The first bird began to sing, pure, crystal-clear notes that rent her heart, and soon others were joining in a rich chorus composed by their Maker. Dawn was breaking, a new day was unfolding and she couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop time. Couldn’t stop the moment when she would have to look into his face and send him away forever.
She leaned her head against the cold glass of the window, murmuring his name as her whole being cried out and asked for his forgiveness for what she had to do. But of course he wouldn’t forgive her. He wouldn’t understand and she couldn’t explain, and he would hate her. He would hate her, and she would die and go on living however many years she was destined to live, for Daisy, for Ruby and the others, but all the time she would be dead inside. But even then, even then, it would be better than giving in to her heart.
Nothing had changed. If she told Jacob, warned him, she would have to explain what had happened and then Jacob would kill Tom, she knew he would. And hang for it. If she didn’t tell him, if she kept quiet and accepted his love, then it would be the equivalent of preparing a lamb for slaughter, because Tom would kill him. Either way Jacob would die. There was no way out of it, there never had been. Tom’s mania made him stronger than them all.
Lucy stood up. She felt chilled, despite the warm morning. She had to be convincing when Jacob came. There could be no tears or tender goodbyes. She must make him believe she thought of him as an old friend and that was all, that there could be nothing of a romantic nature between them, now or in the future. And because of that she must make it clear to him that she didn’t want him to continue writing to her or calling at the house again when he was home on leave. She had to pretend that his forthcoming declaration had made her feel uncomfortable, and she wanted any contact to cease.
By the time she had washed and dressed and put her hair up, she had composed herself. Outwardly, at least. It was still too early for the rest of the household to be up, and she made her way silently downstairs to the sitting room, intending to sit in the garden for a while. She saw immediately that the French doors were ajar, and when she tiptoed across the room and peered outside, Donald was fast asleep in the deckchair he favoured, an empty mug at his side and yesterday’s newspaper lying across his lap.
He looked so ill. She caught her breath, sorrow flooding her soul. It didn’t seem fair that, having found him again, he was going to be taken away. Tom Crawford had ruined Donald’s life as surely as if he’d been crushed that night, along with their da and Ernie; it was just that Donald had endured a slow, lingering, lonely demise.
And then she shook her head at her dark thoughts. Stop it, she told herself. Go and make a pot of tea. Do something positive. She and Donald could share it before the rest of them came down and she would make some hot buttered toast to go with it. Their butter ration had gone within a day or two this week, but Farmer Thornhill had slipped her a whole pat on Saturday morning in exchange for a nice few pieces of cod, and his wife’s butter was the best she’d tasted. It might tempt Donald – he didn’t eat enough to keep a sparrow alive.
She was crossing the hall when something, some instinct outside herself, caused her to walk to the front door and look through the stained glass into the small front garden. Jacob was sitting on their brick wall, his army cap in his hand and his face lifted to the rising sun. She didn’t know if it was the coloured glass or the sunlight on his bare head, but there was an aura of rainbow light about him as he sat motionless.
She stepped back sharply, her hand going to her throat and her heart thudding in her ears. She glanced round the empty hall as though it would help her, but there were just the dancing sunbeams slanting on the far wall and the faint ticking of the grandfather clock from the dining room.
She stood for some moments until the rushing in her ears had subsided, and then stepped forward and opened the door. He was still sitting there and she saw now that his eyes were closed against the sun’s glare. ‘Hello, Jacob,’ she said, very softly.
His eyes shot open and he sprang up, but he didn’t immediately come towards her. ‘Hello, Lucy,’ he said, equally softly. ‘Did you get my letter?’
She nodded. He had never looked more handsome; the army uniform suited him.
‘I’m sorry I’m so early, but I got in late last night and I wanted—’ He paused. ‘I wasn’t going to knock until I was sure someone would be up.’
She nodded again. Her throat seemed to have closed up and she had to swallow, before she could say, ‘You’d better come in a minute.’
Something in his face died at the tone of her voice, but she told herself not to weaken. She was about to lead the way into her morning room, but there were papers covering the desk and some files she had brought home piled on the chaise longue. Instead she walked through to the sitting room, hearing him close the front door and then follow her. She turned, waving at a chair. ‘Won’t you sit down?’
He ignored this. ‘What’s the matter?’ His eyes searched her person for one of the dreaded black armbands, which had become more prevalent since Dunkirk. ‘Did John make it back all right?’
‘John?’ For a moment she didn’t understand. ‘Oh yes, John. He’s down on the south coast with his unit – what’s left of it. But he’s fine.’ She stopped abruptly. She was babbling. ‘Yes, he’s fine,’ she repeated slowly. ‘How are you?’
He looked at her across the room. ‘In turmoil.’
Lucy blinked. This wasn’t going how she had planned it. ‘It must have been terrible, we heard such horrible things.’
‘I don’t mean France.’ He came to stand close, but still he didn’t touch her. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said again.
She had to say it, straight out, but she couldn’t do so while looking into his dear face. Turning, she walked over to the fireplace, putting one hand on the mantelpiece and keeping her back towards him as she murmured, ‘I feel I might have given you the wrong impression before you left to fight, and if I did, I’m truly sorry.’
A deep silence took hold. It was a full ten seconds before he said quietly, ‘What impression was that, Lucy?’
‘That we could be more than just friends. Your letter suggested . . .’ She had forgotten everything she’d proposed to say. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.
‘Lucy?’ He waited until she had turned to look at him. ‘I love you, and I feel you care for me. Maybe not as I love you, that would be impossible’ – he smiled, but she didn’t respond and after a moment he went on – ‘but there is something between us.’
‘Friendship.’
‘And much more.’
‘No.’ She was near to tears, but she told herself she must not allow them to flow. ‘No, Jacob. I have a daughter, a family, my work, and I am content. We’re not children any more.’
‘I have never stopped loving you.’ He paused, his look and his voice altering. ‘I don’t understand what drove us apart and how you could leave the way you did, but that no longer matters. I was angry and hurt for a long time, but it didn’t stop me loving you. You need to know that.’
‘Don’t. Please don’t.’ She bowed her head. ‘I care for you as a friend, but I don’t love you.’
‘Tell me that while looking into my eyes.’
She did not obey him, she couldn’t, and when his hands fastened on the top of her arms, she shivered.
‘There’s something more, isn’t there? Something you’re not telling me. What are you afraid of, Lucy?’
It was so near the truth that she panicked. Jerking herself free with a strength born of desperation, she looked at him. ‘I think it would be better, in the circumstances, if you didn’t call here again. I don’t want any unpleasantness and I wish you well, but there is absolutely no question of a future together. Do you understand me?’
He straightened as his face stiffened. ‘Aye, you’ve made yourself perfectly clear.’
‘Goodbye, Jacob.’
He looked at her for one more moment, his face as black as thunder, then without a word he tur
ned and marched across the room, flinging open the door with enough force for it to smash against the wall. She heard his footsteps in the hall, then the front door banging behind him.
He had gone. As the enormity of it swept over her she almost ran after him, her breath escaping in a shuddering sigh. And then her longing was vocalized as Donald said from the French doors, ‘Go after him, lass. Tell him you didn’t mean it.’
She didn’t ask how much he had heard; it didn’t matter. She had completely forgotten he was in the garden. She turned to look at him, hanging onto the door frame. ‘I did mean it.’
‘Lass, this is me – Donald – you’re talking to. Don’t try and tell me you don’t love him.’
‘It’s not as simple as that.’
‘Of course it’s as simple as that. What else is there? Hell’s bells, lass, don’t throw away a good man like Jacob because things went wrong in the past. I heard him, and he means it. He loves you. Are you thinking of Daisy? Is that what’s stopping you? She’d take to him, I can guarantee it, and he’d be a grand father for her.’
She stared at him, her eyes wide and dazed, and her voice sounded dazed too as she said flatly, ‘He can’t be her father; he’s her uncle.’
‘Her what?’ Donald came over to her. ‘Lass, sit down. You’re upset and you don’t know what you’re saying.’
‘Jacob is Daisy’s uncle.’ She let him guide her to one of the sofas and he sat down beside her, taking her hands as she repeated, ‘He can’t be her father, you see.’ She gave a strange noise, a laugh that wasn’t a laugh, and as it mounted into hysteria he shook her hard, snapping her head back on her shoulders. Then an agonized cry escaped her and the tears came as she collapsed against him.
It was some time before she raised her head from Donald’s chest, and as he wiped her eyes with her own handkerchief, he said quietly, ‘Tell me everything, from the beginning.’
And she told him everything from the beginning.
Later that morning Donald left the house by taxi-cab. Lucy was in bed, being looked after by an anxious Ruby, to whom he’d explained the full facts. To everyone else he’d said that Lucy’s collapse was due to a nasty flulike malady and she needed complete rest and quiet, marshalling them off to their respective places of work with no argument.
He had no intention of keeping the promise he’d made to Lucy that he wouldn’t tell Jacob the truth. Jacob would rise above the revelations, he knew that, but he agreed with Lucy that Jacob might do something rash regarding his brother. So he would have to make sure he reached Tom Crawford first. His fingers closed over the razor-sharp kitchen knife in his pocket. The man was an animal, a dirty stinking animal, to take down a pure young lass like that and then to terrorize her for years, having murdered the bloke who’d taken her in and given her his protection and his name. Tom Crawford deserved to die.
He climbed into the taxi, and as the driver turned round and said, ‘Where to, mate?’ he answered, ‘The blacksmith’s in Southwick, Abe Williamson. Do you know it?’
‘Oh aye, I know old Abe’s place, an’ with petrol gettin’ harder to come by, I reckon we’ll all be back to horse an’ cart before long. Still, if it helps keep the Nazis at bay, who’s complainin’, eh? You see them pictures of the blighters parading up the Champs-Elysées in Paris an’ the swastika flying from the Eiffel Tower? Makes you sick to your stomach, don’t it? I tell you . . . ’
He continued to tell Donald every minute of the journey, but Donald was content to let the man chat on and just put in the odd word now and again. Once he’d seen Jacob, he intended to go straight to Tom Crawford’s house. If he wasn’t in, he’d wait, and make sure Jacob didn’t get to his brother first.
He looked out of the window. It was a grand day. Apart from the thick white lines painted on kerbs and lamp posts to help people see where they were going in the blackout, you’d hardly know there was a war going on. He wouldn’t mind dying on a day like today. He’d taken two pills before he’d come out because the pain had been crippling, but now it had died down and with that had come strength for what he had to do. He couldn’t make right the wrong he’d done to Lucy, or the years of living looking over her shoulder every minute after Tom Crawford had raped her. He wasn’t God. But it was in his power to give her the chance of a future with the man she loved. It was something. Not enough, but something.
When he arrived at the forge he asked the taxi driver to wait and climbed out of the car, but he hadn’t taken more than a step or two when Dolly came bustling out of the house with a bowl of corn in her hand for the hens that were scratching around. Catching sight of him, she stopped. He knew he looked bad, but if he hadn’t, then her face would have given it away, and likewise her voice when she said with some concern, ‘You all right there? Can I help?’
‘I’m looking for Jacob Crawford. He’s home on leave, isn’t he?’
‘Aye, he is, but he’s not here, lad. He arrived late last night, but was up and about before me an’ me husband this morning. Left us a note to say he’d be back later, but he had business to attend to in the town, and he was going to call in on his mam an’ all. Can Abe help?’ She nodded towards the barn-like structure of the forge where Donald could hear the sound of hammering. ‘He’s in there.’
‘No thanks, lass. I’ll call again.’
He’d turned and climbed back into the taxi when she shouted, ‘Who shall I say called?’, but he ignored her. He didn’t want Jacob turning up at the house before he’d had a chance to put him right about Lucy, and Dolly obviously hadn’t recognized him, which was all to the good. Mind, his own mam wouldn’t recognize him these days.
‘Where to now?’ The taxi driver was happy. He didn’t often get a fare like this one. Most folk went straight to one place and complained bitterly if he had to stop at traffic lights.
‘Zetland Street.’ With any luck, Jacob would still be at his mam’s. They’d think it odd, him turning up like this, but that couldn’t be helped and as long as he was able to talk to Jacob, nothing else mattered. The certainty of imminent death had a way of sorting out what was important and what was not.
To the taxi driver’s delight, Donald told him to wait when they pulled up outside the Crawfords’ house. ‘I might be a few minutes, but that’s not a problem, is it?’
‘Not if you’re happy to pay for the meter ticking, mate.’
‘I am.’ He needed to be able to get to Tom’s house immediately he was done here, that’s if Jacob was still inside. Otherwise he’d go back to the forge and wait at the end of the lane. Either way, he needed the taxi; he couldn’t walk more than a few steps today and already the pain was kicking in again.
Climbing out of the taxi, it dawned on Donald that he had never once entered the Crawfords’ house through the front door. And, thinking about it, the only times he could remember using his own front door was for his mother’s and then his da’s and Ernie’s funerals. All the coming and going had been via the back lane, even when it was claggy with thick mud or a sheet of frozen ridged ice. Amazing when you thought about it, and even more amazing that he had never queried this unwritten law.
Enid’s doorstep was as white as snow and the brass door knocker in the shape of a pixie gleamed as only Brasso and elbow grease could make it gleam. Even the stiffly starched curtains at the front window were as he remembered. For a minute he’d gone back in time and was a bairn playing in the street with Ernie and the Crawford brothers. Playing the games Tom decreed, and everyone doing as they were told to avoid a bashing from his fists.
Pushing the thought aside, he knocked on the door. It was only a few moments before it opened and Enid stood framed in the doorway, staring at him without an iota of recognition. ‘Hello, Mrs Crawford,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s Donald. Donald Fallow.’
‘Donald?’ Her voice was high with surprise. ‘Saints alive, it is you, lad. What’s happened to you?’ Then, remembering herself, she said, ‘Come in, come in, lad. Well I never, Donald Fallow.’
He
stood aside to let her pass him in the hall and she led the way to the kitchen at the back of the house, saying, ‘It’s funny you came today of all days, because our Jacob is here, home on leave.’ She stopped before she pushed open the door that was slightly ajar, turning to him as she said quietly, ‘You bad or something, lad?’
He almost smiled. As direct as ever. ‘Aye, I’m bad, Mrs Crawford.’
‘Dunkirk, was it?’
‘No, no. It’s me stomach – cancer. I’ve been middling for a couple of years, and it came to light when I tried to join up back in September last year.’
‘I’m sorry about that, lad. Heart-sorry.’
She touched his arm and Donald was surprised by a rush of emotion. She’d looked as though she cared, really cared, and he was about to blow her little world apart, because she thought the world of Tom. And then he hardened his heart. The truth was the truth and Jacob needed to be told.
Dancing in the Moonlight Page 29