A Fragile Peace

by A Fragile Peace (retail) (epub)

  ‘’Undreds of ’em, I ’eard,’ an old lady was saying, with a certain relish, ‘most of ’em women and little ’uns…’

  Allie concentrated firmly upon a poster admonishing her to look for the squanderbug in her purse, a reproof, she felt wryly, that might have had more impact had she a purse to look in. Her old one had finally fallen to pieces a couple of weeks before and she had so far been unable to find a new one to buy. Presumably the squanderbugs had got them all…

  When, wet and tired, she finally reached the flat at Rampton Court, she found Libby dressed for the theatre. The Luftwaffe’s latest spate of raids, roof-high and in small formations to evade the city’s defensive radar screen, and nicknamed ‘scalded cat raids’, had not ruffled London’s theatre-goers but had simply dictated an earlier start.

  ‘How do I look?’ Libby twirled on tiptoe.

  ‘Wonderful.’ Allie paused at the drawing-room door. ‘Isn’t that one of the dresses you had for your honeymoon? It looks different.’

  ‘Well, of course, darling. I cut the sleeves back – so – and took a panel from the overskirt to make the bolero—’ Libby stopped, shrugged light-heartedly at the expression on her sister’s face. ‘Oh, all right – I didn’t actually do it – not with my own fair hands, so to speak – but I had the ideas, and Mavis, bless her heart, did her bit with the old needle and cotton.’ She twirled again, delightedly. ‘Wizard, isn’t it?’

  Allie smiled. ‘If I had your talent for getting other people to work for me, I wouldn’t have half the problems I’ve got. Do you want my job?’

  Libby threw up her hands in a not altogether frivolous pantomime of horror. ‘Good God, no! At least I can order my little devils about and they do as they’re told. Most of the time, anyway. They’re positively petrified of me.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’ Allie divested herself of wet coat and shoes.

  ‘By the way, I’ve borrowed your bag – the gold one – you don’t mind, do you?’

  Allie shook her head, padded into the drawing room. ‘Have a good time.’

  ‘Right – off I go – oh!’ almost at the front door Libby turned. ‘I nearly forgot. Guess who rang this afternoon?’

  Allie waited to be told.

  ‘Tom. Tom Robinson, remember? Haven’t heard from him in an age. He’s been in Wales, or somewhere equally wet and dreary. He’s at a loose end tonight – wanted to know if he could pop over – he’d hoped to go to Richard and Celia, but they’re out of town.’

  Allie stared at her with sinking heart. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Why, I said yes, of course.’

  ‘But, Libby, you aren’t going to be here.’

  ‘Well, I know that, don’t I? But you are – you aren’t doing anything, are you? I won’t be late. You only have to keep him occupied until I get back.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘It’ll be very entertaining. I intend to pin him down and make him tell me all the scandalous things he’s done. Richard’s been telling tales.’

  ‘Libby, I was going to have a bath and go to bed. I’m worn out.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, darling – it’s hardly worth having a bath nowadays, what with a few inches of water and the likelihood you might have to dive for cover. Bloody Jerries. I’d quite got used to the quiet. Look – just look after Tom until I get back, there’s a dear. Oh – and don’t let him drink all my Scotch.’ She flitted to the door.

  ‘Libby!’

  ‘’Bye, darling. See you later.’

  Damn and blast it! Allie stared at the closed door. Damn and bloody blast it; first her cousin George, and now this. Her one quiet, much-anticipated evening to herself ruined. Disgruntled, she stumped into the drawing room, tossed her bag onto a chair, helped herself in righteous wrath to a generous shot of Libby’s Scotch and slumped onto the sofa, swinging her feet up. One high-priced, queued-for stocking was thoroughly laddered. Well, that was about par for today’s course. She sipped the drink, set the glass down on the floor beside her, tilted her tired head back and closed her eyes. Tom Robinson. Of all people. Difficult, contentious, clever Tom Robinson. She had not seen him to talk to for nearly two years. She did not want to see him now. In fact – next to cousin George and Mr Trotsky MacKenzie, she could not think of anyone she wanted to see less. She could not remember a single moment in his company when he had made her feel anything but gauche and ill-at-ease. Well, it wasn’t her arrangement. She had decided two fraught days ago that this evening was to be her own – bath, bed and Tolstoy. And by hook or by crook, that was what she would do, Tom Robinson or no. If he came, he would be welcome to the whole of Libby’s precious store of Scotch. To himself. And by himself.

  She took a long, deep breath, trying to relax, the tension in her neck and along her spine making every movement an effort. She was tired. The world was tired. She closed her eyes.

  She started awake in chill darkness. The fire had died to barely glowing ash, the blackout curtains had not been fixed. She felt terrible: cold, stiff and uncomfortable. Muttering, she swung her feet to the floor and buried her face in her spread hands, squeezing shut her aching eyes. Then she stilled, her attention caught by a noise in the hall. She lifted her head, listening, her heart beating a little faster – surely not Libby home already? She couldn’t have slept that long?

  ‘Anyone home?’ A man’s voice, light, distinctive.

  Tom Robinson evidently had a key.

  ‘In here. Don’t switch the light on yet. The blackout isn’t up.’ Swearing under her breath she stumbled to the window, stubbing her toe on the substantial coffee table. With the heavy curtains drawn, the darkness was like pitch. ‘Do you know where the light switch is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Of course he did. As the dim light clicked on, she blinked, suddenly aware of her dishevelled appearance. Her hair was a bird’s nest, her clothes rumpled.

  Tom, in uniform, stood in the doorway, smiling collectedly.

  ‘I’m sorry, did I startle you? Libby told me she might not be here, so when no one answered the door, I thought I might as well use the key.’ He tossed the key he held onto the coffee table.

  ‘I – I was asleep.’

  He grinned sympathetically. He looked neat and spruce and very wide awake indeed. She felt a mess and her head ached. ‘May I get you something?’

  He hesitated. ‘Well – I’d love a cup of tea, if it’s not too much trouble – but…’

  ‘A cup of tea.’ She made a determined effort to collect her scattered wits. ‘Yes. I think I can just about manage that.’ She padded past him on her stockinged feet, stoically ignoring the amusement in his eyes. In the kitchen she put up the blackout shutter, turned on the light and put the kettle on to boil before glancing in the small mirror which Libby had hung on a cupboard door. God – even in this dim light she looked awful. She ran her fingers through her hair, stuck her tongue out at her reflection.

  From the doorway, Tom cleared his throat politely. ‘May I help?’

  She spun round, red-faced. His expression was grave, his eyes lit with enjoyment. ‘I—’ Surprising herself, she dissolved into sudden laughter. ‘I’m sorry. I feel absolutely awful!’ She rubbed her hand over her eyes, still giggling. ‘Look at the state of me.’

  ‘You look fine to me.’

  She shook her head, her laughter subsiding, suspecting mockery.

  ‘Tell you what—’ He advanced into the kitchen. ‘You go and wake yourself up. I make a fair cup of tea. It’s about the only thing I can do.’

  In her bedroom she pulled off her rumpled skirt and blouse and put on smart slacks and a warm pullover. Running a comb through her hair, she glanced in the mirror. Her face was very pale and there were shadows beneath her eyes. Quickly she reached for powder and rouge, added a touch of lipstick. There. The thought flitted through her mind that Tom might reasonably suppose these efforts to be for his benefit. She shrugged. Perhaps they were. The fact that she did not always like him very much did not entirely counteract a p
erversely feminine desire to impress him. She pulled a face at her reflection. Some hopes.

  Tom was waiting in the drawing room, smoking a cigarette, two strong and steaming cups of tea on the table. He had coaxed the fire to life again and the room was already warmer. The first thing Allie did was almost to kick over the glass of whisky she had left on the floor by the sofa. That was a good start. With as much aplomb as she could muster, she picked it up and put it on the table. Tom – well-mannered – refrained from comment.

  They talked, over their tea, of generalities: of the on-the-whole satisfactory progress of the war, of mutual friends, of Allie’s family. Then, without knowing quite how the change of subject came about, Allie found herself talking about her work and he surprised her by listening attentively, questioning and commenting with every appearance of genuine interest. She paused at last, embarrassed to realize that she had been monopolizing the conversation with her own affairs for quite some time. ‘I’m sorry. You can’t possibly be interested in all this.’

  He shook his head, smiling. ‘Don’t be silly. I’m fascinated. And impressed.’

  More pleased than she cared to admit, she settled herself more comfortably on the sofa, tucking her feet under her. ‘Well, now it’s your turn. What’s your news? Libby said you’d been stationed in Wales?’

  He leaned back. ‘That’s right. Training schoolboys to be fighter pilots.’

  ‘Training?’ She could not quite keep the surprise out of her voice.

  He nodded. ‘Quite. Not exactly my cup of tea. But I’m operational again as from now. I made such a nuisance of myself that they’ve kicked me upstairs and back into action.’

  ‘Kicked you upstairs?’

  ‘Given me a squadron.’ His face was impassive.

  ‘But Tom – that’s marvellous. Congratulations!’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You aren’t pleased?’

  ‘Not exactly. I tried to get out of it, but had it made clear that, if I didn’t behave myself and do as I was told, I didn’t get back into the game. So here I am, Squadron Leader Thomas Robinson. Comic, isn’t it?’

  ‘Comic? That’s an odd word to use.’

  He smiled hunjourlessly. ‘Is it?’

  ‘I think so.’ Illogically a laughing ghost rose suddenly between them. ‘A good squadron leader can mean a lot to his men.’

  He extinguished his cigarette. ‘I said they’d made me a squadron leader,’ he said gently. ‘I didn’t say they’d made me a good one.’

  The silence was undisguisedly awkward. Allie found that she was fiddling with her wedding ring. It took a physical effort to still her hands and fold them quietly in her lap. ‘So,’ she said at last, over-brightly, ‘where are you stationed?’

  His pause was fractional. ‘Biggin Hill.’

  She flinched. ‘And you can’t wait to get back into the fray?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Buzz –’ she cleared her throat ‘– Buzz was the same. I could never understand it. Even at the worst times, a day or two away and he was pining.’ Silence settled around them. She gazed unhappily into the fire, then lifted her head suddenly and looked at him intently. ‘Tom, what is it? I never knew. What’s up there for you but fear, and possible death? Why haven’t you stayed safely in Wales? Why?’ She knew the questions to be painfully personal, saw it in the flicker of his dark lashes, the set of his mouth. For a moment she thought he would not answer, or would turn from the difficult moment with banter. He stood up and walked to the fireplace, stood for a moment frowning into the flames before he turned to face her.

  ‘What’s up there? Fear, yes. Unimaginable fear. Possible death – that too. But – a kind of exhilaration. The wildest excitement you can imagine. A challenge. The game of death. Freedom.’ He turned back to the fire, his voice low. ‘The wildest excitement that you can imagine,’ he repeated. ‘The plain truth is that I enjoy it. Love it. The risks. The fear, even. The power of life and death – kill or be killed…’ He turned, caught the look on her face before she could disguise it. His expression changed, the lucent eyes suddenly hard and flat as stone. ‘You see what I mean? Hardly the feelings of an officer and a gentleman, would you say?’ He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. ‘But then, we both know, don’t we, that I’m no gentleman, however many shiny buttons they give me, so I guess it’s all right. Don’t worry, Allie, I’m sure Buzz’s motives were far more admirable.’

  She stared at him, shocked by the unnecessary cruelty of that, all her antipathy for the man flooding back. He watched her coolly, the familiar, mocking, shuttered look on his face.

  ‘Little girls shouldn’t ask questions they don’t want answered,’ he said at last, lightly.

  She flushed angrily. ‘And little boys shouldn’t play games that kill people. Whatever the excuse.’ The words were out before thought, harsh with disgust.

  He regarded her expressionlessly for a long moment. ‘I know,’ he said and tossed his cigarette into the fire, reaching for his hat which lay on a chair. ‘Tell Libby I’ll ring next time I’m in town.’

  Taken by surprise, she watched him to the door. ‘Tom. Don’t go.’

  He paused. Turned.

  ‘Libby’ll kill me if you don’t wait.’

  He leaned on the door jamb. ‘Allie, my love, you’ve always had a devastating talent for making a man feel wanted.’

  It came to her then that his gesture had been more for effect than anything else. He had had no intention of leaving. It was a small and dismal victory, but better than nothing. She made a sharp, exasperated gesture. ‘Oh, come and sit down for heaven’s sake. Here –’ she slammed the half-full glass of whisky on the table ‘– have some of that.’

  Dark eyebrows lifted. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  To give herself something to do, she got up and with quick, angry movements poured herself a small drink. Tom, glass in hand, had perched on the arm of a chair and was watching her pensively.

  ‘Why,’ she asked of the silence, ‘do we always finish up damned well fighting?’

  ‘Because you can’t stand me,’ he said readily.

  The words, catching her with a mouthful of whisky, nearly choked her. ‘I—’

  ‘You never could,’ Tom continued placidly. ‘I’ve always lived in hopes, but…’ He shook his head slowly, in mock sadness.

  She regarded him with the open dislike she had been indignantly about to deny. ‘You never take anything seriously, do you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  She leaned forward. ‘Then explain. What makes you think I can’t stand you?’

  He slid with grace from the arm into the chair, the glass clasped before him, his thin fingers laced around it. When he spoke, it was not apparently in direct answer to her words. ‘Do you know what your family used to do to me?’ His voice was pleasantly conversational.

  She looked at him blankly. ‘Do to you?’

  ‘The Jordans – truly – should be pickled in aspic for future generations to study. They have every one of the classic English middle-class defence mechanisms, which come into play the minute an outsider hoves into view. Particularly an outsider that brings with him, perhaps, the faint breath of danger. Of change. Then watch the game begin. The perfect manners. The utter confidence of the godly. The damningly faint interest in anything outside the charmed circle. The conviction of right. The assumption that we all get only what we deserve – oh, a good one that, and worth instilling into others, since it effectively deters them from expecting more. The brick wall between you and anything or anyone who doesn’t quite fit into the mould—’

  ‘That isn’t fair!’

  ‘Of course it isn’t,’ he agreed equably. ‘It’s a gross oversimplification. But have you ever tried to look at yourselves from the outside? I did – because I was very politely never given the opportunity to do anything else. Did it never occur to you that you made me feel totally excluded – an outsider? That you looked down on me not because of who I was
but because of what I was?’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ she said flatly, but somewhere, doubt nibbled.

  ‘It’s been known. But I don’t think so. I’m not suggesting that you did it deliberately. It’s inbred. As automatic as breathing. The right accent, the right name, the right schools…’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Has Richard ever told you how we met?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He found me in his room. Accused me of being a thief.’

  ‘Surely not?’ Allie could not keep the shock from her voice.

  ‘My room was next to his. I’d made a mistake – it was my first day, and one door looked much like another…’

  ‘But it isn’t like Richard to—’

  ‘—jump to such conclusions? Allie, Allie, you aren’t listening. Don’t you see? If my accent had been Winchester or Wellington, the thought wouldn’t have crossed his mind. But there I was: badly dressed, badly spoken and defensive. Of course I must have been a thief.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I laid him out. When he came to, I offered to lay him out again. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’

  She had to laugh. ‘He thinks the world of you.’

  A faint colour rose in Tom’s face. He tilted the glass in his hand, watched the movement of the liquid with apparent absorption.

  ‘You don’t still blame yourself? For – what happened to Richard?’

  He did not reply.

  ‘You mustn’t, you know. It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘You didn’t always think that.’

  It was her turn to colour. ‘It wasn’t your fault that Richard is easily influenced.’

  ‘It was my fault that I influenced him. I’ll say one thing, though: it taught me something.’ He lay back, tilting his head against the back of the chair and closing his eyes. The faint light gleamed on sharp-cut bone.