Mrs. Mack cleared her throat and looked uncharacteristically sheepish.
“Well, no, not four. You see, I mentioned to young Iris that we’d be celebrating, and suggested she might like to join—”
“Iris? You didn’t! You know I’m not talking to Iris after she—”
Lorna was silenced by a glance from Mrs. Mack. As yet, Lorna’s father had still said nothing about whether he had heard the gossip in the village.
“Well, you’re only eighteen the once,” continued Mrs. Mack, “and you two’ve been friends for such a long time.”
Lorna fought to keep a scowl on her face, though inside she was feeling hopeful and excited. In spite of what Iris had done, she still missed her.
“So that’s five. And I thought it would be nice for the lad to join us, given he’s probably not seen his own sister’s birthday party in a few years.”
Mrs. Mack gave Lorna a conspiratorial wink, then looked at Lorna’s father.
Lorna was sure her dad would refuse to have the German prisoner in the house, but he just nodded. He’d always had difficulty refusing Mrs. Mack anything. She had, after all, kept his family clothed, fed, and healthy since his wife had died fifteen years previously. Lorna knew he didn’t pick fights with Mrs. Mack without very good reason and not unless he knew he could win.
“Aye, let him have a quick bite,” Lorna’s dad said, sitting back down by the fire, “but then there’s weeding still to be done over the way before nightfall.”
Lorna felt emotion bubbling inside her. Maybe this party was worth some excitement after all.
Right on cue, there was a tentative tapping at the kitchen door.
“Go on then, lassie,” the housekeeper said with a broad smile. “Let your guest in.”
Lorna rushed to open the door. Paul was there, smiling, and Lorna’s heart skipped as he gave her a wink.
Suddenly she remembered her manners.
“Would you like to come in, Paul,” she said, “and have a cup of tea?”
For goodness’ sake, she’d turned into a waitress in Skeane’s Tea Rooms, Lorna thought, and a giggle burst out before she could stop it.
Her father looked up from the newspaper, at Lorna, at Paul and back again, but then went back to his paper and said nothing.
At that moment, Nellie burst into the room, very effectively appearing to be her old self again. Her blond curls were bouncing and her lips had been painted with her trademark red lipstick. Immediately, she was chatting and laughing, squealing with delight, and almost unrecognizable from ten minutes before.
But Lorna noticed when it came time to fill their plates, Nellie paled and drew a breath, clearly concentrating on keeping her hands steady. She took a bit of everything, chatting all the while, but Lorna noticed that she scarcely ate more than one bite of each thing.
Mrs. Mack was also watching Nellie, obviously unconvinced by the act, but thankfully she didn’t say anything.
Between them, Nellie and Mrs. Mack kept the conversation lively, but Lorna was all too aware that there had still been no second knock at the door by the time the desserts were brought out. Iris had not come after all.
Mrs. Mack lit the candles on the cake, and Lorna hesitated only long enough to make a wish—let the war be over tomorrow, let John Jo and Sandy come home safe, and let Paul stay forever—thinking it so quickly that perhaps it wouldn’t count as three different wishes. For a second, she wondered if she should include Iris in her wish somehow, but no, Iris could do whatever she wanted to do. Then Lorna took a deep breath and blew.
As the flames vanished and four fine streams of smoke swirled up toward the ceiling, Nellie squealed. “Birthday presents!”
Within minutes, Lorna was hugging Mrs. Mack and Nellie, delighted with the beautiful blue hand-crocheted scarf and hat, and with the powder compact and lipstick, thankfully a pale pink, not the bright red Nellie herself wore.
Then Lorna saw her father lift down a thick package, wrapped in brown paper, from the mantelpiece.
That would be the books, as it always was.
Each birthday and Christmas, Lorna’s dad ordered books from James Thin Booksellers in Edinburgh. He didn’t read many books himself, he always told her, and so he wouldn’t know what to choose. Instead, he ordered a selection to interest a girl of eight, or twelve, or this year, eighteen, and Lorna was always happy with what they sent. Sure enough, this parcel included both a new Agatha Christie mystery and a collection of Kipling poetry.
A small cough made Lorna look up from her books. Paul was holding a small flat roll of linen, the same off-white fabric from the workbench in the hayloft. It was tied with a cross of fine brown twine. Lorna smiled at him, moved to think that he had brought something for her.
“You didn’t have to bring me a present. Really.”
Paul handed the packet to Lorna. “The camp store does not sell many gifts, so I wanted to make you something myself.”
Before she could even pull on the twine, however, there was a sharp rap on the kitchen door.
Iris! She’d come after all. But then a man’s voice shouted from outside.
“Mr. Anderson, are you there?”
Lorna’s father strode across the kitchen and opened the door.
Derek Milne hobbled into the kitchen, sweaty and uncomfortable in his post office uniform. He looked nervous, rubbing at the withered leg that had exempted him from war service, not meeting anyone’s eye.
Although Derek had been coming to Craigielaw for years, both as one of John Jo’s school friends and more recently every morning as the Aberlady mailman, this visit was different and everyone knew it. Having a mailman knock on the door at five thirty in the afternoon could only mean one thing, one terrible thing.
And there it was, clutched in his hand. The delivery every family dreaded. A telegram.
Twenty-Two
It lay open on the table where Lorna’s father had dropped it, still bent at its folds.
Minutes ago, Lorna’s father had taken it from Derek, his face grave, and he’d broken the seal and read the contents. Though his expression did not change, the color had drained from his face, and without speaking, he’d dropped the telegram and strode out of the house, leaving the door wide open.
Finally, Lorna gathered what was left of her courage, and picked up the paper with shaking fingers.
At first the grainy gray type meant nothing. It was just random words. She shut her eyes tight, focusing her thoughts, and when she opened her them again the words had formed into staccato sentences she could read aloud.
PRIORITY
TO JOHN ANDERSON CRAIGIELAW FARM ABERLADY EAST LOTHIAN
FROM MINISTRY OF WAR
9 APRIL 1945 REGRET TO INFORM YOU 934810 SERGEANT JOHN JOSEPH ELLIOTT ANDERSON DID NOT RETURN FROM OPERATIONS THIS MORNING STOP MISSING STOP ANY FURTHER INFORMATION RECEIVED WILL BE COMMUNICATED IMMEDIATELY STOP SHOULD ANY INFORMATION REACH YOU PLEASE INFORM THIS DEPARTMENT STOP UNDER SECRETARY OF STATE
Lorna was barely able to whisper the last few words. She stood holding the telegram, unable to put it down, unable to move.
John Jo was missing.
John Jo might be dead.
John Jo had left home with her spiteful words ringing in his ears. He had left home thinking Lorna hated him and now he was missing, perhaps dead, and it was all her fault.
A screeching noise shattered the silence as Nellie pushed a wooden chair under Mrs. Mack’s sagging frame. Once Nellie had helped her sit down, Mrs. Mack pulled out her handkerchief and held it to her mouth.
Why was Mrs. Mack weeping? Yes, the housekeeper had been like a mother to all three children for the past fifteen years. But had she sent John Jo to his death with her vicious bile? Had she told John Jo not to come back? No, of course she hadn’t. So what did she have to cry about?
In that instant, Lorna despised herself, totally and utterly.
She also knew why her father had walked away. He must know that it was Lorna’s fault and been unable to
bear another moment in the same room as her. He was blaming her for John Jo’s death. And John Jo was dead, she was sure of it, because this was punishment for her wickedness, her lies, her selfishness, her anger and . . . for loving an enemy soldier.
She had forgotten Paul was there as she’d read the telegram out loud, but now she found him, standing silently to one side.
There might have been concern in Paul’s eyes, but Lorna would not see it. He was the reason for her pain. His damaged face, and the jagged red scars under his shirt, were reminders of her treachery. Even the remnants of the purple bruise around his eye, now yellowing at the edges, accused her of betrayal.
If Paul hadn’t come to Aberlady, she would never have wanted to kiss him. John Jo wouldn’t have found them together and been so angry. She would never have said what she had.
If Paul hadn’t been here, John Jo would be safe, her father would still love her, and she would not hate herself as truly, as deeply, and as entirely as she did.
Paul was to blame for John Jo’s disappearance, and she hated him for it.
Paul opened his mouth. “Lorna, I am sorry.” He stepped forward. “But your brother is brave and strong. I am sure they will find him.”
Lorna stared at Paul for a second or two, a small part of her wanting to believe him, but then his reassurance was engulfed in a fire of her fury, of her contempt and her guilt. Lorna lashed out. Finding his gift still in her hand, she threw it at him. He caught it cleanly, but right then she wouldn’t have cared if it had smashed to pieces on the floor.
“Get out! Get out of my house! John Jo is dead and it’s your fault.”
“But Lorna—”
She shoved her fists hard against his chest, pushing him against the wall beside the fireplace. Chimes rang out as he crashed against the horse brasses hanging there. Paul grunted in pain and twisted away. The fleeting echo of a light switch speared her spine, and sweaty hands clawed at her thigh. A red fog smothered her mind and her soul. Lorna was raging now. She screamed at Paul and beat her fists against him again and again, wherever she could make contact.
Paul blocked her blows with his forearms and hands, even the one still clutching the linen packet, but he didn’t hit back, didn’t try to stop her. He allowed her to hit him, though he leaned backward to protect his already bruised face.
“Lorna, stop, please” was all he said.
Suddenly, Nellie grabbed her, pinning her arms to her sides. Though Lorna’s body wanted to resist, the spotlight of fury had been snapped off and the red fog was subsiding.
“Paul, I think you’d best go.” Nellie’s voice was low but insistent, and when he hesitated, she repeated, “Go now. I’ll take care of her. She’s in shock, that’s all.”
Shock, that’s all? Really? And what about the guilt and the hatred and the despair?
Suddenly Lorna was as weak as the newborn lambs Paul had nursed. Her legs buckled, and she slumped into a chair beside Mrs. Mack. She buried her face in her hands but still heard the click of the latch as Paul left without another word.
“Lorna,” said Nellie, “it’s not Paul’s fault your brother is missing.”
“No,” Lorna agreed. “It’s mine.”
When the truck from Gosford arrived early next morning, Lorna was holding her damp washcloth across her sore and puffy eyes, not caring that it still dripped down her nightdress.
She heard the truck door slam and then the distinctive accent of the sergeant. “Your other bloke’s in the sick bay, so you’ve got this lump of lard instead.”
Lorna edged aside the curtain and looked down into the yard. An older prisoner, fat, balding, and unhealthy-looking, stood on the flatbed, clearly considering how he could navigate the drop to the ground without a stepladder.
Paul was sick? Lorna wanted to run down and ask the driver what was wrong with him. But of course, she knew. Paul was avoiding Craigielaw, avoiding her. And who could blame him?
Just as the prisoner stumbled to the ground, Caddy sped into the yard. She gave him no more than a vague sniff before circling the truck in search of her beloved Paul. Not finding him, she barked at the truck, calling for him.
Another day, Lorna might have felt as anxious as the little dog, but right now, she couldn’t deny her relief at not having to face Paul.
Leaving her bedroom, she glanced into her father’s room. She hadn’t heard him come back last night, but the bed had clearly been slept in.
She trudged slowly downstairs, her stomach aching, though whether from the unusually rich food or from her overwhelming misery, she wasn’t sure. Either way, she couldn’t think of eating, but she hoped there was a pot of tea already steeping.
Sure enough, there it was. Lorna poured herself a cup, watching the rich brown liquid spiral through the milk. Mrs. Mack appeared from the pantry, carrying a loaf of bread and an almost empty pot of her gooseberry jam. Her eyes were swollen, but at least she wasn’t still crying. Lorna couldn’t have handled that.
“I’m not going to school today,” Lorna said to her. “I couldn’t bear it. So don’t tell me I have to go, because I won’t. And neither you nor Dad can make me.”
She crossed her arms and waited for Mrs. Mack to argue with her.
But Mrs. Mack didn’t respond at all; she just sat down, cradling the loaf on her lap.
“I’m sorry,” Lorna said, “I didn’t mean it like that. But please, don’t make me go. I just want to stay home today.”
Mrs. Mack pulled out her hankie and blew her nose.
“You couldn’t go to school today, dear, even if you wanted to.” She was struggling to speak. “Your class won’t be at school tomorrow either, not until they’ve found a substitute teacher to take over.”
“Take over? But where’s Mrs. Murray? Why can’t she teach us?”
Mrs. Mack’s large bosom heaved.
“Mrs. Murray won’t be teaching you for a wee while, my dear.” A fresh tear escaped and rolled down Mrs. Mack’s cheek. “She received a telegram last evening as well, and she’s been given a leave of absence from the school.”
“Oh, no!” Lorna gasped.
Poor Mrs. Murray! It hadn’t occurred to Lorna that other families might also have received bad news.
“Is Gregor missing too?”
“No, Lorna, dear,” Mrs. Mack said softly. “Gregor is dead.”
Twenty-Three
Sandy came home that weekend, arriving early on Saturday morning, still rumpled from the overnight train from London. He said the trip to Edinburgh was on War Office business, but Lorna was sure that he’d pulled strings to get home as soon as he had heard the news about John Jo and Gregor.
Lorna hugged her brother like she would never let him go, and Sandy seemed happy to let her. He’d brought her a silk scarf from Liberty’s for her birthday, and they spent all that morning together, talking and talking. She and Sandy could always tell each other anything, but somehow, Lorna couldn’t tell him about Paul, or about her fight with John Jo.
Paul had still not returned. It had been four days and still the truck dropped off the “lump of lard.” His English was so poor that when Lorna asked him where Paul was, he simply shook his head. She dreaded seeing Paul again, but she also missed him and was desperate to apologize.
So Sandy’s arrival was a wonderful distraction. Mrs. Mack was always so busy, and Nellie had other things on her mind. And Lorna had barely seen her father since the telegram had arrived. He’d withdrawn into himself, staying behind his own dark shadows. He seemed to have nothing to say to anyone.
But then, Sandy arrived.
On Saturday afternoon, Sandy and their father left the house to walk around the farm, heads bent together, and Lorna would have given anything to go with them. That evening, however, when Sandy persuaded their dad to go with him to the Gowff, Lorna was glad to stay home. She had no wish to be seen around the village any more than she had to.
Next morning, Sandy was watching her intently as she added salt and milk to their porridg
e and placed the bowls on the table beside their cups of tea. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and picked up his spoon.
“Not going to church then?” asked Sandy, eyeing the old skirt and torn sweater that Lorna had put on.
“Not today,” she replied. She would rather swim across the Forth in winter than spend another Sunday morning being whispered about or openly scorned. “I thought we could do something together after my chores are finished.”
“I’d go to church with you,” Sandy said, his studied innocence suggesting he’d heard something about her. But what? And from Dad, or in the pub?
“No, really, I’d rather not.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“Nothing to tell.” Lorna tried to sound bright. “The beach is all covered in barbed wire these days, but we could follow the Peffer Burn and see if the redshanks have nested yet, or the wheatears.”
Sandy smiled. “Yes, let’s do that. And perhaps we can talk as we walk.”
It was bright and warm for April, and Aberlady Bay sparkled in the sunshine. Even the ugly concrete tank traps shone silver in a regimented line along the shore.
“So, tell me about this chap Paul.” Sandy put a match to his cigarette, using both hands to shield the flame from the blustery breeze.
“Paul?” Lorna tried to match her brother’s nonchalance. “Oh, the German? He’s sick, apparently, but Dad and Nellie will be glad to have him back. The other bloke’s no use at all.”
Lorna risked a glance at Sandy. His blue eyes were scanning her face, so she shrugged to emphasize her disinterest.
“Sounds like a useful addition to the farm with me and John away,” said Sandy. “Nellie seems efficient enough, but Dad says she can’t do any heavy lifting.”
“It’s her back, I think,” said Lorna, hoping that tied in with Nellie’s story. “She’s great with the livestock, though. The cows are producing lots more milk now. And the chickens too.”
“Really?” Sandy looked impressed. “She must be good. I’ve never seen anyone get milk from a chicken before.”
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