Free Diamonds at Dinner by Hilda Newman and Tim Tate Page A

supportive and smiling: men didn’t show their emotions much in those days and I don’t think Dad would have ever dreamed of letting me, or even Mum, see the tears he must have been keeping in check. But as we walked through the town towards the station, I knew he was dreading the moment when I climbed aboard the train and he would watch as it pulled out, taking me away from my family.
    At the small ticket window, the railway clerk took my money and punched out the little oblong piece of thick cardboard: my ticket to a new life. It was, of course, ThirdClass: back then trains were divided into three, with the wealthy and well-to-do riding in First, the middle classes in Second, while working-class folk had the cheapest and hardest seats of all in the most basic of the carriages.
    I clutched the ticket in my gloved hand and climbed on board. Just before the guard waved his green flag and blew his whistle, I felt Dad put his hand around mine and press something between my fingers. It was a crisp brown 10-shilling note. He didn’t say anything and neither did I: I knew this would be the last of his money for the week – possibly the month – and he had given it to me. There would be no Woodbines for him for a while and no half pints of mild. My eyes pricked with tears, for I knew the sacrifice he had made – not just in giving me the last of his money but in letting me leave our home and family. As the train puffed and wheezed its way out of the station, I couldn’t help but think, ‘Oh, Molly, what have you done?’

Chapter Five
Hierarchies
    ‘ M iss Mulley, is it?’
    The man in front of me was a few inches taller than me but his dark hair had been combed back from his forehead (into what looked very much like the sort of brush Mum had used to sweep up with), which made him seem taller. Hair or no hair, as I appraised him, I reckoned he was a few inches taller than me and about ten years older. He was wearing a smart dark suit, his shoes were nicely shined (always a good sign – Dad’s training again) and a peaked cap. It didn’t take a genius to work out that this must be the Coventry’s chauffeur. I’m not sure what I expected, but fancy that: a real chauffeur meeting little Hilda Mary Mulley off the train – how very posh indeed!
    I didn’t have much time to take this in though: as the train pulled out, leaving clouds of smoke and steam rolling along the platform, the chauffeur was marching smartly off to the exit. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘Here goes. What’s to be afraid of anyway?’ I’m not sure if I answered my own question. If I had, I think I could have found plenty of reasons why my stomach was in knots and I felt a bit sick. I’d spent a day criss-crossing England, changing trains, drinking cups of tea poured from big silver urns in smoky station buffets, watching mile after mile of countryside sweep past the window – and now here I was, about to pledge the rest of my life (because that’s how I thought of it) to the service of a rich and powerful Countess I’d barely met. I hadn’t the first clue of where I was going and, if the chauffeur seemed perfectly at ease – and, therefore, I could presume he knew how we would get to our destination – why, I didn’t even know his name. Nervous? Well, wouldn’t you be?
    Parked in the road outside the station was a very ordinary little blue van – the sort which butchers and similar tradesmen used back home in Stamford to make their rounds and deliveries. Surely this wasn’t how we were to travel? But yes: the chauffeur was striding towards it, my little cardboard case in hand. What was his name? I couldn’t really imagine driving to wherever we were going and calling him ‘Mr Chauffeur’. What was thecorrect way of addressing him? These things would matter – that much I knew. I hurried to catch up.
    The chauffeur held the door open for me and, as demurely as I could, I sat myself down in the old, worn seat. Instantly, I noticed a strange