Samantha Lindsay had grown up in Perth. ‘Perth, Western Australia, not Perth, Scotland’, she was wont to say, having recognised the need for clarification the first day she set foot on British soil.

She’d known she wanted to act from the age of ten but her mother had taken little notice. Sam had been permitted weekly singing and dancing classes at a local amateur theatre because several of her friends went, but she was expected to outgrow her childhood fantasies and attend university. The classes only fed Sam’s ambition and, by the time she was sixteen, she was secretly, and impatiently, awaiting the day when she could audition for drama school. She’d made enquiries and seventeen was the minimal age requirement for entry to the WA Academy of Performing Arts, although eighteen was preferable, she was told. Then, in mid-February, shortly after her seventeenth birthday, she read an advertisement in the West Australian: ‘AUDITIONS for “Families and Friends”. Males and females 14–15 years old.’

Sam, who looked young for her age, put her hair in pigtails, wore her old school uniform to the audition and got the job.

‘Families and Friends’ was a highly successful Australian soap. It had been running for eight years and had sold to over twenty countries worldwide. The only drawback was, it was shot in Sydney. There was little her parents could do, Sam was ‘going East’ and nobody was going to stop her. It broke her mother’s heart.

The publicity machine was set in motion and Samantha Lindsay, like many a teenager before her and after, became a household name, not only in Australia, but in Britain where the series was particularly popular. It shocked her when, eighteen months later, the channel didn’t pick up the option on her contract. Her agent knew why.

‘You’re too old now, Sam,’ Barbara said. Barb Bradley was a no-nonsense woman who believed in calling a spade a spade. ‘You’re not a kid any more, pet, you’re past your use-by date.’ It was true that in the past eighteen months Sam had blossomed from a pretty, but gawky, schoolgirl into a sensual young woman, and since ‘Families and Friends’ was aimed at a youthful market, few teenagers found themselves re-contracted once their transition to adulthood became evident.

‘Don’t take it personally,’ Barb advised her, although she knew it was difficult for the poor kid not to. Barbara Bradley had had a number of teenage clients spat out by the system and it cut them up every time. ‘You’ve got the panto to look forward to, pet.’ She was glad she’d organised the panto for the Christmas production break, now at least Sam had something to look forward to. ‘When you come back we’ll concentrate on adult roles.’

The pantomime was of the lower-budget variety and was to be staged at a venue called, unexcitingly, Ferneham Hall, in the obscure town of Fareham, none of which sounded frightfully thrilling to Barbara, but she’d dealt with the producers before and found them honest enough.

The booking of young Aussie soap stars for the British Christmas pantomime season had become a thriving business, particularly if one cracked the big-budget productions, but Barb hadn’t recommended Sam to the bigger producers. The girl was untrained, she’d never worked in the theatre, and Barb had been unwilling to risk her own reputation.

‘You can sing and dance, can’t you?’ she’d asked a little anxiously when the Fareham job had come up.

‘Oh yes,’ Sam had assured her confidently, and Barb hadn’t pushed any further. It didn’t really matter anyway: who’d see her in Fareham? And Vermont Productions probably didn’t care, they only wanted the face from the telly.

Ferneham Hall, Fareham, might have held no thrill for Barbara, but it did for Sam. She was going to England! It was 1994, she was eighteen years old, and she was going to work in the theatre! She might as well have been booked into the London Palladium.

And she wasn’t disappointed from the minute she arrived. Well, that wasn’t quite true. She had been a little deflated when the company manager picked her up at Heathrow Airport on a freezing morning in early December and she discovered they were driving direct to Fareham. ‘Don’t I get to see London?’ she’d asked. Pete Harris, a rather taciturn man in his mid-thirties with a mild London accent, had given a short bark of a laugh as he headed south on the motorway. He thought she was joking and when he realised she wasn’t, he wondered whether he had a true innocent on his hands or whether she was one of those untalented, arrogant, young Aussie soap stars who demanded special treatment. He’d met a number of them in the five years he’d been working for Vermont Productions. ‘London’s a bit out of the way,’ he said brusquely.

Sam was a little deflated by the motorway too. Where was rural England? She realised that perhaps she’d been naive. What had she expected? The Wind in the Willows? This never-ending ribbon of concrete no doubt led to an industrial jungle where she was to be trapped for two whole months. Flight fatigue was setting in – she’d been warned about that – Pete was untalkative, and she started to feel vulnerable and lonely. But when they turned off the motorway and wound their way through the southern slopes, things suddenly changed. She was enchanted. The English countryside was every bit as magical as she’d imagined: copses of beech trees, elegant in their winter nakedness, briar hedges, streams forded by picturesque bridges, huge oak trees and yews. Then up the hill to Fareham. Her first view of St Peter’s and St Paul’s Church, its ancient stone tower standing guard over the tombstones which dotted its wooded gardens. Then into the heart of the township: houses tall and imposing with knapped flintstone walls, others tiny with garrets and small bay windows, Sam had never seen architecture like it. A history she’d never known unfolded before her eyes.

‘What a beautiful place,’ she said, awestruck, as Pete did a quick lap around the town to give her the layout. He felt relieved. Thank God, she’s an innocent, he thought, and he turned off Osborn Road into the broad gravel driveway of Chisolm House.

Although Chisolm House had been converted into bed and breakfast lodgings, it bore all the appearance of the grand private residence it had once been. A set of six large bay windows, three downstairs, three upstairs, looked out over a magnificent and well-maintained front garden, complete with manicured lawn and a fountain. The main entrance, to the right side of the house and directly off the gravel driveway, was guarded by two stone lions and an impressive conifer in an earthenware tub.

‘Hello there, Pete.’ A large, matronly woman in her fifties stood at the door as the car pulled up. She’d obviously been expecting them.

‘Hi, Mrs M,’ Pete said, heaving the suitcase out of the boot. ‘This is Samantha Lindsay. Samantha, Mrs M.’ He dumped the case on the steps. ‘Welcome to Fareham, Samantha, see you in two days,’ he added and took off at the rate of knots. He had a million things to do at the theatre and he’d hated having to interrupt his day to pick up the little Aussie soap star.

Pete Harris had reversed his personal opinion. Samantha Lindsay was obviously a nice girl, and even better looking in the flesh than on TV, but his professional suspicions remained intact. He’d be willing to bet she could neither sing nor dance. None of them could. These kids might draw the crowds but they knew nothing about panto.

‘Come in to the kitchen, dear, you’ll want a cup of tea.’ Before Sam could protest, Martha Montgomery, known to all as Mrs M, picked up the heavy suitcase, and bustled on ahead through the hallway. ‘Such a long way to travel, you must be exhausted.’

Sam followed the woman as she crossed through the small entrance hall lined with coat stands and hat pegs. Ahead was a broad wooden staircase leading to the upper floor, but Mrs M turned a sharp right and walked down several steps to the kitchen. Before following her further, Sam glanced briefly through the open double doors to the left of the staircase and glimpsed a magnificent drawing room. High ceilings, ornate furniture, a crystal chandelier brilliantly capturing the light from the bay windows overlooking the garden.

‘I don’t know how you young things do it, really I don’t, I hate air travel at the best of times, but all that way from Australia! Dear me!’

Sam obediently followed the voice and walked down the steps into a kitchen the size of a small ballroom. Mrs M had already deposited the suitcase by the massive wooden table in the centre of the room, and was busying herself at the equally massive wooden bench which looked out the side windows onto the driveway. Through the open door to the left was a narrow staircase which Mrs M explained led to the upstairs back rooms that had once been servants’ quarters. Pots and pans and utensils hung from wooden pegs everywhere and, despite the size of the place, it was warm and cosy.

‘You’ll want breakfast, I’m sure,’ Mrs M said, ‘you must be starving.’

‘No, thank you. I ate on the plane.’

‘Oh rubbish, they don’t serve enough to feed a sparrow on aeroplanes, and you look like you could do with some feeding up.’

Was the woman for real? Sam wondered. She seemed like a caricature. Fat and hearty, an incessant smile, eyes that crinkled in a jolly face, a gap between her two front teeth, and the thickest Hampshire hog accent imaginable. Sam was already practising, in her head, the oblique vowel sounds, the cadences, the thickly sounded ‘r’s, but she was sure if she used that accent on stage she’d be accused of ‘going over the top’.

‘Now you sit down, Samantha, and I’ll cook you some eggs.’

‘No really, Mrs M.’ Sam had an insane desire to laugh, even the name seemed part of the caricature. ‘I couldn’t eat a thing. And please call me Sam, I always think people are cross with me if they call me Samantha,’ she found herself rattling on, ‘my mum used to call me Samantha when she was riled.’

Riled, how quaint, Martha Montgomery thought, but the girl was Australian after all. And she looked so tired. She must be lonely too, so far from home.

‘Sam it is then,’ she said. ‘Here’s your tea. Drink it up and then we’ll settle you in. You do look tired, dear. And it’s little wonder.’

Sam didn’t want to laugh any more. She wanted to cry. The woman’s kindness made her suddenly aware that she was exhausted and lonely and very far from home. And Mrs M wasn’t a caricature at all. Mrs M was warm and real and Sam wanted to hug her. She blinked away the quick, burning threat of tears and accepted the cup of tea. Flight fatigue, that’s what it was, how embarrassing.

Poor little thing, Martha Montgomery thought. So young too. ‘How old are you, dear?’ she asked.

‘Eighteen,’ Sam replied, looking out the windows. Damn it, she told herself, don’t burst into tears. She felt ridiculous. ‘I’ll be nineteen in February,’ she added, as if that gave her extra status.

‘So where do you come from, Sam? What part of Australia?’ Mrs M brought the pot to the table and sat. She concentrated on the cup as she poured her own tea, knowing that the girl was fighting hard not to cry.

‘Perth,’ Sam said.

‘Perth?’ Mrs M looked up, bewildered.

‘Perth, Western Australia.’

‘Ah, of course.’ Mrs M gave a hearty laugh. ‘I thought for a minute you meant Perth, Scotland. Silly me.’

‘I live in Sydney now, though. That’s where they shoot “Families and Friends”.’

Sam quickly recovered from her bout of self-pity and they spent a pleasant twenty minutes chatting. It appeared that Mrs M didn’t watch ‘Families and Friends’.

‘I don’t really watch much telly at all,’ she said apologetically. ‘I prefer a good book myself, but I believe it’s a very popular show.’

Sam was rather thankful. She’d been overwhelmed by the reception she’d received from British travellers during the flight, and at Heathrow, when she’d arrived, she’d been instantly recognised, besieged for her autograph and inundated with questions about the series. Relieved to be able to talk of something other than ‘Families and Friends’, she asked about Chisolm House.

‘It was built in the 1850s,’ Mrs M said, clearly a full book on Chisolm House. ‘A developer called Charles Osborn was responsible for most of the Victorian town-houses along this road. He was in it for the money of course, but he certainly had an eye for architecture; they’re in different styles and quite lovely, each and every one. The Chisolms bought the place in 1918. They had only one daughter and Chisolm House was left to her. Would you like another cup?’ she asked.

‘Yes please.’

‘Old Miss Chisolm had a stroke three years ago,’ Mrs M went on to explain as she poured the tea from the pot with its hand-knitted cosy. ‘She’d lived here alone for ages – well, apart from me and the maid and the gardener, that is. She has no family left to speak of, just some distant relatives who can’t wait to get their hands on the house. Poor dear, a tragic life.’

Martha Montgomery had been Phoebe Chisolm’s housekeeper and cook for five years before the old woman’s stroke, and had been retained as manager when the place had been converted to bed and breakfast accommodation.

‘I often think she’d like to see young people enjoying the house,’ Mrs M said. ‘She’s in a nursing home in Southampton now and I visit her regularly. She always knows me and we sit outside and chat over a cup of tea. She seems comfortable and healthy enough, but she’s not altogether “with it”, poor thing, her mind wanders a lot.’

When they’d finished their tea Mrs M stood and picked up the suitcase. ‘We’d best get you settled in now, you’ll be wanting to unpack.’

‘Please let me take that.’

‘All right, dear.’ Mrs M relinquished her hold on the suitcase and set off for the door at the rear of the kitchen, talking all the while. ‘I’m putting you into the self-contained flat,’ she said, ‘you’ll be more comfy there. We’ve had actors here for the past two pantos at Ferneham Hall and they always want the flat. It’s probably best for all really, it means they don’t disrupt the household when they come home late.’

She led the way through a laundry and then a small enclosed back porch where mackintoshes hung on pegs and Wellington boots and sandshoes were lined up on the floor. ‘The gardener keeps his things here,’ she explained, ‘and I have a maid come in daily to service the rooms and do the laundry.’

Then they were out the back door in a pebbled courtyard surrounded by trellises of climbing roses with an arch in the centre. It was very attractive, Sam thought.

Mrs M still didn’t draw breath as she continued through the arch. ‘The flat has all the mod cons, if you want to look after yourself, dear,’ she said, ‘but you’re more than welcome to join the other guests for breakfast in the dining room. Not that we have many guests at the moment and they tend to keep rather much to themselves, so I don’t think you’ll find yourself bothered.’ She finally came to a halt and Sam plonked the suitcase down gratefully.

They were standing in the gravelled rear of the property. To the right, the side driveway culminated in twin garages and, directly ahead, several cars sat in marked parking bays. To the left was a quaint two-storey building of sandstone with a slate-tiled roof and multi-paned glass windows. It stood like a proud baby sister to the big grand house, boasting its own impressive and predominant feature – a huge central arch with two heavy wooden doors.

‘It used to be the stables,’ Mrs M announced. ‘The Chisolms had it converted in the forties.’ She crossed to the small door at the left side of the building and unlocked it. ‘The big doors are only for show,’ she explained to Sam, who’d picked up the suitcase and followed her, ‘they’re bricked up on the inside. Miss Chisolm told me that she wouldn’t let her father get rid of them, she’d loved playing in the old stables as a girl. Come along in, dear.’

Sam hefted the suitcase inside and looked about at the open-plan living space with its sandstone walls and heavy timber beams.

‘This was the tack room,’ Mrs M indicated the kitchen, separated by an island bench, ‘and over here,’ she crossed to the dining and lounge room area, ‘this was the actual stables, four of them, I believe, although the Chisolms themselves never kept horses. Come and I’ll show you upstairs.’

They filed up the steep wooden steps and emerged onto a small landing. ‘Up here was the loft,’ Mrs M said. Light flooded through the large windows with their small glass panes, and a bedroom and study looked out over the courtyard. At the rear of the upper floor were a large store-room and a small bathroom. ‘No bath, I’m afraid, only a shower, but when you feel the need for a good soak in a hot tub, you just come up to the house.’

There were oil heaters throughout the flat and, downstairs, Mrs M showed Sam how to operate the central system. ‘It’s very cosy in winter,’ she assured her, ‘and I’ve laid in a few things for you.’ She proceeded to open various cupboards stacked with coffee and tea, cereal packets and tinned fruit. ‘I think you’ll find yourself quite comfortable.’

‘I know that I will. Thank you so much, Mrs M.’ Overwhelmed by the woman’s thoughtfulness, Sam felt herself once again perilously close to tears.

Mrs M sensed it. ‘Well, I’ll leave you alone to have a bit of a snooze,’ she said patting Sam’s arm. ‘Here are the keys.’ She put them on the island bench. ‘One’s to the front door of the house, although it’s always unlocked during the day, and the other’s to the flat. Now you put yourself to bed, there’s a good girl.’

When she’d gone, Sam sat in an armchair and cried. Flight fatigue or self-pity or whatever, she decided to allow herself a momentary wallow. It was strange to be sitting all alone in converted stables in an English mid-winter when, under normal circumstances, she would probably be with the gang sunning herself at Bondi Beach.

Feeling much better after her cry, she blew her nose and looked about. God almighty, how lucky could she get? She loved the stables, she loved Chisolm House, and she loved Mrs M. She’d be happy in Fareham, she knew it and, fighting off the fatigue, she decided to go for a long walk.

Rugged up against the cold, she turned left into Osborn Road and walked up the street to where Pete Harris had pointed out the theatre on the opposite side. There it was. Ferneham Hall, a squat, redbrick building surrounded by a sea of concrete parking space. Towering to its left was the stark white square of the Civic Centre, to its right a multi-storey car park and behind, according to Pete, was a huge shopping complex. Seventies architecture and modern convenience sat unattractively in the heart of the pretty little market town.

Sam decided not to explore the theatre; Pete’s hasty departure and his ‘see you in two days’ hadn’t been particularly welcoming. Besides, she was now rather enjoying being on her own. She walked up the road to the parish church of St Peter and St Paul and wandered about its many paths, examining the old tombstones and startling two grey squirrels that scampered up a yew tree. Then down the broad residential boulevard of High Street, with its splendid Georgian houses, and a right turn into West Street, the hub of the town. It was market day and the pedestrian mall of West Street was a colourful hive of activity, barrows and stalls offering every conceivable item of produce and hardware. Spruikers were pitching their wares and the conflicting aromas of roasted chestnuts, fried onions and hot doughnuts assailed the senses.

Sam walked and walked until, two hours later, having circled the entire town, she returned to Chisolm House happily exhausted. She’d explored the dockyards and parkland beside the Quay, Fareham’s small, thriving port, and she’d walked to the railway station at the far end of West Street. She’d covered the breadth of the town in order to get ‘the lay of the land’, having decided that tomorrow she would investigate the shopping complex and buy supplies for the flat. At least that had been her initial plan, until the railway station had inspired an alternative which left her breathless with anticipation. Trains left for London on an hourly basis, she’d discovered. She could see a show in the West End.

She was now in a quandary, though. The fine print in her contract said actors were not permitted to travel more than twenty miles from the venue during the run of the season. But she hadn’t started work yet, had she? Sam knew that it wasn’t the contract’s fine print she found daunting, it was the prospect of landing on her own in the middle of London. She’d have to stay the night if she went to the theatre. Did she dare? Yes, she bloody well did, she thought as she unlocked the door to the stables.

She slept like a baby that night, images of yesteryear flickering through her mind. Fareham had enthralled her. ‘A town with a history reaching beyond mediaeval times’, the brochure she’d collected from the local museum had stated. But it had an innocence which Sydney lacked, Sam thought as she drifted off in her loft bed above the stables.

The following morning, she considered it common courtesy to mention her plans to Mrs M – she didn’t want the poor woman worrying about her overnight disappearance – so she dropped into the kitchen via the back door.

‘I thought I might catch the train up to London,’ she said casually, ‘and go to a West End show.’

‘Oh that’ll be nice, dear.’ Mrs M smiled. ‘Would you like some breakfast before you leave?’

So it was that simple, Sam thought, people obviously popped up to London all the time, it was no big deal. ‘No thanks, Mrs M, I’ve had some fruit and cereal.’

An hour later, Sam set off, her heart thumping, her toothbrush and a spare set of undies in her shoulder bag.

When she finally emerged from the tube station to stand in Piccadilly Circus she had never felt such excitement. It was a bleak winter’s day, mid-afternoon, and it had taken her hours to get there. She’d had to change trains twice – ‘You should have caught the express,’ a porter pointed out well after the event – and she’d got lost in the underground. But she’d made it. Here she was, in the very heart of London. She stood on the steps in the centre of Piccadilly Circus, beside Eros’s column, and drank in the chaos of double-decker buses and taxis and tourists. Then she reminded herself that accommodation was the prime concern, it would be dusk soon, so she asked a newspaper vendor where the nearest cheap pub was.

‘Cheap pub?’ The little Cockney man looked confused.

‘Or a bed and breakfast, somewhere to stay.’

‘You an Aussie, love?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thought so. “Pub” don’ mean the same thing over ’ere. You want the Regent Palace ’otel.’ He pointed across the busy roundabout. ‘Over there.’

‘Thanks very much.’

She booked herself into a poky little room on the fourth floor, ‘bathroom down the hall’, and then sought out the concierge for advice. He was a theatre buff and extraordinarily helpful.

‘The new Tom Stoppard at the Haymarket,’ he said, ‘Arcadia. Wonderful play, but then all of his are. I could book a ticket for you, if you like, but it’ll be cheaper if you go to the box office.’

She did. And that was the night that changed her life. After the performance, she stood in the chilling wind that swept up the Haymarket and stared at the stately columns of the Theatre Royal, heedless of the crowds brushing past her. One day I’ll work here, she told herself. She didn’t really believe it for one minute, but it was something to aspire to.

 

The season of Cinderella at Ferneham Hall, Fareham, proved to be the hardest work Sam had ever experienced. Ten days’ rehearsal, then two performances daily, seven days a week for five weeks. There were just two days off in the entire run. Christmas Day and New Year’s Day.

She surprised them all from the outset. ‘Crikey,’ Pete Harris openly commented, ‘an Aussie soap star who can sing and dance, you’re a godsend, Sam.’

She herself was surprised by his reaction. ‘What would have happened if I couldn’t?’ she asked.

‘We’d have changed all the choreography and had you miming the songs. Oh believe me, love, we’ve done it before.’

Pete became her greatest ally and Sam found that she liked him. He was intimidating, certainly, as he barked his orders and people leapt to obey. And, amidst the bedlam of rehearsals, he would accept no excuses. ‘Don’t give me that bullshit,’ he’d say when the costumes didn’t arrive on time or there was trouble with the set, ‘just fix it.’ His authority was essential, however, with so much to accomplish in only ten days, and Sam very much admired his professionalism.

Sam was ‘top of the bill’, her photo blazoned above the title on posters all over town. ‘Samantha Lindsay from “Families and Friends”’ it said, which embarrassed her because the rest of the company, both dancers and actors, were all seasoned performers.

‘We’re not telly stars, sweetheart,’ Garry and Vic, the stand-up comics playing the ugly sisters, explained, ‘you’re the bums-on-seats.’ There was no malice intended, they were just stating the case. Like Pete, Garry and Vic were only too delighted that Sam lacked pretension and was a talented ‘pro’. Sam didn’t dare admit to any of them that she had never before worked in the theatre.

They were a comradely crowd and, despite the gruelling schedule, or perhaps because of it, they dined together between shows and partied regularly. Usually on a Friday and Saturday night, and usually at the Red Lion in West Street. It was one of the most popular of Fareham’s many drinking houses, atmospheric and noisy, and Sam loved it. Just as she loved each and every performance at Ferneham Hall. The theatre became her home and the company her family; she had little time to be lonely.

And then Christmas Day approached. It would be the first Christmas she’d ever spent away from her family; she’d returned to Perth the previous year during the ‘Families and Friends’ production break. Even Sydney would have felt odd on Christmas Day, she thought, and now here she was on the other side of the world. She hoped she wasn’t going to get maudlin, but she wondered how she’d fill in the day. It would be strange not dashing across the street to the theatre and working and playing with the gang.

‘So what are you doing Christmas Day, Sam?’ Flora asked as they applied their makeup for the evening show, the day before Christmas Eve.

Flora Robbie played the fairy godmother. Twenty years previously she’d co-hosted a top-rating television game show and these days earned a living, more or less, singing Scottish ballads and being fairy godmothers in pantos all over England. She was very popular with the older theatregoers, all of whom vividly remembered ‘In for a Penny’ on ITV. She was a nice woman, still pretty in her mid-forties with an attractive Highlands accent, and she and Sam shared a dressing room most compatibly.

‘I’m having lunch with some friends,’ Sam lied. She wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t want people’s sympathy.

‘Oh really? Where?’ Flora wasn’t being nosy. She’d felt sorry for the girl so far from her family at Christmas.

‘Somewhere in Brighton,’ Sam said vaguely, then hastily added, ‘they’re coming to pick me up,’ in case Flora asked how she was getting there. Sam had actually contemplated catching a train to Brighton until she’d discovered that no services operated out of Fareham on Christmas Day.

‘Oh that’s grand. I didn’t know you had friends in Brighton.’

‘Well, they’re friends of the family really, I don’t know them that well.’

‘You’ll have a lovely time,’ Flora said, pleased, and relieved that Sam was being looked after. ‘Brighton’s frightfully chic these days.’

‘So I believe.’

‘I was going to ask you out with Dougie and me and the kids.’

‘That’s really sweet of you, Flora,’ Sam said, glad that she’d lied, ‘but I’m on a promise.’ The woman hadn’t seen her husband and two sons, who’d just arrived from Scotland, for over three weeks. The last thing they’d need would be the little Aussie tagging along.

On Christmas Eve there was a morning and afternoon matinee but no night performance, and the other members of the gang had planned to return to their various homes for the break. Mostly to London, although Vic and Garry were heading all the way to Manchester.

‘Don’t suppose you fancy a drive do you, sweetheart?’ Garry asked. ‘You’re more than welcome to join us.’

‘No thanks, Garry, I’m meeting up with friends in Brighton.’ The lie came out glibly now, and she was thankful she’d thought of it.

‘Good-oh.’

Following the afternoon matinee, everyone was in a hurry to leave and Sam took her time in the dressing room.

‘Enjoy Brighton, happy Christmas.’ Flora gave her a hug before tearing off to join her waiting husband and children, and Sam listened to the others yelling ‘happy Christmas’ to each other as they departed.

When she thought the coast was clear, she donned her coat and scarf and left, only to discover Pete waiting outside the stage door in the freezing cold.

‘Pete!’ She was surprised. ‘I thought you’d gone to London.’ She knew he’d been staying at his sister’s house in nearby Portchester during the run, but Flora had said that he and his wife lived in London. Sam had presumed he’d gone home for Christmas.

‘Not this year,’ he said, and there was something in the weary way he said it which didn’t invite a query as to why. ‘Susan asked me to invite you over for Christmas dinner.’ Sam had met Pete’s sister and her young family, they’d come to the first matinee of the season. ‘I could pick you up, if you like.’

‘Oh that’s very sweet of her.’ Samantha parroted her standard reply and followed up with the lie. ‘But I’m going to Brighton with some friends of mine.’

He looked at her closely for a second or so, then said, not harshly and with the shadow of a smile, ‘Don’t give me that bullshit, Sam.’ She was nonplussed. ‘I heard you saying that to Garry and I didn’t believe it for a minute. I take it you’re planning to wallow in loneliness this Christmas.’ Despite the touch of cynicism, she had the feeling he wasn’t being unkind, so she opted for honesty.

‘Yep,’ she admitted, ‘something like that.’

‘Not an unwise decision,’ he said. ‘Other people’s Christmases are pretty trying, and Susan’s’ll be the full family catastrophe. I’m not looking forward to it myself. So I’ll tell her you’re going to Brighton, shall I?’

She laughed. ‘Thanks, Pete.’

He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Happy Christmas, Sam.’

‘You too.’ He looked rather unhappy, she thought, as he wandered off to his car. She wondered why he wasn’t spending Christmas with his wife.

As she walked down the driveway of Chisolm House there was a tapping at the kitchen windows and she could see Mrs M waving at her to come inside. Only seconds later the front door opened.

‘Do you have a moment, dear?’ Then without waiting for an answer Mrs M bustled her inside. ‘I have a little something for you, come along out of the cold.’ She led the way into the front drawing room which Sam had glimpsed on the day she’d arrived.

‘What a fantastic room.’ The crystal chandelier was reflected in each of the four gold-leaf framed mirrors that adorned the walls, and on either side of the mirrors, in ornate wall brackets, were gas lamps, now converted to electricity. A handsome Edwardian escritoire stood in one corner, a table and a set of Chippendale chairs sat in pride of place at the bay windows, and armchairs and sofas were gathered around the open fireplace with its carved wooden mantelpiece.

‘Yes it is, isn’t it. It was Miss Chisolm’s favourite, she spent most of her time here in her last few years.’ Martha Montgomery watched as Sam wandered over to the bay windows to look out at the garden. ‘She’d sit right there in her armchair for hours. She loved the garden, particularly in autumn. Or when it snowed. She always said the garden reflected life, with its change of seasons.’

As Sam turned back she noticed the portrait hanging over the wooden mantelpiece. ‘Is this her?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ Mrs M said, ‘that’s Phoebe Chisolm, she was twenty when it was painted. Lovely looking thing, wasn’t she?’

Sam crossed to the painting and gazed into eyes which, for one startling moment, she could swear were alive. Phoebe Chisolm was more than lovely, she radiated life. The artist had captured her as if she’d just turned her head, her thick auburn hair bounced with movement, the tendons of her slim white neck were visible, but it was the eyes which captured Sam’s attention. They sparkled with humour and yet they held a challenge, perhaps even a touch of rebellion. Phoebe Chisolm had obviously been a feisty young woman. ‘It’s a magnificent painting,’ she said.

‘Yes, he was a local lad who went on to become quite a famous portrait artist. James Hampton, I don’t know if you’ve heard of him.’ Sam hadn’t. ‘There are several of his paintings at the Tate Gallery, I’m told.’

‘Is this the family?’ On the mantelpiece was a framed photograph of a handsome young couple in a formal pose. The man was standing, a proprietorial hand resting upon the shoulder of his wife who was seated in a hard-backed chair. The wife was very beautiful, with dark hair, and she was holding a baby dressed in a christening gown.

‘Yes, that’s Arthur Chisolm, he was a doctor, and his wife Alice, and of course that’s Phoebe as a baby. Miss Chisolm wanted to leave the painting and the photograph here where they belonged, and I keep them on display to give guests a sense of the history of the house, which I think is only right. I serve afternoon tea here for those who wish it and at night it serves as a television room.’

Sam noticed, for the first time, the large television set, complete with video and sound system, which seemed so out of place in its surrounds, even tucked tastefully as it was in the far corner of the room.

‘You said she had a tragic life.’ Sam’s eyes were drawn back to the portrait. ‘In what way?’ She hoped Mrs M wouldn’t be offended, but she felt a need to know what had happened to Phoebe Chisolm.

Far from being offended, Martha Montgomery was delighted by Sam’s interest. Both Chisolm House and her former mistress were subjects very dear to her heart.

‘She married in 1945.’ Having constantly referred to Phoebe Chisolm in her single status, Mrs M was aware of Sam’s surprise. ‘Yes, an American naval officer she met right here in the borough. Fareham’s always had a strong navy history, but in the weeks before D-Day there were hundreds of American servicemen stationed around these parts. After the war he took her back to America and they lived in New York. They had a daughter, but tragically she died of leukemia, the poor little thing. Just fifteen years old, she’d been fighting the disease for two years. Phoebe Chisolm was never the same after that, I believe she had a nervous breakdown of some sort. Anyway, the marriage broke up and she came back to Fareham. She resumed her maiden name and continued to live in Chisolm House after the death of her parents. She never married again.’

Throughout Mrs M’s story, Sam had stared at the portrait, she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes from Phoebe’s. They held such life, such promise. ‘How sad,’ she said. ‘How terribly sad.’

‘Oh my goodness,’ Mrs M broke the moment. ‘I completely forgot why I’d asked you in.’ She picked up a small gift-wrapped package from the coffee table beside the sofa. ‘A little Christmas gift,’ she said as she handed it to Sam.

‘Oh Mrs M, you shouldn’t have.’ Sam was flustered and, even as she uttered the banality, embarrassed. Having decided to ignore Christmas herself, the formality of gift giving hadn’t occurred to her. She should have at least bought the woman a card. ‘Really, you shouldn’t.’

‘It’s nothing, dear, just a little memento of Fareham.’

Sam unwrapped a small cardboard box, inside which was a silver statuette of a horse in mid-trot, its front hoof delicately raised. ‘How lovely,’ she said, balancing the miniature in the palm of her hand.

‘It’s a Frogmorton,’ Mrs M said. ‘They’re local silversmiths who’ve been here for generations. They have a fine store and gallery at Brighton and the tourists buy a lot of their souvenir spoons, but I thought, seeing you’re living in the stables, the little horse was a more fitting memento of your stay.’

‘It is. It’s perfect. Thank you.’ Sam hugged the woman.

‘Happy Christmas, dear.’ Mrs M returned the hug warmly, then got down to business. ‘Now tell me, what are you doing tomorrow? Do you have plans?’ Sam hesitated for a moment, she didn’t want to lie to Mrs M. ‘I thought not. Why don’t you come to Portsmouth with me? I’m staying overnight with my daughter and her family, you’d get on famously, I’m sure.’

Sam decided to be not only firm in her refusal, but truthful. ‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs M,’ she said, ‘but I’d really rather be on my own.’

Martha Montgomery nodded, she’d suspected as much. There was an independent streak in young Samantha Lindsay.

‘I’m going to go for a very long walk,’ Sam continued, ‘and I’m going to loll around and read a book. Believe me, that’s a luxury after two shows a day. I’m looking forward to it, really I am,’ she insisted, hoping Mrs M wouldn’t press the point.

‘I suggest Titchfield.’ The girl would probably feel more lonely sharing another family’s Christmas anyway, Martha Montgomery thought. ‘For your walk,’ she added when Sam looked mystified. ‘It’s a dear little village, right in the centre of the old strawberry farm district, about four miles out of town. You just continue on the road past the railway station.’

‘Titchfield it is.’ Sam was grateful for the woman’s understanding.

‘And you must use the house, it’ll be completely deserted over Christmas. Come with me.’ Sam found herself once again following the ample rear of Mrs M and the sound of her voice. ‘The four guests we had have all gone,’ she was saying as they walked up the main staircase, ‘and there’s no-one else booked in until the day after Boxing Day. You’ll have the whole place to yourself.’

They crossed through the upstairs drawing room, equal in splendour to its counterpart below. Mrs M was barging on ahead, but Sam peered briefly through the bay windows. She could see the multi-storey car park and Ferneham Hall and the civic offices a little further up the street. It was a pity, she thought, picturing the view as it might once have been. Fields and meadowland, perhaps even crops, since Fareham was a market town.

Ten-year-old Jane Miller clutched her threadbare coat about her as she took the shortcut past the old gravel pit that had once been meadowland on her way to Osborn Road and Chisolm House. Her woollen hat was pulled firmly down over her blonde curls, keeping her ears snug and warm against the bitter cold of the December morning. It was a Sunday and she and her best friend Phoebe were going to build a snowman.

Sam’s attention was dragged back to the room. ‘For guests with musical inclinations,’ Mrs M was saying as she indicated the old upright piano in the corner. ‘I keep it tuned. We’ve had a number of good old singalongs up here, I can tell you.’

After bypassing several other bedrooms on the upper front floor, Mrs M led her to the master bedroom with its large en suite bathroom where Sam could have a ‘good old soak’.

‘Treat the house as your own, dear,’ she said. ‘You’ll be nice and cosy, the central heating switches off at midnight but it comes on automatically at six in the morning.’

Sam looked longingly at the huge bathtub. ‘I’ll take you up on that, Mrs M,’ she said.

 

It was the first thing she thought of when she awoke the following morning. A long, hot bath, she couldn’t wait. Then she looked out of the stable loft windows and gasped. The world was white. The gravel car park, the trellises, the pebbled courtyard beyond, all was blanketed in snow. A white Christmas. She laughed out loud. The gang at the theatre had promised her her first white Christmas. They’d told her that the weather reports had said it would snow during the night, but she hadn’t believed them. There’d been heavy frosts each morning but it hadn’t snowed once since she’d been in Fareham. Why should it choose to do so on Christmas Eve? But it had.

Apart from the crunch of her footsteps, all was silence as Sam trudged through the whiteness to the front door of Chisolm House. She’d never seen snow, and she felt a sense of wonderment.

She went into the front drawing room and sat at the table by the bay windows. No wonder Phoebe Chisolm had loved the garden when it snowed, she thought. The trees, the lawn, the fountain, all cloaked in white, it was magical.

A snowball caught Jane fair in the face. She squealed. Her own missile had missed its mark as Phoebe ducked and weaved about the garden. Both girls dropped to their knees, hastily balling together more snow in their gloved hands, and the fight was on. They assiduously avoided hitting the snowman, however; they were very proud of their snowman. Jane always maintained it was a cheat building it over the fountain, but Phoebe said if it meant they had the best snowman in town, who cared?

Upstairs, as Sam soaked in the hot bath, she wondered at the fact that she didn’t feel intrusive. Under normal circumstances she would. She’d feel uncomfortable lying in someone else’s bathtub in someone else’s house. But it was as if the house wanted her there. She felt at home. She put it down to the snow. It had snowed just to give her her first white Christmas, she decided. So that she wouldn’t feel lonely. And she didn’t. The snow and the house made her feel very special.

Hands shoved deep in the pockets of her anorak, collar up, scarf wrapped firmly around her neck, Sam set off on her hike to Titchfield. She wasn’t even halfway there before she took off the coat and scarf, no longer aware of the cold. A wintry sun was already turning the snow to sludge.

Titchfield was as picturesque as Mrs M had promised and, from the moment she crossed the stream and walked up East Street, Sam felt she’d stepped into the past. Then East Street wound to the left and broadened into High Street and she found herself in the centre of the village, surrounded by Georgian brick houses converted into shops and cafes. She walked down to the end of the broad thoroughfare, to where, like the spokes of a wheel, narrow roads, each lined with little cottages, led away from the village to the farms and surrounding countryside. With the exception of the cars gathered around the Queen’s Head pub where a raucous Christmas party ensued, she could have been standing in another time.

The sturdy white pony plodded across the little bridge that forded the stream, unbothered by the three small girls perched upon his back. Surefooted and confident, he turned off East Street into the lane which led through the church graveyard. He needed no guidance. Beyond the graveyard was the paddock that was his home.

Maude Cookson was pleased that Jane and Phoebe liked to ride her pony. Jane was the smartest girl in their class at school and Phoebe’s dad was Dr Chisolm, one of the most important people in the whole borough. Jane Miller and Phoebe Chisolm were good friends to have. Particularly Phoebe. Maude so wanted Phoebe to be her friend. There was one thing, however, which Maude found bewildering.

‘You should have your own pony, Phoebe,’ she’d said on a number of occasions. ‘You’ve got stables where you live, and they’re not even used.’ Maude’s father was a strawberry farmer and they had plenty of space to build stables, but they didn’t have the money.

‘Daddy won’t let me.’ Phoebe’s sigh was always one of utter exasperation. She’d pleaded often enough, but she hadn’t been able to win her father around as she usually did.

So the walk into Titchfield to ride Maude Cookson’s pony had become a regular event for Phoebe and Jane.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon, the air still and freezing with the promise of more snow, when Sam arrived back at Chisolm House to discover Pete, huddled in his greatcoat, sitting on the steps to the front door.

‘G’day, Sam,’ he said. It was a running gag between them, he was always sending her up about being Australian. ‘Crikey, you look a mess.’

She knew it. Her hair was glued to her head and, although her hands were numb from the cold, her body was sweating with exertion. She was tired but exhilarated.

‘What do you expect?’ she asked. ‘I’ve just walked ten miles. What on earth are you doing here?’

‘Waiting for you. Here.’ He delved into the pockets of his greatcoat and produced two tinfoil wrapped packages. ‘A touch of Christmas,’ he said holding them out to her, one in each hand. ‘One’s turkey and one’s plum pudding, I’ve forgotten which is which.’

‘Oh Pete,’ she laughed. ‘It’s very kind of you, but it’s not necessary. I’m having the best day, I’m not lonely, you don’t need to worry about me.’

‘I’m not. I’m just pretending to.’ She looked understandably confused. ‘I had to get out of that house,’ he explained. ‘You were my excuse. Can’t we go inside? It’s freezing out here.’

‘Of course, I’m sorry. Come and I’ll make us some coffee.’ As they walked down the drive to the stables, she wasn’t sure whether she was glad to see him or not. He’d broken the mood, she’d been enjoying her solitude. But he looked so forlorn, she had the feeling it was he who needed comforting.

It was warm in the stables’ lounge room, she’d left the heating on, and she dried her hair with a towel as she waited for the coffee to brew. He sat in an armchair and watched her as she chatted away about Titchfield.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s a very pretty village.’ Did she know how beautiful she was? he wondered as she dumped the towel on the bench and set out the coffee mugs, not bothering to comb the tousled wet hair that still clung to her cheeks. It was intriguing to meet a woman so unself-conscious, such a change from Melaney. But then Sam was only eighteen; perhaps Melaney had been like that once. Highly doubtful, he thought wryly. Melaney had always been aware of her beauty and the impact it had on others. It had been one of the things he’d loved about her, he had to admit. He’d felt proud of her for it.

‘There you go.’ She placed two steaming mugs on the coffee table between them and sat in the armchair opposite. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’ she asked.

‘After Susan’s Christmas dinner? You’re joking.’

‘Well, I’m bloody starving, do you mind?’ She jumped up from the armchair and started unwrapping the tinfoil packages which sat on the bench.

‘They’re probably not hot any more,’ he said.

‘Who cares, it’ll be better than the chicken in the fridge. You sure you don’t want some?’ She brought the open tinfoil packages to the coffee table and squatted in the armchair, legs folded beneath her.

He shook his head. ‘So it was going to be cold chicken for Christmas dinner, was it?’

‘Yep,’ she nodded with her mouth full of turkey. ‘Chook, that’s what we call it back home, and a bottle of champagne. God this is good. And you’re wrong, it’s still warm.’ She shovelled another lump of breast meat into her mouth. ‘What’s the matter, Pete, why are you down?’

It was a confronting question. He hadn’t realised he’d been so readable, and he certainly hadn’t intended to bring his problems to Sam, he’d simply wanted to get out of the house with its cacophony of children’s chatter and Christmas bonhomie. But he admired her directness.

‘Melaney and I have split up,’ he said. ‘Melaney’s my wife.’

Well, that was pretty obvious, Sam thought. In fact everything was obvious, the man looked so sad. ‘Do you still love her?’

‘Yes.’ His response was instinctive and his answer genuine, but he didn’t like her asking the question he’d so often asked himself of late.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘No.’ Her directness was becoming intrusive. He rose from the armchair. ‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ he said stiffly, ‘I didn’t mean to intrude on your Christmas.’

‘Well, you have, so why don’t you stay?’ She realised that she’d overstepped the mark but she didn’t want him to go, she no longer wanted to be alone. ‘Let’s open the champagne.’ She crossed to the refrigerator. ‘I promise I won’t ask any more questions.’ She got out the bottle and started struggling with the foil. ‘It’s not the good stuff, but it’s got bubbles.’

He realised he’d overreacted. Good God, he was often criticised for his own directness, why should he blame the girl for hers? He took the bottle from her and opened it. ‘Why not? I can hardly leave you on your own to wallow in loneliness, can I?’ He smiled. He was very good-looking when he smiled, she thought, wondering why she hadn’t noticed before. ‘Not that you seem to be doing much wallowing. In fact you’re positively glowing.’

‘Yes I am, aren’t I?’ She grinned disarmingly. ‘It’s my first white Christmas. I’m having the best time.’

It seemed a catch-phrase of hers, and he wondered whether it was defensive. Perhaps she didn’t want him to know how vulnerable she was. But it certainly sounded healthy. He’d love to be able to say ‘I’m having the best time’.

‘That’s good.’ He offered her the glass and they sat once again in the armchairs. ‘And you’re enjoying the show too,’ he said, getting things back on a professional keel, very much aware of his own vulnerability and Sam’s attractiveness and the fact that they were alone in the stables. ‘That’s pretty obvious.’

‘Oh I do, I love it, Pete,’ she said excitedly. ‘And I’m learning such a lot!’

He was surprised. It didn’t seem to him that Samantha Lindsay had much to learn. She could sing and dance with the best of them and she was a natural actor. ‘What are your plans, Sam? After the panto. Do you go back to the soap?’

‘Nope. I’m going to concentrate on the theatre, I’ve decided. That’s if they’ll have me of course, there’s always a bit of a stigma attached to soap actresses, and it’s tough breaking into the Australian theatre with no formal training.’

She could see he was surprised by the fact that she was untrained. She wondered what he’d say if she told him she’d never worked in the theatre before. She decided to maintain her silence on that score.

‘Why don’t you stay in England?’ he asked. Sam was taken aback, the thought hadn’t occurred to her. ‘I could put you in touch with a good agent,’ he said. ‘Melaney’s with Reginald Harcourt, he’s excellent. One of the smaller exclusive agencies, personal management really.’

‘Why would he be interested in me?’

Pete wasn’t sure that he would be, and he didn’t want to raise the girl’s hopes. She’d need more than talent in this cutthroat industry. More than guts too. You had to be hungry to make it. He wondered if she was aware of that.

‘You’d have an outside chance,’ he said cautiously. ‘In his own quiet way Reginald’s a bit of a megalomaniac, he likes to create new success stories. And he’s a nice chap, I’m sure you’d get on.’ He wondered whether in actual fact they would. Reginald was a private man and he might find Sam’s forthright qualities a bit much. ‘Mind you, he takes some getting to know.’

Pete realised that he was chatting in order to distract himself, both from her proximity and her attention. She was leaning forward on the very edge of her armchair, her face close to his and, champagne glass forgotten in her hand, her full focus was directed at him. He found it most disconcerting. His overwhelming desire to kiss her shocked him. ‘You’d have to take it easy to start with. He’s a bit of an enigma, Reginald, no-one even knows whether he’s gay or not, he keeps very much to himself.’

Sam was experiencing her own sense of shock, having realised, all of a sudden, that Pete was attracted to her. She was accustomed to men finding her attractive but she was rarely attracted in return. Pete’s desire didn’t come as a shock, but her reciprocation did. What she’d taken to be admiration for Pete Harris had undergone a swift change and she realised that she found him extraordinarily attractive. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

‘So your wife’s an actress?’ she asked, her eyes straying to his mouth.

‘Yes,’ he drained his glass and rose to get the bottle. Did the girl know what she was doing? The way she was looking at him, was it open seduction, or was it just his wishful thinking? ‘A very good one too.’ He poured his own glass. ‘You haven’t drunk yours,’ he said.

‘Oh. Sorry.’ She drained her glass in three healthy gulps and held it out to him for a refill.

‘I’m not sure if I could get him to come to Fareham.’

‘Who?’

‘Reginald Harcourt.’ Pete sat, putting the bottle on the coffee table between them. ‘He doesn’t usually cover pantos. But I’m sure I could arrange an appointment for you in London.’

‘Is that how you met your wife? In the theatre?’

‘Yes.’ She was looking at him that way again. ‘On tour,’ he said, taking a sip from his glass and staring out the window, again by way of distraction. ‘She thought it was just one of those flings you have when you’re on the road, but it wasn’t. I avoid that sort of thing.’ A total lie, he thought. He’d had affairs during every production he’d managed. Until he’d met Melaney three years ago and, as a result, their marriage had been based on mistrust. ‘Why can’t you stay in London?’ she’d insisted. ‘You’d get work freelancing.’ ‘Because I have a career with Vermont Productions,’ he’d told her. ‘They pay me good money, I’m their top company manager, there’s talk of a partnership.’ Good God, he’d thought, didn’t the woman realise that if they were going to plan a family, as they’d discussed, they needed a reliable bloody income? And then he’d come home to find she’d had an affair of her own.

He looked at the girl. She was desirable certainly, but he’d resisted temptation on numerous occasions since he’d met Melaney. Was that why he so wanted Sam now? To get back at his wife?

‘I’d better go.’ He stood abruptly.

‘Yes.’ She also rose, and a silence that spoke multitudes rested uneasily between them. ‘Thanks for Christmas dinner,’ she said finally.

‘Sorry there’s no brandy butter to go with the pudding.’

‘I’ll manage.’

‘Susan wanted to put some in a jar but I got sick of waiting around while she tried to find the right sized one.’

‘Happy Christmas, Pete.’ She put her hands on his chest as she kissed him on the cheek. It wasn’t a conscious act of seduction, she only knew that she wanted to touch him, but it was all that was necessary. Suddenly they were kissing, deeply and longingly.

His arms were around her, feeling the supple young body against his, her hands on the back of his neck, then her fingers, first tracing the outlines of his cheekbones, then running through his hair, her breathing becoming more feverish. He’d fantasised about such a moment for days, but he’d never thought it possible. It was madness. Sunlight streamed through the huge open stable doors, at any moment someone might pass by. But he didn’t care.

Sam’s sense of abandon was so sudden it shocked her. She’d felt a similar passion before, six months previously, after a party at the channel when one of the show’s directors had driven her home. She’d never been attracted to the young male members of the cast, although she’d received overtures on many an occasion, but the director was in his early thirties and, to Sam, charismatic. She obviously fancied older men, she’d decided, and it was high time she lost her virginity. She’d been embarrassed at still being a virgin, unable to admit the fact to her friends. Whether it was her middle-class Perth upbringing or not, this was the nineties and she was eighteen years old. So she’d been not only willing to succumb to the passion she’d felt in the embrace of the director, she’d welcomed it. But the experience had proved unpleasant. It hurt, it was over before she knew it, and the director, who’d obviously been taken aback to discover she was a virgin, couldn’t wait to get out of her flat.

Now, as warmth enveloped her body and she felt her passion mounting, Sam hoped she was about to discover the secret.

She desperately wanted him to make love to her. Right here in the stables on this summer’s afternoon. She ground herself against him. Her mouth against his, her groin against his. She wanted to discover the secret, she needed to know. She could feel the sun hot on her back and a shred of commonsense took over. ‘Let’s go up to the loft,’ she whispered.

It was Pete who broke free. The girl was only eighteen, he told himself, and obviously inexperienced, perhaps even a virgin, he could sense it in her desperation. He’d be taking advantage of her. He had to get out. It was his wife he wanted, not this girl.

‘I’m going, Sam.’ He grabbed his coat from the back of the armchair. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said, turning back to her as he opened the door.

‘I’m not.’ She marvelled at her own bravado as she looked him directly in the eye.

‘I’ll see you at the theatre tomorrow,’ he said.

As Sam lay in her bed in the loft that night, a soft snow falling outside, she felt hot and restless. Her hand wandered between her thighs and she brought herself to orgasm. It eased her frustration and helped her to sleep, but it wasn’t like the real thing. It couldn’t be. Surely it couldn’t.

 

‘G’day, Sam.’

Pete was the first person she bumped into when she arrived at the theatre for the two o’clock matinee the following day, and she was relieved to discover there was no tension between them.

‘How was the plum pudding?’ he asked. ‘Susan’s bound to want a report.’

‘Tell her it was great. I had it for lunch today. Along with the cold chook,’ she grinned.

‘That’s a terrible word.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s the half,’ he said. ‘Where the hell are Garry and Vic?’ He went off to announce the half-hour call through the tannoy system and Sam scampered upstairs to the dressing room where Flora, always early, was halfway through her makeup.

Garry and Vic arrived ten minutes before curtain up, the traffic had been a nightmare, they said, and Pete gave them the standard lecture about unprofessionalism and said if it wasn’t Boxing Day they’d be fined out of their wages. But at the Red Lion after the show, it was camaraderie as usual and Garry and Vic had them all in stitches about their hideous Christmas in Manchester.

Flora Robbie, holding hands fondly with husband Dougie, asked about Brighton, a subject which Sam had assiduously avoided in the dressing room. ‘Great,’ she’d simply said, pretending she was running behind time with her makeup. ‘Gosh, I’ll never be ready in time.’

‘Where do your friends live in Brighton?’ Flora now asked, making polite conversation, as she always did.

‘Oh,’ Sam pretended she couldn’t quite remember, ‘somewhere on the front, um …’

‘Arundel Terrace, didn’t you say?’ Pete prompted.

‘Yes, that’s right.’ She smiled at him gratefully.

‘Arundel Terrace, what a coincidence, a dear friend of mine lives there. Stephen Churchett. Actor-writer, very successful, I’m sure your friends would …’

But before Flora could continue the interrogation, Pete embarked on a hideous Christmas story to match Garry and Vic’s, about monster children and the full family catastrophe. In his own dour way, he was every bit as funny as the stand-up comics and Sam watched him admiringly. She couldn’t help herself; she was infatuated, and she knew it.

 

‘What are you doing tonight?’ she asked him six days later during the morning matinee. It was New Year’s Eve and, with the following day off, the actors were once again going their separate ways after the two o’clock performance, mostly to London. She hoped he wouldn’t think she was trying to seduce him. But then who was she kidding? She probably was. She told herself she simply wanted to spend some time in his company, away from the gang.

‘Another monster family gathering at Susan’s,’ he said. ‘How about you? Wallowing in loneliness?’

‘Actually, no. There’s a gathering at Chisolm House. Mrs M’s putting on a bit of a party for the guests to see in the New Year. “A supper and a singalong”, she called it.’ Sam looked doubtful. ‘I don’t know what it’ll be like, but she said I could invite any members of the company who were staying in town and I thought …’

‘Love to. You’ve saved my life.’

Mrs M’s daughter, Betty, and her family had come up from Portsmouth and were staying the night. The three young children were raucous and Sam cast an apologetic glance at Pete as the proceedings got underway. It appeared he’d swapped one monster family night for another. But Pete gave her a reassuring smile. She’d obviously taken his ‘monster family’ stories literally, but they were strictly for laughs. They were also a defence mechanism against the fact that Susan’s happy household reminded him of the plans he and Melaney had discussed. He was thirty-four years old, he’d have liked to have had kids. Sam watched in amazement as he horsed around with Betty’s children, relaxed and evidently enjoying himself.

The house guests were a pleasant lot. Three navy cadets, a middle-aged couple, and two young women who were on holiday together and held hands a lot. They ate informally in the downstairs drawing room, everyone gorging themselves on Mrs M’s spread, which could have fed a small army, and, after the children were put to bed, they gathered around the piano upstairs.

Betty was the musician for the night, as she always was at the ‘singalongs’, and she played with an unapologetic vigour which defied anyone to notice her mistakes. Furthermore, her repertoire was extensive. She thumped out everything from the latest pop songs to old wartime favourites and she knew the lyrics to each and every one.

‘We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when …’

They’d just finished the Vera Lynn bracket when it was time to start the countdown.

‘Twelve, eleven, ten …’ Mrs M had turned the radio on to the BBC. They raised their champagne flutes as they chanted. ‘… three, two, one. Happy New Year!’ Then, to the chimes of Big Ben, they hugged each other and clinked glasses, and thirty seconds later Betty was back at the piano.

‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot …’ They sang as raucously as Betty played.

‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind …’ Alice Chisolm was a skilful pianist, but tonight she played with a verve she didn’t really feel. 1939 had not been a good year, why should 1940 be any better? As the voices rang out she looked at them all. Phoebe and Jane and their gathering of friends. Young people. Happy. As if there wasn’t a war at all. And her husband, Arthur, singing loudest of all. When would it end? she wondered. Some said they’d have Hitler beaten within the year, but Alice didn’t believe the optimists. This would be a long and wretched war.

Sam looked about fondly at the assembled company singing their lungs out so tunelessly. This was undoubtedly one of the best New Year’s Eves she’d ever had, she thought.

An hour later, the party started to break up. The middle-aged couple had already retired, the two young women trotted off to their bedroom hand in hand, and only the navy cadets and the indefatigable Betty showed no signs of tiring.

Pete gave Mrs M a hug and yelled his thanks above Betty’s thumping. Sam also made her retreat.

‘Thanks, Mrs M, it’s been a fantastic night.’

‘Happy New Year, Sam.’ Mrs M enveloped her in a huge motherly embrace and then rejoined her daughter and the singalong, Betty waving a farewell to Sam, losing the beat, and then getting back into her stride. Betty was a mini-Mrs M, Sam thought with affection as Pete shepherded her to the front door.

They stood on the gravel driveway outside. ‘Happy New Year,’ they said in unison, and they kissed, both knowing it was not a goodnight kiss. And when she said, ‘Do you want a coffee?’ they both knew that the invitation meant a great deal more.

Inside the stables, she didn’t even make the pretence of turning on the electric jug. They were in each other’s arms in a second, and then they were upstairs, in bed, their naked bodies setting each other on fire.

Pete tried not to think of Melaney as he made love to Sam. He didn’t want to use the girl, and despite the intensity of his desire, he made love to her gently. He ran his lips down her throat and kissed her breasts, feeling her nipples respond to his mouth, his hands caressing her body, her belly, the curve of her hipbone, then her thighs, then the secret place between. All the while touching her, arousing her, and when he finally entered her she was warm and pulsating and meeting his every thrust.

He could feel the power of her flesh undulating around him, drawing him further and further inside.

‘Show me, James. Teach me,’ she was whispering over and over.

He fought to maintain control, but by now she was moaning and thrusting and unwittingly driving him towards his own climax.

Then, suddenly, the rhythm stopped and she clung to him, her whole body quivering, a tiny gasp caught in her throat, as if she’d stopped breathing, as if time had stopped still.

In her wildest imaginings, Sam had never thought that it could be like this. Fulfilment flooded through her, and with it a sense of ecstasy. Her body was behaving in a way she had never known possible.

Pete could hold on no longer and he groaned as he thrust himself even deeper inside her, giving in to his own release.

They lay together, exhausted, on the hard wooden floors of the loft. He’d been astounded by the force of her passion and she knew it. She laughed gently. ‘So that’s what it’s like,’ she whispered, and she kissed him as she straightened her skirts.

They lay side by side on the narrow bed, her head in the crook of his shoulder. ‘That was fantastic,’ she whispered. She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

‘Pretty good from my point of view too,’ he said as he kissed the top of her head.

‘I’ve only done it once before.’ She leaned up on her elbow and looked at him. ‘And it certainly wasn’t like that.’

She looked so incredibly young, he thought fondly as he stroked a lock of her hair, damp with perspiration, back from her face. He’d been thankful to discover she wasn’t a virgin; she was in love with him and that was responsibility enough, he realised with a sense of guilt.

His concern must have shown, because she laughed lightly. ‘Don’t worry, Pete, it’s just one of those flings you have on the road.’ She knew it was what he needed to hear.

He was grateful to her for saying it, and overwhelmed with affection, perhaps even love, as he drew her to him and kissed her.

He stayed the night and they made love again in the morning. Then she cooked them scrambled eggs and bacon.

‘Do you eat like this every morning?’ he asked as she piled the plates high.

‘Nope, I’m strictly a fruit and cereal girl – this is part of my seduction campaign.’ He obviously believed her. ‘Not true,’ she admitted. ‘It was my special treat for a lonely New Year’s Day.’ But she wondered at the fact that she’d laid in supplies for two; had she been hoping?

Sam checked that the coast was clear and Pete ducked down the driveway with an anxious eye on the side windows. Any moment Mrs M might appear in the kitchen, but fortunately the breakfast rush was over and the lunchtime preparation hadn’t yet begun.

He collected his car from the theatre car park where he’d left it and, twenty minutes later, he drove up to Chisolm House where he and Sam greeted each other conspicuously and set off for the day. She wanted to go to Southampton, she said, to look at the docks.

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied. And she didn’t, she realised, the impulse seemed to have come from nowhere. ‘But isn’t that where the big ocean liners go from?’

‘Once upon a time,’ he said. ‘Well, the pleasure cruisers still do,’ he admitted, ‘but I can show you some prettier tourist spots.’ He took her there anyway, but only after they’d visited the village of Netley, nestled amongst the trees on the shores of Southampton Water, a few miles from the town of Southampton itself. Set in beautiful grounds nearby, the white domed chapel was the only remaining evidence of the once magnificent Royal Victoria Hospital which had been built in the nineteenth century.

‘It served as a military hospital during both World Wars,’ he explained, ‘a huge place – they say it was a mile long.’

Not far away rose the stone battlements of Netley Castle, which Sam insisted they visit.

‘Incredible,’ she repeated time and again as she ran her hands over stonework which had stood for centuries. ‘Just incredible.’ Pete delighted in her amazement. ‘Well, you don’t get stuff like this in Australia,’ she said, which only delighted him more.

She wasn’t disappointed in Southampton either, she found the quayside romantic. She could see it all, she said, the glamour of the thirties and the trans-Atlantic ocean liners setting off for New York …

Pete gazed out over the sprawling industrial port at the vast grey dockyards and railway lines, the barges and tugboats and cargo vessels gathered upon the murky waters. It didn’t look particularly romantic to him.

‘When I go to America I’m going to live in New York,’ Phoebe said.

Jane nodded, but she didn’t bother replying – Phoebe said it every time they watched the liners depart. It was a regular outing of theirs; every few weeks they’d catch the train to Southampton and trek down to the docks. Jane’s father used to accompany them, but now they were thirteen they were allowed to make the trip on their own.

‘Right in the very middle of Manhattan,’ Phoebe added, and Jane nodded again. Phoebe always said that too, and Jane believed her – once Phoebe had set her mind on something she usually accomplished it.

They stood on the visitors’ balcony and watched the Mauretania being slowly pulled out to sea by the tugs, passengers still waving from her crowded decks, streamers still fluttering from her railings.

Standing at the forefront of the hordes gathered on the balcony, Phoebe and Jane had the very best view; they always made sure that they did. Having checked the newspapers, they’d arrive shortly before the liner’s departure and they’d stay for only a while, watching the last of the passengers boarding, pointing out the wealthiest and those travelling steerage. Then they’d sprint to the seaward end of the huge Ocean Terminal building, over 1,200 feet long, to take up their position by the railings before others, farewelling friends and family, had the same idea.

Phoebe not only fantasised about the ship’s destination, but the romance that lay in life on board. ‘We’d have morning tea on the promenade deck,’ she’d say, ‘and we’d have dinner at the Captain’s table, and we’d have a state-room, with a private balcony.’

‘But of course,’ Jane would agree, ‘we’d be travelling posh.’ They’d read that the wealthiest passengers always travelled ‘Port Out, Starboard Home’, the favoured cabins gaining the morning sun and costing a great deal more. They knew each ship and whether it was of the Cunard or the White Star line and they fed each other’s fantasies as best friends do. The great liners had gradually replaced Maude Cookson’s pony in the scheme of things.

‘Can’t you see it, Pete? The crowds at the railings and the streamers? Just like the old black and white movies.’

‘Not really, I have to admit.’

‘No sense of romance,’ she laughed, ‘that’s your problem.’

They drove back via Portchester so that he could collect a fresh set of clothes; it was tacitly understood that he’d stay the night once again at the stables. ‘What will Susan say?’ Sam asked as they pulled up outside his sister’s place.

‘Nothing.’ Pete was amused by her childlike concern. ‘She’ll assume I’m having an affair and she won’t approve, but she won’t say a thing. I’m thirty-four years old, Sam.’ He got out of the car, then leaned back through the window. ‘She just doesn’t need to know with whom,’ he added protectively; gossip in village communities was rife. ‘Keep your head down a bit,’ he said, then laughed as Sam, alarmed, shrank out of sight.

 

There was only a week of the season to go and Sam counted the days, or more importantly the nights, as the production drew to a close. They managed to keep their affair a secret from the rest of the company, partying with the gang as always, then slipping back to the stables together when the evening broke up. Sometimes Pete stayed overnight, but more often than not he left before daylight. It was impossible to avoid the kitchen windows, he said, and he was convinced that Mrs M had seen him on several occasions, although she’d tactfully pretended not to.

‘She knows, I’m sure of it,’ he said.

He appeared to be far more concerned about Sam’s reputation than she was. ‘Who cares?’ she said when he first voiced his worries. ‘I don’t.’ Then she felt guilty. The man might be separated, but he was still married. Furthermore, he loved his wife. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, instantly contrite. ‘I wasn’t thinking. I’m really sorry.’

But Pete’s concern for her was genuine. She had her career to consider, he told her. ‘The London tabloids would have a field day with you, Sam, you’re big news over here, don’t forget. “Soapie starlet’s affair with older married man” wouldn’t stand you in good stead with Reginald Harcourt.’

Sam had made her decision from the outset, however. She had no intention of attempting to carve a career in Britain. Not yet anyway.

‘That’s exactly what I’d be known as, Pete, a “soapie starlet”, and I’d get the odd telly guest role if I was lucky.’ It was a life in the theatre she wanted. ‘And I’m not ready,’ she said. ‘I’m nowhere near ready.’ She’d return to Australia, and start from the bottom. She’d take classes and grab any stage job she could, she’d learn her craft the hard way.

And she’d make it, Pete thought. She had talent and guts and, above all, he realised as she recounted her plans with a passion, she was hungry.

The last night of the panto was an emotional experience. After the performance, they hugged and kissed and exchanged addresses and phone numbers, and the younger members of the dance team cried. It had been a happy and intense season. There was no partying on after the show – some were driving directly to London, others had early morning trains to catch – and by eleven o’clock Sam and Pete were back in the stables. Their last night together.

They shared a bottle of wine and they talked, and they made love. Then, at two o’clock in the morning, they said goodbye. It was only five hours before a driver was to collect Sam and take her to the airport.

She went downstairs with Pete to the front door. He’d told her to stay in bed, but she’d insisted. ‘The least I can do is see you out,’ she’d said, ‘even us Aussies have some sense of courtesy.’

She was determined not to cry, just as she was determined not to tell him that she loved him. But she did, she thought as they shared their last kiss. ‘I’ve had the best time,’ she said brightly.

‘So have I.’

Then, whilst she clung briefly to him, she said, her voice muffled in the shoulder of his greatcoat, ‘I’ll never forget you, Pete.’ She couldn’t help herself, and he probably couldn’t hear her anyway.

‘I’ll never forget you either, Sam.’ She heard the words clearly through the greatcoat, and she looked up at him. He stroked her hair back from her face as he did so often after they’d made love. ‘Dear Sam,’ he said, ‘you’ve taught me so much.’

He was serious; she wondered what on earth he could mean. ‘Like what?’ she asked.

He smiled his laconic smile. ‘Like “chook”, for example.’ They kissed once more. ‘Goodbye,’ he said, and he was gone.

‘Goodbye, Pete,’ she said to the closed door.

 

In the morning, when the driver arrived to collect her, Sam discovered Mrs M out in full force to wish her farewell, complete with a foil-wrapped package of sandwiches and a small thermos flask of tea.

‘I’m sure you didn’t have a proper breakfast, dear, and it’s a long drive to Heathrow.’

‘But what’ll I do with the flask?’

‘Oh you keep it, we’ve plenty more.’ As the driver lifted the suitcase into the trunk of the car, Mrs M hugged her. ‘You look very tired, dear,’ she said, then she stood back and surveyed the girl at arm’s length, her normally beaming face serious. ‘You look after yourself, Sam, you’re a very special girl.’

‘I will, and thank you for everything, Mrs M.’ Sam took the tiny silver statuette from the inside pocket of her shoulder bag. ‘See? My Frogmorton horse, I keep it there for good luck.’

‘What an excellent idea.’ Mrs M’s face was once again wreathed in a smile. ‘I shall watch your career with interest,’ she said as Sam climbed into the car. ‘I may even take up the telly.’

Sam wound down the back window as the car pulled out of the driveway. ‘Don’t bother,’ she called, ‘keep your eye on the theatre!’

She drank in her last sight of Chisolm House, Mrs M large and indomitable, beaming and waving as she stood between the two stone lions. Then the car pulled out into Osborn Road, past the parish church of St Peter and St Paul and down the hill.