Charlotte Bingham  (автор)

Мека корица, среден формат  |  474 стр.  |  323 гр.

(използвана книга - отчислена от библиотека, здраво и чисто книжно тяло с незначително пожълтели листи и леко захабен външен вид)

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На задната корица:

Twistleton is a village untouched by time, taking its rhythms from the countryside around. Daisy, Jean, Freddie and their friends Aurelia and Laura are devoted to the place, so that when war breaks out Twistleton becomes the embodiment of everything for which they are fighting. For the previous generation the new conflict causes private despair, increased when Twistleton is requisitioned by the Army. Turfed out of their houses, the villagers take refuge at Twistleton Hall.

It is here that evacuees from the East End, butler and countryman weld together to fight common enemies, whether drunken troops in the village, the bombs from the air, or rationing and the bitter weather. They all know only victory will do. With death haunting their every moment, love is their one all-too-fleeting consolation - and also their final triumph.



Praise for Charlotte Bingham

‘Charlotte Bingham’s devotees will recognise her supreme skill as a storyteller... A heartwarming romance which is full of emotion‘
Independent on Sunday

‘An engaging, romantic and nostalgic read‘
Daily Mail

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Prologue

The sea can still be heard in the distance, and the wind of course, howling; sometimes in despair at what had happened in that much loved place, sometimes murmuring quietly, perhaps whispering about the past, stories and secrets that only those who had been there would know. Occasionally a door can be heard banging, not noisily so much as a little hopelessly, an intermittent sound, as if it is calling to someone to come and shut it, as a child might call in the dark of the night: 7s anyone there?'

There is no one there. There are no eyes looking or ears listening behind their brave stone walls, although there is some flowered material at one window, and one still has a faded blue front door, and another some broken flowerpots beside the back door, and further along there are the heads of flowers among the swaying grass, perhaps sown there long ago, in the hope of better times to come.

Now it seems that with the warmer weather that optimism might not be misplaced, that the wind from the sea, having moved to a soft warming zephyr, is at last welcoming; and the wild flowers in the meadows, having overtaken the last signs of spring, are bending their heads towards the calm of the barely moving blue sea that lies between the two cliffs ahead.

Someone appears at the foot of the meadows, standing at first quite still, seemingly immovable, framed by the view, perhaps watching intently, then all of a sudden he waves and beckons to the figures he can begin to see arriving above him, figures which appear at first only as dots of colour among the long grass, until at last they become people, laughing and talking, the men in jerseys and jackets struggling with rugs and picnic baskets, the women walking ahead of them, their headscarves fluttering in the warm breeze.

Once they arrive by his side it rapidly becomes apparent that this is to be a joyous day of laughter and chatter, as picnic rugs are spread out, and food and drink produced from a mix of old-fashioned leather picnic sets, and straw baskets made pale by time and use. A day full of gaiety, but gradually lessening in volume as the talk subsides, and finally only one voice is heard - and with it comes the certainty of victory.