A Fragile Peace

by A Fragile Peace (retail) (epub)

  Celia laughed, very softly, painfully compassionate. ‘I’d better go.’

  For a rebellious moment, Allie was ready to leave it at that. She had done her bit, had had her say, mended her fences. Why should she go further? She was happy; at last, she was truly happy again. Why poison that with another’s pain? With Celia Hinton’s pain above all?

  ‘Stanton,’ she said.

  ‘Stanton.’ The name hung in the air like a weary imprecation. ‘Poor bloody, benighted Stanton.’

  ‘How can you do it?’ After my father. The thought took Allie by surprise. She did not voice it.

  Celia shrugged. ‘It’s easy enough, once you start.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound much like love.’

  Celia laughed a little, not unkindly. Allie’s in love. She knows all about it. ‘What does?’ she asked.

  After a small silence, Allie asked, ‘Do you? Love her, I mean.’ The words came out awkwardly, as if even to voice the conception was difficult.

  ‘In a way, yes. Though not as she would have me love her. Not as she loves me. I sometimes think she hates everyone but me.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I? I hate no one. I gave that up a long time ago. But then – I’m not sure that I can truly love anyone, either. I can’t seem to give the things they need me to give, to take the things they need to give me.’ She stood up, just a trifle unsteadily, picked up her cap and, without looking in the mirror, clapped it onto the back of her head at its familiar jaunty angle. ‘Goodness, little Allie, you still have that unenviable facility for making people talk to you, don’t you? I really must go. If you honestly don’t mind my coming, then I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she grimaced, half-laughing, ‘minus Stanton, don’t worry – though she’ll play hell for a week.’ She leaned quickly to Allie, kissed her cheek lightly. ‘Thank you. Oh – I almost forgot.’ Turning towards the door, she stopped suddenly, fumbling with the catch of her leather bag. ‘I had a little something of my own I was going to leave.’ She held up a tiny package wrapped in fine and obviously much-used tissue paper. ‘A totally useless present. The best kind, I always think. Don’t open it until I’m gone.’

  Allie went with her to the door, paused with her hand on the doorhandle. ‘Celia? What will you do?’

  ‘About Stanton? Or about myself?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Wait for a sign from heaven.’ She lifted her hands, palms upward, in a comic gesture of supplication. ‘And that’s likely to be a long time coming, wouldn’t you say? ’Bye.’ With a lifted hand and no backward glance, she ran down the stairs, her footsteps echoing sharply long after she herself had disappeared from sight. Allie shut the door and listened for a moment before going back into the sitting room and, sitting on the rug in front of the almost dead fire, opening the little package that Celia had given her. It contained, with no message, a tiny and obviously expensive bottle of French perfume – a hoarded, pre-war treasure. Allie was still holding it tightly in her hand, fast asleep, her head resting on the sofa, when her mother returned an hour later.

  * * *

  Buzz, who as far as Allie could tell, had never managed to arrive anywhere on time in his life, was indeed, and predictably, late for the wedding, but on this occasion he had good reason, since he had been in the air over the English Channel just ninety minutes before. He arrived at the church on the Norton with his best man riding pillion to find Allie, in uniform, a small bouquet of precious fresh flowers in her hand, waiting beneath coldly leaden skies on the steps of the church with her father. He bounded up the steps, shook hands with Robert, kissed Allie. ‘I was afraid you might have started without me.’

  ‘We thought about it.’ In the darkness of the church porch, Allie saw her sister signalling wildly, heard the thunder of the great church organ. ‘Here.’ She broke off a flower head from her bouquet and tucked it into his jacket. ‘In you go. You’re supposed to be waiting for me, remember?’ As he turned, laughing, to leave her, she caught his hand suddenly, drew him back to her, looking into his face, seeing for the first time its pallor, the dark rings of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. ‘Have you been up all night?’

  ‘More or less. Jerry must have heard the wedding of the year was on. I told you not to announce it in the Tatler. He wanted to invite himself. Took some dissuading.’ He looked exhausted. ‘There’s one or two won’t be trying again,’ he added. And Allie, seeing the look in his eyes, heard clearly the unspoken corollary: and one or two faces that would be missing from the mess when he got back to Biggin Hill tomorrow…

  ‘Come on, Buzz, they’re waiting.’ The young man who was to act as best man – and who, Allie saw, looked no less tired than the groom – grabbed Buzz’s arm and dragged him up the steps to the huge church door. Allie watched as both young men paused, taking off their hats, smoothing their hair – in Buzz’s case totally ineffectually – tugging down their jackets before they strode into the chill gloom of the building. When she turned, she found her father’s eyes on her, full of sympathy.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked briskly.

  The service in the darkened church, with its boarded-up windows and its candles flickering smokily in the cold draughts, was brief, and most of the congregation, while lending one earnest ear to the proceedings, nevertheless prudently kept the other pricked for the sound of the warning sirens. However, as an unusually solemn Buzz kissed his new wife and escorted her from the church, peace still held. Allie fingered the ring that Buzz had slipped on her finger and breathed a small, superstitious prayer of thanks: it was considered the worst of bad luck for the alert to sound during a wedding. Outside, the rain that had threatened all morning had finally begun to drift in a grey mist through the dark canyons of the buildings. In a dream Allie acknowledged kisses and congratulations. A good many of their guests had snatched the time to be there and had to leave immediately, amidst a flurry of swift goodbyes and good wishes. Those that remained stood in the sheltering doorway of the church in the lull left by the hasty leave-taking.

  ‘Wait.’ Libby dodged inside the porch, reappeared triumphantly with an enormous golfing umbrella. ‘There. I just prayed that it would rain…’ The umbrella had been decorated with streamers and tinsel that Allie recognized from Christmases long past. Allie’s and Buzz’s names had been painted on it in white within an enormous silver heart, beneath which were the initials RAF surmounted by a pair of creditable if inexpertly executed wings. The happy, unexpected gesture broke the slight restraint – in wild good humour the party streamed into the wet street. Beneath the splendid umbrella, to roars of approval, Buzz kissed Allie till her breath was gone. When she finally managed to extricate herself, Allie, scarlet-faced, tossed her bouquet in the air so awkwardly that the only person anywhere near it was the best man. He caught it with aplomb, bowed to the applause and instantly proposed to Sue – whom, so far as Allie knew, he had met just five minutes before.

  Sue grinned. ‘I’d have thought you were living dangerously enough already without adding to the risk?’

  Back at the Jordans’ flat, they found that, apparently miraculously, what had looked like a rather scanty spread had turned into something close to a feast. Everyone, it seemed, had brought something to contribute. Tiny fancy cakes, squares of chocolate, tins of spam, dried egg sandwiches and – wonder of wonders – a whole cold roast chicken.

  ‘Where on earth did that come from?’

  Myra surveyed her newly married daughter, poker-faced. ‘Don’t ask, my dear. I’m discovering that I can be quite as devious as the next one if the occasion arises. And don’t share it either—’ Deftly she removed the bird from public view and tucked it into a cupboard. ‘Save it for the two of you after we’ve gone.’ The brief, twenty-four-hour honeymoon was to be spent here, at her parents’ flat while they stayed with Libby at Rampton Court. ‘Now, where’s your father and that corkscrew? Some magician has produced another couple of bottles of wine…’

  ‘Allie, darling…’ Libby, as always at her best in a cro
wd, danced to her sister’s side, ‘come and open the presents. Buzz!’ she added, calling across the room. ‘Be a dear – put a record on? Let’s dance.’

  The small pile of presents had been stacked on the table next to the splendid-looking, camouflaged wedding cake. They had all been wrapped with a care that was touching: most in gaily coloured paper that had obviously served its purpose several times since the outbreak of war, two in wallpaper, one in painted newspaper. The presents themselves ranged from the thoughtful and practical to the ridiculous.

  ‘A whole jar of jam! And cups, you lucky thing!’ Libby gave a small shriek. ‘Celia! Come and see – my sister’s rich!’

  She broke off, giggling, holding up a remarkably ugly plaster poodle. ‘My God! Whose attic did you come out of?’

  Celia, in uniform like most of the guests, joined them, smiling, but before she could speak, Buzz, surrounded by several friends, swooped on them. Above the sound of voices and laughter, a dance band played, smooth and swinging. Libby’s clear voice rose: ‘Ev’ry kiss, ev’ry hug seems to act just like a drug…’ The three girls found themselves steered to the centre of the large room, and while several young men squabbled good-naturedly over who should first dance with the other two, Buzz, very firmly, claimed his new wife for himself.

  …You’re getting to be a habit with me…

  ‘Happy?’ he asked.

  ‘Very. You?’

  He shook his head, grinned. ‘What have I got to be happy about?’

  She kissed him.

  ‘Break it up, you two. You’ve got the rest of your lives for all that. It’s my turn to dance with the bride…’ Allie found herself whirled away in first one pair of arms and then another. She caught sight of Libby, dancing with Buzz, head thrown back in that characteristic way, laughing. Her father was, slightly bemusedly, trying to keep up with a wildly Charlestoning Sue. He caught his daughter’s eye, rolled his own wryly to heaven. Allie wondered, fleetingly, if Celia had told him of their conversation of the night before. Outside, the rain still drifted from grey skies; inside, as if there were no shadows and no threats, the hilarity heightened. There was a pause for refreshment and for not very serious speechmaking; the spam and dried egg sandwiches disappeared, the cardboard cake cover – a towering, beautifully modelled replica of a wedding cake that any bride might dream of – was with great ceremony removed to reveal a small sponge cake with a ‘V for Victory’ sign picked out inexpertly in melted chocolate. Amidst cheers, Allie cut it. The health of the bride and groom was drunk in welfare orange juice spiced with Sir Brian’s champagne, then on went the records again, up went the volume and Libby and the best man took charge of the games. Allie, standing by the door watching a scrambling and slightly dangerous game of musical chairs, found herself thinking back to the gatherings of young people at Ashdown before the war. The bittersweet recollection brought Richard to mind, not for the first time that day, and she nibbled her lip. Her brother still showed no signs of improvement. Then, inconsequentially, the thought of him brought to mind another absentee, and she found herself trying not to admit to an uncharitable relief that Tom Robinson, whom she had invited from sheer politeness, had equally politely excused himself from the festivities.

  ‘Allie?’

  She turned to find her father standing beside her.

  ‘Could you spare me a moment?’

  She had half-expected it. Nodding, she followed him into the empty kitchen. He faced her, seriously. There was a long moment’s silence.

  ‘Celia told me you spoke to her last night,’ he said softly at last.

  Allie nodded.

  ‘She told me what you said.’

  Allie hesitated, then she said simply, ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘You meant it? You understand now – about…’ he paused, ‘about what happened?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was not quite enough, and they both knew it. Silence lengthened. Then her father held out his hand. She took it. The gesture, small as it was, did more than any words to break the tension between them. Robert smiled. ‘Allie—’

  The door to the drawing room had burst open and there was a babble of voices and laughter in the hall.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Allie said quietly, under cover of the noise, ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘So here you are! Come on – we’re having a knobbly knee contest, and Libby says you must judge it. They won’t start without you. Excuse us, sir,’ added the young man who had caught hold of Allie’s hand. ‘Important business to attend to.’

  Robert laughed. ‘Go ahead. Don’t mind me.’

  Allie hung back for a moment before allowing herself to be towed from the kitchen, a moment that was long enough to read the relief and happiness in her father’s face, and to know that it matched her own.

  An hour or so later, the guests, called by their various duties and aware that, in the circumstances, time alone together was the most precious gift of all to the young couple, began to leave. An hour after that the last goodbyes had been said and only the Jordan family remained.

  Myra, in the kitchen, was stacking away the washed-up plates and glasses, while Libby patted cushions and straightened furniture. Allie stood with her father, alone for a moment, in the hall. Wordlessly he took both her hands in his, and in silence she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, affectionately and naturally for the first time in years.

  ‘Come along then, my dears.’ Myra swept into the hall, with Libby behind her. ‘Let’s leave the young people to themselves.’ She hugged Allie, kissed her cheek. ‘I do wish you every happiness, my darling. Take care of that young man in there. He may not admit it, but he’s dead on his feet. Robert? Are you ready?’

  ‘I’m ready.’ Robert kissed his daughter, held her tightly to him for a moment.

  ‘Toodle pip, love. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ Winking, Libby followed her parents through the door and slammed it resoundingly behind her. Allie heard her laughter, dying into the quiet.

  She went back into the sitting room. Buzz was sprawled on the sofa, his jacket and tie off, shirt collar open, his head tilted back against the cushions, his eyes shut. Myra was right; he looked dead on his feet. She stood quietly for a moment, watching him, until, sensing her presence, his eyes snapped open and, with a swift, easy movement, he sat up, holding out a hand to her. Smiling, she moved to him and sat down beside him, allowed him to draw her to him as he lay back again, her head tucked onto his shoulder, his arm about her. They lay so, peacefully, for a long moment, unmoving.

  ‘It’s a pity Richard couldn’t make it.’

  She shifted a little against him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s still at that nursing home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bloody shame.’

  She said nothing. He rubbed his cheek softly against her hair. She took his hand. It was small-boned, and calloused across the palm; his nails were neat and short. She traced the strong line around the base of his thumb with a gentle finger. ‘Did anyone ever tell you that you have a perfect life-line?’

  He laughed, softly, sleepily. ‘A fortune-teller yet?’

  She shook her head against him, curled his fingers back over the palm of his hand. Outside, the rain drifted in a grey curtain to the windows, quiet and cold. Myra, fuel shortages notwithstanding, had built up the fire before she had left. Flames licked now through the tamped coal dust and warm, bright shadows danced in the dark afternoon. Buzz’s breathing was even and gentle.

  ‘There’s chicken,’ she said, ‘and champagne.’

  He did not reply.

  Very carefully she lifted her head. The hand she had been holding slid, still curled like a child’s, from her lap. Buzz’s head had drooped sideways, his eyes were closed, long fair lashes sweeping cheeks that seemed to Allie to be thinner than when she had first known him. New, too, was the permanent, faint furrow between his brows. She moved gently away from him. He did not move. His sleep was the sleep of exhaustion. A pulse beat regularly in the white,
fine skin of his throat where his shirt collar lay open. He looked incredibly – appallingly – young.

  She watched him for a long time as the afternoon slipped towards evening, taking with it their precious hours. When at last he stirred and mumbled something, the March dusk was closing in. The rain had stopped and the skies were lighter — a bad sign for London, Allie knew.

  Buzz’s eyelids lifted a little, then flicked wide open as he started awake. She saw the hand that reached automatically for flying jacket and helmet, saw too the physical effort he made to prevent himself from leaping to his feet.

  ‘Good Lord! I must have dropped off…’

  She nodded, smiling a little.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Fivish.’

  ‘Five? Lord, girl, why didn’t you wake me?’

  ‘You needed to sleep.’ Allie stood up and walked to the window, began to fix up her mother’s plywood blackout shutters. ‘It’s stopped raining and the clouds are much higher. I hope there isn’t going to be a raid.’ She felt his eyes upon her, felt too the sudden irregular beating of her heart. She fumbled with the wooden catch.

  ‘Allie—’

  ‘Damn the thing. How does it work?’

  ‘Allie.’

  The catch slid into place. She stood quite still for a moment, her back to him. When she turned in the darkness, he had stood up, his figure limned like a stranger’s in the flickering firelight. She stood, rooted to the spot. Panic beat in her veins. In God’s name, what had she done? The recollected misery of those awful struggles with Ray Cheshire froze her where she stood.

  He came to her, lifted her chin with his finger, kissed her. After a moment she relaxed, tentatively lifted her hand to his hair. It was thick and springy beneath her fingers, full of life. This was no stranger. This was Buzz. Her Buzz. And she loved him. He drew her to the rug in front of the fire, pulled cushions from the sofa for her head. His hands were hard and urgent now, and her own no less so. She helped him with her clothes, baring her body to him in the firelight, to his mouth, to his small, strong fingers. And discovered at last what the act of love could mean when its root was love and its flower mutual need, mutual pleasure.