Those in Peril (41 page)

‘That's wonderful! Come round for dinner this evening.'

He watched a young couple walking arm in arm along the Embankment – the man in army uniform, the girl in WAAF blue. ‘Who else will be there?'

‘Just William and Julian. He doesn't go back to school until the end of the week. He'll love to see you.'

The florist had no roses of any colour, so he bought white narcissi mixed with blue iris which pleased her very much.

‘They smell gorgeous, Alan, thank you. I'll put them straight in water. Go on into the drawing room. William's late, as usual, but Julian's in there, up to no good, I expect.'

As he opened the door, his nephew whipped a cigarette behind his back.

He said loudly, above the head-splitting noise of some jazz record playing on the gramophone, ‘Hallo, Julian. How are you?'

His nephew grinned. He brought the cigarette out of hiding and took a nonchalant drag. ‘I thought you were Ma. You won't split on me, will you?'

‘Good heavens, no. I'll join you.' He lit a cigarette. ‘Do you think we could have the volume down a bit?'

‘If you like. Fantastic isn't it? Benny Goodman, you know. He's terrific.'

‘Yes, he's very good.' He watched the boy. Not so much a boy any longer. The man was emerging fast. At seventeen he was only an inch or two shorter than himself, the shoulders broadening, the voice deepening, the features changing. Only a year away from call-up papers. He thought, I hope to Christ the war's over before that can happen. ‘How are things, then?'

‘Pretty bloody.' His nephew pulled a face. ‘They're making me go back this term. I wanted to join up but they won't let me.'

‘You're too young.'

‘Only just. I could easily lie about my age. Lots of people do.'

‘And lots of people get found out and sent home. I shouldn't advise it.'

‘The thing is if I don't get a move on, the whole show will be over and I'll have missed it all. I want to join the RAF, you see. Train to become a fighter pilot. And that takes time.'

‘Finish your schooling first.'

‘You're sounding just like the parents.'

‘They do know what they're talking about.'

Another airy drag on the cigarette like a veteran smoker, the smoke puffed casually into the air, then the giveaway, involuntary cough. ‘Yes, but they don't really understand. Everything's different now. It's fighting the Jerries that's the important thing, don't you agree? I can always go to university later on. You fought in the last war, didn't you? So you know exactly what I mean.'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘I know what you mean.'

‘I bet you wouldn't have missed it for anything. It must be pretty grim to have to take a back seat now. Really boring for you.'

He smiled. ‘I should get rid of that cigarette before your mother comes in.'

Henrietta appeared with the flowers more or less arranged in a vase and he poured drinks for them – gin and tonic for her, pink gin for himself, lemonade for his nephew, despite the protests. After a while, his brother-in-law returned from the hospital. The talk, naturally enough, centred on the war and its progress – or rather the lack of it.

William said grimly, ‘They're booting us out of Greece and it'll be Crete next. I'll lay any bets on that. After that it'll be North Africa. Everything's going their way and we can't seem to do a damn thing about it.'

Henrietta was knitting some curious khaki garment. ‘You mustn't be a pessimist, William.'

‘I'm not. I'm a realist.'

‘Well, at least they're not bombing London quite so much.'

‘They've got other fish to fry, that's why. What do you make of it all, Alan?'

‘It certainly doesn't look too good at the moment, but I think things will turn around eventually. It's taken time to recover from Dunkirk and to regroup, and the Luftwaffe have kept us pretty busy.'

His nephew seized his chance. ‘The RAF keep on advertising for men to join up, Dad. Posters everywhere.'

‘You're still a schoolboy, Julian, and you're staying on for at least another year. That's final. No more discussion on the subject. How are you getting on down in Devon, Alan?'

‘Fine.'

‘Interesting work?'

‘Routine desk stuff, mainly.'

‘All part of the war effort, though.'

‘I hope so,' he said.

After dinner – a brave attempt by Henrietta at something she called Smothered Sausage, found in a wartime recipe book, followed by Orange Mould from the same source – Julian went off to his room and William was summoned by phone to return urgently to the hospital. Powell sat down with his sister and talked for a while over cigarettes and the Benedictine that she had unearthed from the back of a cupboard.

‘Bless the monks . . . my favourite. Bless you, too, Alan.'

He raised his glass. ‘And you, Hattie. May I ask you a favour?'

‘Ask away. If it's something I can do, consider it done.'

‘There's a young French boy who's arrived recently in Dartmouth – a year younger than Julian.'

‘Don't tell me
he
wants to join up too.'

He smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, he does – but the Free French navy, not the Royal Air Force. Of course, he's too young – like Julian. He's on his own – the parents are still in France.'

‘How on earth did that happen?'

‘Bit of a long story. I promised that I'd keep an eye on him, you see. I've managed to get the Naval College to take him. It's an ideal solution, really. He'll be looked after during term time, doing exactly the sort of thing he wants, but there's the problem of the holidays. Where he goes then. They'd keep him there if necessary, of course, but I wondered if you'd have him to stay? I think he and Julian would get on rather well, and it would be some sort of family life for him.'

‘Of course I will. Poor boy. We'd be glad to have him.'

‘Thank you, Hattie. It's very good of you.'

‘How's his English?'

‘Non-existent, but it's bound to improve fast.'

‘Actually, Julian's not bad at French. Rather surprising really. I used to speak it pretty well in the old days, when I was at the Paris finishing school. You remember my telling you about my Frenchman – the one I fell desperately in love with? His English wasn't up to much and that did wonders for my French.'

‘Do you still think about him? After all these years?'

‘Yes, I do. I'll never forget him. But he belongs to the past. I take him out and think about him and then he goes back in his box again – if you see what I mean. Women are like that, you know. They keep their memories safe, like old love letters tied up with ribbon in the attic. Once in a while, they'll bring them out and go through them and remember. The rest of the time, they stay hidden away – out of sight and out of mind. I think every woman should have at least one unforgettable love affair in her life – preferably with a Frenchman. By the way, is that girl you met still in love with
hers
?'

‘As a matter of fact, he's not around any more.'

‘Ah. That makes a difference. It gives you a chance.'

‘I'm afraid there's not much hope.'

‘Be patient, Alan, that's my advice. Give her time. She'll notice you one day.'

Eighteen

The roses were in midsummer bloom, the long bed making a swathe of colour across the garden – yellow, white, apricot, pink, crimson. She'd been weeding and now she sat on the seat to rest and admire the roses, and the Scots pines on the hillside below, and the green-blue glitter of the sea through their branches. This was where she had sat with him and where she came when she wanted to remember him.

‘Yoo-hoo, Mrs Hillyard! Are you there?' Mrs Lamprey appeared at the top of the terrace steps, one hand extended, her scarf trailing from the other. Pause for applause before she descended with the swaying, loose-kneed gait of a Busby Berkeley chorus girl – halting halfway down. ‘Lieutenant Commander Powell is here for you. He's waiting in the hall.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Lamprey.'

‘Such an
attractive
man. A trifle stiff and starchy on the surface, but he's not really at all like that, is he? Not underneath. Still waters run deep. You can tell that from his eyes – they have hidden depths.' Another sashaying step down-wards. ‘It's a long time since we've seen him. I wonder what he's come about.'

‘I've no idea, Mrs Lamprey.'

‘Perhaps he knows some naval gentleman who wants a room. You're full up, though, since that Belgian person arrived.'

That Belgian person – always referred to disparagingly in those terms – had been a great disappointment to Mrs Lamprey. She had expected to be able to continue improving her French, but the elderly and reclusive refugee from Antwerp had turned out to be Flemish-speaking.

Mrs Lamprey pursued her back to the house, her eager scramble up the steep steps in contrast to her floating descent. ‘Of course, the lieutenant commander has always been a
great
admirer of yours, Mrs Hillyard. But I expect you realize that. He's always carried a torch for you.'

Alan Powell was standing in the hall, examining Louis's painting of the house which she had had framed and hung on the wall. He was in his Royal Navy uniform. Tall, upright, correct and not carrying any torches – only his cap in his hand. He had called by, he said politely, just to see how things were. They would not discuss the painting, she knew; nor would they discuss the painter. After the war she would perhaps find out everything that had happened, when careless talk no longer cost lives.

Mrs Lamprey was hovering close by, panting audibly from the climb and curiosity.

‘Would you come into the kitchen, Alan?' she said. ‘I ought to get on with supper.'

Fifi was asleep in her basket but Tom stretched and strolled over. Alan picked him up and stroked him. The ginger cat started purring. ‘This must be Esme's. How is she?'

‘Fine. She's doing much better at school. And her father came to see her again on his last leave.'

‘What about her mother?'

‘Gone to Canada. She wanted Esme to go with her but she refused. It meant leaving Tom.'

‘Tom?' He had lifted his head so that she could see straight into his eyes. Mrs Lamprey had been right about them having hidden depths. They were smoke-grey and very hard to read.

‘You're holding him.'

‘Well, I don't blame her. He's a very fine animal.'

She sliced up the onions and put them in the pan on the stove. ‘Would you mind very much giving these a stir now and again, while I get on with the rest?'

‘If you trust me not to make a hash of it.'

She laughed. ‘Actually, that's just what it's supposed to be – a hash. Corned beef hash.'

The tins of American corned beef were a novelty at the grocer's, and she'd soon discovered how useful they could be for eking out the rations. She fetched one from the larder, opened it and began cutting up the processed meat. The potatoes were already cooked, so the rest was easy – once the onions were done.

Alan was still holding Tom, cradled in the crook of his left arm, while he stirred the onions. She watched him covertly. Mrs Lamprey was right, too, about him not being nearly so stiff and starchy as he seemed – she had known that anyway – but wrong about the torch-carrying. Quite wrong.

Then, just as she was thinking this, he turned his head and looked at her. And smiled.

About the Author

Margaret Mayhew was born in London and her earliest childhood memories were of the London Blitz. She began writing in her mid-thirties and had her first novel published in 1976. She is married to American aviation author, Philip Kaplan, and lives in Gloucestershire. Her other novels,
Bluebirds, The Crew, The Little Ship, Our Yanks, The Pathfinder
and
I'll Be Seeing You
, are also published by Corgi.

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Epub ISBN: 9781446437346

Version 1.0

  

First Publication in Great Britain

Corgi edition published 2003

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Copyright © Margaret Mayhew 2003

The right of Margaret Mayhew to be identified as the author

of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections

77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.