A Fragile Peace

by A Fragile Peace (retail) (epub)

  Those first months of Charlotte’s life were marked by an escalation of violence, and Europe was once more in flames. In Warsaw the Soviet army stood shamefully by while the soldiers of the Reich butchered Polish partisans who might, had they survived, have believed themselves entitled to a say in their country’s fate when the lunacy was over. Blood lapped the shores of the Pacific as it did those of the Mediterranean and the North Sea. Yet Baywood Cottage in that summer and autumn of 1944 was a small haven of peace for its three occupants. A doodlebug landed on the village in August, killing a woman and two children, the roads were still clogged with military vehicles, the trains decorated with red crosses that clanked over the level crossing were full of wounded, but still the sun shone, the birds sang in the woodland that edged the pretty garden, and Charley thrived. Allie watched her in wonder. Her hair, when it grew, was as dark, straight and floppy as her father’s, darkly spun silk in the sunshine. She had the skin of a peach and eyes that promised to be as blue as her grandmother’s. She laughed a lot, screamed with gusto when put out, and wound both Allie and Rose around one small pink finger.

  Sue, bouncing the undisputed queen of Baywood Cottage on her knee, was the first to coax a ‘Ma-ma’ from her. Allie, in quiet moments, gently teased her with a different word. ‘Tom. Say “Tom”, Charley…’ But she stubbornly would not.

  As the russet cloak of autumn spread across the countryside to herald the sixth winter of war, and the V-2s continued their nerve-racking bombardment, small, morale-boosting changes began to appear. The blackout was relaxed at last – for a rocket could just as well land on a darkened as a lit building – and trains and buses were lit once more, if still quite dimly. The signs and signposts that had been taken down reappeared, to the relief of those, like Sue, whose sense of direction was not their greatest gift. Preparations were under way to dismantle the Home Guard, for the fear of invasion was undoubtedly over. The Labour Party announced its intention, after the wartime years of coalition, of fighting the next election independently – and there were many, remembering Beveridge, who did not join in the cries of derision from those who considered a Churchillian defeat on the Home Front an impossibility. There was no denying it – above the smell of blood, of engine oil and of cordite, the faint sweet scent of victory was in the air. Many would die before the end came, much would be lost and much regretted, but few people doubted now that the Nazi wolf was on the run. Thoughts turned to the future, to the homes, the schools, the jobs of tomorrow.

  Iris Freeman and her friends took to gathering at Baywood Cottage as much, Allie suspected at first, perhaps unfairly, to take advantage of warm and comfortable surroundings as for any other reason, and the coming new world was debated endlessly. Allie, starting by filling cups and watching the supply of logs for the fire, soon found herself taking an active part in the earnest discussions, and was amazed to discover how much she had learned in the past years, how eager she was to learn more. She watched with muted anger as, within British industry, moves were made against trade unionists as a precursor to another 1919. She found it hard to believe that people could be so blind; moral issues and compassion aside, Britain could not – should not – after such a cataclysmic upheaval, simply shudder, sigh and sink back into the same rut of social inequality that had marred the years of the twentieth century so far. On the day that she joined the Labour Party, Iris sent her a telegram: ‘WELCOME ABOARD STOP NOW GET ROWING.’

  Tom was finally released from hospital in early November. He had been fretting for six weeks, anxious to be away, but a small complication concerning the slow healing of one of his ankles had kept him chained to bed and chair for longer than had been expected. Allie had visited him as often as she could, and they had corresponded regularly. She had sent him pictures of Charlotte, but had tried hard not to fill every letter or every conversation with anecdotes about her, for there was no denying that, as she had expected, Tom’s acceptance of fatherhood was heavily weighted with a noticeable lack of fervour. His squadron was back in England; he felt keenly the fact that, because of the extent of his injuries, he would not be allowed to fly again, though he rarely spoke of it. On one occasion Allie arrived at the hospital to find a visitor already with Tom – a giant of a young man with blond-brown hair and a wide, ready smile. Having heard his accent she was not surprised to discover that this was Tony Partridge, the South African of whom Tom had spoken.

  ‘Wonderful country, Mrs Webster,’ he said, when she mentioned it. ‘God’s own land, believe me. Land of opportunity…’

  It had not escaped her notice that Tom that day, after Tony had left, had been even less communicative than usual.

  His first meeting with Charlotte was a nerve-racking occasion that went, perhaps predictably, awry from the moment they came face to face. Allie, standing at the cottage window, watched Tom, back in uniform, swing down the street with the slightly lopsided gait that his wounds had temporarily forced upon him, pause at the gate, checking the name of the house and then come down the long front path to the front door. Even from where she stood, she saw that his expression was guarded. She ran into the hall. ‘Tom!’

  There was nothing guarded about his kiss.

  ‘How wonderful to see you away from that wretched hospital! How are you!’

  ‘Fit as a fiddle. Fitter.’

  She caught his hand and pulled him into the tiny sitting room, kissing him again. ‘Charley’s in bed at the moment, having a sleep. You’ll meet Rose in a minute. She’s in the kitchen, making some lunch. I thought we’d eat in here – in front of the fire?’

  ‘Marvellous.’ Allie was certain that she detected a gleam of relief in his eyes that the meeting with his daughter was postponed, for however short a time.

  ‘Drink?’ she asked, brightly. ‘I’ve actually acquired some sherry. Not very dry, I’m afraid, but not bad.’

  ‘Please.’

  She poured two small drinks, brought one to him. ‘Cheers—’

  From above their heads, something closely resembling an air-raid siren sounded. Allie junped, put down her drink, laughing nervously. ‘That’s her. She has a pair of lungs on her like bellows—’ She hurried from the room.

  When she returned, she carried a struggling, still sleepy Charlotte who took one look at the unsmiling stranger who stood on the hearthrug and yelled as if murder were being committed.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Tom said.

  Allie pacified the baby. ‘Come on now, darling. It’s Tom come to see you. You can say “Tom”, can’t you? Say it for Mummy? Say “Tom”?’

  Charley’s cherubic lower lip wobbled unhappily and she howled again. She would not stop. She screamed at Tom’s every half-hearted attempt to make her smile and buried her small wet face in her mother’s shoulder until Rose, tutting busily and beaming from ear to ear, bore her off to the kitchen, and silence.

  Tom accepted his second, slightly larger, sherry with gratitude. ‘Hardly an immediate rapport.’

  ‘I can’t think what came over her,’ Allie said, distractedly unthinking. ‘She’s usually very good with—’ She stopped.

  ‘Strangers,’ he supplied, unruffled. ‘Oh, well. Cheers.’

  Throughout the day Charlotte obstinately refused to be sociable. Allie, at her wits’ end, finally and thankfully put her to bed in her little room and came back downstairs to find Tom sitting in the flickering firelight of the sitting room, gazing into the flames. Rose, the very soul of tact, had gone to visit a friend in the village. Allie stood by the door, studying his pirate’s face with its sharp-drawn lines and fresh scars. ‘I’m sorry. She’s been a beast. I don’t know what got into her.’

  He did not reply.

  She moved to him, sat at his feet, picked up the poker and prodded the smouldering logs. For a moment the room flared brightly with firelight. She felt Tom’s hand on her hair. ‘Allie?’

  She had hoped – had planned – for this. She turned her mouth to his. It had been so very long since they had made love. His body, in the bloo
d-light of the fire, was thin, and new scars had joined the one on his shoulder that he had brought back from Spain those long years ago. She loved him with every pulse of her blood, every nerve-end. With unhurried tenderness and care – for he was still not absolutely fit – they made love on the rug in front of the fire, scurrying draughts on their bare skin tempered by wood-smoke warmth from the crackling logs. He took her wordlessly, his face intent, his hands gentle; and she tried to show him by her giving the depth of a love that would let him go if that were the only way not to spoil it. He stayed still above her for a long moment, his body covering hers, his face in shadow. As he moved away from her, she shivered. He gathered her to him and they lay in silence, watching the racing shadows. At last he stirred, and turned. ‘Cold?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Best get dressed. I’ll have to be going soon anyway.’

  They dressed quietly. ‘There’s some supper in the kitchen,’ Allie said. ‘I’ll get it.’

  When she returned with a small plate of sandwiches, he was sitting fully dressed on the floor, his back against the chair, his legs crooked in front of him, his arms loosely circling his knees. He was staring once again into the fire, his face remote.

  ‘Penny for them,’ she said lightly.

  He stirred, shook his head.

  ‘Oh?’ Laughing, she sat on the chair, offered the sandwiches. ‘Secrets?’

  He did not reply, nor did he smile.

  ‘Tom? Is something wrong?’ All day she had had the feeling of something withheld, some reserve in him. ‘Darling, I’m sorry that Charley behaved so badly. She really is the sweetest thing most of the time.’

  ‘It’s all right. It wasn’t her fault.’

  ‘Then what is it? What’s the matter?’

  He hesitated. ‘Allie – I want to ask you something. Something important…’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You may not like it.’

  ‘Try me.’ Her voice was more certain than she was.

  ‘It’s just – something I need to know – something that has to be explained between us…’

  ‘Tom, what? What do you want to know?’

  ‘Do you know – why you had Charlotte?’

  A log slipped and rolled in the wide fireplace, sending a glittering spray of sparks up the dark chimney.

  ‘Because – because I couldn’t bear to—’ She took refuge in sudden anger. ‘What do you mean, why did I have her? I didn’t get pregnant deliberately, if that’s what you mean. God almighty, would I have done? But – once it had happened – would you rather I’d killed her? Had an abortion? Good God, I know she wasn’t very well behaved today, but that’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?’

  He was patient. ‘You’re misunderstanding me.’

  ‘Explain then.’

  ‘I wanted to know – do you think that there is no connection at all between the child you lost – Buzz’s child – and this one?’

  ‘No. Never.’ Her voice was very calm. Liar! she told herself, savagely. Bloody liar!

  ‘I’m not Buzz, Allie.’

  ‘Well, for God’s sake, I know that! I wouldn’t want you to be. Nobody could be.’

  He climbed to his feet. ‘I’d better be going.’

  ‘Wait!’ She jumped up. ‘You can’t just say something like that and leave! I don’t think I even know what we’ve been talking about.’

  He sustained her angry look coolly. ‘And I think you do.’

  The air between them suddenly sang with the old antagonism. ‘It’s my turn to ask you a question.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘After the war – will you go to South Africa?’

  He hesitated, noticeably. ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Would you come?’

  ‘You know I couldn’t.’

  He lifted his shoulders very slightly. ‘Alone then, I guess.’

  She knew she had pushed him to it, recognized the dangerous tilt of his head, the glint of anger in his eyes.

  ‘Whatever happens,’ he said, ‘I’ll support Charlotte, of course. We must make some arrangements.’

  She glared at him. ‘I don’t want your money.’

  ‘I’ll give it anyway.’

  ‘What for? I’ve got more than you have.’ She had snapped the words before she could stop herself.

  ‘True.’ The word was cold.

  ‘I’d hate to see you penalized for a biological accident,’ she said, bitterly, and turned miserably from him.

  The silence was awful. ‘Is that how you feel?’

  ‘No!’ Dejectedly she sat on the sofa and stared sightlessly down at the rug where not so many minutes before they had made love. She expected him to leave, but he did not. After an interminable pause he came and sat beside her. To her amazement he put an arm round her, and his voice was gentle. ‘I’m sorry. For what I said. I didn’t mean to upset you.’ Very softly, he stroked her hair. ‘And Charlotte is beautiful. It’s just – she’s an unexpected complication. And if that sounds cold, please believe me, I don’t mean it to.’

  ‘I know.’

  He reached for her, turned her to face him, his expression deadly serious. ‘Allie, I’m trying. Believe me, I’m trying. Just give me time.’

  She nodded. Softly, he kissed her. Upstairs, Charlotte woke and yelled lustily for her mother.

  * * *

  That last dreary winter of war – for there was little doubt now in anyone’s mind that it was the last – was bitterly cold and marked by a kind of national fatigue, another Christmas of miserable shortages and a hold-up in the Allied advances in Europe as the Germans broke through in the Ardennes and the last great battle began. Towards the end of January 1945, however, the news was once more heartening with both the Soviets and the Allies again advancing, the gap between them lessening with every step, and spirits began to rise. The collections and flag days now were as likely to be for the starving people of liberated Europe as for armaments and aircraft, for it came as a shock even to the tight-rationed, shortage-ridden British to discover that the civilian populations of their enslaved allies had fared even worse than themselves.

  On the day the news came that the Soviets had reached the Oder river and were ready to link up with the British and Americans coming from the west, Peter Wickham visited Allie – the first time she had seen him for several weeks.

  ‘Peter!’ Her face lit with real pleasure. ‘How lovely to see you! Come in – warm yourself…’

  He rubbed his hands in front of the fire. ‘No fuel shortage for you by the looks of it?’

  ‘We’re lucky – we’ve acres of woodland right next to us. There’s always something to burn. Whoops – excuse me—’ She dashed across the room to where Charlotte was, with great concentration and at some risk, trying to pull herself up from the floor by the tablecloth. Allie reached her in time to prevent an accident, scooped her up, laughing. ‘Naughty girl!’ She carried the child, perched on her arm, to Peter.

  ‘She’s lovely,’ he said.

  ‘Isn’t she? But a tinker, I can tell you. She’s so forward – she’ll be walking before—’ Allie checked herself, smiling. ‘Oh, no, don’t get me started on that. I can’t stand doting mothers!’

  She settled Charley on the floor with a saucepan full of spoons and a battered teddy bear. ‘There – do try to stay still for thirty seconds.’ She straightened up, to find Peter watching her with an affectionate smile.

  ‘It suits you, motherhood.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She grinned at him. ‘Though I can’t say that I’m always so sure.’

  Later, with the winter sun gleaming rose-red through the bare branches of the trees, they walked through the frosty woodlands, their breath fogging the biting air as they walked, their footsteps crisp upon the rimed carpet of leaves.

  ‘How’s Libby? I haven’t seen her for a while.’

  Peter did not answer at once. He held back a whipping branch so that Allie could negotiate the narrow path. ‘To be truthf
ul, I don’t really know. She won’t talk about anything. Oh – she talks all the time – you know Libby. Never stops. But…’

  ‘She doesn’t say anything.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘She quite often didn’t before.’

  ‘I know. But this is different. She’s more damaged than she appears.’ They walked a little way in silence. Above their heads a robin sang as if his breath depended upon it. ‘I asked her to marry me,’ Peter said very quietly. ‘When the divorce goes through.’

  She glanced sideways at him. ‘And?’

  He shook his head, half-smiling.

  Allie put out a hand to him. ‘It’s too early, Peter. Give her a chance. She’s still – I don’t know – in a kind of shock.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t have much luck with the Jordan girls, do you?’

  ‘I’ve never felt that.’

  ‘Well, you should. One of us as good as proposes to you, and the other one turns you down.’

  He laughed at that, as she had intended.

  ‘It all seems so long ago,’ she said, sobering.

  ‘Yes.’

  They paused as their footsteps disturbed a pigeon and it fluttered with its oddly clumsy movements through the trees. Allie was suddenly reminded of the Northamptonshire woods, and Buzz. It had been this time of year. ‘Who needs spring?’ she had asked. ‘I’m sorry?’ Peter had spoken, and she had not heard the words.

  ‘I said at least it looks as if it’ll all be over soon.’

  She shook herself free of a laughing-eyed ghost. ‘Pray God it will. Sometimes I think it’s never going to end. It’s funny, isn’t it – I almost can’t imagine what it will be like. Do you remember that first day? Saying goodbye outside Rampton Court?’

  ‘Of course.’ Their hands were still linked. He drew her to a halt. ‘Let’s make a pact? Friends – good friends – for ever?’