Wartime Family (18 page)

‘Of course you were. It wouldn’t have happened if you’d come to collect me as I’d requested.’

That was when their relationship had changed. His eyes had twinkled when he’d smiled. He’d made her feel like a very weak-kneed Scarlett O’Hara to his rakish Rhett Butler. His smile was like that. His looks were even better. What was it about blue eyes and dark hair? Such a contrast. And that voice, that husky sound from deep down in the throat, allied with an accent that was American and yet at the same time not quite American.

He’d walked her back to the dorm that night and told her he’d made arrangements for her to be billeted at Ainsley Hall.

‘For my convenience,’ he’d said with a smile.

Her heart had fluttered like a butterfly trying to escape a glass prison. Convenient for her as his driver, or for something else entirely? And of course, she would miss Margot and the others.

There was no point in protesting; at least, that was what she told herself. The plain fact was that she had no compunction to protest. Wicked though it seemed, the war was proving to be an adventure. Where would she be now if not for the war? Someone’s wife? A mother? Or still in service and seeing Peter Selwyn Kendall on Wednesday afternoons?

The pub they found today was called the Robin Hood.

‘Do you think he drank here?’ asked Guy, scanning the bar as if half expecting the outlaw of Sherwood to be sat sipping a beer.

Lizzie laughed. ‘Possibly. I shouldn’t have thought it’s changed much since his day.’ She took off her cap and slid on to the seat of a high-backed oak settle that was scarred with age. It was hard to tell exactly what was burning in the huge inglenook fireplace – logs mostly – but fuel being hard to come by, it could be peat and even dried cowpats, judging by the smell.

‘So,’ he said, returning with two halves of farmhouse cider. ‘Tell me about yourself.’

The boldness of his look made her blush and lower her eyes.

‘There’s not much to tell. I mean, where do I start? In my childhood, with my parents?’

‘If you like. Tell you what, let me tell you about mine. My father is the manager of a canning factory in Hamilton, Ontario – that’s just a spit and a hop from the Great Lakes and the border with the United States. My mom used to be a nurse, but she stays home now. She’s collected a menagerie of animals over the years and they take up most of her time. The nursing experience comes in handy – you know, pregnant pussy cats and chickens with ingrown toenails.’

Lizzie’s jaw dropped. ‘Chickens haven’t got toes.’

‘True,’ he said, grimacing after taking a sip of the greenish liquid which seemed to be laced with splinters of wood and apple pips. He lowered his voice. ‘Is this really for drinking or should you be cleaning the car with it?’

Lizzie giggled. ‘Farmhouse cider is always strong and rough. It’s the way they make it. I’ve heard some grim stories regarding the ingredients. Really grim!’

He eyed her enquiringly. ‘Like what?’

She shook her head. ‘You wouldn’t want to know.’

‘Try me.’

‘Rats!’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘No. It’s said to add flavour if a rat falls in.’

He’d only just taken another sip. With a rueful expression he put it back on the table and pushed it away.

‘I think I’ll pass.’

Like two adolescents they made faces and spoke in quiet whispers. Lizzie couldn’t believe the difference in their relationship since they’d first met. He’d been cold and standoffish; she’d reacted by putting his attitude down to class, rank and his being foreign. Did being a Canadian count as foreign? She supposed it did in some quarters, but to her Guy Hunter was becoming far from foreign – in fact he was getting too close for comfort.

‘Do all the animals have names?’ she asked now.

He nodded. ‘Milly, Molly and Mandy.’

She laughed, recognizing the characters from much-loved childhood books.

He talked a lot about the lakes, the forests and a trip he’d done to Niagara.

‘Thunder falls. That’s what it should be called,’ he said. ‘The sound of the water tumbling over the rocks is deafening.’

‘It all sounds wonderful,’ she said, her imagination racing with visions of high mountains, vast lakes and wide blue skies. He told her of the snow in winter, far deeper than even Scotland ever had.

‘This land is too flat,’ he said, jerking his head towards the tiny windows to the flat expanse of fields, ditches and sky.

Not for the first time in her life, Lizzie was mesmerized by a man from a different background than she.

But this is different.

The affair with Peter was in the past. She wasn’t really sure that Peter had considered himself better than her, but his mother certainly had. It had taken a war, a blizzard and time apart to open her eyes to the truth. The other obvious difference between Peter and Guy was that the former had hidden away rather than join the armed forces. Guy had already been a flier; he’d told her so and his rank was emblazoned on his uniform.

‘And you? Is it flat where you come from?’

She lowered her eyes and fiddled with her glass as she thought of her home town. Row upon row of red-brick terraces, the chimneys of W. D. & H. O. Wills, the soap factory, the trams rattling along East Street where the buildings blocked out the light. In her mind’s eye she hurried along past the shops, over Bedminster Bridge and up Redcliffe Hill.

‘We have a lot of historic buildings in Bristol – or at least we did until the Luftwaffe dropped bombs on it. A lot of the buildings were black and white and dated from Elizabethan times – nearly five hundred years ago. But there are still a lot of old buildings clustered around St Mary Redcliffe Church. It was the favourite church of Queen Elizabeth the First, you know.’

‘Was it really?’

She paused. Was that mockery she detected in his voice? She looked into his eyes. It seemed that he was looking at her with great interest. A sudden spark seemed to ignite between them and history had nothing to do with it.

‘I think we should see each other socially,’ he said, the timbre of his voice turning her legs to jelly. ‘We work together. Why not play together?’

Never in a month of Sundays would she ever have envisaged something like this happening. It was like being struck by lightning – not that she ever had been, but there was always a first time. And this was it. She was sure of it.

‘We’re both far away from our families,’ Guy went on. His smile was wide and warm. ‘What’s the harm in going for a picnic or a pint?’ He grimaced suddenly and tapped a brawny finger at the remains of his drink. ‘Unless you’re drinking this stuff,’ he said with a grin.

Lizzie’s gaze stayed fixed on his fingers, especially his ring finger. There it was, a band of gold that she’d never noticed before, a blatant declaration that he was married and had no business meeting her socially. Her spirits took a dive. Then the old wartime mantra came back to save them.

But we could be dead tomorrow.

There were considerations, but she shoved them to one side. Her mind was made up. Their eyes met. His smile lessened, becoming almost quizzical as though he too were asking himself a question and deciding on the best reply.

‘Yes. I’m married. I’ll make no bones about it.’ He looked down at the table top before taking her hand in his. ‘This war is set to get worse. Who knows where we’ll be one year from now. The lives of thousands of people are in my hands. I need some kind of solace. If you allow me to lean on you, I’ll allow you to lean on me. Do you agree?’

‘I’m engaged,’ she blurted suddenly.

It wasn’t quite true, but in a strange kind of way, she was meeting him halfway. They both had other lives, other people who figured strongly in them. But they’d been thrown together. Here, in this place, there was just the two of them.

‘But I think we both need someone,’ she said.

He nodded and reached for his glass. ‘Let’s drink to that,’ he said, forgetting just how potent – and disgusting – the cider tasted.

Lizzie took a gulp and made a face. They’d both swallowed too much of the strong brew and ended up spluttering and laughing at each other across the table top. Suddenly, he leaned across and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Champagne next time.’

Taken by surprise, she stared at him, her face warm and red from the fire. ‘I’ve never drunk champagne.’

‘Then it’s about time you did.’

Lizzie’s new billet at Ainsley Hall had wooden shutters on the inside, a window seat and the most glorious furniture she’d ever seen. A large number of the rooms most suited for office space had been stripped of valuable furniture. Except for the attic rooms that had been turned into dormitories, the bedrooms had been left intact.

Her mouth had dropped open when she’d seen the fourposter bed, the heavy coverlets and the tapestries hanging on the panelled walls.

‘You should see it,’ she said to Bessie when they met up in the mess back at base. ‘It’s big enough to sleep a family.’

‘Or just two people,’ said Bessie. ‘That’s nice, isn’t it?’

She didn’t sound as though she really thought it nice. In fact she sounded very gloomy.

It wasn’t instinct or insight that prompted Lizzie’s conclusion as to why Bessie was acting this way. It was just a guess – the right one as it turned out.

‘It’s Arthur isn’t it?’

Bessie nodded and buried her face in her hands. The pancakes on her plate dulled as they cooled. Wartime flour wasn’t quite what it used to be – a bit like them really, she supposed.

Fearing he’d been shot down or bombed, Lizzie reached for her friend’s hand. ‘Oh, Bessie. I’m so sorry.’

Bessie shrugged.

‘Is he …?’ She looked to Margot for explanation. Margot rolled her eyes and regarded Bessie as though she were the daftest person she’d ever met. ‘Married,’ she said with an air of finality.

‘Married!’ Lizzie could hardly believe it. ‘Oh lordy!’

‘I tried to tell you, Bessie. I told you I’d heard rumours,’ said Margot.

Bessie looked at her with blazing eyes. ‘Oh, yes! You told me! You told me he already had someone. But you didn’t tell me he was married!’

Margot shrugged. ‘I hardly thought a man who proposed getting engaged and therefore married had already tied the knot. I just said I’d heard rumours. Anyway, why didn’t you ask him yourself? Why get in the family way first then ask questions afterwards?’

Lizzie remained quiet. She told herself that it wouldn’t happen to her. She also told herself that she was going into this arrangement with Wing Commander Guy Hunter with her eyes wide open.

Margot followed her outside. ‘I prefer smoking outside,’ she said on seeing Lizzie’s look. ‘I’m not prying. Honestly I’m not.’

‘I didn’t say you were.’

‘Good.’

Margot leaned against the wall behind her and lit up. The smoke rose blue and curling like a gradually drawn-out spring.

‘So what’s with your wing commander? Is he married?’

Lizzie nodded but couldn’t bring herself to meet Margot’s silently asked question.

Margot sighed. ‘My major isn’t and I’m afraid we’re going to have to do the obvious. We’re going to get married. You’re the first to know.’

‘Oh, Margot, I’m so happy for you,’ said Lizzie, throwing her arms around her neck.

Margot grinned and for the first time ever, Lizzie saw her cheeks turn blush pink. ‘And I’m not pregnant,’ Margot added.

Lizzie’s gaze drifted back to Bessie. ‘What do you think she’ll do?’

Margot shrugged. ‘What can she do? Her chap’s done a double cross. It’s his poor wife I feel sorry for. She could divorce him, I suppose, but then there’s the stigma. People tend to point one out. But then, it won’t be the last marriage to break up before this war is over.’

No
, thought Lizzie.
Probably not, and although I should go to Guy and stop this right now, I can’t. I’m drawn to him. I want him and there is nothing I can do about it.

Something about what Lizzie was thinking must have showed in her expression. ‘You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?’ said Margot. ‘You’re going to fall in love and you’re going to want him to divorce his wife and marry you.’

‘Of course I won’t.’

Margot sucked on her cigarette holder, silently holding Lizzie’s faltering gaze.

That night she dreamed she was at a double wedding where there was only one groom and two brides. One of them was her. The other was Guy’s wife. She woke up tangled in the bedclothes, like a moth caught in a web.

Her guilt went with her to breakfast. There was a letter awaiting her from Patrick. If anyone was going to make her feel guilty it would be Patrick. She’d promised him so much. Half of her still wanted to hold true to that promise. The other more curious half wanted to tread an unknown and more dangerous path. Only time would tell which one she would choose.

Mary Anne jerked upright in that state between sleeping and waking, when the line is thin between what is real and what is not.

Her first thought was that someone had shaken her shoulder and was standing over her. One glance at the curtains billowing into the room and the open window swinging on its hinges and reality reasserted itself. The nightmare was broken, though the shadowy figure that followed her in daylight still lingered somewhere at the back of her mind.

Satisfied she was definitely in the real world, she got out of bed and crossed the room. The bedroom lino was cold beneath her feet and the breeze from the window pleasantly crisped the film of sweat that covered her body.

Once the window was closed she got back into bed. Pulling the green satin eiderdown up to her chin she gazed at the lampshade and the black shadow it threw across the ceiling. Turning on to her side she heaved the eiderdown even higher, closed her eyes and wished Michael was still here and that the war had never happened.

Everything will be all right in the morning
, she told herself.
Get to sleep.

She finally fell asleep and slept fitfully, semi-alert in case the dream returned.

In the morning she had butterflies. She eyed her reflection in the bathroom mirror, alarmed to see that her expression confirmed what she felt. The fine brows were arched and the brown eyes were luminous – a little excited, a little afraid. She knew very well that both the nightmare and the butterflies were left over from an unhappy marriage when apprehension had developed into something more, an intuition that was always right and always frightening.