When the Lights Go on Again (20 page)

‘Marcus!’

Dropping the small last-minute extras she had gone out to buy ahead of her Christmas Eve journey to Whitchurch tomorrow morning, to spend Christmas with her family, Francine ran into her husband’s arms, her eyes shining with love and delight.

‘I wasn’t expecting you. Why didn’t you ring?’ she asked him. ‘I wouldn’t have gone out. How long—’

‘I didn’t ring because I found out only this morning that I’d be able to take some Christmas leave after all,’ Marcus interrupted her in a tender voice. ‘And as for how long – well, four days—’

‘Four days. Oh, Marcus, and I’ve gone and agreed to spend Christmas in Whitchurch, when we could have been together, just the two of us. I’ll telephone Grace and tell her that you’ve got leave and I won’t be going. She’ll understand.’

‘No, you can’t do that,’ Marcus told her, shaking his head as he kept her close to him, his arm wrapped around her slender waist. ‘Didn’t you say
originally that Grace said there was room for us both?’

‘Yes, in the digs where one of Seb’s colleagues normally stays – he’s gone home for Christmas. Apparently, it’s a double room, and the landlady doesn’t mind because I’ll be eating at Grace’s.’

‘There you are then – a double room – what more could we want?’

‘We’ve got a double room here,’ Francine pointed out. ‘And a sitting room, and…’

She couldn’t say any more because Marcus was kissing her and murmuring against her ear, ‘Never mind the sitting room…’ making her laugh and sigh, and then hold him close when he kissed her fiercely, not minding the rough scratch of his unshaven jaw against her own skin. This was Marcus, her husband, her love and the fact that he had not shaved only showed his impatience to be with her.

‘I need a shower and a shave,’ he told her. ‘The car’s low on petrol so I had to grab the first transport I could, with some Royal Engineers and their lorry.’

‘I’m so glad you’re here and so glad you aren’t in Italy.’

‘There’s going to be worse than Italy to get through,’ Marcus warned her.

Francine looked at him. ‘When?’

‘Not yet – Churchill would never countenance a winter invasion. The simple logistics of getting enough men and equipment over there make it a necessity that he waits for good weather. And besides, the men aren’t ready yet. We’re having to try to train
them on the South Coast whilst pretending to Hitler that we aren’t. Not easy with God knows how many thousand troops going to be encamped down there, come the spring.’

‘I really wish we could stay here and not go to Whitchurch,’ Francine repeated.

‘Whitchurch will be wonderful,’ Marcus assured her, kissing the tip of her nose. ‘A family Christmas in the country? What could be better?’

‘Do you really want me to answer that?’ Francine asked him ruefully.

‘Oh, Mum, I just don’t know what I’m going to do. The turkey won’t fit in the oven.’ Grace was in tears as she hugged her mother.

Seb had just collected Jean and Sam from the station, and now as she looked round the pretty country kitchen and listened to her daughter’s tale of woe, Jean suddenly knew that Christmas was going to be Christmas after all, and that all her worries and misery had been for nothing. Grace had a discreet little bump under her soft cherry-red wool dress, her cheeks flushed and stained with tears, the cause of her despair sitting in the middle of the kitchen table, and Jean was filled with maternal love for her, and the confidence that came from managing over two decades of Christmases.

Mind you, it was certainly a very large turkey, Jean acknowledged, assessing it with an eye experienced by many years of assessing those birds that had gone before it, then turning to look at the Aga.

‘I told the farmer’s wife that the oven was only big enough for a medium-sized turkey and that this one is a large one, but she said that this is only a medium one,’ Grace wept. ‘I’m sure she’s given my turkey to someone else and that’s why I’ve got this one. Mum, what am I going to do? We can’t have Christmas without a turkey, and now Francine and Marcus are going to be here and I’m going to look such a fool, when I wanted everything to be just right.’

‘And it will be,’ Jean assured Grace. ‘It’s got two ovens, has it then, this Aga?’

‘Yes,’ Grace agreed. ‘One for slow cooking and the other for faster.’

‘Well then, what we’ll do is, we’ll get your dad, or Seb,’ Jean added hastily, remembering just in time that she and Sam were merely guests, ‘to cut off the legs and then we’ll see what can be done. First, though, love, how about putting on the kettle?’

‘Oh, Mum, I’m sorry…I was that upset about the turkey I forgot…I’ve been worrying about it all morning since the POW from the farm delivered it along with my veggies and that.’ Fresh tears rolled down her face. ‘I’d got it all planned so carefully, and when you arrived we were going to go into the sitting room and have tea with a tea table properly set, with that lovely tablecloth and them napkins you got me before me and Seb were married – do you remember?’

Jean nodded.

‘And we were going to have mince pies and everything, and now I haven’t even cooked them because I got in such a state over the turkey.’

‘Well, then, it’s just as well I’ve brought a few mince pies of me own with us then, love,’ Jean said comfortingly, welcoming the relieved and grateful smile Grace was giving her. ‘Now why don’t you let me get me coat off, and then you can sit down and I’ll put the kettle on. Your dad’s been looking forward to seeing this garden you’ve been telling us you’re going to have a vegetable patch on, so perhaps him and Seb can go and have a look at it after we’ve had our tea, and then you and me can get things sorted out a bit.’

‘Oh, Mum!’ Grace threw herself into her mother’s arms. ‘I wanted everything to be just right so that you’d be proud of me and you could have a lovely restful Christmas, and now everything’s spoiled.’

‘Of course it isn’t, and we will have a lovely Christmas.’

And so they would, Jean decided. They would have a wonderful Christmas.

‘I’m so glad you’re here, Mum.’

‘So am I,’ Jean told Grace as her daughter hugged her.

‘…And then Francine rang and said that Marcus had got leave and would be coming with her after all, and Seb will meet their train and take them to Mrs Wilson’s, where they’ll be staying, and then he’ll bring them here, and we can have a bit of supper together, and then go to Midnight Mass. We can walk to the church, and Francine and Marcus will be able to walk back to their billet.
It’s a shame that Sasha and Lou can’t be here, and Luke, of course.’

‘Well, we don’t want you over-doing things, Grace. Not in your condition.’

Mother and daughter exchanged smiles.

‘Newcastle?’ Lou looked at the chit she had just been given.

It was Christmas Day and all those working at the base had been given a special Christmas breakfast, but as Lou had said to June, it didn’t really compare with her mother’s Christmas breakfasts, or being at home.

‘Never mind, at least we’ve got our New Year’s Eve dance to look forward to,’ June had reminded her.

Typically perhaps, the nearby American Air Base had sent out invitations to all those ATA pilots who could make it to attend a real American New Year’s Eve ‘party’, which they were hosting. ‘Forget Times Square,’ the invite had run. ‘Our base is where it’s going to be at this New Year’s Eve.’

It wasn’t New Year’s Eve that Lou was thinking about right now, though, but Newcastle. Sasha was in Newcastle. Lou had been thinking a lot about her twin recently. The lies she had had to tell June about her night in Kieran’s room had left Lou feeling very uncomfortable and guilty, and a little to her own surprise she had started wishing that she and Sasha were still close enough for her to be able to tell her twin how she felt. Now she had a ferry job up in Newcastle. Lou was tempted to telephone her sister Grace and
ask if she had Bobby’s family’s address, but then common sense reminded her of the reality of the situation between her and Sasha. Her twin probably wouldn’t like it one bit if Lou suddenly appeared when she was with Bobby and his family. She might even take Lou’s appearance as an indication that Lou was once again trying to come between her and Bobby. And besides, she probably wouldn’t even have time to see Sasha, Lou acknowledged. They were short-staffed, with so many people wanting to take Christmas leave, and Lou suspected that virtually the moment she put down the Spitfire she was delivering she would be given another job.

She was by far the youngest person sitting round the lunch table at the house in Hampstead, Katie acknowledged ruefully, feeling guilty that she wasn’t more grateful to her parents’ friends for inviting her to join her parents and them for Christmas lunch.

The heavy faded dark red velvet curtains, with their fringe trimming, had already been closed against the feeble winter daylight, casting a dull red glow over the room that was more gloomy than cheering, thanks to the poor quality and wattage of the wartime light bulb suspended from a bare cord to dangle over the Victorian mahogany table. The chandelier that had apparently once graced the dining room had been removed and packed away for safekeeping, Katie’s mother had told her, their friends living in dread of their good things being damaged by Hitler’s bombs, although
they were still using their lovely elegant Spode dinner service.

‘I simply can’t bear the thought of not drinking tea out of a china cup,’ Lavender Hillbrook had told Katie earlier in the day when Katie had asked what she could do to help with the preparations for their Christmas lunch and had been told that she might lay the table.

Katie knew what she meant, and could sympathise with her. Jean Campion would have loved the Spode, with its hand-painted gilt borders.

The Hillbrooks had done well for themselves, as the saying went. Gerald Hillbrook had been an impresario before he had retired, whilst Lavender had sung in the same revues as Katie’s mother. The Hillbrooks didn’t have any children, and their favourite form of entertainment was talking about the past, retelling the same stories that Katie had already heard many times before, although of course she was too polite and kind to spoil their stories by saying so.

This morning, when she had woken up in her narrow bed in a small boxroom, there had been no stocking for her to investigate as there had been last year, sent with her to Hampstead by Jean Campion, who loved her own family traditions. There wasn’t any of the laughter and shared fun of the Cadogan Place house. Nor should Katie compare the happy chatter of a Campion Christmas lunch with the silent concentration on eating favoured by her parents’ friends. The Hillbrooks were quite elderly, older than her parents, and so very kind that Katie felt guilty for making comparisons.

Lunch was turning out to be a solemn affair, with little conversation other than the Hillbrooks’ views on the merits of the new vicar’s sermon and the preponderance of people in uniform at the Christmas morning service.

They had already had their first course, a thin watery brown Windsor soup, and now they were on their main course, thin slivers of roast goose, carved by Gerald Hillbrook and placed with due pomp on each plate. One each for the women and two for the men. The goose had, as Katie’s mother had already confided to her, to last them until New Year, when they would be having a pressed tongue.

After lunch her parents and their hosts would ‘retire’ to the drawing room, with its small smoky fire, its draughty bay window and its dark brown hide suite decorated with cream antimacassars, to sit down to listen to the King’s Christmas message.

After the King, it would be time for afternoon tea, following which they would play cards before falling asleep in their chairs. Katie’s heart sank a little, but then she reminded herself of poor Gerry, who had travelled home yesterday to spend Christmas with her parents, and who had been dreading doing so because of the loss of her brothers.

The best thing she could do would be to take herself out for a brisk walk, Katie decided. She would welcome some fresh air after the stuffiness of being inside. At least this Christmas she wouldn’t have to cope with the misery of receiving a letter
from Luke breaking off their engagement. Kate ate another mouthful of rather hard roast potato and tried hard not to think of the delicious outer crispness and inner fluffiness of Jean’s roasties.

She did have something to look forward to, though, Katie reminded herself. She had agreed to partner Eddie to a dance on New Year’s Eve, and a little to her own surprise she was rather excited about that. She didn’t love Eddie. There was certainly nothing of the sometimes frightening intensity in her affection for him that there had been in those feelings she had had for Luke. She did like him, though, and she knew that the evening would be fun, filled with laughter, and perhaps even a few shared but non-serious kisses of the kind that New Year’s Eve encouraged.

It had been a relatively easy flight from the maintenance unit where she had picked up the Spitfire, to the small RAF base just outside Newcastle – a single delivery rather than one of several shared with other pilots, all of them flying carefully under the cloud cover as they made their way to their destination. Nothing had been said at the maintenance unit, but it didn’t take much to work out that the plane must be a replacement for one lost or damaged in action. Lou hoped that its pilot had made it. They’d been discussing the current on-going bombing raids over Germany at the maintenance unit and commenting on how many planes – and their crews – were being lost. Lou had thought automatically of Kieran, and had then made herself stop thinking about him as her
continuing guilt over her behaviour in London took hold of her. Up ahead of her she could see the airfield. Beginning her descent, she headed for the airstrip.

Christmas in Newcastle wasn’t at all what she had been expecting, Sasha acknowledged unhappily. She had tried to fit in and enjoy herself but the truth was that she missed her own family and their traditions, and somehow the fact that it was Christmas only underlined that feeling.

Bobby’s mum had made her welcome enough last night, Christmas Eve, when they had arrived late after a cold stop-start journey on a packed train, greeting Sasha with a jolly, ‘Why aye, Bobby lad, she’s a bonny lass.’ But adding to Sasha herself, ‘But you’re a bit on the thin side, pet.’