at 75. But they had been sent off to boarding school and then as time went on they returned less and less until silence befell once more. There had been the occasional visitor to his own house, but such events were rare and Thomas’ recollection of these included his immediate banishment upstairs.

Charlotte saw no need to leave her house. Initially when her son was a small baby she feared for his health. London, even nice parts like Kensington and Chelsea, were dirty and full of diseases. The roads were lined with domestic staff going about their duties and then returning to their overcrowded hovels at night. Where once, well-to-do families occupied the large houses along the street, Blanche described how they were being divided up to create apartments or horizontal living, Parisian style. She would report on all the changes to the area, and plans afoot for new growth. Dr Douglas Coomb, who’d played a prominent role in Thomas’ early days, initially rather fancying his chances with the attractive widow of his late friend, had attempted to persuade her to move out of the city into the countryside, to take advantage of the new trends in construction. He didn’t recommend she travel too far away, as to remove her from his clutches, but proposed somewhere genteel and suburban like Esher or Thames Ditton. But when Charlotte thought of the countryside she imagined the vast open spaces of the Scottish Highlands and imposing large houses of grey granite. She thought about the presence of animals too, cattle in fields and foxes in the gardens, which brought with them unknown diseases and unfamiliar noises. Furthermore, the books she read often described the over familiar and interfering ways of country folk. She didn’t want neighbours who pried or offered her friendship. Charlotte didn’t want to live in a community. She preferred to stay with what she knew and the anonymity she had earned. London, like all cities, was only dangerous if you should venture out in to it, and Charlotte saw no need to do so.

Dr Douglas Coomb’s interest in the young family waned over the years though he always tried to look out for the boy whom he pitied. But once it became apparent that Charlotte would not reciprocate his affections he saw little excuse for the frequent visits. He still remained as the family’s doctor and would attend any medical emergency but these, and subsequently his visits were rare. As he fully embraced middle age, and beyond, he broke off old habits and took on new. These included the affections of a young dentist who worked in a popular practice in Portland Road, in Notting Hill; and who he’d met at the Gentleman’s club. Dr Coomb’s ‘distraction’ as she referred to him was further proof in Charlotte’s mind that nothing in the world could be relied upon, even one’s sexual preferences.

But before Dr Coomb had succumbed to the temptation of the six foot five tooth doctor - who lost several female patients once the rumours were confirmed - he had made a series of regular visits over a period of several months to the Bartlett household. What initiated these played a significant role in determining how Thomas would spend his childhood. It was shortly before his sixth birthday and his mother had seen it upon herself to buy his birthday present herself, not entrusting this job to Blanche, with whom she was currently not on speaking terms – such occurrences being quite frequent but always very brief interludes in their otherwise mutually respectful relationship. It was almost an unprecedented occurrence for his mother to leave the house and Thomas was determined to take advantage of it. He implored the helpless housekeeper to take him out for a walk. He knew there was a park close by as his mother commented almost hourly on the number of nannies she’d watched wheeling their cumbersome pushchairs towards it whilst walking the dogs. She had stated how chaotic and crowded the place must be. She also questioned Blanche as to what they did when they got there, bearing in mind it must be jam-packed with prams and hounds. Blanche had replied that Holland Park had many attractions for children, not least the ducks which gathered and squawked there. Thomas had formed many images of the park over time and had become quite obsessed with the idea of visiting it himself one day.

It was a cool day for mid-October and Blanche was naturally apprehensive. She knew that despite Thomas being a large and apparently robust looking child, his lack of fresh air would make him susceptible to the cold. But her current annoyance with her mistress over their silly fight which had led to the cessation of civilised conversation, and her sympathy for the child’s isolation as well as his compelling, wide and deep brown, verging on black, eyes ensured the youth was victorious. Thus clothed in several layers of wool and tweed, Thomas left the house, his hand tucked up inside Blanche’s; the latter not much taller than the former, and they strolled the seven minute walk up Earls Court Road to Holland Park.

The smells and the sights were tremendous to the small child. His squeals of excitement were convincing Blanche that she had in fact done the right thing and she would try to persuade Charlotte to permit such excursions in the future. Now he was becoming older and less vulnerable to infections she hoped Charlotte would be more amenable to the idea. There were many children around his age, hanging on to their Mother’s or Nanny’s arms or holding on to the prams of their siblings. Others had strayed a few feet away and were kicking a ball about. Many were gathered about a pond. Thomas urged Blanche to move quicker, to investigate. He watched with envy as the children and their chaperones pushed boats of many different colours and sizes out in to the shallow water. Thomas stood in awe, hand still clasped inside Blanche’s as he stood and stared in particular at the largest sailing boat, which was black with scarlet sails and belonged to a red-haired boy a few years older than him. But the shallowness of the water and the frenzied activity of the sailing boats meant that there were no ducks to feed on this pond so after a few minutes the duo moved on through the park to a deeper and quieter pond. Here, Thomas noted with further excitement, were a plethora of squawking and flapping birds.

Blanche had managed to secrete a large stack of bread about her slight frame. As she showed Thomas how to feed it to the birds she failed to notice the attention of a stray dog who was weighing up his options for an easy snack. With Blanche’s attention on the pond and ducks she also failed to notice that Thomas, by swinging his arm back and forth clutching the food supply, was winding up the hungry mutt. Witnesses to the attack saw the small sandy coloured mongrel sit back on its haunches and then leap several feel into the air before clamping its pointed yellow teeth down on the slice of bread with the tiny child’s hand still grasping it. As Thomas screamed out in surprise and pain he at first turned round to face his adversary and then unfortunately threw himself backwards so that both boy and attached dog landed in the pond.

That day in the park not only resulted in Thomas catching pneumonia and his beloved Blanche almost being fired, it also confined Thomas to several weeks in bed with frequent visits from Dr Coomb. But more significantly, it was Charlotte’s final confirmation that the world outside the front door of their house in Earls Court Road was indeed far too dangerous, and Thomas was to remain confined within it. Thomas was to look back at that day with immense sadness. The scars on his hand remained into adulthood as did the less visible, but deeper psychological ones. From that day, his Mother banished him to the back of the house- luckily which included the garden - and forbade him from venturing into the front rooms for fear he would look out onto the street and be encouraged to join the throngs outside once more.

The doors remained closed to several rooms at number 73, Earls Court Road. The only inhabitants of the once fine master bedroom with its imported Chinese wallpaper were dust mites and other tiny creatures which squeezed their way through the less than air-tight gaps. Charlotte’s mistrust of people ensured Blanche was able to keep her job though Charlotte made her fury known and felt for several months. Had Thomas died, Charlotte would often say she would have had Blanche tried with murder. Had Thomas died, Blanche would reply, there would have been no point in herself living. But Thomas didn’t die and neither did Blanche, who was the only occupant who had a room overlooking the road, right at the top of the house. On the ground floor, the front room again was locked and the handsome marble fireplace, which had been its focal point, was concealed from sight. The basement was closed off altogether though the smell of damp from its rooms permeated the inhabited ones above.

As Thomas grew older Charlotte considered the need for him to receive an education. He’d been able to read and write from an early age. Charlotte had taught him and Blanche together. He also learnt French and could speak it fluently. But beyond basic arithmetic there was a limit to Charlotte’s knowledge on anything mathematical, or scientific. Her attempts to teach him from books led to much frustration and confusion. Charlotte momentarily sought to employ a tutor for the task. Several suitable candidates were selected for interview but all were rejected. She feared that they may encourage Thomas to succeed and be ambitious. Her husband, after all, had been a high achiever, thrust into a university education and medical school. Charlotte didn’t want this for her son: if he secured a profession he might leave her. And university was out of the question. In fact as she interviewed more and more people, Charlotte came to the realisation that she didn’t actually want her son to have any occupation at all. He didn’t need to work; and any job would take him out of the house, away from her and into danger. She was convinced that a life of books, of art, of gardening and everything that she could give him was sufficient.

Thomas did love books and art and gardening - anything which offered him escapism. He read fiction, sympathising with the victims of Dickens whilst wishing to be the villains of Hardy. He loved the classics, especially the romance of Shakespeare. But he read non-fiction too and became self-taught in everything that interested him. He loved Art, especially landscapes, which offered a window on a whole new, unseen world: one where there was open fields and water. He fantasised about climbing mountains and easing his body effortlessly through oceans. When his mother had described the landscape around his grandparent’s house in Scotland he couldn’t understand her description of stark and depressing. To him it sounded surreal and stunning. He loved nature and growth and change. The garden was his favourite place, not least because here he could watch the birds fly and swoop against the back drop of the sky, and he envied them their ability to do so. The sky had no boundaries or perimeters and consequently was the thing he most admired in the world.

As Thomas moved on into his teenage years his interest was aroused in more subjects, especially politics. His mother encouraged this, partly because she enjoyed their intellectual debates - not believing Blanche an equal sparring partner - but also because she believed that if Thomas could understand how evil the outside world was he wouldn’t wish to belong to it. Two newspapers were delivered to the house each day which mother and son would sit and peruse together. These described events in Germany and the rise of Hitler and the Nazi party. Murmurings of another war were being mooted amongst the typed columns.

Charlotte read with nervous horror the news of German rearmament and the failure of the disarmament conference. She gritted her teeth in frustration over the apparent break-down of the League of Nations and Japanese aggression in Manchuria. She sighed out loud over fears the Spanish would wage war against each other as another dictator sought to dominate - even though she conceded that the Spanish were a rather peculiar race and she’d not quite forgiven them for attempting to invade England in 1588. But the whole world, she concluded was full of power crazy despots determined on total world domination.

Acknowledging that even she did not hold the power to prevent a global catastrophe, Charlotte’s priority became ensuring she had the means to prevent Thomas’ involvement in one. She’d never forgotten the adamant assurances she’d whispered in to her new born son’s ear. She considered her options and came up with the two most viable. He could either be free of the Army through medical unsuitability – which had worked for Douglas Coomb but was less likely for the sturdy menfolk of the Bartlett clan, or she could dispense with her desire to keep him away from work and secure him a reserved occupation. Her preference was the former. But Charlotte had done a good job in many ways: apart from her son’s unfortunate bout of pneumonia which had only served to highlight the righteousness of her path, she had kept him protected from harm, disease-free and healthy. She considered engaging the services of her old, neglected Doctor friend, to invent some incurable, debilitating illness which would make Thomas an unsuitable soldier; but she was reluctant to take Douglas into her confidence. A temporary lack of good judgement had seen her administer a minor toxin from her late husband’s medicine cabinet into her son’s food to initiate symptoms of incurable stomach ailments. But Thomas seemed to have the constitution of an ox, unlike Blanche who appeared to eat like one, and her habit of eating up unfinished food had led to an unpleasant episode of violent body eruptions.

Charlotte had to think hard about how she could keep her son close and away from harm. As she read of the British and Germans signing a naval agreement four months prior to Thomas’ eighteenth birthday the answer appeared blindingly obvious. The answer lay in weapons. Her son would become an expert in making arms; and where better to start than her own father’s old factory.

The current chief of the gun-making factory, John Bain, was surprised by Charlotte’s request for a meeting. Although he knew of her existence and was aware of the shares she held in the company he’d never met the woman. Her reclusive reputation had won her the nickname of ‘Miss Havisham’ amongst the board of directors. His bemusement at the meeting was only matched by Charlotte’s fear. She was racked with doubt and anxiety, battling with her demons for several months before finally composing the letter. But once Thomas had reached the milestone age of eighteen and was hence eligible for any possible military service, she arranged to visit the Oakley Works factory in Chelsea.

Charlotte left the sanctuary of her house for the first time for almost twelve years. Her fears were not what lay immediately beyond her peeling powder blue painted door, but what was much further beyond and unseen– the possibilities, the problems, the dangers for her son. She had chosen to walk to the factory, to weigh up the alternatives of what would be the safest mode of transport for Thomas. She needed to understand what obstacles he could face, or what he might see. It was a familiar walk, though vastly altered since she’d last made it. She witnessed for herself the changes in some of the buildings that Blanche had described. Many buzzers appeared next to the front doors of houses where previously there had been only one. Blanche had talked to her about bedsits; described how the wealthy were letting out whole floors of their homes now that domestic help was hard to come by and even harder to afford. Blanche had even mooted the idea of them doing the same for their empty basement but such a concept, of strangers moving about beneath them, was swiftly dismissed by Charlotte.

She stopped outside the entrance to Earls Court Station, which itself was undergoing a transition with a new entrance being built and heavens knew what else below the ground. She would save that mode of transport for her return journey. The traffic, especially down the Old Brompton Road almost forced Charlotte back. Huge red motorised buses spluttered and thundered down the street in an incessant stream and there was no evidence of the elegant clip-clopping which accompanied the horse drawn buses of her youth. Motor cars themselves appeared plentiful and noisy and in a variety of shapes and colours. The men all wore civilian clothes. When she had last trod these paths it had been more normal to spot men in the dark olive khaki, or dirty green as she liked to call it, of the British Army uniform. Here, at least was a welcome change. The women looked different too and she was suddenly conscious of her own out-dated clothes. She had seen images of women wearing short skirts and trousers in magazines and newspapers but had considered it a fashion confined to the vulgarities of American society.

The final part of Charlotte’s walk took her passed the Royal Brompton Hospital on Sydney Street. Here she stood and waited awhile. Her father had been brought here to die nearly forty years ago, having contracted tuberculosis. She could still hear his laboured attempts for breath as he lay in the hospital bed. Her obvious distress at the sight as well as her tall statuesque figure and fine featured face had attracted the attentions of a young, six foot six, Scottish doctor who had rushed to offer her his sympathies. Soon after, he rushed to offer her his hand in marriage. It was the acceptance of this proposal and the subsequent announcement of their engagement which were the last words Richard O’Brien ever heard.

Charlotte seldom thought about her father, or about the circumstances in how she and Donald had met but she was reminded of those times as she made the return journey from the factory to Earls Court Road by public transport. Taking the Underground from South Kensington to Earls Court Road had once been a regular trip. She’d often met up with Donald for a hasty bite to eat together, close by to the hospital, or a shared picnic in the park before he had to return to his patients. But such memories were purely nostalgia and nothing good came from feeling nostalgic, it only served to remind you of what you had lost.

This experience of public transport seemed altogether new and quite traumatic. Her city, one that had been triumphant in war and promised a better future for its population appeared to have lost some of its pride. There were beggars on the platforms, murmuring pathetic beseeching noises as she brushed past. The faces of the commuters were etched with worry and pain, and there were so many of them. Where had all these people, these Londoners come from? The train as it thundered under the tunnel made a terrifying noise. Charlotte realised that her son, who had only been outside his front door on one, disastrous occasion would not cope with such sights and sounds. He was not ready for this world of people pushing passed you, of everybody rushing and hustling. He didn’t know what it was like to hear noises of crowds, of sellers shouting to get your attention, of the public yelling at each other. And how would Thomas react to the dirt, to the unfamiliar smells? Charlotte knew her son wasn’t ready for the streets and if he was to go to work he would have to travel there by taxi.

Thus, one week following Thomas’ eighteenth birthday he found himself inside a motor vehicle for only the second time in his life: the first being when he was driven home by an especially requisitioned motor ambulance following his birth. The car alone offered the excited young adult new smells, new sights, and new sounds. His mother squeezed his hand tight as they sped through the streets of Regency style buildings of Onslow Gardens, Dovehouse Street and finally into an industrial area of the Kings Road. Even the air inside the car tasted different. Thomas realised he was tasting freedom.

As the taxi drew up outside the tall, imposing brown-bricked buildings of Oakley Works Charlotte’s stifling sense of panic was only matched in intensity by her son’s sense of awe. Neither the bustling, busy streets he’d seen from within the confines of the car, nor the strange smells of the city which had hitherto been hidden by the sweetness of the flowers in his garden scared him. As his mother hung onto him, repeating her misgivings, battling with her own decision making, Thomas tried to break free, to exit this world and enter the new one which beckoned. For a moment, Thomas feared his mother would inform the driver not to stop and to move on; that the moment would be lost. And so for only the second time in his life, Thomas Bartlett stood up for his own desires and without bidding his mother farewell hastily exited the vehicle. With barely a glance back, merely a dismissive wave of his hand, he walked up the stairs to the factory and on being greeted at the door, reported himself ready for work.

Charlotte continuously reflected on that day, wondering at which point she should have intervened, stopped him from leaving her and entering the new world. Her hand had hovered, about to tap the taxi driver on the shoulder and urge him to move on but her son had been too quick for her. And then as she had leaned over to open the car door, and pursue her son, she’d seen him. It was the first time her dead husband had appeared to her. She had not even dreamt of him since his death, fearing she never slept soundly enough to dream. But the sight of her son, so solid, so determined with his strange, coarse black curly hair; was so like her husband that she was forced to catch her breath. She knew for once she was powerless against a greater strength. Thomas wanted this more than her strength to deny him.

Charlotte did exit the vehicle and dismiss the driver. But she didn’t walk up the stairs or follow her son in to the building. Instead she began the long walk home. As she looked into the shops and absorbed all the changes that had taken place since the end of the war, the different types of shops that were springing up down the Kings Road and the vast diversity of the merchandise on offer she was still as steadfast in her beliefs as ever. Whereas she may have been forced to surrender in this battle - she had given up her son to the workforce - she would never lose the war. Her son would never come to harm and nothing or no-one would ever hurt him.

The desert was a good place for Thomas to reflect. Now he stared up into the blackness of the clear sky and finally had the space to think back, to remember. It was ironic that he should find such peace in a time of war. He focussed on one bright, white star at a time to channel his thoughts. The brightest star represented Lily. His daughter would be three months now, showing awareness of her surroundings, and taking note of her environment. He wondered what she would make of North Africa, with its huge open spaces and searing heat. Would she ever get the chance to see it for herself? He tried to picture what she would look like amidst this landscape. He wanted to imagine her surrounded by space, with a horizon which stretched on forever. But it was not just the eternal horizon which marked this landscape. It was scarred: plumes of smoke signalling destroyed fuel dumps, and abandoned tanks with empty engines littering the foreground. These were visual reminders that this was a terrain hosting a war.

It had been weapons of war -some which now lay about, destroyed, that for most signalled destruction, and for some, including men he’d known, death; but for Thomas, ironically had brought his initial passage to freedom. He had held few preconceived ideas of what it would be like when he first entered the factory. His mother had paved the way for special treatment and she would not have been disappointed. John Bain met him on arrival and immediately took him to his office. He explained that the company was not just about making guns, that they recently had signed a licencing agreement giving them the rights to produce aircraft fire protection systems and armoured clothing. Thomas was to be working in these fields, away from the noisy metallurgists and within an area of highly classified, yet vital up-to-the minute military importance. Bain went on to stress that involvement in such a project would likely secure him a reserved occupation should, as appeared possible, Britain be embroiled in a Second War. He grinned as he spoke and appeared to give a conspiratorial wink. Thomas had sunk further into his seat, suddenly feeling small and self-conscious, fully reminded that his mother’s influence had followed him into the work place.

His mother: he knew now that her influence would follow him everywhere. He held a letter from her in his hand. It had been her first word to him for almost a year. Her neat and sculptured handwriting was clearly recognisable. He shuffled the letter together with one from his wife – her handwriting less sculptured and more childlike. He couldn’t decide which to read first. Would they both confirm his fears? He thought of Lucy. She was the star closest to the brightest one. But in reality, Lucy didn’t shine out. She was the slight, wispy girl with pale, fine features and fair, straw like hair who’d worked in the office at Oakley for many weeks before Thomas became aware of her. She was his direct opposite. As Thomas was tall, stocky and dark, so Lucy was small, thin, and fair; almost ephemeral. But what they did have in common, what they shared was an awkwardness, a shyness; an inability to interact. In many ways they were perfect for each other.

Thomas had already held the job for six months before Lucy Shipton joined the company. After the first two, his mother had ceased accompanying the taxi driver on the journey there and back. Charlotte had become world-weary again. She was consumed with sadness at what she witnessed through the car window. Sights of Oswald Mosley’s young fascists walking to their Head Quarters in the King’s Road had filled her with a sense of fearful foreboding. She spoke of these things with her son: wanted him to share in her desolation, her hopelessness. She wanted him to see that only in his house with her and Blanche could he be truly safe and secure. After many years of his mother’s almost sole company, Thomas had begun to understand her. He knew what she wanted to hear and how to humour her. So he spoke with sadness about the poverty he saw and the terrible stories he heard. He discussed the worrying times they lived in and offered her assurances that he wouldn’t join the queues of young fascists he too witnessed, or worse, sign up to any Communist faction. He shook his head with derision over the foolishness of their ideals. He held her hands and looked her in the eyes when he promised he would return straight home after work every day, if she would just allow him to travel in the taxi alone. Charlotte reluctantly agreed.

Thomas began to enjoy these journeys, especially the inane chatter of the familiar, faceless driver. He heard all about his life, his family; the lives of those he drank with in the local pub. He began to get an understanding of what London was like outside the supposed sanctuary of his house. One evening when the traffic had been light and they’d made good time Thomas asked the driver if he could show him some new sights. Amused and intrigued by his polite and retiring regular fare he agreed and suggested they take a quick detour to the Chelsea embankment. ‘You’ll see a lot of life there my son’, he’d explained. The sight-seeing only lasted minutes, but for Thomas the experience was enlightening and illicit. He asked for the detours to be repeated. Always conscious of time, the boundaries of their excursions were never exceeded. To the east they ventured to Parsons Green, taking in Stamford Bridge and the Fulham Road area. To the South, they would never venture across the river, remaining in Cheyne Walk or the Chelsea Embankment. To the West they took in the sights of Sloane Square and Knightsbridge. To the north, they were only the once able to make it as far as Hyde Park, preferring to cruise along Kensington High Street.

Their time restrictions were lifted following the events of 7th March 1936. On this day Hitler defied the orders of the Allies following the First World War and marched his troops into the Rhineland. He had broken the terms of the Treaty of Versailles and the world waited to see how Britain and France would respond. Oakley Works was on standby. Radios positioned throughout the offices and factory floor barked the latest news. Meetings were called and Thomas, for once, cancelled his taxi and walked home. The world held its breath but soon breathed again. The British and French failed to respond, Hitler was allowed to keep his troops in the Rhineland and whereas some people on the street spoke of an averted threat, others on the street proclaimed war seemed closer than ever. They had to plan. And planning for the future was what they were doing in Oakley Works. More staff were recruited and a longer working day introduced: both of which held far reaching possibilities for Thomas.

He cancelled his regular taxi; the hours he was working were too unpredictable. He missed the jocular chats with his driver but sometimes when time allowed he would walk to some of the sights he’d taken him to. By pounding the streets on foot new possibilities were opening up. After several days of walking passed the same bar in Dovehouse Street, and nodding acknowledgment to the same group of men who often hung about outside he plucked up the courage to go inside. He knew of alcohol, was even aware that some existed in his house but had never had an occasion to taste it. Most of the books he’d read had described its ill-effects. On entering the strange, but beguiling building Thomas was initially over powered by the smell: smoke, alcohol, a slightly sickly synthetic stink of cleaning fluid which thinly disguised a more sinister aroma of urine and vomit. The place was dark, almost impossible to see within it. The windows were frosted, not allowing in any natural light. The subterranean quality was aided by dark panelled walls, wooden floors and an imposing bar which lined the entire opposing wall. Thomas felt conspicuous; he was wearing a suit which had once belonged to his father, well cut but old fashioned. But his height and stature secured his safety. The thought of his mother’s disapproval inspired him to speak and order a glass of beer. It was only when he’d reached the final dregs of the bitter tasting liquid that he realised he had no money. He had no reason for money. With feigned confidence he offered the barman his watch until he could return the next day with the correct change. The barman readily agreed, recognising the quality of the timepiece and acknowledging he might just have served his most expensive glass of beer ever.

Charlotte knew that she was losing control. She smelt the alcohol on her son as soon as he entered the house. She weighed up her options, and decided there were few. She consulted Blanche who confirmed her fears. She would have to allow him some freedom in order to maintain any control. And so with no hint of her concerns and without warning she made her son an offer. She informed him he was to have an allowance: one that would give him sufficient money that he could buy himself one glass of beer two days a week. But Thomas didn’t tell his mother of other deals he was making. John Bain had taken pity on this lonely, insecure employee with the strong, controlling mother who just happened to have shares in the Company. He readily agreed to his request that all his overtime should be paid directly to him in cash and not in to a bank account over which his mother had control. And the second, most important deal he made was with himself: that he would, somehow, save sufficient money and find the strength to move out from his mother’s clutches. Up to this point, Thomas’ life may have been very constricted, and undoubtedly dull, but it had also been uncomplicated and relatively stress free. His mother had been successful in protecting him from harm and heartache. But life was about to change dramatically for the miracle baby just weeks after the nineteenth anniversary of his birth.

The world in the autumn of 1936 was a vacillating place. Roosevelt in his Presidential Campaign had spoken of his ‘record of peace’ and on the ‘well founded expectation for future peace’. Yet closer to home, The Spanish had begun their predicted Civil War. John Bain, chief at Oakley Works, was not so much a pessimist but a shrewd businessman: whilst some spoke of peace, others spoke of war and Bain preferred to listen to the men on the street rather than the politicians. As the Fascist dictators dotted about the world rallied to the support of General Franco and his troops, so Bain rallied his staff for a further increase in production. Lucy Shipton had worked for the company for over six months and although she was shy and largely inconspicuous she was also conscientious and unlike many of the other girls who allowed themselves to be distracted by flirtatious colleagues, she remained focussed on her tasks. She was a natural choice for Bain to promote to Thomas’ personal secretary, although there was an element of well-intentioned match making to the appointment as Thomas had no real need for a secretary as neither he nor anyone around him was actually sure what he was employed to do.

Thus with little real work actually to be done, but a lot of meetings held to discuss what they could be doing, Thomas found himself in Lucy’s continual company. After a few weeks of much eye avoidance and polite conversation the two young folk became more relaxed with each other’. Thomas spoke to her about art, and his particular fondness for landscapes. He told her about the books he liked to read; and they realised they shared a passion for gardening, although Lucy’s actual experience was limited to helping her mother grow vegetables in their allotment. She liked to hear about the array of flowers available and she in turn sought to advise Thomas on the best vegetables to grow as Charlotte had decided to become self-sufficient in her greens. But whereas Lucy spoke openly about her mother, her sister Elinor, and her young nephew William; Thomas only mentioned fleetingly that he lived with his mother and their housekeeper. Lucy knew what Thomas liked but she knew next to nothing about his life.

As the Luftwaffe Condor Legion undertook bombing practise on the Basque town of Guernica in March 1937 and the world acknowledged the future of warfare could hang in the air, literally; thus the demand for aircraft fire protection systems shot into the sky. Thomas was finally given a defined role and became responsible for overseeing the increased demand could be met. Such a task required tireless devotion from his personal secretary and on 27th April 1937, Thomas showed Lucy his gratitude for her hard work by inviting her to join him for a drink after work the following day. She in turn was quite overwhelmed and in a rare moment of feminine giddiness revealed to two other secretaries in the lavatory that she would not achieve a suggestion of sleep that night.

In spite of Thomas’ inexperience and awkwardness the date was a success: with Lucy sufficiently satisfied by her boss’ presence alone to ignore the long periods of silence. Conversation which had flowed quite fluently in the work place appeared more stilted now there were expectations placed upon them. As the dates increased in frequency Charlotte’s suspicions became aroused. She’d been in contact with John Bain, complaining about the long hours her son was keeping. She’d been somewhat placated by Bain’s assurances that her son was making himself absolutely essential to any forthcoming war effort. But now, there was an added ingredient to his long hours, one that involved the frequent smell of alcohol and a hint of happiness. The thought that a woman could be involved was too abhorrent but a possibility which needed to be discounted.

Although Charlotte considered the world to be a strange, dirty untrustworthy place, it was nothing to the prospect of losing her son to a woman who possessed the potential to hurt him. Whilst sending Blanche out on an ill-conceived mission late in the evening, which only served to arouse the latter’s suspicions, Charlotte took a taxi ride to Oakley Works where she paid off the driver and looked for a suitable position from which to watch the factory. She was not a woman who blended easily into any background and certainly with her strange out-dated clothes and hair secured in a tightly pinned chignon, she didn’t look at ease in an industrial area of Chelsea. After forty minutes or so of walking up and down the Kings Road and pretending to peer into the windows of nearby buildings she gave up and hailed a cab home.

Not a woman to be defeated however, she continued the practice several more times. She was forced to come clean to Blanche who scoffed and berated and threatened to tell Thomas, until she was silenced by the reminder she’d almost killed him thirteen years earlier and hence wasn’t in a position to judge what was best for him. Charlotte’s conspicuous presence across the road, along Sydney Street and round the back of Chelsea Manor Street soon became a talking point amongst the workers of Oakley Works. Summer was fast approaching and the evenings were light; any ability to blend into the background dissipating. Word eventually got back to John Bain, who informed Thomas who in turn saw the time had come to tell the truth to Lucy. If she wished to continue seeing him and if she considered they might have a future together, then they would have to fight a mighty obstacle and that obstacle was currently trying to look discreet down the Kings Road.

That day had been almost four years ago. Ironically it had been his mother’s interference which had forced him to advance his relationship with Lucy. He sat staring in to the North African sky, still shuffling the two letters together. He had no idea for how long he’d been doing so. Time appeared to have stopped still. It was the longest night of his life and he knew the next day would be even longer. His head rested uneasily on his kit bag, a makeshift pillow, pushed up against the side of the wadi where they had bedded in for the night. The dried up river bed, over six feet deep made a natural trench. It was a further irony, that having travelled so far from Europe and participating in a different, more modern type of war; they should have ended up in a trench after all. Above him, he could hear the soporific sound of shifting sand, the tell-tale sign that a sand storm was brewing. It was still dark, but in the distance, poking above the opposite side of the wadi an eerie thin line of orange brightness was just visible. The sun was beginning its ascent to the east. At first light they were due to move out, towards the rising sun and in the direction of El Adan. Most of the other men were awake, though he suspected too that their thoughts were several thousand miles away.

Thomas squeezed his eyes tight, preventing the sand hovering at the top of the wadi from gritting his eyes, but also in an attempt to form a clear picture of Lucy, to banish the images of his mother. He saw the former, head down, bent over her desk. A desk she shared with three other girls who didn’t look up as he approached. Only Lucy sensed his arrival, recognising his scent: the smell of prosperity. She grinned up at him and Thomas was touched by the warmness of her smile. She tucked a loose strand of wispy fair hair behind her ear. It was July, the weather had been hot. A drop of perspiration was sliding down her large, smooth forehead. He was overwhelmed with a desire to kiss away the drop: ‘can we talk?’

She placed her pen down: ‘of course’.

‘Not here, this is private. We can use Mr Bain’s office; Perkins and Rye are in mine’.

She had looked surprised by his tone and pulled a grimace at the girl beside her whose interest had now been aroused, and who giggled nervously. As Lucy took the seat she was offered in the large, plush office she found herself shaking.

‘Please Lucy, I want you to listen. What I am about to say may sound peculiar but you must hear me out.’

‘Go on’.

‘There is no easy way to say this’.

Lucy glanced downwards at her lap where her sweating palms had left a damp patch on her skirt. She could pre-empt his words, was aware that this man was far beyond her reach and that for whatever reason she had been a distraction, a plaything. But what she heard she hadn’t been prepared for.

‘My mother has held me as a virtual prisoner for all my life. I didn’t step outside my front door for thirteen years, and prior to that, only once, or so I’m told.’

Lucy now looked up at him in amazement and went to stand up, to place her sweaty palm on his shoulder, a sign of reassurance. He held his own up to stop her. ‘Please, don’t feel sorry for me. I often wondered why I didn’t leave or do something about it; but my life, the life I had with her was the only one I knew.’

Lucy was shaking her head. ‘But why? How cruel.’

‘She said it was for my protection. That life would only hurt me. She said it was her duty to keep me free from pain. But she can’t control my feelings and although I know there’s a risk that one day you’ll hurt me, it’s a chance I need to take, if you’re prepared to take it with me?’

Lucy laughed with a combination of relief and disbelief. ‘Yes, absolutely.’ She went to stand again but was stopped once more.

‘Wait, please hear me out. My mother will never accept our relationship; she will do whatever she can to split us up. You will be seen as the devil incarnate and treated as such. She is outside right now, pacing the streets she fears so much, in the hope of catching me out, of discovering my duplicity. If you take me on, then you will take on all this too. Can you face it? If you can’t I understand. You deserve a happy, uncomplicated life.’

Finally Lucy stood up, the top of her head barely reaching level with his heart. She raised her head to look into Thomas’ eyes. ‘And you don’t?’

‘I don’t know what I deserve. You hear people say that all they want is to be loved. Yet for me, that has been my problem. I have been loved too much, but here I am asking for more love, from someone else.’

‘But my love is different. I can make you happy but I can’t promise to keep you safe’.

The strong wind carried with it the pungent aroma of burning fuel in the distance. It clung to everything, along with the sand. He could smell it on his hair and seeping into his uniform. He couldn’t escape the fact he was at war. And worse still, he and his fellow soldiers were in retreat. The German 5th Light Division were driving them back. He buried his head in the makeshift pillow and tried to remember how he and Lucy had kissed for the first time. How her lips had tasted salty from the droplet of sweat which had ran there. How he had almost held her at arm’s length before grasping her to his chest, clutching her head against his own sweaty palm. He hadn’t wanted to let her go, was so consumed with the need to love and protect that he went some way in understanding his mother.

And now what had he done? He could taste salt on his lips again. The canvas pillow was absorbing the sound of his sobs but the taste of his tears was smeared across his mouth, and the moisture was attracting a milliard of bugs to his face. They too were taking sanctuary from the building wind in the relative calmness of the ditch. He was frightened. He knew the game was up for him, but he suspected also for his wife and child.

The Germans had been pouring into North Africa over the past few weeks, sent by Hitler to bolster the failing Italian Army whose prisoners Thomas had been forced to guard. For several days they had watched the activity in the skies. It had become evident that the Luftwaffe’s main objective was to destroy the British supply columns. Their own tanks of the 2nd Armoured Division had travelled to Msus to refuel. A German garrison there had blown up the fuel tanks and Thomas had witnessed the bluey black mushroom cloud which had spread over Msus and blotted out the sun, temporarily. As a consequence, many of their tanks now lay abandoned, devoid of juice to get them moving.

Only a few days ago they had been successful in capturing Italian tanks around El Aghelia. It was at this base that a postal delivery had managed to reach them. But as news filtered through that the powerful German Commander, Irwin Rommel planned to cut across the Southern desert towards Tobruk, following the recapture of El Aghelia and cut off the retreating British forces it was the two letters Thomas had received which scared him most. For events in the desert were beyond his control. But what lay in these envelopes was of his making and Thomas was fearful of what they might say, of what he might discover: that they would affirm his suspicion he had made the wrong decision.

Lucy had offered to accompany Thomas in confronting his mother. He’d been reluctant at first but was persuaded by her claims that theirs was a partnership. He had grabbed her shaking hand as they walked out of the building together. Charlotte was no longer on the Kings Road but on glancing round anxiously, he could see a furtive figure walking up Chelsea Manor Street. As her eyes clocked theirs she looked triumphant. Here was her proof, evidence her son had betrayed her. But her countenance changed with the realisation the couple were looking for her. Her son and that woman had apparently made a pre-emptive strike. She kept them in her sights as they approached but as soon as Thomas went to open his mouth she ran. Charlotte Bartlett had never run in her life, but now she did, her long old fashioned skirts flapping about her spindly, stockinged legs.

‘Should you go after her?’ An anguished young girl looked to her beau for answers. His reply was to watch, to stare, in complete shock until the figure of his mother had disappeared around the corner with the King’s Road.

When Thomas did eventually return home that night he was met with a stern, worried looking Blanche. She was shaking her head and making loud clucking noises as she opened the door wide to beckon him in.

‘I’m sorry Blanche. How is she?’

‘Ranting, I’m afraid. I’ve never heard her language so blue. Wasn’t aware she knew such words. I’ve sent her to her bed with some sleeping tablets from your father’s old medicine chest.’

‘Were you able to make sense of it all?’

‘Oh it made perfect sense. It’s the only thing in all of your life that has made sense. You are a young, attractive and wealthy man. You should have a lady friend, though that’s not quite the term your mother used. If I was a few years younger [she had smiled weakly] and several inches taller I would’ve snapped you up for myself.’ She had taken his coat from him and hung it up on his usual peg.

‘I don’t like being deceitful’.

‘You were left with no choice. I understand that. How could you possibly have told Mrs Bartlett about her? She would never have condoned it.’

‘So you’re not disappointed in me?’

She had pushed him towards the kitchen: ‘Oh, my dear Thomas, young man, I could never be angry with you. I warned her of this day many times; and I’m thrilled for you that it’s happened. I’ve not slept one night with ease since she told me what her plans for you were: how she existed only to keep you safe, and all that entailed. I always wished there was a way I could get her to see sense. But I’m a servant and she’s my mistress. My place is not to offer advice or to criticise what I see’.

‘But she does listen to you Blanche’.

‘Only occasionally, when I say what she wants to hear.’

Thomas had grabbed Blanche’s hands in his and looked at her in desperation: ‘where do we go from here?’

As weeks stretched to months, the atmosphere of appeasement which prevailed in Europe was not matched in the Bartlett Household of Earls Court Road. Whereas the Duke and Duchess of Windsor had met Hitler in Berlin in October, there was to be no such conciliatory chat between aggrieved mother and seemingly ungrateful son. And whereas Blanche’s attempt at diplomacy would have paled Chamberlain’s into insignificance, the lady was not for turning. Meanwhile Thomas’ relationship with Lucy had intensified significantly. Her gentleness, selflessness and good humour never ceased to amaze him. Although externally she failed to dazzle, her internal warmth shone like a beacon, and it was her inner beauty which won through. He loved her laugh, so natural and spontaneous. He welcomed her enthusiasm and her ability to see the good in everyone. She couldn’t understand the fuss made of Hitler, failed to comprehend why some quarters might be suspicious of him. And similarly, she excused Charlotte’s behaviour. She told Thomas how wonderful it was to be loved so. But Thomas knew there was only the one love now which he craved. And his cravings for Lucy were becoming stronger and more urgent.