A Fragile Peace

  ‘But?’

  Celia shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know. There’s something else wrong with Richard, isn’t there? Something – hidden. We all know it. As if – well, as if all the damage that’s been done doesn’t show. Don’t you sense it?’

  ‘No.’ The other girl looked at her sharply, surprised. Allie flushed. ‘Well, yes, I suppose so. But it’s only natural, isn’t it? I think he feels badly about the accident – about it being his own fault, more or less.’

  ‘Didn’t they establish that there was something faulty in the steering of the car?’

  ‘Yes. But he’d been drinking. He still feels it was his fault.’

  ‘Maybe that’s it.’ Celia did not sound convinced. A gust of laughter reached them from the drawing room. Celia stood pensively, her fingernail clicking on the table top. ‘He needs to leave that nursing home.’

  ‘We all know that. How do you make him?’

  ‘The Richard I knew was always ready to rise to a challenge.’

  Allie held her eyes steadily for a moment. ‘The Richard you knew isn’t the Richard in that nursing home,’ she said simply.

  Celia sustained the regard calmly before turning to leave the room. ‘Maybe not. We’ll see.’

  Before she left to go back to Hawkinge that night, Allie, to her discomfort, found herself cornered by the one man she had spent the best part of the evening avoiding: Tom Robinson. He had seated himself beside her on the settee with the air of a man who had no intention of being ignored. ‘I haven’t had a chance to extend my good wishes.’

  ‘Thank you.’ As always, the man produced in her a feeling of uneasy dislike that made her desperately uncomfortable in his presence. ‘I’m sorry you couldn’t make it for the wedding.’

  ‘I couldn’t get away.’ The tiniest flicker of hilarity sparked in his eyes. ‘I also didn’t want to spoil your mother’s day.’

  She could not help smiling at that.

  ‘Have you seen Richard lately?’ he asked.

  ‘A couple of weeks ago. But Celia’s seen him. She was just talking about him. Saying he has to leave that nursing home.’

  ‘She’s right.’

  ‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘Tom, about the – accident. Are you still certain of what you say happened? I mean, they’ve said that the steering on the car was faulty—’

  ‘On my evidence.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said that I’d driven the thing the day before and noticed that there was something wrong with the steering…It fitted in with the accident – no other car involved, and the car itself was too far gone to check.’

  ‘You still think he did it deliberately.’

  He did not reply.

  ‘Has Richard said anything to you? About what happened?’

  ‘No.’ Over his shoulder she could see the girl who had come to the party with Tom glaring at them both. She was a spectacular blonde with dramatic eyes, an even more dramatic body and the sheerest stockings in the room. Libby had cast disbelieving eyes to heaven when first she had seen her. ‘Where does that man find them?’

  ‘I think we’re being watched,’ Allie said. ‘Your friend isn’t happy.’

  He shrugged impatiently, did not even glance in the girl’s direction. ‘He won’t talk to me. Sometimes won’t even see me.’

  She studied his face. She knew his concern, his genuine affection for Richard, yet, she reflected, to look at his disciplined face, at the straight, almost harsh line of his mouth, he might have been talking of something that moved him not at all. And then she remembered that same face on the night of the accident, in the car on the downs above Hawkinge, and her spurt of irritation died.

  ‘You think he guesses that you know what happened? Knows that was why you lied about the steering?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The blonde girl was moving purposefully towards them.

  ‘It really wasn’t your fault, you know.’ Allie had no idea why she said it, wished she hadn’t the moment she saw the look in his eyes. ‘All right. I’m sorry. You don’t need me to tell you that.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You were thinking it.’ The needle-sharp antagonism was there again, unbidden, between them.

  ‘Tom, baby, if you don’t come and dance with me then I swear that I’ll seduce the first man who will. And I’ve had some offers.’

  ‘Wait a minute, Bet.’ His tone was brusque. Allie, embarrassed, did not look at the other girl. Astonishingly, however, she did not seem to take any offence. She was obviously, Allie found herself thinking caustically, used to her escort’s lack of manners. She leaned over him, wound a long, bare arm about his neck.

  ‘No,’ she said, simply.

  He had to laugh. ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘Come and be busier.’

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ Allie said tartly, and was treated to one of those infuriating, amused smiles. ‘I was just going anyway.’

  The girl’s eyes surveyed her, taking in her uniform, their expression all bland and provoking innocence. ‘Oh, I say – I’ll bet you’re one of those clever little things that drives a truck or something, and fiddles around with gaskets and things?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Oh,’ she pouted, playing at disappointment. She looked at Tom. ‘What does she do?’ she asked, as if Allie were not there, and Allie could cheerfully have strangled her.

  ‘A damn sight more than you do.’ Tom slapped her bottom. She caught his hand and tried to pull him to his feet. He gave in.

  ‘OK, OK.’ He turned to Allie. ‘You’ll excuse us?’

  She could not resist it; her eyes travelled slowly from the statuesque Bet to his impassive face. ‘You’ve managed to get over your aversion to dancing then?’

  ‘It took some doing,’ he said soberly, and left her.

  ‘They got the jolly old Bismarck then.’ A young man that she remembered as Geoffrey something had obviously been waiting his moment. He bounced onto the settee beside her.

  ‘What?’ Her eyes were on a bent, dark head, a lifted, lovely face. Oh yes, Tom Robinson had certainly got over his aversion to dancing… ‘Er – oh, yes.’

  ‘Jolly good news, what?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She wrenched her attention to the young man, found herself adding unkindly, ‘Didn’t bring back the jolly old Hood though, did it?’ She had found the celebrations at the sinking of the German battleship oddly distasteful. But then, she thought, revenge could hardly be called a tasteful thing under any circumstances. Geoffrey Something was still talking. Suddenly she could not bring herself even to listen. She wanted Buzz. She wanted Buzz at Ashdown, alone, and peace in which to love him. She wanted no one and nothing but Buzz. And there was more than a week to wait.

  Abruptly she stood up. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’ She had caught him in the middle of a sentence. He gaped. She softened the blow. ‘Duty calls.’

  ‘Ah. Of course.’

  She pushed her way through the crowds to find Edward and Libby to say goodbye. She did not take leave of anyone else. Minutes later, she was in the dark, cool street, strolling slowly towards her rendezvous with the truck that was to carry her back to Hawkinge, her footsteps echoing eerily, her thoughts on a June night and Ashdown and Buzz. She felt the faint, taut, painful swelling of her breasts as they rubbed against her shirt. She was certain now. The time had come. This time she would tell him.

  * * *

  Ashdown, in the long, soft shadows of evening, looked less neglected than she knew it would in the full light of day. She walked up the drive, her footsteps crunching on the gravel, her eyes dazzled by the gleaming, gold sword-strokes of sunshine that cut through the trees as she moved. As she approached the house, disappointment moved in her. The Norton was not there. Buzz had not arrived yet. She smiled to herself ruefully. He’d be late for his own – she stopped the unguarded thought almost before it could form. Bad luck, even to think it.

  She let herself into the house. Dust motes swirled, the su
n lay in silent pools of light upon the scratched and unpolished wooden floor. She went into the kitchen, dumped the carrier bag she had brought with her onto the kitchen table: bread, cheese and a precious bottle of beer for Buzz. She was hoping there might be something fresh and edible in the garden. No use hoping that Buzz would think to bring anything…Her feet ached. She kicked off her shoes, padded from room to room in her stockinged feet, checking the house, drawing back curtains. In her own bedroom, she stood for a long time looking out towards the river. The garden looked like a small-holding. She rubbed the dirty window to clear the haze. The top of the church spire was caught in the last fiery rays of the sunset, its weathercock lit to gold. The sky was a painter’s palette of delicate colour, the pinks and saffrons and golds of a fairytale. She glanced at her watch, and realized with a jolt that it was far later than she had thought. Summer Time she could cope with – Double Summer Time, which added two hours of daylight to an already long day, threw her completely.

  Where was Buzz?

  She tried to ignore the chill stirrings of anxiety. There could be any number of perfectly reasonable explanations. She wandered back down the stairs, stood in the hall looking at the big black telephone. He had never rung her here. He probably did not even know the number. She reached for the receiver, picked it up, put it down again with a clatter that reverberated through the empty house. There could be no point in ringing Biggin Hill now. He must be on his way. He must be.

  In a kitchen that darkened moment by moment as the wash of lovely colour drained from the sky, she prepared the meal, such as it was, and carried it into the conservatory, which had become their favourite place in the old house, her ears all the time alert in the singing silence for the sound of the Norton’s engine.

  Nothing.

  She sat in an armchair by the window in the dust-sheeted drawing room watching the empty drive. She would not believe, could not believe, that anything bad had happened. She would have known if it had. She would.

  In gathering darkness that brought with it the chill of night, she watched. The clock in the church tower struck the hour and the half hour. Eleven. Half past. Twelve.

  He wasn’t coming.

  Of course he was coming.

  Something had happened.

  Nothing could have happened. She would have known. Surely – she would have known?

  She woke, stiff, sore and deadly cold with the dawn and the senseless chatter of the dawn chorus. Leadenly she packed the food back into the carrier bag. He must have sent a message to Hawkinge that had arrived after she left. It would be waiting for her. It might be any number of things – a change of duty, a sudden scramble, even, possibly, being unable to find half a gallon of black-market petrol.

  In the hall she stood for a long time looking at the telephone. Once she reached her hand to it, but pulled it back as if the instrument had been red hot. She trudged out into the early brilliance of a June morning that stung her eyes almost to tears.

  There was, indeed, a message awaiting her at Hawkinge. It was given to her, gently, by a commanding officer who had seen too many such messages.

  Late the previous afternoon, Pilot Officer Albert Webster’s Hurricane had been one of three pounced upon by a formation of Messerschmitts over the Channel not far from Folkestone. One of the British planes had gone down immediately. P/O Webster had claimed an enemy aircraft, sending it into the sea in flames before turning to flee for home. Too late. Caught in a murderous crossfire the Hurricane had been almost shot to pieces. Buzz had tried to control the crippled plane, tried to bring it back, as he had done so often before, to Hawkinge. In doing so he had left it too late to bale out. He had still been at the controls when the little plane had buried itself in the hillside not a mile from the airfield.

  Tearless, Allie stared out of the window at the ranks of small fighters lined up across the grass, and remembered, apparently inconsequentially, the wonderful sunset of the evening before.

  Chapter Twenty

  Allie had never believed of herself that she could resent another’s happiness, let alone a person’s very existence – but in the weeks that followed Buzz’s death, she found herself, in unguarded moments, doing just that. A young man walking in a street, a serviceman standing at a bar or waiting at a bus stop could bring the involuntary thought: why should you be alive, when he is dead? It was not that she could not accept the fact of his death – on the contrary, this she did so immediately that it was as if, all along, she had been prepared for it, which perhaps was the case. Her reaction was sheer, helplessly desolate resentment of a world that could live on without him apparently unchanged while her own existence had, at a stroke, been emptied of meaning. Her pregnancy, strangely, was no consolation. She felt miserably ill for much of the time, suspected from very early on that all was not well and could not bring herself to care very much.

  In July, when she left the WAAF, just a month after Buzz’s death, the German attack on the Soviet Union made Britain realize with relief that at last she was no longer the sole target for the bombers of the Luftwaffe. Allie moved into Ashdown on her own, over her family’s horrified protests. She needed desperately to be alone for a while, to come to terms with her loss in her own way. Unexpectedly, she found an ally in her father, who, though worried at the thought of her being alone, nevertheless understood her need, and it was his persuasion that finally stilled the protests of the others. She thanked him with as much warmth as she could muster, and left for Kent with an overwhelming sense of relief at getting away from the constant, sympathetic attention of friends and family.

  In the warm summer weather she wandered around the transformed gardens, sat on the banks of the river, watched away the hours from the windows of the house. Her only occasional companion was old Browning the gardener, and to him she was grateful for his absorption in his own tasks, which made for little general discussion other than the state of the weather and of the crop and no personal conversation at all. Browning, a veteran of the first war, had his own crusade to conduct, and this he did with a fierce preoccupation that precluded almost everything else. Since Ashdown’s lovely grounds had become a casualty of the war effort, he was determined that the sacrifice should not be in vain. He tended his vegetables as if they were his own personal secret weapon against Hitler – indeed Allie, watching with affection his bent back and dirt-grimed, meticulous old hands, suspected that was exactly how he viewed them.

  She meanwhile, painfully and compulsively, spent her hours with her pathetically small store of memories – sorting, inspecting, hoarding them, protecting them from outsiders as a miser might his gold. She and Buzz had had such a very short time together. Had she tried, she could have numbered their meetings – perhaps a dozen before their marriage, less than that since. Sometimes she could see him, hear him, whole and laughing by her side, as clearly as if he were truly there – at others she was terrified she might lose him, forget the sound of his voice, the turn of his head, the touch of his hand.

  It was Sue Miller, visiting her in the middle of a hot August who realized just how badly Allie was neglecting her own health – and Sue, typically, who decided, willy-nilly, to do something about it. She turned up again a few days later with Rose Jessup in tow. Rose had a small suitcase in her hand and an expression of good-natured determination on her face. She looked at Allie’s thin, colourless face and shook her head, tutting.

  ‘Well, now, my love. What’s this? We can’t have you making yourself ill, you know.’

  ‘I’m all right. Honestly I am.’

  ‘That’s as may be, my dear. But just look at you – when did you last eat a proper meal?’

  Allie shrugged and cast an exasperated look at Sue, who met it blandly unrepentant, unimpressed by the promise of retribution it held.

  ‘A couple of days in bed’s what you need, and someone to make sure you eat. I’ll stay a day or so, and get you on your feet again…’ Rose bustled out of the room and into the kitchen, still talking.

&n
bsp; ‘I’m not off my feet!’ Allie hissed to Sue.

  ‘You will be soon. And so you should be. You look bloody terrible,’ Sue said candidly. ‘Making yourself ill won’t bring Buzz back.’

  Allie turned away. ‘You think I don’t know that?’

  Sue regarded her with bright, sympathetic eyes. ‘Hey – noticed anything?’ she asked, after a moment.

  ‘What?’

  Sue extended her arm. Allie stared and, despite herself, laughed. ‘Good Lord! A corporal? What did you do?’

  ‘God knows. I must be slipping. I’ve been posted, too.’

  ‘Where to?’ Allie was surprised at the sudden sinking of her heart. She had hardly realized how fond she had grown of this flighty, happy-go-lucky girl.

  ‘Hornchurch. Not too far. Don’t worry, girl, you won’t get rid of me that easy.’

  Allie laughed.

  Sue took her hand. ‘Take care, Allie dear. Of yourself and of Junior there.’

  Very gently Allie withdrew her hand, shook her head, said nothing.

  ‘Allie? What is it?’

  The other girl hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. ‘The doctor isn’t very happy with me. He wanted me to go into hospital for a rest and some tests…’

  ‘Wanted? You mean you didn’t go?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But why ever not?’

  ‘I – don’t know really. I just couldn’t bear the thought. All those people. All the fuss.’ She lifted blue, empty eyes. ‘Don’t say anything to anyone, Sue. I haven’t mentioned it.’

  ‘But—’ Sue subsided, watching her worriedly. ‘Don’t you want the baby?’ she asked at last, quietly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Allie said again, painfully and honestly. ‘Truly I don’t know. I don’t understand it myself. I can’t seem to think of it. Believe in it. Perhaps it’s because I didn’t tell Buzz. Because he didn’t know.’ She shrugged, sadly and helplessly. ‘I don’t know. I just can’t seem to care.’

  Sue took her hand again. ‘You’ll feel differently in a month or so. It’s the shock. You’ll get over it.’