A Fragile Peace

by A Fragile Peace (retail) (epub)

  ‘What!’ Libby raised scandalized hands. ‘Never seen it? Where have you been? Allie, tell the man…’

  Allie, grinning and off her guard, fell straight into the trap. ‘It’s no good looking at me. I haven’t seen it either.’ Too late she stopped, eyeing her sister in sudden suspicion.

  Libby, a small, artful smile on her pretty face, folded her hands in her lap and looked with wide blue eyes from one to the other.

  Peter’s hazel eyes crinkled. ‘Would you like to see it?’ he asked Allie.

  ‘Well, I – oh, no – I mean yes, of course, I would but – oh, honestly, Libby, you’re the living limit! Fancy—’

  Peter interrupted her. ‘No, please, I mean it. Would you?’

  ‘I – yes, as a matter of fact I would.’

  ‘That’s settled then. I’ll get the tickets, and perhaps we could dine afterwards?’

  Libby smiled a beatifically self-satisfied smile, ignoring the swift scowl her sister sent in her direction. ‘There. Isn’t that nice? Now, come along children. Supper’s getting cold.’

  As they stood in the hall later, donning their coats and hats and saying their goodbyes – Peter was going home to Kent and had offered Allie a lift to Ashdown – Allie, in picking up her gloves from the white, glass-topped hall table, knocked a buff-coloured booklet to the floor. She picked it up and frowned at it, distaste clear on her face.

  ‘You got one too.’

  ‘Didn’t everyone?’ Libby flipped it from her fingers and tossed it back onto the table. ‘What a load of tommyrot. I have no interest whatsoever in protecting my home from non-existent air raids. Damn ’em.’ She shrugged. ‘If Adolf comes, he comes. I’m not making up bloody sandbags for anyone. Just think what it would do to my fingernails!’

  Allie laughed, then, on the landing outside the door, paused. ‘Oh, that reminds me though. Mother sent a message. She’s ordered some heavy black sateen from Mr Eldan, the draper. She said to tell you that she’d got enough for you too. She was sure you wouldn’t think of it.’

  Libby looked at her in comic and deliberate incomprehension. ‘My dear, I wouldn’t be seen dead in black sateen.’ ‘Don’t be an idiot! Blackout curtains! Just in case, Mother says.’ Allie started down the wide marble staircase that led to the handsome lobby. Peter followed.

  Libby hung over the polished wooden banisters above them, her laughter echoing up the elegant stairwell. ‘I’ll get them lined in rose pink at Harrods! Black would play hell with my decor!’

  In Peter’s car, Allie brought up the subject of what she saw as her sister’s none-too-subtle blackmail.

  ‘You really don’t have to take me to the theatre, you know. I shall quite understand. It was outrageous of Libby – she really can be a pain sometimes.’

  ‘I think she’s charming. I like her a lot. And very much want to take you to the theatre, if you’d like to come. It’s terribly remiss of us both not to have seen something that every other inhabitant of the south of England seems to have seen at least twice!’

  She laughed. ‘All right then, if you put it like that. Thank you. I’d love to.’

  ‘That’s settled, then. Oh, and there was something else I thought might be fun…’ The car swung around Piccadilly Circus with its multicoloured display of lit and moving advertisements.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Do I remember your saying that you ride? I was wondering if we might take a couple of hacks on Sunday and you could show me some of the local countryside before the weather closes in on us for the winter?’

  Allie shifted a little uncomfortably. He glanced at her in the lurid light, his eyebrows raised.

  She hesitated, absurdly tempted to lie, then said in a rush: ‘Actually, I’m not very good at horses. Not very British of me, I know, but there you are. I never was very keen, and then a few years back I fell off and I’ve been terrified of the brutes ever since. My only personalized method of transport is a bicycle. It may be slow, and not look so good, but at least it can’t kick you.’

  His shout of laughter surprised her into a smile. ‘But what a perfectly splendid idea!’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Bicycles! If you’re game, that is? We could take a picnic. My God, I haven’t been out for the day on a bike for years! What do you think?’

  She was infected by his enthusiasm. ‘Wonderful. Have you got a bike?’

  ‘I should say so. Buried somewhere or other. Dad’ll know where. You?’

  ‘Of course. It used to be Libby’s. She gave it to me for my thirteenth birthday. I used to polish it religiously every Saturday morning. It’s a BSA with a big basket on the front.’

  ‘Splendid! And mine’s got a saddlebag, so we can certainly carry a picnic between us. Lemonade and hard-boiled eggs.’ He grinned across at her like a boy. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘Leave out the hard-boiled eggs and you’re on. If the weather’s good enough, we could go down to the Medway – picnic by the river. Richard and I often used to go there when we were children. It isn’t very far.’

  ‘You’ve got a date.’

  The car chugged across London Bridge, the Thames flowing far below, darkly silent, the lights of London glimmering in ribbons along the river’s banks. Five minutes later, driving through the featureless suburbs, Allie was asleep, a faint, happy smile on her lips.

  * * *

  Sunday morning was cool and bright. Great banks of cotton-wool cloud piled in the blue sky, gilded and fired by the rays of the south-slanting autumn sun. The reds and golds of the woodlands burned in the clear air as Allie and Peter rode their old bicycles at an easy pace down almost deserted, leaf-carpeted lanes. Allie, dressed comfortably in an old white shirt-blouse and a washed-out blue cotton skirt, her brown legs bare, her white tennis socks and plimsoles already scuffed with oil from the freshly lubricated chain of the BSA, directed the expedition, the experience of a long childhood in the area fitting her for her role as guide.

  They rode down narrow lanes and unpaved farm tracks, missing the main roads wherever possible. Peter sang silly songs, recalled from his days as a Boy Scout and swung his feet up onto the handlebars, showing off and nearly making Allie fall from her machine with laughter. Before long, the woodlands gave way to rolling farmland. Red and russet apples still clustered upon sturdy orchard trees that marched in line across short, lush green grass that was sometimes grazed by docile sheep. The hop gardens were deserted now, the empty wires singing in the wind, the cheerful, noisy pickers gone back to their city streets for another year. The stripped bines were coiled in clumps at the foot of the poles, the ridged and furrowed soil trampled almost flat. Allie found a bine run wild in a hedge among the bright autumn berries and old man’s beard. She picked a green, flaky hop and crushed it in her fingers, the sulphurous yellow pollen blackening her skin.

  ‘Smell.’ She held out her hand to Peter.

  He steadied himself with one foot on the road and obediently sniffed. ‘It’s very distinctive.’

  ‘It’s one of my favourite smells in the world. Whenever we could, Richard and I used to sneak off and come to the hop gardens when the pickers were here. We used to pick sometimes with a gypsy family over Wateringbury way. Mother nearly had a fit when she found out.’

  ‘I’ll bet she did!’

  They coasted downhill, laughing, to the closed level-crossing gates at the bottom, where they waited for the passing of the small local steam train on the single track railway that served the valley. Beyond, two fields away, the river Medway ran between green, tree-shaded banks, sparkling in the sunlight. Allie waved as the little train passed and a group of children in the end carriage waved enthusiastically back. She turned to find Peter watching her, smiling. She pulled a self-deprecating face: ‘I never can resist waving to trains.’

  The level-crossing gates were cranked squeakily open: they bumped across the railway lines and onto the road. Allie lifted a hand and pointed. ‘There – do you see the bridge? It’s lovely – medieval, I think, use
d by packhorses hundreds of years ago. There’s a footpath on the other side that follows the river for – oh, miles. There’s a gate we can get the bikes through. I thought we’d picnic up there, do you see? Where the little hill slopes down to the river. You can see for miles from up there. Richard and I used to come here a lot.’

  They rode to the bridge, exchanging greetings with an elderly man who was walking his dog, and watched for a moment a group of small children who were throwing twigs into the water on one side of the bridge then rushing, shrieking, to the other side to watch them as they sailed slowly from the darkness out into the sunlit stream.

  ‘Poohsticks,’ said Peter, smiling, and Allie laughed delightedly.

  ‘Fancy your knowing that.’

  ‘I may have been a city boy, but I’ll have you know I had a very good taste in literature.’

  They wheeled the bikes through the gate and set off, pushing the machines, along the river. The sun was high now and very hot. Allie, her mouth dry, thought with happy anticipation of Mrs Welsh’s home-made lemonade that she carried in her basket. They had walked for perhaps a mile when she stopped, pointing.

  ‘There. That’s the place, up there under the big oak tree. We can leave the bikes here. Beat you up there—’ She grabbed the bag that rested in the basket and let her bicycle drop onto the grass, where it lay, back wheel spinning. Without waiting for Peter, she set off, scrambling, up the hillside. Brambles scratched her legs, the sun was hot on her face. When she reached the picnic place she set the bag she carried on the ground and then threw herself thankfully onto the cool grass beneath the tree. Utterly relaxed, her heart pumping, her legs throbbing with unaccustomed effort, she lay on her back letting the breeze cool her burning face and dry her sweat-dampened hair. Above her the flame-tinged leaves of the oak tree were a fretwork against a cobalt sky that seemed limitless as eternity. She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, a strangely disproportioned, elongated figure loomed above her; Peter’s skin, like her own, was sun-flushed and bright with the exertion of climbing the hill. He was looking down at her with a small half-smile on his lips.

  ‘You look like a little girl.’

  Suddenly self-conscious, she sat up, pulling her skirt smoothly over her knees. In the tree above them, a blackbird, alarmed by the movement, skittered, chirping a sharp alarm through the branches.

  After they had eaten, they sat looking across the valley and talking in a companionable, desultory fashion, Peter lying on his side, his head propped on his hand, a long piece of feathered grass stuck between his lips, Allie sitting with her knees crooked, her arms resting upon them, her eyes focused on the green, autumn-softened distances. After a while an easy silence fell between them. Far above, a small aeroplane droned, glinting like a silver dragonfly in the sun. The train that had passed them at the level-crossing chuffed its steady way back up the valley, from this height and distance like a toy that journeyed across a patchwork quilt, the steam from its funnel unfurled behind it like a banner in the still air. Endless recollections of this childhood hillside flooded Allie, fragmented impressions of another time – truly, she thought, another life. She saw Richard up this very tree, grinning like the Cheshire cat, saw two small, muddy children down there by the river bank, jam-jars in hand, fishing for tiddlers…

  ‘There’s another.’

  ‘Another what?’ She jumped at Peter’s voice.

  ‘Another plane. Up there. See?’ Peter was shading his eyes. ‘I wonder…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I wonder if they can see us.’

  ‘Lord, I hope not!’ The words were suddenly, absurdly sharp. She watched silently as the small plane dipped and flew from sight behind the hill. Suddenly and from nowhere she heard Richard’s voice, quietly grim, as he spoke of bombings and strafings, and the mischievous, grinning Cheshire cat of her earlier imaginings was overlaid by the recollection of her brother’s face as it had looked when he had come back from Spain – thin, shadowed, indefinably damaged. Her mind flinched from the memory.

  ‘What do you think it will be like if war comes?’ she found herself asking, her softly sombre voice all but lost in the still heat of the afternoon.

  There was a long silence. Peter sat up. ‘Who knows?’ His eyes were thoughtful. ‘We can’t know, can we? If it comes it’ll be like no other war’s ever been, that’s for sure. I suppose, like anything else, we must simply face it if it happens. And pray that it doesn’t.’

  She plucked at the grass by her green-stained plimsole. ‘I suppose so.’

  Something struck her arm, and as she looked up an acorn bounced away into the grass. Peter was grinning at her.

  ‘Come on, sobersides. Cheer up. Hitler isn’t at Dover yet. Any more of that lemonade left?’

  They rested for another hour before starting for home. Allie lay back and closed her eyes, and to her own surprise found herself drifting into the half-dream of a doze. She was wakened by an insect crawling on her face. Sleepily she brushed it away, but immediately it was back. She opened her eyes. Peter waved a long piece of grass at her.

  ‘Time to go, sleepyhead.’

  ‘I didn’t go to sleep.’

  ‘Not much you didn’t.’

  ‘I just had my eyes closed.’

  ‘Ah. I see. And do you always snore when your eyes are closed?’

  ‘I was not—’ She stopped, laughing.

  ‘It’s half past three.’

  She lay quite still for a moment, looking up at him with sleepy eyes. Silhouetted against the sky, his face was dark, his expression indecipherable. For a moment she thought he might be about to kiss her, wondered in an oddly detached way what it would be like if he did. She waited.

  ‘Beat you to the bikes,’ he said and was up and running, galloping down the hill before she had scrambled to her feet.

  They rode home, tired, in the light of a sun that set redly into a bank of heavy cloud. Allie filled her bicycle basket with twigs from the hedgerows, laden with berries and golden leaves. In the smudged shadows of evening, they stopped, side by side, at the entrance to Ashdown’s drive.

  ‘It’s been lovely,’ Allie said.

  ‘Yes, it has. Thank you.’

  They smiled at each other.

  ‘I’ll telephone you, to let you know about the theatre tickets. I’m not sure when, though – we’re pretty busy at the bank at the moment, and the tickets may not be easy to come by.’

  ‘Oh – that’s all right. Whenever you like.’

  “Bye then.’

  ‘Goodbye.’ There was a faint, nebulous feeling of sadness in her as she watched him cheerfully mount the old bike and pedal away into the shadows of the tree-lined lane. This carefree, sunlit day had been, unexpectedly, like a moment stolen back from a happy childhood. Now, with dark clouds piling in the sky, it was over. She doubted there could be many more like it. Sighing, she trudged up the gravel drive, pushing her bicycle.

  * * *

  It was many weeks before she heard from Peter again. At first she was a little disappointed, then philosophical; after all, their day together, while marvellously enjoyable, could hardly have been termed romantic. One evening a couple of weeks before Christmas, when her mother called her to the telephone, the last voice she expected to hear was his.

  ‘Allie? I’ve got them at last. The tickets. Managed to buy them from a friend.’

  It took a moment for his voice to register. ‘The—? Oh – Peter?’

  ‘The very same. Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. There’s been a bit of a crisis at the bank – I’ve been in Holland for the past two or three weeks. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘The tickets are for Friday evening. I know it’s short notice – will it be OK?’

  ‘Friday? Oh, yes – that’ll be lovely.’

  ‘I’ll meet you in the Strand, outside the theatre – say, about six? And I thought perhaps dinner afterwards?’

  ‘Sounds marvellous.’

 
; ‘My thanks for our day in the country.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to—’

  ‘I don’t have to. I want to. See you on Friday. ’Bye.’

  She replaced the receiver and looked up to find her mother’s smiling eyes upon her. ‘Was that Peter Wickham?’

  ‘Yes, it was. He wants to take me to the theatre on Friday night. The Dancing Years. I know it’s the night of the St John’s meeting but—’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll make your apologies.’ Myra’s smile widened. ‘The Ambulance Brigade will just have to find another “casualty” to practise on. What will you wear?’

  ‘Well – I hadn’t thought about it.’

  ‘Your green silk, I think,’ her mother said positively. ‘It’s very becoming.’

  Allie nodded, a small curl of excitement suddenly moving inside her, taking her a little by surprise. The theatre and dinner. And Peter was really very nice. Not Clark Gable or Humphrey Bogart, perhaps, but – nice.

  Had she known it, the very same words were in Myra’s mind as she watched her younger daughter with a fondness that was tinged strongly with relief that the strange, difficult times seemed at last to be over. Her prayers, it appeared, had been answered. Peter Wickham was really an awfully nice young man.

  * * *

  ‘You’ll be at Libby’s and Edward’s Christmas Eve party, won’t you?’ Peter’s small Ford chugged steadily through the night-time streets towards the country.

  Allie, in the passenger seat, her head tilted back and eyes closed, was humming a lovely, lilting waltz tune under her breath. At his question, she turned her head and looked at him, a little sleepily. ‘Yes, I will. I like things that are organized on the spur of the moment. I thought it was a super idea.’

  ‘The spur of the moment?’

  She grinned. ‘Two weeks is the spur of the moment when it comes to my sister and parties, believe me. She usually spends months planning them!’

  He nodded, smiling, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. The headlights flickered on hedges and walls, occasionally firing the feral gleam of a cat’s eyes. Allie studied his profile. ‘Thank you, Peter, for a really lovely evening. I don’t ever remember enjoying myself so much.’ She tilted her head back again, sang softly, ‘“I will give you the starlight…” – oh, wasn’t it all just splendid? So bright, and beautiful, and romantic and – sad.’