A Gathering Storm (26 page)

‘So did I,’ Guy said, taking her hand.

As the taxi bore her and Judy away, and the men were lost to the darkness, she was visited by the fear that she’d never see him again.

‘You liked him, didn’t you?’ Judy said, yawning. ‘I thought he’d be your sort.’

‘Whatever sort that is,’ Beatrice replied. ‘But I don’t know that I’ll see him again.’

‘I think you might,’ Judy said. ‘In fact, I’d bet on it.’

‘Dougie’s very keen on you,’ Beatrice said.

‘Yes. It’s no good though,’ said Judy, in a small voice. ‘Dougie’s married already. And his wife won’t give him a divorce.’

Christmas slipped by and 1941 crept in. Apart from the night of 29 December, when the whole city was set aflame, the raids had become more sporadic. Although Londoners continued their established nightly routines, some settling into their garden shelters, others crowding into the Underground stations, others merely staying in bed and hoping for the best, that relentless terror, which visited with every twilight, felt easier to bear, and a patched-up version of normal life resumed.

Guy telephoned Beatrice at the hostel a few days after their first meeting and they had dinner together a week later in a busy restaurant above Regent Street. She found they talked easily to one another. Beatrice was impressed by his quiet strength of character and simple decency. He spoke sympathetically about the men he led, and she sensed his devotion. Endearingly, he possessed a dogged belief that right would win over might, that they would prevail in this war. Beatrice wanted badly to believe him.

In turn she spoke of her work, the long nights at the shelters, the days when she could drop with tiredness. How sometimes she helped the rescuers, though she could hardly bring herself to describe some of the things she’d seen. The worst was when a family’s garden shelter had sustained a direct hit. She and Mary had driven past immediately afterwards and stopped to help. The sight of the mutilated bodies of the three young children, laid alongside that of their mother on the pavement, was something she would never forget.

‘The father came home from work when we were bringing out the little girl . . .’ She shook her head, unable to continue. Still, from his intent expression and the tender way he touched her hand, she knew Guy was trying to understand and that was all she required.

They met whenever they could after this, though it wasn’t easy. Once he didn’t turn up at their trysting place at all, and Beatrice returned to the hostel after two hours of waiting, and spent a night of worry, only to learn the next morning that he’d been stuck for hours on a train, unable to contact her. She was disconcerted to realize how much she was coming to look forward to their times together. It wasn’t as though she’d forgotten Rafe. Quite the opposite. She carried her love of him deep inside, along with a continuous prayer for his safety – and always she had to remind herself that Rafe belonged to Angie.

Guy calmed her, held her steady. It was a gentle love, this one, built for her on friendship rather than passion, but she knew from the hungry looks he gave her that Guy wanted her, and from his tender solicitousness that his feelings ran deep. Gradually she found herself responding and would long for their meetings.

Late in February 1941, he began to hint that his company would soon be on the move. ‘I can’t predict when,’ he told her, ‘just that it’s the rumour.’ Their meetings from then on felt snatched and intense. Every moment together might be their last for a long time.

Once or twice, she went with him to Perry’s house, where he and Dougie usually stayed when they came up to London. Once, she met Perry – a harassed, thin-faced young man who worked nights on air defence, which explained why he was rarely at home. Although she and Guy shared passionate embraces on Perry’s sofa, he would never go what her friend Mary called ‘too far’. Having heard tales from some of the ATS girls, this puzzled her, but she was too inexperienced in such matters to discuss it with him, unsure of the protocols. Later though, when she was snug in her narrow bunk with its prickly blankets, she would lie burning with longing for him, and it would be some time before she settled to sleep.

Soon after the second of these occasions, he asked her nervously if she would come away with him and she said she would. One Saturday morning in the middle of February, she took a train down to Hastings, through countryside sparkling with frost. He was there on the platform to meet her, and though she took his arm calmly enough she felt sick with nerves.

‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.

‘A little,’ she lied, but she was happy enough to pick at a fish pie in a restaurant on the high street, watching him dine more heartily on a steak pudding that was more suet than meat.

In the afternoon, they wandered along the seafront until they reached a small hotel where the receptionist met Beatrice’s eye with a discreet smile as she checked their booking. The room had a sea view but was shabby, with ill-fitting windows that rattled in the wind. A fire burned in the grate, but the heat went straight up the flue rather than warming the room, so they undressed quickly and got directly into bed. She kept her eyes closed at first, enjoying his caressing fingers and the surprising feelings of her awakening body. ‘Wait a moment,’ he said, turning from her briefly to take something from the bedside cabinet. Whilst he fumbled with himself she put out her hand and stroked his chest, wondering at the strange hardness of the muscle, leaning to kiss the soft skin above his collarbone. When he was ready he took her in his arms once more and rolled gently on top of her so he was looking down into her eyes.

‘I love you,’ he whispered, ‘you know that, don’t you?’ and it seemed right and natural when he slipped inside her and soon they were moving together, slowly at first, then more urgently. ‘Oh, Beatrice,’ he whispered finally and she clung to him tightly until the delightful waves of warmth subsided. Afterwards they lay entwined without speaking and she felt tender and happy and loved. They dozed as the windows rattled and the wind roared in the chimney. Later, giggling and half-dressed, they took turns to creep along the corridor and use the bathroom.

Next morning, as the train bore her away from him, she was overwhelmed, as at their first meeting, by an awful sense of loss. Her body, raw from the closeness of his, already needed to feel him again.

After this short weekend, they snatched hungry moments alone together whenever and wherever they could, and the knowledge that at any time his orders might come gave their meetings a sweet urgency.

It was one Thursday evening early in March that she was summoned to the telephone in the draughty hall of the hostel. It was Guy.

‘Bea, they’ve put us on embarkation leave. Forty-eight hours. I’m afraid this is it. Listen. I must go home to my folks. It wouldn’t be fair not to. I wondered if you would come with me? Could you? I’d like you to meet them.’

‘Go to Wales? Guy, no – I mean I’d love to meet your parents, but I don’t imagine it’s possible. Not at this short notice.’

‘Will you ask?’

‘Of course I will.’

As she feared, her request for leave was turned down. She didn’t tell Guy what her Commanding Officer said. ‘If he were your fiancé, of course, that would be a different matter. But I feel a line must be drawn here. You’re so very young. And we simply can’t spare you at present. We’re so stretched with the other girls away.’

It seemed a long time before he came to the telephone.

‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ she told him.

‘Damn.’ She heard him breathe down the crackling line. ‘Did you tell them it was important?’

‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘Judy hasn’t had any luck either. Our C.O. will only give me Saturday afternoon off . Can’t we meet on your way back through London?’

He was late, a whole hour late, and she waited alone at a table in the gallery of the nightclub, peering through the railings, in case there was anyone she recognized amongst the dancing couples below. Twice she had coldly to tell some chancer that she was waiting for someone. Lateness, missed meetings, these were something everyone was used to now, but tonight it worried her more than usual. She was struggling to tamp down the fear that perhaps she’d never see him again when her attention was caught by a man in uniform walking round the edge of the dance-floor. There was something familiar about that bright fair hair that made her think of Rafe.

‘Bea. Thank heavens, I thought you might have given up waiting.’

She swung round. ‘Oh, Guy.’ The fair-haired man vanished from her mind. Guy was at her side, warm, very much alive and out of breath. As he bent to kiss her cheek she smelt rain and cigarettes.

‘I’m sorry, darling,’ he said. ‘The usual kind of story. The train packed up for twenty minutes just before Paddington, then when I finally got on a bus it couldn’t get past Bayswater because of a bomb.’

She clung to him, suddenly desperate not to let him go. ‘It’s all right,’ he soothed. ‘It’s all right, darling girl. I’m here now.’

Without letting go of her hand, he pulled out a chair and sat down, then, when a waiter came, set about ordering. As usual, when the food came he ate hungrily, while she hardly noticed what she was eating. Instead she tried to imprint the sight of him on her memory, his broad shoulders, his handsome pointed face, the light glinting off his dark hair, still damp from outside. There was always that air of stillness about him, an aloneness, as though he didn’t register being in a crowd. She was so glad to see him, but could not shake off that feeling of apprehension.

‘How are your parents?’

‘They’re very well, thank you,’ he told her. ‘And horribly brave about me going away. When I said goodbye I could see my mother had been crying, but I knew she wouldn’t want me to mention it.’ He stared at his food, unseeing for a moment, then said, ‘They’ve two little urchins to stay, sent down from Liverpool. My mother looks tired, though, and she’s worried enough about Clive . . .’

‘He’s your eldest brother? The pilot?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I suppose the urchins must take her mind off things.’

‘Oh yes. They’re bright lads. Common, of course, and one can’t understand a word they say. They get up to tremendous mischief. My father had to whip them for throwing eggs in the barn.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t suppose they’d ever seen hens before.’ He pushed his plate away and lit a cigarette. There was something on his mind, she sensed.

‘When do you go?’ she said in a low voice.

‘We embark at Portsmouth tomorrow sixteen hundred. I don’t suppose you’d be able . . .’

She shook her head sadly. ‘Tonight is all we have,’ she said, and again he felt for her hand. She was annoyed to feel tears prickle and looked away, blinking furiously. ‘Where are you going? I don’t suppose you can say.’

‘The rumour is it’s desert khaki, that’s all I know. Should be a deal warmer than here!’ She didn’t smile at his joke and he added weakly, ‘Cheer up!’

They were both silent for a moment, and she found herself once more scanning the dancers below. It was getting very busy now, and the air swirled with smoke and heat and heady music. She remembered the man she’d glimpsed earlier, the man with the bright gold hair who looked like Rafe, but she couldn’t see him now.

She glanced up to see Guy was studying her, an awkward expression on his face. He reached into his breast pocket and extracted a small packet, which he opened to reveal a delicate ring with a stone that shimmered sapphire blue.

‘Oh, Guy,’ she said, staring at it. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘It’s only paste, I’m afraid. I’ll get you something better when I can.’

‘I don’t mind, really I don’t.’ She turned the box so that light from the chandeliers flashed off the stone, and experienced a rush of love and relief.

‘You know what I’m saying, my darling, don’t you?’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘We can’t know what will happen, but I’d like to think that you’re here, waiting for me. We’ve known each other such a short time, I understand that, but I . . . I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.’

She stared at the ring, and looked into his dear, kind face. She could be happy with Guy, she saw that. It was as though a light poured down into her mind, illuminating pictures of their future together. After the war. A house surrounded by fields, children as mischievous as the evacuee urchins. Was that to be hers? Here, in the heat and urgency of this moment, the scent of desire was spiced with the fear of death. There was no chance for reflection, no time for careful thought. There would be waiting enough when he was away, time to consider.

‘Oh yes, Guy,’ she breathed and allowed him to push the ring onto her finger, where it sat quite snug.

‘I love you,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘You’ve made me so happy.’ And, not minding where he was, he pulled her suddenly into a passionate kiss. A group of soldiers on the next table clapped and whistled, until they pulled apart laughing.

‘My dear girl. I suppose I ought to speak to your father,’ he said. ‘I wish I’d met your parents. What do you think he’ll say?’

‘Let me write to him and tell him all about you,’ she replied, smiling gently. ‘Then we can visit them together, when you’re home.’ At least Guy’s family background was one her father would recognize. And her mother? Well, maybe once she’d had grand hopes of their connections with the Wincantons, but lately Delphine was so focused on her husband and her worry about her family in France, Beatrice imagined she’d forgotten such petty concerns long ago.

‘You must write to me every week,’ Guy said. ‘I want to know exactly what you’re doing, so I can picture you. Oh, and I must have a photograph. It’s only fair since I’ve given you one of me.’

‘I brought one with me,’ she said, and searched in her bag. It was the portrait they’d taken of her when she joined up; she didn’t like it much. ‘The others I have are of before the war and I look like a child.’

‘You certainly don’t now,’ he said, smiling meaningfully.

‘Did you tell your parents about me?’ she asked.

This question wasn’t answered because it was then they were interrupted. ‘Beatrice, there you are!’ It was Judy making her way between the tables with her usual talent for disturbance, dragging Dougie by the hand. ‘Hello, Guy, darling. We’ve been looking for you everywhere.’