Apple Blossom Time (29 page)

An enormous room, full of evening sunshine, lit by tall, narrow windows opening on to a minute balcony. White starched curtains looped back and a white starched counterpane on the bed. Pale, painted furniture, soft grey and green, blue and yellow, faded and scratched, but very beautiful. Tiny squares of sunlight, like a mosaic of gold, were scattered across the bed.

She’d smiled at us knowingly and handed Martin a key that might have come from the Bastille.

He had been part of my life for as long as I could remember, yet, when the key was turned in the lock, I was scared and shy as I hadn’t been with James on that brief, long-ago wedding night that had ended before it began. We’d stood in the sunlight, facing each other. I didn’t know what to do, how to act.

Slowly, Martin had pulled off my tie and collar, taken out my collar studs and laid them on the table, opened the first few buttons of my shirt and spread the edges wide. Keeping his eyes on mine, he’d laid his hands on my naked shoulders and caressed my collarbones with his thumbs, gently and firmly smoothing the skin. His hands were trembling as much as mine.

‘Laura, are you sure? Tell me now, before it’s too late.’

I nodded briefly. ‘I’m sure,’ I’d said. But I wasn’t. Not really. Not then.

I’d unbuttoned my cuffs and Martin unfastened the remaining buttons on my shirt, then peeled it back and off. Quickly – rather adeptly, I thought – he unhooked my regulation brassière. He cupped his hands around my breasts, taking their weight, cradling their fullness. They looked very small in his long-fingered hands.

‘So beautiful,’ he whispered and brushed his thumbs across the nipples.

A spasm shot through me, fierce and sudden. It was so unexpected that I jerked back and away from him. I felt my eyes widen with shock. I wasn’t even sure whether I liked it or not. Martin laughed with delight and touched me again. The shock ran through me once more, like an electric current, taking my breath with it. I wanted him to do it again and again.

‘Your turn,’ said Martin quietly, holding out his wrists for me to deal with the buttons.

Clumsily, I unfastened them all, while he stood quite still. His rough shirt slid to the floor. The sun was warm on my back, making me feel very relaxed, very languorous. Everything seemed to be happening very slowly, as though time had turned his back on us. The light gilded each separate wiry hair on Martin’s chest, except where my own body shadowed his. A line of dark hair, finer and finer, ran down to his waistband and beyond.

A seam ran from his shoulder, down the left arm, to his elbow, beautifully stitched, a work of art. One day it would fade, but now it was angry still, the stitch holes dull red, the bottom pair oozing slightly. A bruise spread right round and under the arm. I touched the top end of the scar with a fingertip.

‘Does it hurt?’

Martin lowered his head and kissed the finger. ‘Not now.’

For a moment, we stood very still, facing each other, scarcely breathing. All the sounds of the evening – traffic in the street, clattering dishes in the dining room, a dog barking – faded away. Nothing mattered but Martin, here, now. Martin didn’t take his eyes off mine. I couldn’t look away. It was as though each waited for the other to call a halt. If you’re making a mistake, now’s the time to say so. Last chance, Laura.

But for me there was no turning back. And there never would be again.

I could scarcely stand. My thighs felt heavy, my knees weak. I tipped forward and my breasts brushed lightly across his naked chest. Martin gave a gasp and, bending over, picked me up and laid me on the bed. He lowered his head and took my nipples in his mouth, one after the other, teasing, lightly nipping.

‘Laura,’ he whispered hoarsely, looking up, and his eyes were hazy with emotion. ‘Laura, I never thought you’d come to me.’

I’d never imagined, I’d never dreamed how beautiful he would be …

He’d entered me quickly and fiercely, with all the urgency of the little time we had together driving him on. The force of his thrust hurt me, parted me like a knife, so that my muscles spasmed in self-defence. I clamped down hard on him. He stopped.

‘Laura … darling…?’ he’d begun to say, then he’d shuddered, shuddered again, driven on, unstoppable, until I’d learned the rhythm from him and joined him and matched him.

*   *   *

Martin opened his eyes.

‘Good morning,’ I said and kissed the place where his nose altered direction.

He propped himself up on one elbow and looked down into my face. ‘Still here? I thought I’d been having the sort of dream that no-one wants!’ He gave a soft laugh and ran his fingers gently down over my face, my throat, my breasts. My skin tingled wherever he touched. I ached, but it was a delicious ache. His hand smoothed over my stomach and he laced his fingers in the crisp hair below, giving it a gentle tweak. ‘No, this is really you.’

‘Mmmm. It’s me all right.’ I nestled closer and rubbed my face against his chest like a spoiled kitten.

He kissed me very slowly, caressing my lips, tasting all the soft, secret places of my mouth. Low down in my belly, something kindled and spread wide fingers of fire.

When we stopped for breath, Martin propped himself up on one elbow. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said.

‘Sorry – what for?’ I asked, with more calmness than I felt. Don’t, don’t say you’re sorry for what we’ve done, Martin, I don’t think I could bear that.

He looked deeply embarrassed. ‘I hurt you. I didn’t know, didn’t expect that you … that you hadn’t…’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ And, at last, it was true. I listened for James’s voice and he was silent.

‘I was in too much of a hurry. I’m sorry.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I answered again, coaxing him back to kissing me.

‘I won’t ever hurt you again. I promise.’

His hand was still entwined with my body hair and he slipped his fingers lower still, finding the warm, secret spots that no-one had even told me about. Subtly, sensitively, he took possession of every hidden place. My body took control. It jerked and arched against him. I felt as though I was melting, dissolving.

Just in time, he rose above me and slipped into place. No pain, no resistance. I opened up and received him.

And afterwards, we lay so still and close that I wasn’t certain if it was my own heart or Martin’s that I felt thudding against my ribs. It didn’t matter. He laid his lips quietly against the angle of my jaw.

‘Laura,’ he whispered. ‘I love you, Laura.’

Just for a moment, I thought there was an echo in the room, the same words but another voice, far away and fading. I strained to hear. No, it was gone.

The morning light was grey. Another rainy day. The room that had been bathed in evening sun looked shabby and worn by day, its paint chipped, its walls cracked. Who cared?

I watched Martin dress. Everything he did fascinated me. I loved the way his muscles moved, the long, lean line of his naked body as he stooped over the washstand to shave in the half-pint of hot water Madame had thought sufficient. I loved the quick neatness of his fingers as he tied his tie. I loved the curve of his back as he bent to tie his bootlaces.

How odd it felt, not to be diffident to dress in front of him. It was … it was natural.

‘Goodness, I wish I wasn’t wearing passion-killers,’ I said with a laugh, quickly pulling up my skirt to disguise them.

‘They didn’t kill my passion.’ Martin gave a grin and patted my bottom.

I buttoned my waistband and picked up my crumpled shirt. ‘How long have you got?’

I needed to know and dreaded the answer.

‘I haven’t. I should have gone back last night.’

‘What will happen?’

‘I’ll think of something.’ He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled me beside him. Then picked up my right hand and tucked it into his battledress tunic. ‘You’re not sorry, are you?’

‘Sorry?’

‘No regrets?’

‘No regrets – not now or ever.’

I smiled the bright, tremulous smile of every woman who sends her man back to war. Then I finished dressing and went back to war myself.

Dear Mother

I didn’t want to part from you with such harsh words, but you gave me no choice. Forgive me, then, for the words, but not the meaning. Nothing is certain these days. I may not come back. I don’t say that to demand your sympathy – that would be despicable – it is simply a fact and we would all be very stupid to ignore it. You ought to know that Diana and I were married yesterday. We have cared for each other very deeply for a long time. You have no right to try to stand between us. Whatever your prejudices – and I can’t understand them – we have made our own decision. She is a good, sweet girl and I don’t deserve her. I pray that I will never cause her any unhappiness. The war must end soon and I will do my best to come back to her. I have such a good reason for living. Diana is expecting our child in February. I only hope that I will live to see him or her. If I don’t, for my sake, Mother, look after my wife and be kind to her.

Edwin

Who could blame them for snatching a little happiness? Only a short time ago – a month, a week, yesterday – I might have been shocked to discover that I had been conceived outside marriage. My mother, so faded, so gentle, and the man I ought to have known, but didn’t. They had loved and they had made me. Was that wrong? Why is it so difficult to imagine that one’s parents have ever been young, ever felt passion? How sanctimonious. How was it in any way different from what had happened between Martin and me?

And had they managed to see each other again? Had my father been able to scrape another leave, maybe just a 48-hour pass, before he died? Or had those few moments of love been all they had been allowed? I hoped they were happy, in the little time they had together.

And the letter raised another, even more personal concern. Like mother, like daughter. Supposing I mirrored my mother and found myself expecting Martin’s child. What then? I didn’t even know where he was. He drifted in and out of my life, turning up at unexpected moments, but where he went in between, I never knew. I didn’t blame him. I blamed the war, but all the same, supposing …

But I only had a week – it felt much longer – to indulge in worries like that, before becoming certain that I wasn’t pregnant. I didn’t know whether I was relieved or sorry.

*   *   *

The war moved on. We followed.

By 1800 hours on 19 August, the Americans and Poles met at the biting end of the pincer movement that had closed the Falaise pocket. Although their generals escaped, the German Seventh Army and 5th Panzer Army were annihilated. Ten thousand died and 50,000 were captured. The roads around Trun and Chambois were jammed by German convoys, stationary now, blasted by bombing Typhoons and artillery. The verges were littered with bodies, decaying, stiffening, bloodstains turning black on dusty grey uniforms, a feast for flies. Horses, trapped in their harnesses, crawled on shattered legs. The stench rose so high that even the pilots of observation planes recoiled. For days afterwards it was impossible to move, they said, without treading on human flesh.

Seven days later, Generals de Gaulle, Leclerc and Koenig, at the head of Free French soldiers of the Division Leclerc and the
résistants
of the city, marched from the Arc de Triomphe to Notre Dame to give thanks. The Parisians went crazy with delight and relief. The fight for Paris had cost the lives of a thousand Frenchmen, but Paris was liberated and intact. The time for settling old scores had arrived.

By 3 September, we’d reached Hitler’s new standpoint on the Somme-Marne line and passed through it as though it had no more significance than a pencil line on a map. On 4 September, having advanced 110 miles in two days, the Allies entered Brussels to scenes of rejoicing as wild as those in Paris. Nothing like that mad speed had been seen since those long ago days when we’d pushed the Italians across the Western Desert.

People were beginning to believe again the old saying – all over by Christmas. Winter and the Germans had other ideas.

My dear Mother

There’s so little time left, not enough to explain or complain. By the time this letter reaches you, you will know what has happened to me. I want you to know that I haven’t done anything that I am ashamed of, or that would make you or Father ashamed of me. I’ve done my duty, as I saw it had to be done. Not everyone agrees with that. They’ve all been very kind to me here since the verdict was confirmed. There are no grudges, or, if there are, they will soon be settled in a final fashion. I don’t think I’m actually afraid of dying. I’ve seen so many men die and the way of their dying was far worse than the one I shall face. The RSM will pick the best shots and the lads will do a good, clean job for me. I trust them to do that. It will be the last kindness. The MO has pumped me full of something to take the sting out of waiting. That was good of him. I don’t feel sleepy, just rather drowsy and calm. If it’s any comfort to Father, tell him that I won’t have to be dragged out. I won’t let him down. The MO has promised me another shot of his magic potion in the morning, so I shall be all right when the time comes. He’s a good chap. He’ll be with me in the morning and the padre, too. I shall make my communion before I go. I’ll have plenty of company. The whole regiment will be drawn up on parade to watch – a sharp lesson for them all. Poor Tom. I wish he didn’t have to be there, but the CO will take no excuses, particularly from Tom. He visited me this morning and told me he’d have to get very drunk before he’d be able to watch. Better not, I told him, you’re in enough trouble, anyway. Everyone is doing their best to make me comfortable tonight, as comfortable as anyone can be in a French auberge with no roof. There’s a subaltern with me all the time – the newest one in the regiment, poor devil, what a job and he’s only been here two days – to make sure that I don’t take French leave through the roof and that I don’t cheat the firing squad by doing their task for them. Why do they think I should want to do that? If I have to die, far better to be finished off quickly and properly than to make a hash of it myself. How odd, to be able to write so calmly. Perhaps it’s because there’s no way out. If there was the slightest chance of escape, I’d be begging for it, but, since there isn’t … Tell Mr Millport that I put myself in God’s hands, knowing that I’ve done nothing wrong. I have plenty of regrets. I would like to have had the time to come home again and make my peace with you. I wish I could see Diana again. I wish I could see our baby. I know it will be beautiful, if it is anything like its mother. I would like to have one more chance to climb on to the downs above Ansty Parva and feel the wind and hear the grass whistle. I don’t want to die in this Godforsaken, muddy country. I’ve asked you once before to look after Diana. Now I want you to do more. I want you to love her – for our child’s sake, if not for hers or mine. Tell Father that I did my duty.