A Fragile Peace

  Tom had gone.

  Over the heads of the crowd, Allie saw him making his way purposefully to the door.

  ‘Edward’s out East somewhere I hear.’

  ‘What?’ She dragged her attention back to Charles Philips. ‘Oh, sorry. Yes, I believe he is. Look, I’m sorry – would you mind awfully if…?’

  He grinned knowingly. He had not missed Tom’s rapid escape. ‘Of course. Apologies for the interruption. By all means. See you later.’ He stepped aside and she pushed through the mass of bodies in Tom’s wake to the door. The hall was empty, the bedroom door, open before, was now shut. She turned the handle. Nothing happened. The door was locked. She rattled it.

  ‘Richard? Richard, are you in there?’

  Silence.

  ‘Richard!’ She knocked hard on the wooden panel.

  Still nothing.

  She turned her back to the door and leaned on it, fighting anger. ‘Tom?’ She dared not raise her voice too high. To cause a scene was unthinkable. ‘Will you let me in, please? I want to talk to my brother.’

  In the silence which followed the words, she felt rather than heard the windows of the building rattle again.

  ‘I say,’ said a voice a little uncomfortably, ‘they’re getting a bit close, aren’t they?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, man, they’re miles off. Have another drink…’

  From the bedroom Allie heard the sound of something falling, a sharp cry, the murmur of voices. She thumped the door, hard. ‘Tom Robinson! Let me in before I kick this damned thing in!’

  Moments later she heard the key turn in the lock, and the door swung open. She looked into a pair of pale, unfriendly eyes. ‘By God, girl, you take a lot of telling,’ said Tom, pleasantly. Over his shoulder Allie could see Richard, doubled over Libby’s pretty pink vanity sink, retching miserably.

  Allie hesitated.

  ‘Why don’t you go away like a good little girl and let me get him sobered up for you?’ He stepped back, opened the door a little wider, his face hard. ‘Unless you’d like to do it yourself, of course?’

  Richard coughed chokingly, rested his head on the sink; his face held the pallor of death. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said.

  Allie turned and left them.

  Half an hour later Libby found her in the kitchen, washing glasses. ‘Allie – what on earth do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I thought I’d give a hand clearing up. There’s going to be an awful mess.’

  ‘Well, it’s awfully sweet of you, darling, but, really, there’s no need. You’re supposed to be enjoying yourself. Celia, darling – you tell her.’

  Allie turned. Celia Hinton was standing by the door, watching her. She smiled a little. ‘Hello, Allie.’

  ‘Hello.’ The two girls had not met since Celia’s return from America. Looking at the other girl, Allie was struck by the severity of the lines that marked the thin face.

  ‘Do get her away from that sink, Cele. Shan’t be a mo—’ Libby, in a shimmer of silver and blue, left them.

  The silence was difficult. Very slowly Allie reached for a tea towel and dried her hands, not looking at Celia. The other girl opened her mouth to speak, stopped, shrugged. ‘Allie?’

  Allie shook her head, her eyes on the tea towel.

  ‘You won’t even speak to me?’

  Allie’s tongue seemed to have cleaved to the roof of her mouth.

  Celia sighed. ‘Don’t be so angry, Allie. Don’t be so sad. What happened, happened. I’m sorry. Truly sorry.’

  Allie lifted her eyes. Celia shook her head.

  ‘Oh, no. Not for loving him. I could never be sorry for that. One day you’ll understand that. But I am sorry that you found out, you of all people. That we hurt you so.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  A shadow flickered in Celia’s eyes. She stepped back, her expression chilling. Allie pushed past her, walked blindly back into the drawing room and almost cannoned into the two who stood very close to each other by the door. Libby withdrew the arm that had been around Tom’s waist and smiled, a little too brightly. ‘Ah, there you are. Tom tells me our naughty brother’s almost human again. Shall we go and tell him what we think of him?’

  Allie nodded. With an easy movement Tom slid his arm about Libby’s shoulders, his thin, long-fingered hand dark against the pearl of her bare shoulder. ‘Come on, now. He doesn’t deserve both of you. Dance with me. Let Allie read the riot act to Richard.’

  A flash of pure pleasure crossed Libby’s face. She tilted her head to look up at him, and her swinging hair brushed and clung to the sleeve of his uniform.

  ‘I’d love to.’ She moved close to him, swaying already to the easy tempo of the music, and slid her arms about his neck.

  Allie watched, stone-faced. Very briefly, cool eyes flicked at her. ‘Richard’s still in the bedroom. Be careful. He isn’t as sober as he seems.’

  Richard was sitting on the bed, his damp head in his hands. He looked up, wincing a little, when Allie came in and smiled sheepishly. His sister closed the door softly behind her and leaned on it, watching him.

  ‘Feeling better?’

  He nodded. Flinched again. His words when he spoke were still just a little slurred. ‘Sorry about that. Had a few before we came, and then the whisky…’ He smiled lopsidedly. ‘Do you think Libby makes it in the bath?’

  ‘Probably. It certainly tastes like it.’ She crossed to the bed, sat beside him. He avoided her eyes, ran his hand through the fair hair that was slick and dark with the water that Tom had used on him. ‘How are you? I mean, apart from…’ She gestured, in a general way, towards the sink and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Fine. Just fine.’ He got up and wandered towards the window, stood with his back to her as he fiddled with the blackout curtain. Even in the dim, reddish light of the bedroom and taking into account his present state, Allie thought he looked far from fine. He was very pale, the fine bones of his face – Myra’s bones – were knife-sharp and painful through the thin skin, and there were dark, pouched rings beneath his eyes. He moved the curtain a fraction and peered out. ‘Seems to have quietened down a bit.’

  Through the gap in the curtain Allie could see the pencilled sweep of searchlights. The all-clear had not gone. ‘You’d better close that.’

  He let the curtain drop and turned. ‘Tell you what, Pudding – why don’t we both get out of here? Just you and me? We could go to the Kensington flat. Talk all night. A bit of peace and quiet, just you and me. What do you say? We haven’t seen each other in months.’

  The use of the silly, childish nickname affected her strangely. She stood up, blinking, held out a hand. After only the tiniest hesitation, he took it, and then was hugging her very tight. He was shaking terribly. ‘Let’s have just one more for the road and go.’

  ‘Why wait for another drink? Why not go now, while it’s quiet? The Underground’s only just round the corner.’ She wanted, suddenly and desperately, to get away.

  He put her from him. ‘I need it,’ he said simply.

  She glanced at him in sharp concern.

  He spread placating hands. ‘To settle my stomach.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Come on.’ He caught her hand again. ‘With luck Lib’ll have an extra bottle somewhere. We can take it with us.’

  ‘I doubt she’ll be happy about that.’

  ‘No harm in trying.’ He pulled her towards the door. She allowed him to tow her through it and back into the drawing room. The crowd had thinned a little.

  ‘Richard! Where on earth have you been all night? Come and join us – have a drink…’

  ‘Richard…’Allie tried to tug him away.

  ‘Oh, come on, Pudding. Just a quick one.’ Like magic, a glass had appeared in Richard’s hand. He tossed back its contents. Laughing, a girl refilled it. It went the same way. Grinning, he held out the glass.

  Allie cocked her head. ‘Listen.’ She could see Libby and Tom approaching them, Libby’s hand possessivel
y on the man’s arm. The drone of engines drowned even the sound of the music. The chattering around them died. In the park the ack-ack guns bellowed.

  ‘P’raps we should go down to the shelter?’ asked a girl’s voice, nervously.

  ‘Mightn’t be a bad idea.’

  ‘Why not?’ It was Libby’s voice, pitched a little higher than normal. ‘A shelter party! Might be fun at that. Let’s show the broomstick brigade how to enjoy themselves! The drink’s in the kitchen. Grab a glass and follow your Aunty Libby…’

  The whine and crump of a bomb cut off her words. The windows shook in their frames and the curtains moved.

  ‘Come on…’

  Allie looked around for her brother.

  ‘Where’s Richard?’ asked Tom urgently.

  ‘I don’t know. In the kitchen, I think.’

  ‘Don’t let—’

  ‘Tom, come on!’ Libby dragged at his hand. Her face was bright with colour and very beautiful. Allie found herself caught in the general surge towards the front door. More explosions shook the building. A girl squealed.

  ‘Right, Pudding, off we go.’ Richard had appeared at her side. He was laughing. The colour had returned to his face. In his hand he held a half-full bottle, and he had his greatcoat thrown around his shoulders. She allowed him to hustle her down the stairs in the wake of the others, but as she turned, with them, towards the basement steps, he caught her arm. ‘This way.’ He pulled her in the direction of the outside door.

  ‘Richard, don’t be silly.’

  ‘We’re going home. I told you. Just the two of us. Come on.’ His voice was clear, his words unslurred, yet Allie knew with conviction that he was very drunk indeed.

  She tried to hold him back. ‘Later, Richard, when the raid eases. Let’s go with the others.’

  He shook his head. ‘The station’s only just round the corner,’ he said, his mouth a stubborn line. ‘We’ll be all right down there. We can make a run for it.’

  A couple, giggling, hand in hand, fled past them and clattered towards the basement steps. Allie glanced round. They were alone. ‘Richard—’

  ‘Don’t you want to come? What’s the matter? Scared?’ The old, childish taunt brought her head up sharply. ‘Allie cat, scaredy cat…’ sang Richard softly.

  ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘Sober as a lord and going home to Mother. Coming?’ He made towards the door.

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’ She ran after him as, bottle swinging, he ran lightly down the steps and through the narrow sandbagged gap into the street. The dusty, smoke-laden air hit him harder than he had expected, and he staggered a little before, regaining his balance, he set off at a fast lope down the road. Allie flew after him.

  ‘Richard! Richard, you’re going the wrong way!’

  He did not stop, gave no indication that he had heard her. Willy-nilly she ran by his side down the deserted road, towards the corner. Whistles blew in the next street. A high-pitched whine sang savagely in the air. Ahead of them a four-storeyed building seemed slowly to inflate, its brick walls bulging, glass shattering, before the whole edifice crumbled like a house of cards in a bloom of choking dust. The blast threw Allie backwards like a rag doll, painfully against a wall, knocking the wind from her lungs. The guns in the park pounded deafeningly and shrapnel whined with menace around her head. She found herself on all fours, head hanging, eyes streaming, coughing and choking.

  ‘Richard?’ she managed at last. ‘Richard, are you there? Are you all right?’

  There was no reply. From a few streets away came another explosion. A fire-engine bell clanged. Not far away a gas main had caught; the flames reached, hungry and blue-tinged, to the sky.

  ‘Richard!’

  And then she heard it – a strangled, agonized sobbing, a tearing gasping for breath. Richard was crouched just a few yards from her, hunched on elbows and knees, curled in a ball, rocking back and forth. ‘God! Oh God! Oh God!’

  Panic-stricken, she flew to him. ‘Richard, what is it? Where are you hurt?’ Terrified of what she might see, she tried to straighten him up, to turn his face towards her. Rigidly he resisted her, his muscles locked like stone. Somewhere close, a man’s voice shouted and she heard sharp, running footsteps.

  ‘Richard!’ her voice, even in her own ears, sounded close to hysteria.

  Richard pulled away from her, hunched lower, his voice grating in his throat as in a monotone he whispered the awful litany: ‘God, oh God…’

  ‘Need some help?’

  Allie dazedly looked up. The figure above her wore an RAF uniform. She could not see his face, silhouetted as he was against the dying light of the flares.

  ‘It’s my brother. I think he may be hurt.’

  The stranger bent and slid a strong arm about Richard. ‘He’ll get hurt worse if we don’t get him under cover. Give me a hand. We can get him back down the road a bit – there’s a cellar – I was sheltering there.’ The flares had died, but the beginnings of conflagration lit their way.

  ‘My sister’s flat isn’t far.’

  ‘Everything’s far at the moment, I’m afraid.’ The young voice was amazingly cheerful. ‘I don’t think he’s badly hurt. Take his other arm.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ Richard mumbled.

  ‘So am I. And we’re going to stay that way.’ The young man hitched a shoulder under Richard’s arm. ‘Right-oh. Off we go.’

  Several explosions in quick succession shook the air. Somewhere close, glass shattered. ‘Duck,’ said their rescuer, blithely succinct. Richard was gasping for breath, clinging to the stranger like a drowning man. ‘All right, old man.’ The young voice was gentle. ‘Here we are. Mind the rubbish. That’s the stuff. We’ll be OK here for a bit.’

  Stumbling, Allie followed them into darkness.

  ‘Hold on. There’s a candle here somewhere. Damn thing’s blown out.’ There was a flare of light as a match was struck, flickered for a moment and then burned, bright and steady. The young man turned. ‘Not exactly the Ritz, I’m afraid.’ Allie saw a shock of hair, the quick flash of a friendly smile. Richard had turned away from the light, was leaning against a dirty wall, his shoulders hunched almost to his ears, his spread hands to his face. Allie moved carefully across the littered floor to him. The cellar had obviously been used as a shelter until a bomb had struck and destroyed the house above it. Apart from the candle burning on the shelf there were two rickety chairs and a couple of bunks, their metal webbing rusted. The place smelled horribly of damp and of cats, and the floor was strewn with unrecognizable debris.

  She touched her brother’s shoulder. ‘Richard?’

  He pulled away from her. ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He turned to her a face sheened sickly with sweat and with tears. A small thread of blood smeared his lip. His eyes were anguished, and his trembling uncontrollable. ‘I’m sure.’

  She put a hand to the blood on his mouth. He jerked his head away. ‘Self-inflicted wound.’ The words were brutal with self-disgust. Another series of explosions shook the world outside and he flinched physically from the sound. It was only then that Allie realized that, through it all, he had kept hold of the whisky bottle. Shaking, he unscrewed it, lifted it to his lips, banging it against his teeth. Allie and the stranger watched in silence as he tilted his head and took a long swig from the bottle, the whisky running from his mouth and down the front of his uniform. Wordlessly, as he finished, he offered the bottle to Allie. She shook her head. His face like bone in the candlelight, the caverns of his eyes unfathomable, he extended it in a shaking hand to his rescuer.

  ‘Thanks.’ The word was quiet. The young man, his eyes thoughtfully on Richard, took the bottle and drank briefly. The anti-aircraft guns were pounding again, punctuated by the venomous rattle of machine-gun fire. They all heard clearly an odd, smothered explosion followed by the demented howling whine of a crippled aircraft.

  ‘Sounds as if they got one of the bastards.’ The unknown airma
n wiped the neck of the bottle on his sleeve, took the top from Richard’s nerveless fingers.

  Richard bowed his head and sank to his knees, as if his bones had suddenly ceased to support him, and buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking.

  Allie, beside him on the filthy floor, put a helplessly protective arm about him and looked up to see, in the candlelight, a young, bright face full of sympathy.

  ‘Bomber Command?’ asked the airman. Allie could see the wings of a pilot on his own breast.

  She nodded.

  He moved across the cellar, hunkered down next to her, silently offered her the bottle.

  This time she took it.

  * * *

  Never as long as she lived did Allie forget that strange, nerve-racking night spent in a cellar with Pilot Officer Buzz Webster and a Richard who seemed to have withdrawn from her into some demon-haunted world of his own. Her brother sat on a creaking bunk, rigidly upright, his hands braced on either side of him on the wooden frame, staring into the flickering shadows, silent. Outside their refuge the raiders thundered and the night burned. Allie could sense the immense physical and mental effort that Richard was expending to prevent himself from breaking down again. She herself flinched from the dreadful sounds of destruction; Richard sat as if made from stone, fighting himself.

  Their companion watched them both pensively for a while. Then, after brief introductions, which Richard scarcely acknowledged, suddenly cheerful, he talked about inconsequentials until Richard, with an odd, long breath, lay back on the rusted bunk, closed his eyes and immediately went to sleep. Allie looked worriedly at the other man. He smiled, reassuringly.

  ‘Best thing for him, don’t worry.’ He lifted the dead weight of Richard’s legs, settled them on the bunk. Richard did not move. ‘Too much whisky and too little sleep is Doc Webster’s diagnosis. Something of an epidemic at the moment. It catches the best of us from time to time.’

  ‘I – haven’t thanked you properly. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. Rescuing maidens in distress is a Webster speciality. At least – ’ he smiled engagingly and his eyes were warm ‘ – it could easily become one. Pure selfishness, really. Didn’t fancy spending the night all alone down here. I’ll let you into a secret – ’ he leaned forward confidentially – ‘I’m scared of spiders.’ In the light of the candle, his snub nose and bright eyes could have belonged to a schoolboy engaged in a midnight prank. Allie tried to laugh with him, achieved only a strange sound somewhere between a cough and a sob. Apparently unnoticing, he turned away from her to lean over Richard and turn the collar of his coat up around the bloodless face. Allie groped for a handkerchief and surreptitiously blew her nose, managing in the darkness to dab at her eyes as well. When she spoke again, her voice was close to normal.