Chapter Text
Grantchester , 1950
Amelia
She would have to do something. Asking Will for money was out of the question – he would help, of course he would, but she wanted to stand on her own to feet. She would not depend on someone anymore. Now that she had “recovered” from her husband’s death, she had to think of moving on. She had thought of getting a job, but she was not qualified for anything. She could probably find work as a housekeeper – maybe as a school matron – and if she really had to, she would, but…
The idea came as she was dusting the bookshelves in the spare room – no one ever used it, but dust gathered anyway. The house was too big for her. She had protested at first when Will had told her he would have to sell the estate to cover the debts. Her home for thirty years – she had arrived as a young and naïve bride, and she would leave as a… As what, exactly, she wasn’t sure – as the shell of the woman she once was. All the aspirations and hopes she had had as a new wife had been trampled on over the years – all the insults, all the blows still resonated in her and she had no hope of ever forgetting. Her son was the only good thing to come out of her union. Even anger at her late husband had long disappeared – he wasn’t worth it. She had learnt to survive over the years , and she would try to make the best of things. And the cottage bought for her by Will after the sale of the estate was her best chance of survival. What use was a spare room if no one ever came to visit? Her late husband had taken care of alienating her from all her old schoolfriends, and the people who had come to visit them had come to visit “the Davenports” and had all too readily discarded her after her husband’s death. She would find a lodger – the bombings had left so many people homeless that five years after the end of the war, the government still struggled to rehome everyone. She went downstairs and wrote several cards. She would distribute them at the baker’s, the butcher’s and maybe leave one on the noticeboard at Will’s church. Surely someone would answer. Grantchester wasn’t very far from Cambridge – maybe a student, or a nice retired professor…She had lived with a tyrant almost all her adult life – surely a lodger couldn’t be any worse?
…….
London, 1950
I’ve always hated goodbyes. We never said goodbye during the war – much better to say “till we meet again”, or “au revoir”, like the French. And yet, there was no insurance against death – no guarantee. There I was – nearly a war widow, no qualifications to speak of, and about to find myself on the streets if I didn’t find lodgings soon. All the others seemed to have somewhere to go – some of the younger ones went back to their parents, others left to get married… I already felt like I had outstayed my welcome in the Waaf. The war had been over for nearly five years – it was probably time to stop playing soldiers and to get a real job. When I had come back… Well, I had been one of the lucky ones – so many of us did not make it. But we had been warned – the life span of a SOE agent in France was limited. I had chosen to go, I bore the scars, but I was alive. I had had no thoughts for the future when I had become a Secret Agent Executive in 1942. My husband was dead, my children had been evacuated to my aunt and uncle’s and I knew they were in safe hands. Now- now, I had survived, and I had the rest of my life to think about. For the last years, I had worked for the Waaf in London, or rather, Uxbridge. Some would consider it a really cushy position – signing passes, filling forms, inspecting barrack rooms…A lot of saluting, a lot of “yes, Ma’am, no, Ma’am”… I found it tedious to the utmost, almost unbearable after what I’d been through.
When I’d married Marcus, I had said goodbye to my career plans - I’d been the first woman of my family to attempt higher education, and after I’d finished my degree at Cambridge, I’d planned on teaching – maybe even one day become a lecturer. And I guess I threw all that away. I did get two children out of the bargain, I suppose – now very much grown-up – and a few years of marriage. I soon discovered that it was not… Well, I don’t know what I had been expecting, but life with Marcus had certainly not been a fairytale. We’d rubbed shoulders well enough, I suppose, but…I could not describe what we had as love – because now, I know. Now that I’ve fallen in love with someone, and… No – this is no time for remembrance. I can’t think about Alex. It wouldn’t do to cry. Stiff upper lip, old girl! I had to leave the barracks by the end of the week, and I still had no place to live. For the first time in many years, I had no plans, nowhere to be.
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Grantchester
“ Quiet middle-aged lady looking for lodger. Reasonable rent. Phone GRA 1218 or come to 2, Laurel Lane btw 5 and 7 pm”
There – surely she would find someone suitable! At least she was on the phone – Will had insisted. She had posted four ads in the village and not said anything to her son in case he tried to dissuade her. He was too much like his father sometimes – telling her what was good for her. Thankfully, he had not inherited Thomas’ love of drinking and gambling, nor his propensity for violence. She had thought so many times that her husband would kill her in a mad bout of rage that she still could not quite believe she was still alive and he was dead. So many things had happened during the last year. No more crumbling old house, but also no more staff – just a skivvy a few hours twice a week. It had been a steep learning curve – getting used to do her own shopping, her own cooking. She didn’t mind – it took her mind off things. He cooking skills needed improving, though – she had never learnt, and even with the help of recipes, the results were not fantastic. Since rationing was still in progress, she had tried to concentrate on the basics – one couldn’t waste food. Hopefully her new lodger wouldn’t want her to cook – she would have to make that clear from the beginning. Maybe they could work out a rota for the use of the kitchen.