Not a straight no. That was good.
“Yes, please, Dad.” She glanced at Nellie, who was smirking again. “At least, if you can spare me for the evening.”
After a few heartbeats, he nodded.
“Well, if you’ve found some blokes willing to dance with a couple of giggling jennies like you two, it seems a shame to waste the invitation.”
Nellie clapped her hands gleefully.
“But you girls must mind three things.” He looked at each of them in turn. “You must stick together. You’ll be back by midnight. And you’ll be sober. Yes, even you, Nellie Clarke. Do you understand?”
Nellie opened her mouth to protest.
“You live under my roof and you will be responsible for my daughter on Saturday, so you will follow my rules. Do you understand?”
Nellie gave an unconvincingly meek nod.
“And,” he continued, “you will both be up in time to do the Sunday milking.”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Lorna quickly, but Nellie’s only response was a quiet groan.
“And there’s no clothing coupons to spare for a new dress and whatnot, Lorna. And you’ll not go borrowing anything from this one.” He jerked his thumb at Nellie. “I’ll not have you looking like a dog’s dinner as well.”
Yet again, Nellie opened her mouth to protest, but Lorna flashed her a warning glance, and she stayed silent.
“Thanks, Dad,” said Lorna, “and I promise I’ll do just as you say.”
“Aye, well, mind you do.” He looked back to his plate. “Now, for the love of God, will you two let me eat my tea in peace.”
The next morning, Mrs. Mack was just as excited as the girls about the dance. The whole of Aberlady, she told Lorna, was gossiping about it.
“So what’ll you wear?” she asked Lorna.
Lorna had been wondering that same thing. The truth was nothing she already owned would be suitable. Even her best dress for church made her look like a schoolgirl. There was nothing that might suggest she was a mature woman of the world, and she couldn’t even borrow something from Iris or Nellie. Iris’s wardrobe was pretty much as boring as her own, and Nellie had half Lorna’s height and twice her bust. And with there being no clothing coupons left to buy something new, she was starting to despair.
“Oh, I’ll find something,” she said with a shrug.
Mrs. Mack contemplated Lorna, running her eyes up and down.
“I’ve got to pop into the village later on, so let me see what I can do,” she said with a wink. “You can’t go to your first real dance in your school uniform or church clothes, so come home extra quick this afternoon, and bring Iris with you.”
Mrs. Mack refused to say any more, so after school Lorna grabbed Iris—virtually out of William Urquhart’s arms—and dragged her back to Craigielaw.
Iris pumped Lorna for information on the dance as they walked.
“Will you get to dance with an actual pilot?”
“Not sure. The problem is,” Lorna said, “Nellie is so pretty and so, well, womanly, any pilot will be very disappointed to end up with me.”
Lorna looked down at her chest meaningfully.
“I’m not exactly endowed with Nellie’s ‘assets,’ am I?” She and Iris both giggled. “Compared to Nellie’s Bavarian mountains, mine are barely even Lammermuir Hills!”
A picture of Paul striding up a Bavarian mountain formed in her mind. If a man like Paul had already seen the majestic slopes of German mountains, would he ever be interested in exploring small Scottish hills?
A bubble of laughter caught in her throat, choking her at the idea of Paul or any other man exploring her very own decidedly unimpressive Lammermuirs.
“What’s so funny?” Iris slapped her on the back. “I don’t understand.”
Lorna shook her head as she coughed.
“Sorry, I’m fine.” She wiped at her eyes. “Something went down the wrong way.”
“Sometimes, Lorna”—Iris shook her head—“I wonder about you, I really do.”
When they clattered into the Craigielaw kitchen, Mrs. Mack shouted for them to come up to Lorna’s bedroom. On top of the quilted comforter lay a beautiful peacock-blue dress, and both girls oohed over it, fingering the fine fabric.
“This dress belongs to my Sheena,” said Mrs. Mack. “She wore it as her going-away outfit after her wedding. It’s not really the latest style, and it’ll be a little big for you, but if we can pin it on you now, Iris and her mother will take it in for you in time for the dance.”
“B-but I can’t take Sheena’s—” stammered Lorna.
“Yes, dear, you can. Now pop it on, so we can see what needs to be done.”
Lorna looked at Iris. “But do you really think you could—”
“It’ll be easy. You know Mum’s a genius at alterations, and I’m not so bad at them either, even if I say so myself.”
Letting herself be persuaded, Lorna quickly stripped off her school uniform and put on the blue dress before looking in the wardrobe mirror. The dress was a simply shaped satin shift, with a wide curve at the neck. Over the top was a layer of floating organza, which caught the light as it moved, appearing sometimes blue, sometimes green.
Behind Lorna, Mrs. Mack seemed to be struggling with the tiny buttons at the back until Iris stepped forward and took over. Once it was done, she and Mrs. Mack also studied Lorna’s reflection in the mirror.
“I think, if we just”—Iris pinched up the fabric on Lorna’s shoulders—“add in shoulder pads, like this, and lift the hemline higher . . .”
Moving one of her hands down, Iris pulled the bottom of the dress up to just below Lorna’s knees, then looked to Mrs. Mack for approval.
“Not too high,” the housekepeer said.
“And what about the neckline? A bit lower, I think,” Iris said.
“Aye, but not too low.”
It was like they were discussing a dress on a mannequin, though Lorna didn’t mind. The dress was so beautiful, and the alterations were bound to make her stand out. For this dance, she wanted to look like . . . well, not like herself. Not so much, at least.
Iris was drawing a new imaginary neckline with her finger a couple of inches farther down Lorna’s chest. Even though it would be more revealing than anything Lorna had ever worn before, it was nowhere near as low as Nellie or any other older woman would wear. Feeling a flush of bravery, Lorna took hold of Iris’s finger and used it to trace a much more daring line low across her chest.
“Yes, much lower,” she said, winking at Iris. With her other hand, she lifted the hem up so she could see her knees. “And much higher.”
Iris was laughing now. “And tighter?” she asked, grasping the back of the dress until it fitted snugly, accentuating the smooth line of Lorna’s waist.
Lorna grinned and nodded.
“And with your hair up in a swanky Victory roll,” Iris said, using her fingers to loop Lorna’s long hair into a messy twist at the back of her head, “I think we’ll have a winner.”
Lorna looked at herself again in the mirror. She looked different, older. With the alterations in place and her hair set properly, she might really look the way a girl, no, a woman, going to a big dance should look. “But is Sheena sure?” Lorna asked. “It’ll mean she can’t wear it again.”
Mrs. Mack chuckled at Lorna’s reflection. “Don’t you worry. Sheena has had the three bairns since she wore this, and she’s glad you’ll have the enjoyment of it. She said it would bring out the beauty of your skin, and she was right.”
The old housekeeper suddenly pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket.
“You don’t remember, but your mother had the same skin, like peaches and cream. You’ve not got her freckles, and of course, her eyes were blue. . . . Cornflower blue, your father used to tell everyone who would listen. . . .”
Mrs. Mack touched the hankie to her eyes and sniffed.
“Och, listen to me, havering on like this. Now, Iris, take that wee box there so we
can get this dress pinned.”
Iris lifted a tortoiseshell pin box from the bed and set it onto Lorna’s upturned palm. With a few pins held deftly between her lips, she pulled the fabric into tiny tucks around Lorna’s waist and hips, pinning as she went. Then she set a scooping line of pins to mark the new, and much lower, neckline.
Lorna suddenly felt a twinge of sadness. The pin box had belonged to her mother. Lorna didn’t think of her often but wondered now how it might feel if the hands working so deftly now to pin the dress had been her mother’s.
“Oh, Iris,” said Mrs. Mack, peering over Lorna’s shoulder as Iris worked, “that will look simply lovely. She’ll be the belle of the ball.”
“Lorna, you will,” Iris whispered from behind Lorna’s other shoulder, meeting Lorna’s eyes in the mirror. “No pilot could be disappointed in you.”
“Disappointed? In our Lorna?” Mrs. Mack looked indignant. “Now why would any man be disappointed in Lorna? Or in you, for that matter, Iris? You two girls have grown into a couple of real stunners. You’ll have no problem finding yourselves some handsome men to marry, I’m sure of that.”
“Of course, I’ve already found my handsome man, Mrs. Mack,” simpered Iris. “And I know we’re going to be very happy together.”
Lorna pulled a face, but Mrs. Mack studied Iris in the mirror.
“You’re still young, so no need to settle down yet.”
“No, no, this is definitely the real thing, I know it.” Iris sounded entirely convinced. “Although . . .”
“Although?” Lorna prompted.
Iris looked embarrassed.
“Well, it might have been fun to dance with a real American, just once.”
“Maybe it’s not too late,” Lorna said brightly. “Perhaps Charming Charlie could find another friend so you could come to the dance with us.”
“What a wonderful idea!” agreed Mrs. Mack. “Nellie will be in the parlor shortly if you want to ask her.”
“Lorna, do you think she could?” said Iris, but then she frowned. “No, that wouldn’t be right. William wouldn’t be keen on me going to a dance without him.”
She grasped Lorna’s arm.
“Maybe William could come as well.”
Lorna exchanged a glance of disbelief with Mrs. Mack in the mirror.
“I’m not sure . . . ,” Lorna said.
Downstairs, someone rapped hard on the kitchen door.
“I’ll go! That’ll be William,” Iris said excitedly. “He’s here to walk me safely home.”
Lorna and Mrs. Mack exchanged another glance.
“Quick, Lorna,” said Iris, oblivious to their astonishment, “get changed so William’s not kept waiting, and then we can all go and talk to Nellie.”
Lorna was happy to keep William Urquhart waiting, so she took her time changing; then she went downstairs, leaving Mrs. Mack folding the blue dress into a wide white box. By the time Lorna got to the kitchen, Iris had clearly told William about her idea for Nellie to get them into the dance.
“Won’t that be wonderful?” she said, gazing up at him.
William patted Iris’s shoulder. “Certainly not,” he said with unconcealed disdain. “It would be entirely inappropriate.”
Iris’s face crumpled, and she started chewing on her bottom lip.
“How is it ‘inappropriate’?” Lorna glared at William, though he didn’t seem to notice.
“Inappropriate for someone of my standing in the parish, as the minister’s son, to be seen consorting with Americans. Standing is something you will have to think about in future, Iris.”
“Oh yes, of course. You’re right,” Iris said immediately.
Lorna stared at Iris. Why was she agreeing with him?
“And in future,” said William, “before making such suggestions, ask yourself, in these circumstances, what would Mother do?”
Lorna looked at Iris, hoping to find derision, but all her friend did was nod as if she understood exactly what William meant.
Well, even if Iris couldn’t find her internal well of sarcasm, Lorna could.
“I think Iris’s mother would tell her to have a jolly nice time.”
William’s sneer was withering. “Not Iris’s mother. My mother.”
“And why would your mother say that going to the American dance would be a problem for Iris’s standing in the parish?”
“It’s not something you would find easy to understand.” William lifted Iris’s hand into his own. “But fortunately, Iris gets it completely.”
Lorna wanted Iris to smack his hand away. She couldn’t believe her friend was putting up with this.
“Iris, how can you . . . ?”
“Ever since these Americans came to East Lothian,” William continued, “they’ve been arrogant and unbearable, throwing money around and treating us Scots as if we’re second-class citizens. I swear they all think they’re John Wayne.”
“Iris, you can’t agree with him,” Lorna said, but Iris wasn’t listening. William was patting her hand rhythmically as if he were calming a petulant child.
And Iris was letting him.
“Come, come, Iris,” said William with oily reassurance. “Don’t snivel over a silly dance. We’ll have a grand time on Saturday evening playing bridge with my parents, and perhaps we’ll even teach you canasta. Lorna can go off to the dance with all those John Waynes, and good luck to her, because I, for one, would like to spend no more time in the company of an American than I would in the company of a German, thank you very much.”
At that moment, there was another, softer knock, and Paul stepped into the kitchen carrying his empty mug. He stiffened as he saw other people were there. For just a split second, his eyes met Lorna’s, then William’s, and he gave one of his polite nods.
“Good afternoon,” said Paul.
“Good God!” said William.
Without any discernible movement, Lorna saw Paul withdraw behind his protective mask.
“Good God!” said William a second time. “What the hell happened to him?”
Bile rose in Lorna’s throat. “An American grenade happened to him!” she spat.
Iris yelped. The sound was muffled by her hand pressed over her mouth, but it seemed to help William regain his bluster.
“Didn’t I tell you? Bloody Americans, leaving us to pick up the pieces of their dirty work.” William was on his soapbox again. “I mean, could the Yanks not even do their job properly and spare us all such a sight? I can hardly bear to look at him!”
Lorna had to stop William talking, so she spun to face him. But Iris beat her to it.
“William, please,” Iris said, laying a hand on his arm. “There’s no need to be—”
At last, Iris was standing up to him.
“What nonsense!” William pulled his arm away, and to Lorna’s dismay, Iris simply stepped back into silence.
Was Iris going to just accept such a dismissal? “Iris!” she cried. “Don’t let him talk—”
“It’s not like the chap can understand me,” William carried on, with a jerk of his thumb toward Paul.
“Actually—” Lorna wanted to tell him Paul spoke very good English, but Paul was still standing quietly, no expression, no eye contact, the way he had with the sergeant the day she’d met him. Lorna realized this was Paul’s protection against arrogant buffoons, so she let her words die.
“And Iris,” William had already continued, “from now on, you should only visit this farm with my personal protection. Who knows what these Jerries are capable of?”
“Oh, William, really?” peeped Iris, apologetic and simpering, as if trying to make up for having ever questioned his authority. “But what about Lorna?”
“You don’t need to worry about—” began Lorna, but William still wasn’t listening.
“My father has tried to make farmers like Mr. Anderson see how unwise they were to accept these prisoners, but to no avail.”
William was sounding more self-satisfied with every word.
He looked like he was giving a sermon, mimicking his father spouting from the pulpit.
“Of course, if that is Mr. Anderson’s choice, I can’t be expected also to protect Lorna or his other staff.”
“I’m quite sure his other staff,” Mrs. Mack said, from the doorway, “will need no such protection, thank you very much.” She had just descended the stairs, holding the wide white dress box, and she did not look happy. Like a great gray battleship, formidable and threatening, she crossed the kitchen. “Now, Iris, here’s the dress for you to take to your mother. Carry it carefully, please.”
Lorna helped Iris into her coat, and Mrs. Mack handed her the dress box. As Iris and William readied to go, Lorna turned to Paul. But he had left the house without another word.
Again.
Twelve
“Ladies and gentlemen, from the Hammersmith Palais in London, I give you Johnny Tredegar and his Big Band.”
Nellie’s gramophone, which Lorna had set carefully on a tarpaulin on the barn floor, crackled and spat.
The recorded audience clapped politely as the gravel-voiced announcer continued.
“And first, the fox-trot . . .”
The band played the opening bars of Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade,” and Lorna tried to forget that she was wearing her oldest dress, and that her hair was stuck fast to her head in a dozen or more pin curls in the hope that tonight she would be able to tame it into something more glamorous than its usual single braid. Instead, she was already at tonight’s dance with a tall, handsome man standing in front of her, one hand resting on his shoulder and the other holding his hand. She closed her eyes and rocked forward onto the balls of her feet, setting off into the steps and turns that she and Nellie had been practicing all week—back and back and side and close, and . . .
Lorna knew most of the dances—the waltz, the quickstep, the fox-trot—but she was glad to have had the chance of a refresher from an accomplished dancer like Nellie. Of course, with Nellie being so short, and also dancing as the man, the pair of them had ended up tripping over each other’s feet several times, collapsing in heaps of giggles on the barn floor.
Practicing alone now, Lorna was able to move without fear of tripping over Nellie, and she looked forward to being led around a real dance floor by a real man—and hopefully a man taller than Nellie. It felt so elegant, so Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, as if she were actually in the Hammersmith Palais. As the music swelled, Lorna stepped and spun, her breath shortening with the burst of exercise, and she realized that keeping her eyes shut might have been a mistake. The ballroom seemed to be whirling faster than she was, so as the band played its final repeat of the melody, Lorna opened her eyes to regain her balance, though she continued to turn and turn.
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