Wait for Me

by Caroline Leech

  It took her a few spins to get accustomed to the light, to remember that she was in the Craigielaw barn, and to notice that she wasn’t alone. Someone was standing silhouetted against the bright spring sunshine streaming in through the barn door. She stopped spinning and stood, dizzy, seeking out the features of the face, shadowed against the light.

  Then she knew who it was. Paul. Standing, simply watching her dance.

  Lorna tried to get her breath under control and lifted her hand to the scarf covering her hair to make sure the pin curls hidden under it weren’t unraveling. Not that a colorful scarf would make much of a difference to how Paul must see her, more Aberlady wifey than Hollywood starlet.

  Yet she couldn’t work out what he was thinking, the shadow over his face made his expression indecipherable, though she was relieved that he wasn’t laughing at her. But he wasn’t smiling either.

  The music on the gramophone finished, and the announcer spoke again.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your partners for the waltz.”

  The band struck up the familiar tune of “The Blue Danube Waltz,” and Paul’s eyes flickered toward the gramophone for a second as he recognized it too. Then he stepped toward her.

  “Möchten Sie tanzen, Fräulein?” Paul held out his hand, palm up. “Would you like to dance?”

  Lorna’s left hand automatically reached for his, and he laid it gently onto his shoulder. Then Paul placed his own hand against the small of her back and drew her toward him. He took hold of a strand of Lorna’s hair that had escaped the scarf and gently tucked it behind her ear. As he did so, his fingertips grazed the skin at the nape of her neck. Lorna hoped that he didn’t feel the shiver that ran through her at his touch.

  Then Paul took her other hand and they danced.

  As the lilting one-two-three, two-two-three rhythm of “The Blue Danube” filled the room, Paul led Lorna around the barn in a sweeping waltz, both lifted slightly on their toes, their eyes locked on each other.

  This wasn’t like any dance she had ever known, certainly nothing like the dance lessons at primary school, where the girls had been tortured by the gripping fingers, sweaty palms, and tripping feet of boys like William and Craig. It wasn’t even like the genteel tea dances in Tranent and Haddington when she and Iris danced together, taking the lead in turns.

  This was something else entirely.

  As they moved, Paul pulled her closer until their chests were almost touching. Her cardigan was open at the front, and she could hear the rustling of her cotton dress as it brushed against the rough wool of his sweater. This was the closest Lorna had ever been to Paul. His injured face was only inches from her own, but she only saw his eyes, silver gray and sparkling. Her heart was pounding, but whether this was from the exertion or from the thrill of his hands holding her body so close to his own, she wasn’t sure. And at that moment, she really didn’t care.

  The band played its last few bars, but still they kept dancing until there was nothing but a crackling silence from the gramophone.

  Paul slowed Lorna to no more than a gentle sway, and she allowed herself to relax against him, laying her cheek onto his shoulder. As Lorna absorbed his warmth, Paul let his hand trail down the length of her spine. Their feet scarcely moved, a mere echo of the waltz, but Lorna could still feel the rhythm of the dance between them.

  Eventually, they came to a gentle stop. Paul didn’t release her or remove his hand from her back, but Lorna lifted her head so she could look up into his face again.

  Paul bent toward her then, and she thought for one heart-stopping moment that he would kiss her. In anticipation of his touch on her lips, she offered her mouth to his, but Paul simply laid his smooth right cheek close to hers. It was close enough for his light stubble to brush her skin, for his breath to whisper warm on her ear.

  “‘An der schönen blauen Donau,’” he said. “‘On the Beautiful Blue Danube.’ One day, Lorna, I will dance this waltz with you again.”

  Paul pressed his cheek more firmly against hers, and perhaps his lips brushed her skin, she couldn’t tell. Then he walked away.

  Lorna couldn’t move, couldn’t think, she could do nothing but gaze at the space where Paul had been. Her whole body was frozen to the spot, yet every nerve hummed with longing for him to hold her again. Nothing existed beyond the barn, beyond the waltz, beyond Paul’s arms.

  “Ooh, are you dancing?”

  Iris was walking toward her. William was there too, just inside the door, looking incongruous against the backdrop of feed sacks and hay. Iris was carrying the wide white dress box.

  “But dancing on your own? Oh, you poor thing.” Iris sounded sympathetic.

  William was staring toward the far door, and Lorna hoped against hope that he hadn’t been standing there long enough to see Paul go through it. Or longer. She couldn’t imagine how awful he’d be if he knew she’d been dancing with the German prisoner.

  “Don’t worry, though,” said Iris, “you won’t be dancing alone for much longer. You’ll soon have all those handsome American airmen to sweep you off your feet. You lucky thing!”

  “Iris!” William’s voice held a clear warning.

  “I only meant—”

  William gave Lorna a supercilious sneer.

  “Lorna wouldn’t dare risk her own reputation, or her father’s, by letting an American, or any other foreigner, ‘sweep her off her feet,’ as you so blithely put it.”

  Lorna stared back at William. He must have seen them, or he had just guessed. Had her shortness of breath given her away, or her flushed face? Either way, it wasn’t good. She tried to keep down her rising sense of unease by adopting a nonchalant air.

  “I was just practicing so I don’t make a fool of myself tonight.”

  “Indeed.” William gestured to Iris. “Well, here’s the dress. We must be on our way. Mother is expecting us for tea at four o’clock.”

  “Yes, of course.” Iris stepped forward and held out the dress box to Lorna. “I hope you like what we’ve done with it. Mummy said the material is so fine, it was like trying to sew the sea mist. But all the tucks have been done just like I pinned it, and the new neckline is just gorgeous. I really think it’ll be perfect. I wish I could stay to see you in it, but William and I are expected . . . well, you heard.”

  Iris gave Lorna an apologetic half smile, and Lorna felt a twinge of annoyance that her friend was letting this arrogant so-and-so dictate where she went and when.

  “We need to go, Iris.” William’s voice was firm. “So why don’t you take the box into the house? We don’t want Lorna’s precious dress to get dirty, do we, not before her big night?”

  Lorna caught the sarcasm in his tone, even if Iris didn’t appear to.

  “No, of course we don’t,” said Iris. “I’ll pop it into the kitchen right now.”

  At the barn door, she turned. “And while I’m gone, don’t you two start dancing behind my back or anything.”

  Iris trotted in the direction of the house, carefully holding the box, and Lorna self-conciously fingered the scarf round her hair. Almost immediately, William was in front of her. He grasped her round the waist and pulled her toward him, leaving barely any more room between them than Paul had done. But this was not the same.

  “Just like old times,” said William, with a tight grimace masquerading as a smile.

  And Lorna was suddenly back in the Aberlady kirkyard again, aged eleven, being kissed for the first time. It had been a kiss too dry and stiff to be much more than a peck, an embarrassment, an aberration, but it had been her first kiss all the same. It was a kiss that Lorna had never told anyone else about, not even Iris—especially not Iris—because the kiss had been from William Urquhart. But Lorna had never forgotten it, and right now it seemed that William hadn’t forgotten it either.

  “What—?” Lorna rocked back on her heels to try to put some space between them.

  “You need to be more careful, Lorna.” William’s voice was raspy, too close
to her ear. “Even your father has his standards. And if you want a man you can dance with, you only need ask.”

  Lorna looked up at him, horrified.

  “So don’t you throw yourself into the arms of just anyone.”

  His voice had dropped even lower, almost to a croak, as he stressed his last words.

  Lorna couldn’t work out if he was talking about the American airmen or about Paul. Either way, she didn’t care. It was none of William’s business.

  “Don’t tell me what to do!” Lorna tried to move past him, but William stood firm in front of her. “I said, get lost!”

  Lorna shoved her hands against his chest, hard enough to make him stagger back a step or two, just as Iris walked back into the barn.

  “Gosh, Lorna, all this dancing has made your cheeks terribly pink,” Iris said. “You should borrow some face powder from Nellie, just so you look beautiful in your dress tonight. I mean, I know you’ll look beautiful, but you know how much you blush, and . . .”

  Iris only then seemed to notice that Lorna hadn’t responded. She looked from Lorna to William and back again.

  “Everything all right?” she asked.

  “Of course,” William said. “Why on earth wouldn’t it be? Can we go?”

  He tucked his hand under Iris’s elbow and guided her out into the yard.

  “Cheerio, Lorna.” Iris waved over her shoulder. “Have a lovely time tonight. I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

  William too turned back. “Remember what I said, won’t you? You only have to ask.”

  Lorna tried not to throw up as she got ready for the dance that evening, but nerves were fluttering in her stomach. Mrs. Mack had arranged for a neighbor to have the grandchildren so she could help Lorna, and Lorna was grateful to have her there, and not only because of all the tiny buttons up the back of the dress.

  Iris’s chic redesign had been sewn to perfection, and as Lorna had dropped the dress over her head, it slid over her white slip as if it were made of silk. As Mrs. Mack finished the buttons and smoothed the dress down at the sides, Lorna regarded herself in the mirror. The dress hugged her waist before flowing out to her knees, and the adjustment that Iris had made on the neck—a deep heart-shaped curve—made the dress look even more stylish and grown-up.

  Lorna had spent half an hour carefully removing all the pins from her hair, letting the tight little curls fall in loose waves around her neck, then gently brushing out her hair with the silver-backed hairbrush her parents had given her when she was a baby. The soft bristles found gold and red highlights that usually lay hidden in her boring brown hair, but didn’t ruin the waves in it either. Several times during the week, Lorna had watched Nellie twist and pin her hair high above her forehead and roll it at the back, before she had felt confident enough to try it herself. Amazingly, today she had managed to get it right on only the third attempt, sweeping her hair across her forehead and pinning it into a roll above her left ear, then securing the rest into a neat roll all around the back.

  As Iris had suggested, Lorna gratefully accepted Nellie’s offer of some face powder, though she said a very firm no to the rouge. Lorna knew exactly why her cheeks had been so pink that afternoon when Iris had mentioned it—remembering those moments with Paul, and trying to forget those with William, brought an immediate flush to her cheeks again—and she didn’t want to risk adding color when she knew she blushed so easily.

  Lorna asked Mrs. Mack to pass her the tube of pink lipstick, the only one Lorna owned, from the nightstand drawer and then went back to the mirror. But she hesitated before putting any on. She didn’t want to give her dad an excuse to spoil her evening by telling her to “wash that muck off your face.” Then again, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, so she decided to get Nellie to help her put it on properly on the way to the bus stop and hope she didn’t end up looking like a clown. In the meantime, she put just a smudge of pink onto her lips, then rubbed it until there was almost no sign.

  The only thing to spoil the view now were her shoes. There had been no point in asking her dad for new ones, since there was no time to find them, and no spare clothing coupons available anyway. So she was wearing her plain black school shoes, though she had polished them until they shone. Wishing she had feet as tiny as Nellie’s so she could borrow a pair of high heels, Lorna pushed herself up onto her tiptoes and turned around in front of the mirror, peering over her shoulder at the back view.

  There was a light tap at the door.

  “That’ll be your daddy,” whispered Mrs. Mack. “I think he has something for you.”

  Sure enough, Lorna’s father was standing in the hallway with a small blue box in his hand.

  Mrs. Mack stood to one side.

  “Come away in,” she said kindly, “and I’ll leave you to it.”

  “No, no, Edna,” he replied, stepping into the room, “please stay.”

  He looked at Lorna for a long time before he smiled and took a deep breath.

  “Lorna Jane, I was thinking it was about time you have this.”

  He held the little box out toward her and gently opened up the lid so she could see.

  Inside curled a fine silver chain, and lying on it was a miniature silver butterfly, its wings inset with mother-of-pearl, which flashed blue and green as the box moved in his hand.

  “It belonged to your mother. I bought it for her birthday.”

  With trembling fingers, Lorna lifted the butterfly into her hand, letting the chain dangle. From somewhere deep in her memory, she remembered this butterfly lying against a pale, warm throat.

  “I remember this necklace. I remember her wearing it.”

  Lorna looked up at her father and found that his eyes were as misted as her own.

  “You used to love it back then,” he said, “always tugging at it as she carried you about. Eventually she put it away in case you broke it. She said she’d save it for special occasions like Christmas or her birthday. But . . .”

  He sighed and closed his eyes but said nothing more.

  Lorna looked to Mrs. Mack for more explanation. The housekeeper had pulled her lacy handkerchief from her pocket and was dabbing at her nose.

  “But then . . .” Mrs. Mack glanced at Lorna’s father. “But then, there were no more birthdays, and our lovely girl was given only one more Christmas before the good Lord came to take her to a better place.”

  Her father stiffened, but after a moment he opened his dark eyes, so like Lorna’s own, and cleared his throat.

  “But now you have a special occasion yourself, and I think she’d . . . she’d be pleased to know you were wearing it.”

  Lorna held the necklace out toward her father.

  “Would you help me put it on, Dad?” she whispered.

  “No, no, not with my fat fingers, no. This needs a woman’s touch, I think.”

  He stepped back out into the hallway. “But I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.”

  He looked at Lorna for a moment more, and then, with a gentle double pat on the door frame, he disappeared down the hall.

  “Here, let me,” said Mrs. Mack as she took the necklace from Lorna’s fingers and stepped behind her.

  Mrs. Mack placed the butterfly delicately at Lorna’s throat and Lorna tilted her head forward as Mrs. Mack clipped the tiny clasp on the chain at the back of her neck.

  “It could have been made for that dress, my dear,” Mrs. Mack said, looking at Lorna’s reflection. “You look so beautiful.”

  They went down to the kitchen a few minutes later to wait for Nellie, who was still crashing around in her room, singing loudly as she got ready. Lorna’s father stood up from his chair and nodded thoughtfully as he looked Lorna up and down.

  “You look bonny, very bonny indeed. Your brothers will be sorry they missed seeing you like this.”

  Behind Lorna, Mrs. Mack chuckled.

  “They might not have let her out of the house if they had been here.”

  Lorna’s father nodded.


  “Aye, you might be right, Edna. You might be right.”

  Then he walked over to his seat by the fire and switched on the wireless. Before he opened his paper, however, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose.

  Mrs. Mack bustled about the kitchen, gathering her bags and coat. “I’m popping over to get the young lad’s tea dishes before I head home, but don’t you two leave before I get back.”

  “Let me go, Mrs. Mack,” offered Lorna. “I’ll get them.”

  “But your dress, and your nice clean shoes . . .”

  “I’ll be careful, don’t worry. It’ll only take a minute or two.”

  The notion that she wanted Paul to see her in her dress had come to Lorna as she’d stood in front of the mirror, and she’d initially dismissed it. Paul wasn’t her dance partner tonight, he wasn’t even coming, so why should it matter what he’d say when he saw her?

  But it did matter, she really wanted him to see her, so before Mrs. Mack could argue again, Lorna opened the door to the yard, only to stop short.

  Paul was standing there, one hand raised to knock, the other cradling two empty plates. He looked as startled as Lorna felt, but then he smiled.

  “You are still here,” he said quietly.

  “Yes, still here.” Lorna’s mouth had inexplicably dried, and she had to clear her throat to speak. “Nellie’s not ready yet.”

  “But you are . . . ,” Paul began, though his eyes no longer held Lorna’s. They took in her dress and her shoes, before coming to rest on the butterfly at her throat.

  Lorna realized that she wasn’t breathing, waiting desperately for his reaction, wanting him to smile, to say something nice. To say anything.