A Fragile Peace

by A Fragile Peace (retail) (epub)

  She tinkered with her spoon, not looking at him, not knowing how seriously to take the subject. The moment stretched, awkwardly, in silence.

  He leaned across the table, half-laughing, but his eyes were wary. ‘Don’t look so miserable. It’s only an idea.’

  She lifted her head and smiled brightly. ‘Of course.’

  Watching her, his expression changed, warmed. ‘Allie? I don’t suppose…’ He hesitated. ‘There isn’t somewhere we could go? Now? Before we go back to Kensington?’

  She had known it was coming. Tomorrow he would leave and God only knew when she might see him again. But she knew without doubt that if she went with him, made love with him, naked, he would see the changes in her body and would know. She could not bear the thought. She shook her head. ‘Tom, I’m sorry. It’s – the wrong weekend. For me…’ She found it easy to blush and hang her head. ‘You – you understand what I mean?’ She hated herself. Hated herself.

  He looked at her blankly for a moment, then understanding crept into his face. Laughing despite himself, he grimaced. ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. It isn’t your fault.’ He almost managed to mask his disappointment. ‘Serves me right for surprising you.’ He took her hand in his, kissed her fingertips, his tired eyes laughing. ‘I’m not sure I could find the energy anyway!’

  She wanted very much to cry.

  * * *

  Tom left Allie next day at the door of the flat, neither of them caring for the thought of goodbyes in public places. After a long, final kiss he picked up his small suitcase. ‘In you go now. No point in hanging around. I’ll write when I get back over there.’

  She nodded, stepped back and half-closed the door, watching him as he walked with his light, quick step to the stairs. With his hand on the banisters, he turned. ‘Allie?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’ll be here? When I get back?’

  ‘Here, or somewhere. You’ll know.’ Tear-blinded, she smiled and lifted a hand. When he had gone, she leaned a tired head against the door jamb. The bloody war! The bloody, bloody war!

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was obviously impossible to keep Allie’s secret from the world for ever. She was, however – perhaps naïvely – absolutely unprepared for the storm that broke when, in December, while trying to cope with the disruption caused by one of the worst flu epidemics in years, she had an unheralded visit from George Jordan in the small office next to her father’s that she used as a base while in London.

  ‘George? What brings you here? Trouble?’

  Very precisely George laid his gloves and hat upon her desk, leaned his rolled umbrella against a chair. Something in his expression, hovering between embarrassment and determination, rang warning bells in Allie’s mind.

  ‘Won’t you sit down?’

  ‘Er – no, thank you. I can’t stay. I’m on my way to a meeting. It’s just that I felt – that is…’ Uncharacteristically ill at ease, he paused, cleared his throat. ‘The fact is, Allie, that I’m afraid that the most – unsavoury rumour concerning you has reached my ears. It’s nonsense, of course, and I regret dignifying such abusive gossip by taking it seriously, but I feel strongly that it is my duty to – that is – in the interests of yourself and of the company to stop such scurrilous talk at once…’

  ‘Oh?’ Not by the faintest tremor did Allie’s voice betray the fact that her heart appeared to have stopped beating entirely.

  ‘It’s – hrrm.’ He coughed again, clearly discomfited. ‘I’m afraid that it’s a rather – delicate matter for me to broach…’

  ‘Broach it, George.’ He frowned at her brusqueness. Allie was beyond caring. She did not know – probably would never know – who had guessed. But this, undoubtedly, was it. ‘Well?’

  ‘Allie, I have heard it rumoured – that is…He coloured, then rushed on very fast, his voice clipped. ‘Allie, I should simply like your assurance that you are not – pregnant.’ The last word brought his clean-shaven face to the hue of a beetroot.

  She regarded him in silence for a long time. ‘I’m afraid I can’t give you that assurance.’

  She might have hit him. For a moment she thought he might actually choke. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Believe it.’ Her voice was crisp. ‘It’s true. The baby’s due at the end of March. A second cousin for you, George. Won’t that be nice?’ She knew her savage flippancy to be unnecessarily provocative but, in sheer self-defence, could not suppress it.

  The man’s eyes hardened. To his credit, his self-control held. ‘I see.’ His voice was acid. ‘Well, well.’

  She said nothing. In frigid silence he picked up his gloves and hat. ‘You’ll resign immediately, of course.’

  ‘I hadn’t planned to leave for another couple of months, as a matter of fact.’ She kept her voice cool and businesslike.

  ‘No.’ The word was icy. ‘Oh, no. You go now. Immediately. It’s bad enough that you should disgrace the family. I’ll not have your – alley-cat morals tainting the reputation of Jordan Industries. You will resign now, Allie, or believe me I’ll make you sorry you ever set foot inside one of Jordan’s offices. I mean it. I’ll call a board meeting. I’ll bring it out into the open. I’ll force your resignation. And that won’t do your father any good. Don’t think I can’t.’ He paused, his eyes raking her disgustedly. ‘Don’t think I won’t.’

  She did not. On the contrary she knew that he could and would. She regarded him in hostile silence.

  ‘What an example,’ he said slowly, ‘what a shining example to set to our workers. Who look up to you. Respect you. Well, I’ll say one thing – you’ve done me one favour.’ He pulled his gloves on, smoothing them precisely to his hands. ‘You have confirmed and exonerated my view that a woman’s sense of responsibility – or rather her lack of it – completely unfits her for the world of business.’

  That was too much. She stood up abruptly, her chair scraping the floor. ‘Just hold on one minute, George. I don’t blame you for being angry. Knowing you, I don’t even blame you for being disgusted. I wouldn’t in any way expect you to understand, let alone condone what I’ve done. But – what do you think? – that I managed this on my own?’ She saw the virulent distaste in the quirk of his mouth, but would not stop. ‘Has it never occurred to you that for every unmarried mother there’s an unmarried father? Are you honestly trying to tell me that you’ve never known a man in a responsible position to sleep with a woman he wasn’t married to?’ She stopped, aghast. Her father. Celia.

  George placed his hat squarely upon his neat fair head and, unmoved, turned to leave.

  ‘You’re a poor thing, George,’ she said more calmly. ‘I feel sorry for you.’

  He turned at the door, spoke quietly. ‘Don’t waste your sympathy. It isn’t me who needs it. It is the poor bastard child you mean to foist upon the world. I intend to end this repugnant conversation here and now. I doubt we shall ever have cause to speak to each other again. I’ll just say this: either you resign immediately, quietly and with dignity or I shall make it my business to see you are thrown out. That is all.’

  It was indeed all. Neither Allie nor her father could stand against George’s unrelenting and venomous hostility. Allie did not even work out her notice. She had, however, before she left Jordan’s, two unexpected visitors, each of whom in their own way cheered her a little. The first was Iris Freeman who came with two pieces of news, the first that Sheila Brown had settled fairly well at the hostel – ‘God, what a mouth that girl’s got!’ – and that she had been taken under the wing of an organization that took care of unmarried mothers and arranged the adoption of unwanted babies. Told in confidence Allie’s news, she was torn between incredulity and, to Allie, surprisingly, admiration.

  Her second piece of news was that the arms factory where she had been working had been damaged by an explosion and she and some of the other girls had been redirected to a factory just outside London. ‘So it’s an il
l wind – p’raps we’ll see something of one another?’

  ‘I’d really like that.’ Allie, delighted, scribbled down the address of the small house her mother had found for her in the village of Eastby, not far from Ashdown. ‘Do come. I’m going to be bored stiff in the next few months.’

  ‘You’re leaving Jordan’s?’

  Allie grimaced. ‘Not from choice.’

  ‘Ah. Don’t tell me. “Madmen, criminals and unmarried mothers not welcome”?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Iris grinned and stood up. ‘Come and join us, love. We’re going to change the world, didn’t you know?’

  Allie’s second visitor, who arrived as she was grimly clearing her desk for the last time was – astonishingly – Alistair MacKenzie. She did not hear his knock on the door but looked up when she heard him clear his throat, to find him standing watching her from the doorway.

  ‘Mr MacKenzie. Do come in.’

  ‘I came to tell you that we’ve settled the toolmakers’ overtime rates.’ His swift glance took in the disarray of the office.

  ‘Yes, well, as you can see, I’m afraid that it no longer concerns me. A Mr Ralph Allard is taking over from me tomorrow. He’ll be up to see you next week.’

  ‘Aye. I’d heard.’

  She waited.

  ‘Jordan’s’ll be sorry to see you go, I daresay,’ he said, dourly.

  She stared at him in wonder.

  ‘We’ve had our ups an’ downs, you an’ I, I’ll no deny that. But you’ve done a tough job the best you could. For a lassie.’ She smiled at that. ‘Aye, the best you could. I’ll say that for you.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ she blushed. ‘I mean – well, thank you.’

  He held out a small, strong hand. ‘I’ll wish you good luck, then.’

  She shook his hand. ‘Goodbye. And thank you.’

  His mouth twitched almost to a smile, his pale blue eyes gleaming between their sandy lashes. ‘If you ask me, management’s losing a damn good man, Mrs Webster.’

  For the first time in two days, she laughed in genuine amusement. ‘They aren’t all convinced of that, Mr MacKenzie.’

  ‘I daresay not.’

  As he turned away, she stopped him with a smile. ‘Mr MacKenzie?’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on George?’

  He lifted pale eyebrows, his face innocent. ‘Now would I be, Mrs Webster? Would I be?’

  * * *

  A couple of days after Allie left London to move into Baywood Cottage, another unpleasant upheaval occurred in the Jordan family when Peter Wickham arrived at the Rampton Court flat to find Libby alone, crying hysterically, her face swollen and discoloured. He looked at her, horrified.

  ‘Libby? What on earth’s happened?’

  She shook her head, sobbing wordlessly and wildly.

  It took a moment for the obvious to sink in. ‘Edward? He did this?’

  She buried her bruised face in her hands.

  ‘Good God!’ Peter put a supporting arm about her, led her into the cold drawing room, sat beside her on the sofa, holding her hands in his, his damaged leg stretched awkwardly in front of him. ‘Libby, where is he? Where’s he gone?’

  ‘I – don’t know. I don’t – care. He left – shouting – I don’t know…’ Her breath caught choking in her throat at every other almost unintelligible word. ‘He – hit me! Peter – he hit me…’

  ‘But why? What happened?’

  ‘We – quarrelled – I said—’ She could not go on, and the tears came again.

  ‘Don’t. Libby, my dear, don’t.’ With infinite tenderness he gathered her to him, brushed the strands of fair hair from her flushed and sweat-dampened skin, rocking her gently until her sobbing died. There was one still moment when she lay against him quietly before she lifted her head and sat up, moving a little away from him. One eye was purpling, her nose was swollen and there was a small bright smear on her lower lip. Peter restrained himself from taking her hand again. ‘How long has he been gone?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. An hour. Two, perhaps. I just don’t know.’

  He lifted a hand to her cheek, dropped it again. His face, usually so calm and kindly, was hard with anger. ‘Would you like me to call someone? Your mother? Allie?’

  Pathetically she put a hand to her battered face. ‘No! No – not yet. Later, perhaps.’ She shivered suddenly.

  ‘You’re freezing. No – don’t move. I’ll get you a jumper. Make you a cup of tea.’ He indicated the empty grate. ‘Have you any coal?’

  She shook her head again, miserably. ‘I couldn’t get any. They said there’d be none till next week. There’s a little electric fire in the bedroom, though.’

  ‘I’ll get it. Stay still. I won’t be a moment.’

  He busied himself with her comfort, watched as she sipped the mug of hot sweet tea he had made. She tried a smile. ‘You must have used a week’s sugar ration.’

  ‘Just drink it.’

  At last, calmer, she told him of the argument that had ended in violence. ‘…Peter, he’s so unpredictable! I only started to talk about – about the old days. About the way things used to be. Before the war, when we were all so happy. Well – God! we have to talk about something, don’t we? The present won’t bear discussion, and as for the future…’ She made the word a desolation. ‘Oh, God, I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

  ‘It’s that bad?’

  ‘Worse. I’m living with a stranger. Nothing I do helps. Nothing I say is right. My own Edward is dead. A stranger has taken his place.’

  He took her hand, his face sombre. ‘Libby – is that what you said to him?’

  She hesitated, then lifted her chin a little defiantly. ‘Yes.’

  In the silence, they both heard the key in the front door, the unsteady footfalls in the hall. Libby stiffened. Peter, very, very carefully, stood up. He managed without a stick for most of the time now, but balance was difficult.

  Edward stopped at the door at the sight of them. He looked as if he had been dragged through a hedge backwards, his face stone-white, his eyes exhausted. As he came closer, the reek of cheap whisky filled the room.

  He ignored Peter. ‘Libby, I’m sorry.’

  She would not look at him. Shook her head.

  ‘I’m truly sorry.’ His voice cracked painfully.

  Libby at last lifted her head. Her husband flinched at the sight of her marked face.

  ‘I think she should see a doctor,’ Peter said.

  ‘No.’ Libby made a swift, negative gesture.

  ‘But Libby—’ He bent to her.

  Edward grabbed his shoulder and hauled him upright, his eyes dangerous. ‘Leave her alone.’

  His friend staggered, recovered himself, looked at Edward in steady distaste. ‘Are you going to hit me, now?’

  ‘Stop it!’ Libby leapt to her feet, her hands clenched to her ears. ‘I can’t bear it. Stop it! Both of you!’ She ran from them and into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  The two men stood in silence. At last Edward turned away, leaned on the mantelpiece facing the empty grate, arms spread wide, head hanging.

  ‘Edward, you’re unwell. Very unwell.’

  The other man lifted a haggard, tear-wet face.

  ‘Someone has to say it. You need help. You need – treatment.’

  ‘No.’ Edward spoke through clenched teeth. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do.’

  ‘You can’t know that until you’ve tried.’

  ‘I do know.’

  ‘If you won’t help yourself…?’

  The other man straightened. ‘There’s only one way that I could help anybody. And that’s to kill myself.’ The words were so quiet, so matter-of-fact that at first Peter thought he must have misheard. When the meaning of the words did sink in he opened his mouth to protest. Edward stopped him with a fierce gesture. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I won’t do it. I can’t. I’ve already discovered that. The ultimate cowardice
, eh?’ He turned to face Peter. Libby’s words came back to the other man – ‘… a stranger. My Edward is dead…’ Looking at him, Peter knew the words to be the ineluctable truth.

  ‘Edward—’

  ‘And you know why I can’t?’ continued Edward bitterly. ‘Why there’s no peace? In case I’m wrong. In case – just in case – all that shit we had forced into us as children turns out to be right and this whole bloody mess we call life isn’t, after all, some crazy accident. In case there really is a life after death. A vengeful God. Justice. I don’t believe it, of course. The whole great fuck-up’s got to be an accident. It’s the only acceptable answer, isn’t it? But supposing – just supposing – it isn’t? Suppose they’re waiting for me? Beyond the pearly gates? What a laugh that’d be, eh?’ The light in his eyes was not madness, but neither was it sanity. It seemed to Peter that Edward’s wounded soul hovered somewhere between the two.

  ‘Edward, what are you talking about? Waiting for you? No one’s waiting for you—’

  ‘How would you know?’ Edward came very close to him. His breath stank. ‘What would you know about anything? About what a man might do – might have to do – to save himself when the world’s gone mad? What do you know of stinking jungle, of blind, sucking leeches, of starvation?’ He stepped back, surveying Peter with raw hostility, his gaze lingering on the stiffened leg. ‘What would anyone know? Thank your lucky stars, Peter, for a nice, clean, crippling wound. For King and country. Wows the girls, I should think. The gallant captain. Do you want Libby?’

  Peter stared at him.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, man. You can’t just parcel people up and—’

  ‘I’m leaving her. For good. I’ll give her grounds for divorce.’

  ‘You should be discussing that with her, not with me.’

  Edward’s wrecked, handsome face registered suddenly a blaze of self-derision. ‘Talk to her? How can I talk to her? Didn’t she tell you I’m dead?’