In the brief moment she had seen him, his striking appearance was etched on her mind. He was tall and fair-haired, with a rugged, outdoor look, and a severe and jagged scar running the length of his right cheek that did nothing to diminish his good looks.
‘It’s good to see you, Aunt Betsy,’ she almost gasped, recovering her breath once she was out of both embraces.
‘And you too, my lamb. Now you’m just in time for tea, so you can tell me all your news properly. Sebby was sore put out to hear about it, as were all my other boys.’
Wenna looked at her blankly, aware that this Mack person was following with her bicycle. His attention irritated her. She had imagined a quiet visit with her aunt, and suddenly she was surrounded by uniforms and idle chatter.
‘Your other boys?’ she said.
Betsy swung her arm around to encompass them all. ‘These are all my boys now. They come for a spell and then leave, but they’m all the better for having breathed Cornish air.’
She suddenly remembered something and stopped so suddenly that the bicycle wheel cannoned into her, and she scolded herself for her stupidity.
‘Bless me, where are my manners today? Wenna, this here’s Group Captain Harry Mack. He’s from Canada, but his folks originated in Scotland, so he’s more or less one of us,’ she added magnanimously. ‘And Harry, this is my lovely niece, Wenna. She’s just recently suffered a bereavement, so you be sure to be nice to her.’
Wenna squirmed, wondering if the man must think her aunt a complete country bumpkin, but he plainly adored her.
‘I’ve seen your portrait, so I feel as if I know you already,’ he said.
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ she said stiffly, unable to stop herself. She recognised his accent now. It wasn’t as strong as her mother’s, and there were slight differences in pronunciation, but it was definitely transatlantic.
‘You’ve seen the picture of Wenna’s grandmother,’ Betsy broke in. ‘People are always making the same mistake. It’s Primmy Tremayne’s picture over the mantel in the parlour, Harry, but Tremayne women all have the same rare colouring.’
‘Stop it, Aunt Betsy, you’ll make me blush,’ Wenna said, not wanting to invite any compliments from the Canadian. He was perfectly charming, but she wasn’t looking for charm right now. She was still too busy wallowing in her own grief.
She glanced back at him, seeing that jagged scar, more vivid in the sunlight, and the knowledge of her own self-centredness hit her with the force of a sledgehammer.
Everyone here – all of Aunt Betsy’s boys, as she called them – had been wounded in action, or they wouldn’t be here at all. And here she was, ready and more than willing to snub them. She was ashamed of herself, and gave the Canadian a warmer smile than she had intended.
‘My aunt exaggerates, Group Captain Mack,’ she said.
‘I think not,’ he said quietly. ‘And the name is Harry.’
He offered his hand in friendship and she reluctantly took it in her own.
‘Well now,’ Betsy said in the small silence. ‘Like I said, it’s time for tea. Perhaps you’d remind the others that it will be on the lawn in five minutes, Harry, and you never know, we may just persuade Wenna to—’
‘Aunt Betsy, no!’ she said sharply, knowing exactly what she was going to say.
She had no intention of singing – of performing – today. It wasn’t why she had come. She hadn’t sung a note since the night Fanny had died, and her last memory of performing was of leading the songsters in a London Underground station while Hitler’s bombs rained overhead and destroyed part of her life.
‘Persuade her to do what?’ Harry Mack asked.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ Wenna said. ‘I’ll join you all for some tea and then I have to get back.’
‘Why do you? We’ve only just met.’
She looked at him, reading the unspoken meaning in the words. Knowing that he was attracted to her, and sensing his desire to hold on to her presence as long as possible. She knew that look, that feeling, that instant rapport. But she didn’t want it. Not from him. Not from anybody.
She looked around in relief as several other men in uniform approached – but if she thought there was safety in numbers, she knew her mistake at once.
‘Oh, my good Gawd,’ one of the soldiers exclaimed. ‘It’s you, ain’t it, gel? I seen you at that fancy club in London one time when I was home on leave and took my lady friend to hear you. You’re that Miss Penny Wood, ain’t she, missis?’
His voice became animated, and Wenna had no choice but to admit that yes, she was Penny Wood, but that was only her stage name, and she was really Wenna Pengelly, and the niece of Mrs Betsy Tremayne. And she didn’t sing any more…
‘Well, I’ll be buggered – oh Gawd, beggin’ yer pardon again, ladies, but I never expected ter see such a vision down here – ’ceptin’ yer good self, o’ course, missis,’ he added to Betsy. ‘So that’s why that picture in the parlour looked familiar! Fancy Miss Penny Wood being your niece!’
‘Ain’t you going to give us a song, then, Miss?’ his companion asked sadly.
‘I’m afraid not,’ Wenna said at once. ‘I’ve – I’ve had some trouble with my voice recently…’
God, but that sounded feeble, when they must all have gone through some ghastly experience to put them here. She could see the disappointment in both men’s eyes. And others, too, were crowding around them now, seeing that somebody new was here, and sensing that she was somebody special.
‘Couldn’t you give us just one song?’ Harry Mack said quietly. ‘Unless it would put too much of a strain on your vocal chords, of course. None of us would want that.’
‘Well – I’ll think about it,’ she found herself saying weakly. ‘Maybe after I’ve had some tea.’
She didn’t know why she had said it. She didn’t want to sing. Couldn’t sing. Not for anyone. She certainly didn’t want to give an impromptu concert on a Cornish lawn.
And then she remembered again the last time, and the raucous voices of the people joining in the chorus with her. Many of them terrified. Many of them too afraid to leave the shelter of the Underground because of what they might or might not find left of their homes above ground. But all of them had been ready and willing to sing their hearts out to drown the sound of the bombing, and to keep up their own spirits and those of all around them…
Of course she would sing. In the face of what these casualties must have gone through, she had no option – not if she wanted to keep some semblance of self-respect.
But first of all Betsy and her afternoon helpers brought out the trays of tea and scones and jam and cream, and they all sat around companionably on the grass or garden chairs.
It was blissfully informal, and Wenna thought fleetingly how different it all was from the days when they were children, and her Uncle Theo was alive, roaring his way about the place, with no one daring to speak above whispers. Now that Betsy held court, it was a different world…
Then, just for a moment, the scene in front of her shifted, and she had the weirdest vision of the way it must have been many years earlier, when this gracious old house had belonged to Charles Killigrew and his son Ben, who had married her own great-grandmother, Morwen Tremayne. Against all the odds, too, Wenna thought, for who would ever have thought a clay boss would marry a lowly bal maiden who scraped clay blocks up on the moors in all winds and weathers?
‘What thoughts are going through your lovely head now, I wonder?’ she heard Harry Mack say beside her.
She flashed him a nervous smile as the vision faded.
‘None of your business,’ she said as lightly as she could, ‘and you wouldn’t want to know, anyway.’
‘I would have to challenge that remark, since I would like to know everything there is to know about you,’ he said.
She felt her heart leap. ‘Oh, I’m just a singer, that’s all. There’s nothing special about me.’
‘If you’re seeking compliments, you can have them
, but I think you must already know that I think you’re the most enchanting young lady who ever lived.’
‘Group Captain Mack, please,’ she said in embarrassment.
‘I told you, the name’s Harry to my friends. And I very much hope you’re going to be one of them.’
‘Really.’ She ignored the provocative remark and sought for something else to say. ‘My brother’s in the airforce. He was somewhere in Wiltshire the last time we heard from him.’
‘Oh? I’m based nearer the east coast and I’ve been on ops for the last few months, but maybe I’ve come across him. What’s his name?’
‘Oliver. Oliver Pengelly.’
‘I don’t recall anyone of that name. I’m sure I would have remembered if I had. It’s quite a mouthful, isn’t it?’
‘Not if you’re Cornish,’ she retorted, ridiculously pleased that she had made a tiny score over him.
She saw her aunt advancing towards her with one of the soldiers, and she gave a silent groan. There was no help for it now – but she was sadly out of practice, and she had a moment of panic as she wondered if any notes would come out of her throat at all. Her aunt spoke determinedly.
‘Joe will play his piano accordion for you, Wenna.’
It was a far cry from the elegant piano at the Flamingo Club, she thought, eyeing the battered old instrument, and then felt a stab of anguish. However elegant that piano had been, it had gone the way of everything else in the street, and was no more than rubble and dust now.
Joe wore a private soldier’s uniform and had a black eye-patch over one eye. Wenna didn’t want to guess what was beneath the patch. She gave him a watery smile.
‘I’d be happy if you would accompany me, Joe,’ she said. ‘What will it be? Do any of you have a favourite?’
The group of recovering invalids opted for ‘Roses in Picardy’ and she knew she should have made the choice herself. The song was far too plaintive, too romantic and emotive, but since it was a unanimous choice, she allowed Joe to play a few bars first, before she exercised her husky voice for the first time in weeks.
And somehow, as incongruous as it had seemed to be to sing in her aunt’s garden in front of a motley and admiring crowd that was as far removed from her usual audience as was possible, the feeling of coming home, in more ways than one, gradually began to seep into her heart and soul.
Her voice grew in sweetness and strength as more and more songs were requested, until she was bound to protest laughingly that she could sing no more.
During the final burst of applause and protests, she heard one of the soldiers speak in a choked voice.
‘The whole world should be privileged to hear you sing, miss, not just we poor wrecks.’
She caught Harry Mack’s glance then, and her heart gave an unexpectedly hot surge. Whatever this man was, he was no poor wreck, she found herself thinking, and she had to lower her eyes at the expression she saw in his.
‘Well, I’ve done enough for one day,’ she said huskily, ‘but maybe I’ll come back another time, if you’ll have me.’
‘Every day!’ they begged. ‘But give us just one more today, miss. One of the old songs.’
‘What do you say, Group Captain?’ Betsy called to him formally, clearly delighted with the success of her niece’s visit. ‘You haven’t made a request yet.’
He replied at once, his eyes never leaving Wenna’s face, and seeing the warm flush creep into her cheeks.
‘Do you happen to know ‘Loch Lomond’, lassie?’ he said, exaggerating the Scottish-Canadian accent. ‘To remind me of my ain folk, you might say.’
‘Of course,’ she said, and refused to look his way until the very last lines of the old song, when she simply couldn’t resist it. In any case, it would have been churlish not to look at him, since it was his own request.
‘…for me and my true love will never meet again, on the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond.’
She looked fully at him then, and saw the way his mouth curved into a smile, and how the creases at the sides of his dark eyes almost met the curling fair hair at his temples. She saw how the sun still highlighted the vicious scar on his cheek that was surely not very old, and she felt a wild and primitive urge to run her fingers tenderly down its length, as if they held some magical witch’s potion to relieve its anger.
She was shocked and enraged at her own reaction, coming so soon after the tragedy of Fanny’s death, and her virtual goodbye to Austin. Was she so shallow, after all?
‘That was a wonderful rendition, and I thank you for it, ma’am,’ she heard Harry say gravely.
Before she knew what he had in mind, he had lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it.
As she went to pull away from him in laughing embarrassment, her hand turned over and his kiss landed in her palm before she involuntarily enclosed it with her fingers.
It was symbolic, tore through her mind. Such a gesture and outcome would inevitably be seen as symbolic by those of a fey Cornish disposition. Certainly by old Morwen Tremayne, her great-grandmother; and her grandmother Primmy; and even her own mother, despite her American upbringing.
But she, Wenna, had long since dismissed all that spooky clairvoyant stuff from her mind, being the modern girl that she was, living and working in the sophisticated atmosphere of a smoky London nightclub.
And where had it got her after all? All of it was gone, and here she was, right back here with her roots. Feeling flashes of psychic nonsense that she didn’t want, but seemingly couldn’t escape…
‘Are you all right, my lamb? Perhaps we shouldn’t have pushed ’ee to sing for so long after all, and ’tis mighty warm this afternoon,’ she heard Betsy’s anxious voice say.
She blinked, realising her eyes had been tightly closed for a moment. ‘I’m quite well, Aunt Betsy, but I really should be getting home now. I didn’t even tell my mother where I was going, and she’ll be anxious.’
‘And you’ll come back tomorrow? I can’t tell ’ee what a power of good you’ve done for my boys this afternoon, love.’
Her instinct was to say no at once. She didn’t dare come back while he was here… she wouldn’t even think his name right now…
She was adamant that she didn’t want any complications in her life, no more loves who were taken away from her, no singing, nothing at all, except the chance to let her heart recover from its traumas… and then she saw his face.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ she said huskily.
* * *
‘You’re looking much better, honey,’ her mother told her the minute she entered New World. ‘Celia said you’d gone for a cycle ride, and I can see it did you good. She had to leave for the train before you got back, but she said to tell you goodbye, and that she’d be writing to us all as soon as she’s settled in Norwich. So where did you go today?’
A million miles away… to the moon and back…
Wenna sat down on the sofa and gazed unseeingly out of the window. Her cheeks were still flushed, and not only from the exertion of the ride. She hardly registered Skye’s question and instead she asked several of her own.
‘Mom, do you think everyone has the capacity for falling in love more than once? And if so, is it being disloyal to the first person you loved to have the same kind of feelings?’
‘Good heavens, I didn’t expect to be faced with such a deep-meaning discussion on a sunny afternoon,’ Skye began with a smile, and then saw that her daughter was being completely serious. ‘What on earth brought all this on, darling?’
‘But do you, Mom? Think you can love more than one person in your lifetime, I mean.’
‘I’m hardly the person you should question about that, Wenna. I think you know the answer already.’
Wenna felt her face burn. She had spoken unthinkingly, and she should have known better. It was more Celia’s style to rush straight in, but their personalities seemed to have got all mixed up recently. Unwittingly, she echoed her sister’s own thoughts.
‘
Oh Lord, I’m sorry Mom! I know you loved my father, and I’m just as sure you love Daddy Nick. And Great-Granny Morwen had two husbands too, didn’t she? I don’t know how I could have been so thoughtless—’
‘You don’t have to apologise, sweetheart. Remember what that young terror Daphne said her mother told her. “If yer wanter know something, then yer have to ask, don’cha?”’
The cockney accent was so false coming from her mother’s lips that Wenna found herself laughing.
‘So why don’t you tell me why you asked the question, darling?’ Skye went on. ‘Or is it too personal?’
Wenna looked down at the hands clasped tightly in her lap and without thinking she opened her palm, where Harry Mack had kissed her. Her mother had always been a sympathetic and loving listener, but as yet her feelings were too private to share with anyone.
They weren’t even properly formed yet. They were no more than a glimmer of warmth in her cold heart. And she was still too full of anger – about Fanny, about Austin, about how a so-called caring God could sanction all the killing and the pain that a war involved – to truly welcome them.
‘It was just a hypothetical question,’ she fibbed. ‘But I should have known the answer, shouldn’t I?’
And how could she possibly ask her very proper mother if it was so fickle – so wicked – to realise that despite all her passion for Austin, she had felt those delicious stirrings again, just thinking about Group Captain Harry Mack…
Skye sensed far more than her daughter guessed, but she resisted the overwhelming temptation to ask her more, and instead repeated her own question.
‘So where did you go today, or is it a secret?’
‘I called on Aunt Betsy,’ she said abruptly. ‘I suppose everyone knew she’d turned Killigrew House into a kind of refuge for the walking wounded after all, but I’d forgotten all about it, and it was a big surprise to me. I didn’t expect to see all those servicemen there.’
‘It didn’t upset you, did it?’
Wenna shook her head, her voice rueful now. ‘Between them all and Aunt Betsy, I ended up giving a performance, if you can believe it, and one of the soldiers accompanied me on a battered old piano accordion that had seen better days. Fanny would have been proud of me!’
A Brighter Tomorrow Page 9