“And miss seeing my wee sister? Not a chance!” John Jo took her hand and squeezed it gently. “Lead me home, Patch, lead me home.”
Lorna tucked herself under her brother’s arm again. It was as though someone had just put a wad of paper under the wobbly leg of her stool. With John Jo home, she finally felt stable.
By the time their father strode into the kitchen, the kettle was whistling on the range and Lorna was shrieking at the story of the night John Jo had left his billet in the dark to have a pee, wearing only his underwear, and had then lost his way back. He’d ended up sleeping in a complete stranger’s sleeping bag, someone who wasn’t at all pleased to find John Jo there when he returned from sentry duty in the middle of the night.
Her dad stood by the door, looking at his son and daughter. He was trying to look stern, but Lorna could see his eyes were twinkling with delight. “Keep the noise down, you two hooligans. You’ll wake the neighbors.”
Then the two men came together, clapping each other in a tight embrace. Lorna’s dad stood back and held his son at arm’s length, looking him over with pride.
“So the Royal Scots have had enough of you, have they?”
John Jo stood up to attention with a stamp of his boots. He brought his right hand up to his forehead in salute.
“‘First of foot, right of the line . . . ,’” he began the regimental motto at the top of his voice, as if on a parade ground.
“‘. . . and the pride of the British Army!’” Lorna’s father bellowed back to his son, returning the salute.
“Talk about waking the neighbors,” Lorna said as she poured boiling water onto the tea leaves in the pot.
“Don’t you dare!” cried John Jo. “I’ve had enough army tea to last a lifetime. Let’s have the good stuff!”
With that, he picked up his kit bag and clanked it onto the kitchen table. Within moments, he had retrieved a dozen brown bottles, which he lined up along the center of the table.
“Now that’s what I call a homecoming!” John Jo declared, flipping the lid off one of the bottles with a pocketknife and offering it to his father.
Lorna’s dad shook his head.
“No, lad, a cup of tea will do me fine just now, but a beer with the mince an’ tatties sounds like a rare treat.”
John Jo lifted the bottle in the air to toast his father before placing it to his lips and glugging down half the bottle in one swallow. He then burped loudly and threw himself down into a chair with a laugh.
Lorna filled her father’s favorite mug with the strong tea and added some milk, the way he liked it. Having set it on the table beside him, she busied herself with the dishes that Mrs. Mack had left prepared for them, all the while listening to her father and brother talk. She hadn’t seen her father this animated in months.
If only Sandy would come home too, then everything would be truly wonderful again.
It was only as she put the bread basket onto the table that she realized that the tea she had made for her father was still sitting there, untouched. The cream in the milk had floated to the surface as it had cooled and was forming a pale scum across the rich brown liquid.
She looked at her father. Like John Jo, he had a beer bottle in his hand, and two more empties were on flagstones at their feet.
So much for him having just one beer with his tea.
At the table, Lorna was content to let the two men discuss the farm and the village and the war, feeling no need to say much herself; she just reveled in the return of her brother and enjoyed the unconcealed happiness on her father’s face.
Nellie came in from the yard a few minutes later. She gave John Jo an unusually brief and disinterested hello. Then she excused herself and disappeared up to her room, saying she wasn’t hungry and wouldn’t need any tea.
What was up with Nellie? When she’d met John Jo the year before, she’d been all smiles and giggles, the same flirtatious manner she used with every man she met under seventy—make that eighty. So what was wrong with her tonight?
John Jo was looking at the door through which Nellie had just gone, and he gave a long, low whistle.
“Now that is one pint-pot packed full of woman!” he said. “I wouldn’t mind sharing my billet with that one!”
“John Joseph, mind yourself, now!” said Lorna’s father, though a smile played on his mouth. “I don’t need anyone meddling with my farmhands. It’s all I can do to get them to do their work, without distractions from my own children.”
Although the comment was addressed to John Jo, their father glanced at Lorna as he finished. He was obviously talking about Nellie, but could he be including Paul in that comment too? What had her dad noticed?
To cover her embarrassment, Lorna turned the subject back to Nellie.
“Anyway, Nellie’s already taken. She’s been seeing one of those American airmen over at East Fortune for weeks now.”
“Bloody Yanks!” John Jo groaned. “They’re everywhere. London’s swarming with them, flashing money around and acting like it’s their God-given right to take all the prettiest girls.”
He lifted another bottle.
“You know what they say about the Yanks, Lorna, don’t you?”
Lorna shook her head.
“That they’re overpaid, oversexed, and over here!”
He threw his head back in a guffaw, and Lorna’s father joined in the laughter. An image flashed into her mind of Ed’s wet mouth forcing its way onto her own, and she shuddered.
“Talking of farmhands, how is Old Lachie these days?” John Jo asked his father. “Still on his feet and breathing? That’s one of your farmhands I won’t be tempted to meddle with.”
Lorna waited for her father to reply, but he was studying the mince and mashed potatoes on his plate instead. Hadn’t he told her brother yet that Old Lachie had retired months ago? After a moment or two, her father glanced at Lorna and then answered John Jo’s question slowly and deliberately.
“Aye, Lachie’s doing fine, lad, but he took quite a tumble out in the Glebe field before Christmas and hurt his hip. The doctor told him to retire. He still drops by to say hello, though I’m surprised you didn’t see him in the Gowff earlier on, since he mostly lives in there now.”
Her dad chuckled, but then looked sideways at John Jo.
“So who’s minding the sheep then, Dad?” asked John Jo. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to do it all yourself with nobody but the little crumpet upstairs.”
“No, no,” Lorna’s father replied. “The ministry sent us someone—”
“Another delicious Land Girl?” John Jo looked in the direction Nellie had disappeared. “Oho, you old goat! Two for the price of one, eh?”
Her father’s face darkened.
“No,” he said sharply. “Not another lassie. The ministry sent us a young lad from Gosford Camp.”
Lorna could see her father was nervous about revealing that there was a German soldier working on the farm. She could understand why—hadn’t she been upset by the idea herself at first?—but she’d never known her father to kowtow to anyone else’s opinion before. How badly did he expect John Jo to react?
“Gosford Camp?” John Jo said. “Didn’t I hear they’d thrown the army out and locked up a bunch of Germans in there?”
“Aye, that’s right,” Lorna’s father said. “But none of the prisoners are dangerous, so they’ve put them out to the farms to work for their keep. We’ve got one of them comes here every day . . . a young lad . . . name of Paul Bogel.”
“Vogel,” Lorna corrected him before she could stop herself.
Her dad flashed her a look, and she could have bitten her tongue. She waited, like her father, for her brother to explode with fury at the idea of a German on his farm.
To Lorna’s astonishment, John Jo’s head went back again in another belly laugh, then he bent forward, slapping his hand on the table. Lorna and her father looked at each other in reserved surprise.
“Well, if that doesn’t beat it all,” J
ohn Jo said. “Here’s me, sent away to fight the evil Hun for years on end, only to find him sneaking into my own home by the back door! That’s just rich!” He continued to laugh, but Lorna couldn’t join him. He was being loud and boisterous, perhaps, but John Jo was lacking one thing—humor. There was a rawness she didn’t recognize, a brittle tone she didn’t like. Beside Lorna, her father sat straight-faced and silent, leaving his son to enjoy his big joke alone.
Lorna served Mrs. Mack’s stewed apples for dessert. Within two mouthfuls, the tension had relaxed, and John Jo’s stories—truly funny this time—had lightened the mood again. The three of them spent the rest of the evening reminiscing and teasing as if nothing about a German prisoner had been said.
Her father retired to bed only a little later than usual. Lorna tidied up the kitchen and lined up ten empty bottles by the back door so she could take them back to the little window behind the Gowff and get the threepence return on each of them. When Lorna suggested John Jo should go to bed too, he waved her away with his bottle.
“I’m fine, Patch, I’ll just sit here a few minutes more. On you go.”
So Lorna left him sitting in their father’s chair, staring into the fire, eyelids drooping, and went upstairs to bed.
It was wonderful to have John Jo home again, but she’d seen a hard edge to him today she’d never seen before, a hint of hidden menace that unnerved her. Lorna couldn’t help feeling this visit might not be all that she’d hoped it would be.
Seventeen
On Thursday after breakfast, John Jo told Lorna that he and their father would be going to Dunbar in the afternoon to see the feed merchant. Lorna had a feeling they would also visit a few of the farms and pubs where John Jo was best known. Though part of her wished she could go too, and spend more time with her brother, she was also pleased to know they would be away from the farm till teatime at least.
Over the last week, after she’d come home from school and finished her chores, she’d spent an hour or so helping Paul with his work in the vegetable garden or the lambing shed, until she had to go to serve up the tea, and Lorna enjoyed this brief time together.
That afternoon, she headed out with a bowl of kitchen scraps to feed to the chickens and was delighted to find Paul at the chicken run, filling a hole under the wire netting where a fox had been digging. Caddy, the young collie, sniffed busily around. When she heard Lorna approach, she dashed over with a quick bark and gave Lorna’s shoes, skirt, and the bowl of scraps a cursory sniff before returning to the more interesting smells near Paul.
“Once upon a time, Caddy-girl,” said Lorna, “you and I were inseparable. Look at you now, you fickle besom.”
Paul looked up from where he was crouched and smirked, nodding at the china bowl in her hands.
“My tea is ready early tonight, yes?”
Lorna regarded the chopped mess of potato and carrot peelings, apple cores, and goodness knew what else and grimaced.
“I think there may be something tastier still to come, but if you’re hungry now . . .”
She moved toward Paul, holding the bowl at an angle as if to pour the scraps over his head, but she swerved away at the last second, opening the catch on the gate instead.
“Das wagst du nicht,” said Paul, sitting back onto his heels and shaking his head. Was there a wicked glimmer in his eye?
“I beg your pardon?” Lorna giggled. “You called me a what?”
“I said, ‘You wouldn’t dare.’”
“Oh, wouldn’t I?”
Lorna picked up a handful of the slimy scraps and made to throw it at Paul. He laughed and put up an arm to protect himself, but instead, Lorna just tossed the scraps into the run toward the chickens, which all came over bustling and pecking as if they hadn’t been fed in a week.
“I told you that you would not dare,” singsonged Paul, as Lorna emptied out the remainder of the peelings, and then shut the gate and slid the wide wooden catch back into place.
“Ha! Don’t count on it. I’ll get you next time.” Lorna loved seeing Paul relaxed and having fun, almost as if they shared a normal life.
“Can I help you?” she offered.
“Not right now,” said Paul, “but in a minute, yes, if you have time.”
“Of course. I’d be happy to.”
If only he knew how happy.
Lorna walked over and set the bowl on top of the bomb shelter that her dad and John Jo had built between the chicken run and the barn back in 1939. They’d joked as they worked that this was an Anderson Shelter not only because it had been introduced by the government minister, Sir John Anderson, but also because it was quite literally, the Andersons’ shelter. It was a corrugated iron arch sunk several feet into the ground, with soil piled along its sides to deaden the impact of any bombs falling nearby. In the early years of the war, Lorna and the others had run regularly from the house when they heard the air-raid sirens, tugging on boots and coats over their pajamas as they jumped down the four steps into the shelter. But there hadn’t been an air raid for almost two years, and even if the siren sounded now, Lorna doubted they’d run to the shelter. It was flooded knee-deep with rainwater last time she looked.
The day was mild, so Lorna took off her cardigan and folded it onto the corrugated iron surface before hoisting herself up on top to sit. And to watch Paul.
Caddy suddenly set off toward the woods with her nose to the ground, only to sprint back again. After doing this three times, the dog settled near Paul, resting but not relaxed, prepared to tackle any intruder if she needed to.
Lorna smiled wryly. The puppy had fallen for Paul as hard as Lorna had. Poor little thing.
Paul stamped on the earth he’d packed into the hole, then unfurled a roll of chicken wire, kneeling on it to flatten it out.
“Would you pass the cutters to me, please?” he asked, pointing to a pile of tools nearby.
As Lorna jumped down, her foot caught in the tufty grass, and though she managed to get her hands up to break her fall, she hit the dirt hard.
“Oh God,” she croaked, as the gravel bit into her hands and knees.
Paul was at her side, quickly followed by Caddy, who gave a sharp bark of concern. Lorna tried to catch her breath and calm her racing heart as she sat and clutched at her knees, trying to push the pain back in.
She hadn’t bothered with stockings that morning because it was so mild. So when she lifted her hands, her palms came away covered in blood and grit.
Were her hands bleeding, or her knees, or both?
On closer inspection, her hands had got off lightly. On her knees, however, the fall had torn open the soft pink scar tissue left by her fall after the dance. Putting her hands back over the grazes, she swallowed hard against the tears.
Paul lifted one of her hands to study the damage. He pushed Caddy’s inquisitive nose away and brushed the tiny pieces of grit from her palms with delicate fingers.
“Ooh, that is looking very hurtful . . . very sore,” he corrected himself, then reached out a hand and steadied her leg while he studied the damage. “We must wash out the dirt quickly.”
Before Lorna could stop him, Paul stood up and stripped off his shirt, leaving him in his once-white undershirt. He doused the tail of the shirt in water from his canteen and gently dabbed at the graze on her right knee, dripping water onto it as he did so.
Lorna gasped slightly at the sting, and Caddy barked again.
“Oh, be quiet, you silly dog!” she muttered.
Paul smiled as he pushed the dog away.
“She only wants to help,” he said.
As he continued to wipe grit away with the wet shirt, Lorna let herself be distracted from the pain by the taut muscle of Paul’s bicep moving only inches away. Her pulse was still racing, but now for a very different reason.
Lorna could smell him, that clean earthy farm scent, and she dropped her face closer into the curve of his neck, savoring the scent of him. She wanted to run her hands over his smooth, bare skin and to pull
his pale pink, soft, and inviting lips onto hers. But she knew she shouldn’t.
Lorna let out a long sigh.
Paul must have heard her or perhaps he felt her breath on his skin, because he lifted his head and his gray eyes met hers.
“I hurt you?” he barely whispered.
Lorna shook her head very slightly. Even when they had danced, she hadn’t been this close to him, so close to the damaged skin on his face. Again she wondered what pain Paul had suffered.
She lifted her hand until her fingertips were barely a touch away from his damaged cheek. “Does it still hurt?”
He gave her a rueful smile.
“The skin does not hurt anymore,” Paul said softly. “But my lost face, my vain-ness—my vanity—may never recover.”
He smiled with self-mockery.
“I’m serious,” said Lorna.
“I know. If it is cold, or if it gets hit, then yes, it hurts. I think I will never be a boxer.”
Paul smiled again, and Lorna lost all sense of will. She wanted to wrap herself in his arms and feel his lips hard against her own.
Beside them, Caddy barked, but Lorna ignored her, desperate to stay locked in Paul’s gaze. But when she heard a low growl in the dog’s chest and a crunch of boot on gravel, she looked over his shoulder at what Caddy had already seen.
Lorna almost fell backward.
John Jo was standing not six yards away from them, arms crossed, legs apart, a brick wall of muscled fury.
“Get your filthy hands off my sister!” he roared.
Lorna scrambled to her feet. “John Jo, what are you doing back so early? Where’s Dad?”
She could feel the embarrassment of being caught so close to Paul flooding her face, but John Jo couldn’t have seen her flush because he wasn’t looking at her. His dark eyes were narrowed at Paul.
Paul stood up and took a step away from Lorna.
Caddy, still growling, moved to Paul’s side. Unlike her mother, Caddy was too young to know who this big man was. John Jo hadn’t been back to Craigielaw since she was born, and she clearly didn’t trust him.
Lorna instinctively moved toward John Jo, putting herself directly between him and Paul. Did she trust her brother as little as the dog did?
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