The Walls We Build
Three friends …
Growing up together around Winston Churchill’s estate in Westerham, Kent, Frank, Florence and Hilda are inseparable. But as WW2 casts its menacing shadow, friendships between the three grow complex, and Frank – now employed as Churchill’s bricklayer – makes choices that will haunt him beyond the grave, impacting his grandson’s life too.
Two Secrets …
Shortly after Frank's death in 2002 Florence writes to Richard, Frank’s grandson, hinting at the darkness hidden within his family. On investigation, disturbing secrets come to light, including a pivotal encounter between Frank and Churchill during the war and the existence of a mysterious relative in a psychiatric hospital.
One Hidden Life …
How much more does Florence dare reveal about Frank – and herself – and is Richard ready to hear?
Set against the stunning backdrop of Chartwell, Churchill’s country home, comes a tragic story of misguided honour, thwarted love and redemption, reverberating through three generations and nine decades.
For readers of Kate Morton, Rachel Hore, Katherine Webb, Lucinda Riley and Juliet West.
“Passion, intrigue and family secrets drive this complex wartime relationship drama. A page turner. I loved it.” #1 bestselling author, Nicola May
Purchase Links
Waterstones - https://www.waterstones.com/book/the-walls-we-build/jules-hayes/9781916338005
Excerpt
Excerpt
This extract is told from Florence’s viewpoint. It’s November
1932 and the world is in the midst of the 1930s economic downturn. Hitler is
becoming more politically prominent within Germany. Florence is working as a
housemaid at Chartwell.
Florence put Mr Churchill’s dark canine mood down to him being at
home too much since the crash in America and the financial depression that had
then ricocheted into Britain and the rest of Europe – including Germany – she’d
gleaned from page four of today’s newspaper, which Mr Churchill’s valet had
left on the kitchen table. It was Frank who’d encouraged her to read the inside
of the paper as well as the front headline.
She and the rest of the staff had heard
Mr Churchill blasting off about Adolf Hitler. The master always seemed to reach
his crescendo on this topic soon after dinner, when it wasn’t unheard of for Mr
Churchill to throw a plate, or a glass brimming with cognac, or both, in anger
and exasperation at the supposed rise of Mr Hitler. On many occasions she’d
been the one clearing up the aftermath. Florence didn’t really understand: from
what her parents had said there was no way a strange little Austrian would ever
rise to power in Germany. Absolutely bloody preposterous, her dad had said.
The staff, and his own family, avoided
Mr Churchill as much as possible when he was like this, which was more often
than not these days since he’d been hounded from the front benches, (she knew
all this from the valet’s conversations with Miss Cunningham.) Mr Churchill
though, continued to work at Chartwell like a man possessed, that’s what
Miss Cunningham said. Writing and painting, and so much reading, and then there
was the bricklaying too. Florence had no idea how he could take – or fit – it
all in. He was a whirling dervish of activity: even when doing nothing he was
doing something. Thinking. You always knew when this was happening as he had
the habit of placing idle hands, his palms, on the front of his chest. She’d
noticed he did this too when something was perplexing him, although after much
observation she’d come to the conclusion he did it generally when he was
ruminating and not doing.
She folded the paper; she really
shouldn’t be reading it. The last thing she needed was to be caught reading when
she should be working. Two weeks before, some correspondence had gone AWOL from
Mr Churchill’s study. He’d blamed her (through Mrs Churchill), but she’d never
laid eyes on it, and definitely hadn’t moved it. After being on the receiving
end of Mr Churchill’s temper she’d thought she’d lose her job. A week later the
papers turned up. On Mrs Churchill’s instruction her secretary had taken the
papers, then gone away on leave for a week with them still in her bag.
She rose from the table and made her
way to the kitchen door that led outside to the herb pots, which sat near the
entrance, so cook could retrieve them easily. As she bent forwards to pull a
handful of fennel, she smelt the aroma of cigar and stood up straight,
automatically touching the hair that always strayed from underneath her work
cap.
Mr Churchill stood just outside the
door.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she said.
‘And a fine morning it is, Florence.’
Mr Churchill studied her but said
nothing more.
‘Is there something you would like,
sir?’ she said finally as a mild fear surfaced. What’d she done wrong now?
‘I would like to apologise about those
bloody missing papers. I thought you had mislaid them,’ he said, looking
directly at her, a smile beginning to slide onto his round face. ‘Not Mrs
Churchill’s fault, she has so much to do.’
‘No, sir, it wasn’t Mrs Churchill’s
mistake at all.’ She didn’t say it was the secretary’s. Mrs Churchill’s
secretary didn’t like Florence and she didn’t want to make things worse for
herself. She held the fennel tight in her hand. ‘I’m just glad they turned up,
sir.’ And she was. Because even though she was certain it wasn’t her who’d
moved them, she’d felt guilty because she did often have a gander at his
papers.
‘My apologies, Florence,’ he said with
a theatrical flourish, and then peered at the fennel. ‘What is on the menu for
tonight?’
‘I’ve no idea, sir. Miss Cunningham is
here for a few days, taking over Cook’s duties. Cook’s gone to spend some time
with her son in Bournemouth.’ She took a breath and felt brave. ‘Miss
Cunningham doesn’t as a rule plan very much in advance. I’ll give her the
fennel and she’ll decide.’
‘Ah, yes, Miss Cunningham, a little on
the culinary spontaneous side, eh?’
‘I think so, sir.’ She tried to dampen
her emerging grin. The master did so make her laugh.
‘We have known Miss Cunningham for a
long time. Before Chartwell, before…’
Florence didn’t know what he was about
to say but guessed he was close to mentioning his fourth child. Miss Cunningham
had known Marigold, said she was a lovely little girl. It was so sad she’d
died.
‘I hope you enjoy whatever Miss
Cunningham decides to make for tonight, sir.’
‘I’m certain I will.’ He took a puff of
his cigar and threw it onto the ground. ‘Have a good day, Florence.’
‘And you too, sir.’
He walked past her and shuffled off in
the direction of his studio. He had on his painter’s clothes. He’d be gone most
of the day. She waited until he was out of sight and picked up the smouldering
cigar, took a puff, felt dizzy and then pulled a handful of mint leaves from
the pot, stuffed some in her mouth and chewed. Miss Cunningham would kill her
if she knew she was smoking the master’s discarded Romeo and Julietas.
Author Bio.
Jules Hayes lives in Berkshire with her husband, daughter and a dog. She has a degree in modern history and holds a particular interest in events and characters from the early 20th century. As a former physiotherapist and trainer – old habits die hard – when not writing Jules likes to run. She also loves to watch films, read good novels and is a voracious consumer of non-fiction too, particularly biographies.
Jules is currently working on her second historical novel, another dual timeline story.
Jules also writes contemporary thriller and speculative fiction as JA Corrigan.
Jules Hayes can be found at:
Jules Hayes can be found at:
Website: https://www.jules-hayes.com/
Twitter @JulesHayes6 - http://www.twitter.com/JulesHayes6
Facebook Author Page: JulesHayesAuthor - http://www.facebook.com/JulesHayesAuthor
Instagram: JulesHayes6 - http://www.instagram.com/juleshayes6
Writing as JA Corrigan, Jules can be found at: Website: http://www.jacorrigan.com
Twitter: @juliannwriter - http://www.twitter.com/juliannwriter
Facebook Author Page: JA Corrigan - http://www.facebook.com/jacorrigan
Instagram: corriganjulieann http://www.instagram.com/corriganjulieann
Instagram: corriganjulieann http://www.instagram.com/corriganjulieann
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Sounds like a great book.
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