He laughed. ‘They’ll kick me out when my time’s up.’

‘What do you want to do? Afterwards, I mean.’

‘I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.’ He paused, then went on in a rush. ‘Lydia, don’t you think it’s time we bought our own home? We can’t live with Sir Edward for ever.’

She was startled. It was the last thing she had expected. ‘Why not? It’s plenty big enough for all of us. And you know Papa loves having the children round him.’

‘It’s too big,’ he said. ‘An anachronism. It costs the earth to keep up, even though we only use half of it. If we bought a nice house, near the sea, he could have a small bungalow nearby.’

‘He’d hate that. And it isn’t as if he’s poor.’

‘No, he isn’t, but that’s half my point. We rely on him too much. It makes me feel less of a man.’

‘Robert, I never heard such nonsense. You’re all man.’ She gave a cracked laugh. ‘I can testify to that.’

He managed a half-grin, though he was too concerned with making his point to laugh at her joke. ‘I want us to have a home of our own, you, me and the children. Can’t you understand that?’

‘In a way I can, but it’s just masculine pride. I can’t imagine what life would be like living anywhere but Upstone Hall. It’s my home, Robert, the only one I’ve ever known. Even when I was in Russia with Kolya, all I wanted to do was get back to it.’

‘Will you at least think about what I’ve said?’

‘Yes, I’ll think about it.’

She did, but it always came back to one thing: she could not bear to leave Upstone and her father. ‘It would seem like ingratitude,’ she told Robert when he brought the subject up again. And because he loved her, he gave up.

In September Bobby went to Gresham’s boarding school, Sir Edward’s old school, and Holt was near enough for him to be fetched home for weekends, though Papa didn’t think that was a good idea. ‘He should stay and take part in the weekend activities,’ he told Lydia. ‘There’s always something going on: sport, drama, music, cadets.’

Lydia missed him dreadfully but he settled down well and wrote frequently about new friends he had made, what he had done and the things he intended to do. Left behind, Tatty informed her one day that she wanted to learn to ride. ‘My friend Chloe has a pony,’ she announced. ‘He’s called Tubby, ’cos he’s a roly-poly. I asked Grandpa and he says he doesn’t see why not.’

Lydia smiled at the way her daughter unashamedly used her grandfather to get her own way. ‘Did he? I rode a lot when I was young.’

‘So I can, can’t I?’

‘If you are good.’

‘I am good.’ It was said loudly and vehemently. So Tatty got her pony, took to riding like a duck to water and started competing in local gymkhanas. She always took the rosettes she won to show Grandpa before hanging them on her bedroom wall. The child idolised him, which was another reason in Lydia’s mind for not moving.


Another year passed, a year in which rationing finally ended after fourteen years; children were able to buy their lollipops, gobstoppers and chocolate without having to produce coupons; Roger Bannister became the first man to run a mile in under four minutes; rock and roll came to Britain from America with Bill Haley singing ‘Rock Around the Clock’, something the youth of the country took to their hearts, but which the older generation deplored.


Lydia fetched Bobby home from school for the following Christmas holidays in thick freezing fog. ‘We’ve been talking in class about what we want to do when we leave,’ he told her as she drove very slowly along the country roads. The windscreen wipers were sticking to the ice on the glass and she had to stop every now and again to get out and scrape it off.

‘Goodness, that’s a long way off.’

‘I know, but we’ve been told to think about it because it’s important to know where you’re going in life and we have to decide what exams we want to take.’ At eleven years old he was tall for his age, a well-built lad with fair hair and blue eyes like his father. He had other traits of Robert’s too: thoughtfulness and consideration and a way of looking at her which made her want to hug him, but hugging was definitely out; he considered himself too old for that. ‘I think I’d like to be a diplomat like Grandpa.’

‘He’d like that,’ she said.

‘Perhaps they’ll send me to Russia.’

‘Would you like to go?’

‘I wouldn’t mind. After all, I’ve got roots there, haven’t I?’

‘Yes, but I doubt you’ll be able to find any connections now,’ she said, as she drew up outside the house. ‘It’s been too long and Russia has changed.’


Christmas Day was dull but overcast, but it did not dampen their spirits. They all went to church, including Claudia who was still with them, but would be going to spend the afternoon and evening with her fiancé after Christmas dinner. Poor Claudia, she was as undecided as ever.

‘Time for presents,’ Tatty said as soon as the meal came to an end and they all left the table and trooped into the drawing room, where a large tree stood in the corner glittering with lights and tinsel. Beneath it was a heap of colourfully wrapped parcels. Tatty acted as postman and soon everyone was unwrapping presents, exclaiming and thanking the givers.

Lydia watched them all: her father, husband – home on Christmas leave – children and best friend and sent up a little prayer of thanks for her good fortune. Somewhere, thousands of miles away, she prayed another child, fourteen years old now, was also enjoying his Christmas, even if it wasn’t called Christmas anymore.


The fog lifted, but at the beginning of January it snowed and it continued to snow for a week, made worse by blizzards which piled it up against walls and hedges, and covered cars. More than seventy roads were blocked and hundreds of vehicles abandoned in drifts. Trains couldn’t run and everyone was struggling to get to work; schools were shut and livestock was dying and old people suffering. Lydia did what she could to help those old people in the village, trudging out in wellington boots, taking soup in thermos flasks and making sure they had heating.

Ice grew thicker and thicker on ponds and rivers, much to Tatty’s delight, who informed them that the ice on the lake was several inches thick.

‘You are not to go on it,’ Lydia said. ‘The water is deep, and if you go through, you’ll never get out. You heard the news, children drowning all over the place falling through the ice. I don’t want you to be one of them.’

‘No, but Mum, they’ve flooded the fen at Earith and that’s only a few inches deep. They’re going to hold the speed skating championships there. The snowploughs have cleared the roads; my friend, Chloe, told me so.’

And so they all went in Edward’s Bentley: Edward, Robert, Lydia, Bobby and Tatty. The large expanse of ice was crowded as everyone for miles around came to take advantage of the rare chance to skate and watch the speed trials. Those without skates walked on the ice, slid and fell over laughing. Tatty was soon whizzing about, followed by a less-sure Bob. Lydia and Robert went hand in hand more sedately, while Edward watched from the warmth of the car.

‘It’s like a Russian winter,’ Lydia said, cheeks glowing.

She was, Robert decided, looking especially beautiful. ‘You don’t remember Russian winters, do you?’

‘Not as a child, except that dreadful day when Andrei was killed, but it was pretty cold that first year of the war. You remember, you were there.’

‘So I was, but I didn’t have much time to notice the weather.’

‘No, you were too busy looking after me. You saved my life – not only my life, but my sanity, and I never thanked you enough, did I?’

‘Just being you, and loving me as you do, is all the thanks I need and want, sweetheart.’

It was an ambiguous statement which made her realise how he must feel about a marriage that was perfect except for one missing ingredient. His stoic acceptance of that made her feel guilty. She made a resolution to try even harder to love him as she ought.

He went back to duty at the end of the week, but the big freeze continued until March, when Tatty’s school reopened and Lydia took Bobby back to Gresham’s. The snow was still piled up on the sides of the roads, some of it higher than the car, making her nervous. Driving along between the walls of snow, with black overhanging trees making it dark, she was suddenly back in Russia in the droshky with Ivan whipping up that great carthorse and Andrei laughing. He had not laughed for long and she shuddered at what had become a rare recollection. It was the snow, she supposed, and its menace.

Mentally trying to shake off the image, she drove faster than she ought to have done. As she turned into the drive, the car skidded when it encountered the ungritted surface and slid off the gravel into the shrubbery where it stalled in a heap of snow. Shaken, she leant forward over the steering wheel, thankful she was not hurt. ‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’ she said aloud. Then she picked up her bag, left the car where it was and trudged up the drive.

‘I’m back,’ she called to Edward, as she took off her coat and went into the drawing room.

He looked up from the newspaper he was reading. ‘I didn’t hear the car.’

She laughed. ‘No, I skidded turning into the drive and ran it into the bushes. It’s in a snowdrift. I’ll ring Andy at the garage to come and drag it out.’

‘Are you hurt?’

‘No, just feeling foolish. I should have known it was icy just inside the gate.’

‘I thought Percy had gritted the drive.’

‘So he did, but he ran out of grit before he got to the gate and the store didn’t have any more.’ She went back into the hall and telephoned the local garage.