His Diamond Bride (10 page)

She told him what had happened, adding, ‘Sylvia died in her arms.'

‘Then they found each other again,' he said. ‘Thank God! Sylvia was always her favourite.' Then he added gently, ‘Just like you were always mine.'

Until then, she'd never appreciated her father's strength, but it was a new, tougher man who told her to leave the funeral arrangements to him because, ‘You've been through enough.'

And it was true—she was reaching the end of her tether. She almost gave way entirely when she and Joe stood in the mortuary regarding Sylvia with her baby in her arms, ready to be buried together. Joe's arm was strong about her, but even he nearly yielded to terrible grief at the sight of the child.

‘My grandson,' he whispered as tears streamed down his face. ‘My first ever grandchild, and we meet like this. Poor Sylvia. Poor Helen.'

They supported each other through the three-way funeral, and afterwards Joe put his arms around her. ‘We've both lost everyone else,' he said huskily. ‘There's just us now, love.'

 

Like others who had suffered devastating losses, Dee and her father survived as day passed into day, week into week and month into month. He'd said they had just each other, and for now neither of them wanted anyone else. Christmas 1942 was their first alone, and they were thankful to pass it quietly, refusing all invitations.

These days she relied totally on Mr Royce for news of Mark, so that when she went in one morning in the new year to find him looking grave, she knew what had happened.

‘I'm sorry,' he said.

‘He's dead, isn't he?' she said bleakly.

For a moment the world went dark. She clutched the back of a chair, then felt him supporting her until she sat down.

‘No,' he said. ‘He isn't dead.'

‘
Not dead?
Do you mean that?'

‘I swear to you that he's alive, but he's very badly hurt. His Spitfire was hit during a battle. He just managed to limp home but, as he landed, the plane burst into flames. They brought him here. He's lucky to be alive.'

‘But he is alive—and he's going to stay alive, isn't he?
Isn't he?
'

‘I think so.' The words were cautious.

‘But it's not certain?'

‘He's been very badly burned and he needs help. It's lucky you're here. The sight of you will help him.'

‘Where is he?'

‘Come this way.'

As they went along the corridor he said, ‘I've had him put in a separate ward. I'd better warn you that he looks pretty alarming. He was engulfed in flames. It was a miracle that his face escaped. His helmet saved him, but he has burns all over his torso, and an injury to the head where he hit it.'

She paused as they reached a door, Mr Royce pushing it open quietly and standing aside.

Dee approached slowly, and gradually the bed came into view. Then she stopped, appalled, shaking at the sight. In her worst nightmares she hadn't imagined this.

The man on the bed could have been anybody, so totally was he covered in bandages. They extended over his torso, his arms, up over his neck and around his head.

Where was the daredevil young hero who laughed in the face of danger? Gone—and in his place lay this helpless baby. She wanted to cry aloud to the heavens that it wasn't fair of life to do this to him. Why was there nobody to defend him?

But there was, she thought with sudden resolution. She was here now. She would defend him.

‘Has he been unconscious all the time?' she asked softly.

‘No, he's come round and muttered something, but of course most of the time we keep him heavily sedated against the pain.' Mr Royce examined a chart. ‘Going by the time of his last injection, he should come round quite soon.'

‘You can leave me alone with him,' Dee said. ‘He'll be safe with me.'

‘I'm sure he will.'

When the door had closed, Dee came closer to the bed. As a nurse, she was used to horrific sights, but nothing in her experience helped her now. This was the man she loved, lying alone and in agony.

His eyes were closed and his breathing came with a soft rasping sound that was almost like a groan. Now she could see just enough of his face to recognise him. The mouth was the one she knew, wide and made for laughter, but tense now, as though the pain reached him, even in sleep.

Dee drew a chair forward and sat down, leaning as close to him as she could get. ‘Hello, darling,' she whispered.

Nothing. He didn't move or open his eyes, but lay almost like a dead man.

‘It's me—Dee,' she persisted. ‘I heard you'd been injured, and I had to come and see you. Even after what happened, we're still friends, aren't we? You still matter to me, and I want to see you well and strong again.'

Silence but for his soft breathing. No sign of life. Refusing to be put off, she continued, ‘You really will be all right in the end, although it may take some time. They say you're pretty badly hurt, but I've nursed men with worse injuries and they come through it because they can't wait to get up there in the sky again.'

She was stretching the truth here. She knew how unlikely it was that Mark would ever return to being an airman, and
how long it would be before he could live any kind of normal life, but she couldn't afford to think of that. Only one thing mattered and that was bringing him back into the land of the living. If she could do that, and even one day see him smile again, she cared for nothing else.

She went on, forcing herself to sound cheerful. ‘I wish we were still engaged. Oh, don't think I'm trying to trap you. You were always too clever to be caught by any woman. But you don't seem to have anyone of your own.'

The truth of that struck her with force. The star of the squadron, the man every girl wanted to flirt with, and more. But he had nobody; no family, nobody had been allowed to get close to him. Except herself. She had crept closer than anyone, yet even she hadn't suspected his essential aloneness before now. He'd always worked so hard to conceal it.

Had he done so knowingly? she wondered. Had he really understood himself that well? Somehow she doubted it. Whatever Mark's qualities, insight wasn't one of them. That was why he had needed her. But she hadn't seen it either, and had rejected him.

‘Are you glad I came to see you?' she asked him. ‘I hope you are. I know you're asleep but maybe you can hear me, somewhere deep inside you, and perhaps…perhaps your heart is open to what I want to say. Oh, I do hope so because there's so much I want you to understand.

‘I was clumsy before. I loved you so much that I was afraid to let you know, in case it embarrassed you. You see, I knew you didn't love me—well, maybe a little, but not as I love you. I was so happy when you asked me to marry you that I didn't let myself worry about how it happened. All I saw was that I could be your wife.

‘I was fooling myself, but I wouldn't face it because you were everything to me. And when I did face it—I went a bit crazy. I blamed you for not loving me, but you can't love to order. Nobody can. You have to accept people as they are, or
back off. I backed off. I thought I was doing what you wanted. Now I'm not so sure. Perhaps I still have something to give you—something that you need.'

A soft rumble came from between his lips, almost as though he was signalling agreement. Of course, that was fanciful, which she never allowed herself to be. But perhaps, just this once—

‘Oh, darling, if only I could believe that you hear me and know what I'm trying to say. I came here as soon as I knew you were hurt because if there's anything I can do for you, I'll do it. It doesn't matter what it is. Do you understand that? Anything at all.'

She looked down at his hands lying on the blanket; one bandaged, the other uncovered. How fine and well shaped it was. How well she remembered it touching her, teasing softly through her thin clothes, making her want him in ways that she knew she shouldn't.

Inching her way forward cautiously, she took his free hand in hers, caressing it softly with her fingers. He neither moved nor showed any sign of a response, and her heart ached to see his power reduced to this helplessness. She would have given everything she possessed to see him restored to his old self—mischievous, disrespectful, outrageous, infuriating, magical. Even if it meant that she would lose him again, if her heart broke a thousand times over, she would accept it if, in return, she could see him happy.

‘You're going to get better,' she told him, more confidently than she felt. ‘You can count on that because I won't settle for anything else. I can be a bully when I set my mind to it, and that's what I'm going to do. You told me once you weren't good at taking orders, but you'll take mine. Get well! There! That's an order, do you hear?'

She struggled to keep the jokey note in her voice, but at last it was more than she could bear. Her words trembled into
silence and she laid her face against his hand while the tears flowed.

‘Come back to me,' she whispered. ‘Come back to me. I love you with all my heart. I'll never love anyone else. You don't have to love me. Just let me care for you.'

After a while she raised her head again and looked closely at the man who lay without moving, barely breathing.

‘I have to believe that somewhere, deep inside your heart, you can hear me,' she told him. ‘Perhaps you're even conscious of it now, and soon you'll wake and remember. Or perhaps my words will come back to you without you even knowing how or when you heard them. Oh, my love, my love, can I creep into your heart without you even noticing, and then just stay there?'

A long sigh came from him. Summoning all her courage, she laid her lips gently against his. ‘I thought I'd never kiss you again,' she murmured. ‘Can you feel me? Can you feel my love reaching out to you? It's yours if you want it.'

Another sigh. She looked down on him tenderly. ‘Yes, oh, yes,' she breathed. ‘You're coming back to me. You are.'

Her joy soared as Mark opened his eyes. For a long moment they looked at each other.

‘Who are you?' he asked.

F
OR
a long time now everything in his life had been jagged. It started with the danger that threatened whenever he took to the air, but he accepted that. It was the life he'd chosen. But then he found that the sunlight was jagged and threatening, making him reluctant to face it. Worst of all was the soft jaggedness of darkness and the insidious fear that kept him awake, all the more alarming because he didn't understand it.

It had started when she broke their engagement. He'd been cool and self-contained, as befitted a man who could have any woman, shrugging off her desertion. She'd set him free. She'd said so herself, predicting that the other women would throw a party.

‘You won't remember that I exist,' she'd said.

Then the numbness that shielded him had begun to disintegrate and a spark of temper had flared. He'd accused her of cruelty, something he'd never felt from any woman before. When she'd gone the anger stayed with him, making him act unlike himself. He'd gone drinking with friends that night, casually remarking that his engagement was over. One of the others, a hearty, shallow young man called Shand, had made the mistake of congratulating him. Overwhelmed by rage, Mark had launched himself on the imbecile and might have killed him if his friends hadn't hauled him off in time.

After that, everyone regarded him differently. His friends kept watchful, protective eyes on him, lest he break out
again. From Shand he received awe and respect, which disgusted him.

‘Well, at least someone managed to shut the little blighter up,' Harry Franks observed once. Harry had joined the Air Force on the same day as Mark and they had immediately become friends. ‘You should be proud of that.'

‘He's not worth it,' Mark snapped.

‘I agree. But he might have hit the nail on the head. Maybe you really are better off without this girl. You aren't in love with her, are you?'

‘How the hell do I know?'
Mark roared.

Harry nodded wisely, his expression suggesting that if he'd known things were like that, he wouldn't have asked.

Mark's inner fury continued, all the worse because he didn't understand it himself. Dee had broken the engagement in a way that suggested that he was really dumping her, thus preserving his dignity. So what was there to be angry about? Especially with her?

But he knew that if she were here this minute, he would explain to her exactly why she was wrong about everything, make her admit it and ask his forgiveness for misjudging him. Then he would replace the ring on her finger as a symbol of his victory. It was the only way to deal with awkward women.

‘We belong together,' he rehearsed. ‘We've always known what each other was thinking, and that's never happened to me with anyone else. I didn't want it before. I've tried to keep my thoughts to myself because I didn't trust anyone else, but with you I couldn't do that and I didn't mind. I even liked it. Do you realise that? You did something for me that…that…and then you abandoned me.'

No, he couldn't say these things. They sounded pathetic, and at all costs he wasn't going to be pathetic. But there were other ways of putting it so that she would see reason. If only she was here!

But she wasn't, and she didn't contact him.

He even began to jot down his thoughts, to be ready to confront her. But it was a fraught business. He slept at the base, sharing a small dormitory with five others, all ready for action at any moment in the night. It was hard to find privacy and if he heard someone coming he had to stuff his papers into a small cupboard by the bed. Once he did this so hastily that the contents of the overfull cupboard fell out and he found himself confronting a small bear in a frilly dress.

It was the one she'd given him at the fun fair, having bought it for the ludicrously expensive price of one shilling and sixpence.

Dee seemed to be there, teasing him out of the jagged darkness. ‘She's going to keep an eye on you…and report back to me if you get up to mischief.' Then her voice changed, became loving, as he remembered it. ‘And look after you.'

‘Are you reporting back to her now?' he murmured. ‘I wonder what you'll tell her.'

Then he stopped short, wondering at himself, knowing how it would have looked if any of his comrades had caught him talking to a toy.

But not her. She would have understood. Did she still talk to the Mad Bruin he'd given her? Did she still have it? He found himself hoping that she did. But of course he would never know.

The sound of the door opening made him quickly hide the bear. This was private, between Dee and himself, the one thing that still united them across the miles and the silence. In an obscure way, it was a comfort to a man who'd never admitted to himself that he needed to be comforted.

He hadn't given the toy a name, but in his mind she became ‘Dee'. Incredibly, there was even a physical resemblance. Not that the little bear had Dee's features, but she had her expression—wry, teasing, unconvinced, a look that could be summed up as,
Oh, yeah?
Which was absurd if you thought about it, but he didn't think about it. He just appreciated it.

He began to keep his little friend with him, unwilling to leave her in the locker where she might be discovered. An inner pocket in his loose flying jacket made a useful hiding place and one day, almost forgetting she was there, he took her onto the plane with him.

It was a fierce and terrible sortie, a bombing raid on an enemy armaments factory in early 1943. Resistance was fierce, with Messerschmitts, the magnificent enemy bombers, attacking from all directions. At one point he would almost have sworn he'd reached his final moment, when the plane heading for him seemed to halt in mid-air before exploding in a ball of fire. He had a searingly precise view of the pilot's desperate eyes before the other plane dropped out of the sky.

When he landed he sat for a moment, arms folded across his body, feeling the little bump beneath the flying jacket that told him his tiny friend was there. To think that ‘Dee' had protected him was sheer fanciful madness, and he wasn't a fanciful man, yet the thought persisted.
She
had been there, not the woman herself, but her little furry representative. It was crazy. He was a fool, a stupid, naive, delusional idiot. Yet he was also mysteriously comforted.

After that, the bear went with him on every sortie, seeing him through near-misses, escapes and the odd triumph. And it began to seem to Mark that Dee—his own true Dee, the woman who had scorned him—had nevertheless the right to know that she was influencing his life, perhaps even saving it. It was an excuse to write to her, and he badly needed an excuse.

The letter was hard. On light matters he'd always found talking easy—too easy—but now, in the depths of sincerity, he found the words eluding him. He wrote at last:

The letter didn't satisfy him. It didn't even begin to convey what was in his heart, but he wasn't even sure what that was. And, even if he had been sure, he didn't think he could have said it. He put the paper away, to be finished later.

He did return to it several times, always remembering something else that it was vital for her to know. Days passed, then weeks, and somehow it was never sent.

He was afraid and he knew it. The man who faced down death a hundred times was afraid to contact the woman whose reply could damage him more than any Messerschmitt. Afraid! How she would laugh at that. And, after all, she had the right to know that she'd triumphed, just as she had the right to know that she was protecting him. Perhaps he could simply turn up and confront her with it, and watch her face as she learned exactly what she'd done to him. The temptation was so strong that he shut his thoughts off abruptly.

Another sortie was beginning, demanding his attention. He took off in the sunlight, headed out over the sea towards the continent. After that, things became confused. He knew his aircraft was hit and he was aware of himself mechanically piloting back to England and safety, frantically praying that he would arrive before the explosion.

He almost made it. As he came down the flames were beginning to take over. Another few seconds…just a few…just a few…

Then the air was rent by a terrible screaming that he didn't
even recognise as his own. The jaggedness converged on him from all directions, stabbing, burning, terrifying him. Hands were tearing at the plane, pulling him out. He lay on the ground, listening to the shouting around him, waiting for his life to end. It was all over now and the only thing that really hurt was that he would never see Dee again. Then the darkness engulfed him.

But, instead of swallowing him up for ever, it lifted after a while, revealing a mist, with her voice all around him. He couldn't see her face but her words filled his heart with joy.

‘…Maybe you can hear me, somewhere deep inside you…there's so much I want you to understand…'

He tried to speak but he could make no sound. Her voice continued whirling through the clouds.

‘I was clumsy before. I loved you so much that I was afraid to let you know… I was so happy when you asked me to marry you… All I saw was that I could be your wife…'

My wife, he thought. You are my wife, now and always. Why can't I tell you?

‘Come back to me… I love you with all my heart… Just let me care for you.'

Everything in him wanted to say yes, to find her, draw her close. He opened his eyes in desperate hope, straining to see her face, which must be full of the same emotion as her voice, an emotion that offered him hope for the first time in his life.

But his dream had been in vain. There was only a nurse in a professional uniform, the cap low over her forehead, her features frowning and severe. Disappointment tore him, making him say almost violently,
‘Who are you?'

 

At first the words made no impact on Dee. She couldn't understand them—
wouldn't
understand them and their terrible implication.

He stared at her, or perhaps through her. His eyes were empty of recognition, of feeling, of anything.

‘Who are you?'

‘I…Mark, it's me…Dee…'

But his eyes remained blank until he closed them, murmuring, ‘Sorry, Nurse.'

She took a deep breath, telling herself that it meant nothing. She was in uniform, her hair covered by a nurse's cap, as he hadn't seen her before. And he was heavily sedated, not his normal self.

‘Nurse—' he murmured.

‘Yes, I'm here.'

He gave a long tortured sigh that ended in a groan.

Mr Royce came quietly into the room. ‘He's due for more painkiller,' he said. ‘Will you help me administer it?'

Together they did what was necessary, which seemed to bring Mark some ease. He opened his eyes again, murmuring, ‘Thank you, Nurse.'

‘Leave him to sleep,' Mr Royce said, ushering her out of the room.

‘He doesn't know me,' she said flatly when they were outside.

‘Given the condition he's in, that's hardly surprising, but part of his recovery will be regaining the memories of his old life and you can assist him in that as nobody else can. I'm assigning you to him full-time. Yes, I know that will be hard for you, but you must be professional about this, Nurse.'

‘Of course.'

Professional, she told herself. That was what mattered. She must forget her shame at the memory of the things she'd said, the impassioned outpouring of love, the naive way she'd hoped for some flicker of love in return, only to be met with, ‘Who are you?'

She took immediate charge of him, silencing all other thoughts but his need and her duty, but it was hard when her
feelings were so involved. The first time she saw his burns she had to fight back tears. The whole of his chest was violently red and raw, and she could only guess at what he must be suffering. Her ministrations made him wince, despite being on such a heavy dose of painkiller that he never seemed more than vaguely awake. Now and then he would gaze at her as though trying to remember where he'd seen her before, but he always addressed her as ‘Nurse'.

‘Perhaps you should stay with him overnight,' Joe told her late one evening. He'd been on a training session and they had arrived home at nearly the same moment.

‘What about you?' she said, looking around at the bleak, echoing house. ‘I don't like leaving you alone.'

‘I'm a big boy now, love. I can cope. And I'm not alone, not really. Your Mum's here with me. No, don't look like that. I'm not mad. This is the home she created, and every inch of it is what she made. If I work late in the garage, she puts her head around the door and says, “Are you coming in or are you going to be here all night?” If I'm making tea, I always fill the pot in case she wants one. I know how much she loved me, and she still does, almost as much as I love her.'

‘I always wondered about that—' Dee said hesitantly. ‘The way your marriage came about—'

‘Oh, you mean that stuff about me making her pregnant and being forced to do the decent thing. Nah, nobody forced me. I was daft about her, but I was shy. I was even scared to kiss her in case she was offended, while as for…you know…'

‘Yes, I know,' she said, lips twitching.

‘All right, go on, laugh at me, but it was another age. You were supposed to behave yourself in them days. But your mum knew what she wanted, and she wanted me. Lord knows why, but she did.'