Nellie held her hand out to Lorna, but Lorna ignored it.
“I do like talking to Paul, I’ll admit that,” Nellie said, “because he’s a lovely fella. But do you want to know what we talk about mostly, Paul and me?”
Lorna shrugged, as if she wasn’t desperate to know.
“We talk about you, Lorna. About what an amazing girl you are, helping me stay here till the baby’s born. And about how clever you are, and about how you need to eat more. And we talk about how much your father and brothers love you and want to protect you.”
She reached out her hand again, and this time Lorna took it, allowing Nellie to pull her down to kneel on the thick hearth rug at Nellie’s feet. Nellie leaned toward Lorna.
“And we talk about how hard it is for Paul to keep his distance from the girl he loves, and how much he wishes he didn’t have to.”
“He said he—”
“He didn’t need to. He has ‘in love’ written all over him, duckie, just like one of my old man’s Navy tattoos.” Nellie drew Lorna’s hand onto her knee and traced her finger across Lorna’s forearm as if following letters inked there. “And I’m sure you have ‘in love’ written all over you too.”
Lorna stared at Nellie’s finger as if she really were tattooing words onto her arm. How could Paul be telling Nellie such things while ignoring Lorna? She opened her mouth to ask, but Nellie seemed to understand.
“Paul is trying to protect you, in his own way. He doesn’t want you to feel you have to choose between him and your brother, at least until you know that John is safe. But he still loves you.”
Lorna drew in a long, slow breath and as she released it, she allowed herself to relax. She should go and find Paul. She’d be happy just to be his friend now that she understood, now she knew he loved her. She should go and tell him . . . but she found she could barely move. She was exhausted.
There were still so many things to worry about—John Jo, Sandy, Dad, Nellie and her baby, Iris, the war—but at least for tonight, one worry had evaporated. Paul loved her.
Laying her head down onto Nellie’s knees, she let Nellie smooth her hair with a warm, gentle hand, and soon sleep stole every other worry away too.
Twenty-Six
A few days later, Lorna was carrying eggs back from the henhouse when the church bells rang out.
Nellie was sitting in the sun outside the scullery door, knitting something tiny in white wool. The two collies were stretched out close by. But now Nellie and the dogs were on their feet staring toward the church, toward the bells. And then more chimes floated like an echo through the mild afternoon air from the direction of Longniddry. The church bells of East Lothian, and all across the British Isles, had been silenced when war was declared in 1939. If the bells rang again, everyone knew, the Germans were invading.
But these bells couldn’t mean an invasion; the Germans weren’t capable of that anymore. Only a few days earlier, Lorna had listened to the slow, rich voice of a BBC newsreader announce to the world:
“This is London calling. This is a news flash. The German radio has just announced that Hitler is dead. I will repeat that. The German radio has just announced that Hitler is dead.”
Finally, Lorna had let herself believe that the end was coming. And now, all these church bells ringing, just before three o’clock on Monday, May 7, 1945, could mean only one thing.
The war was over. Europe was at peace.
The resonant peals were almost drowned out by the clatter of boots as Lorna’s father and Paul ran around the corner. Canny and Caddy began barking excitedly.
Her father was the first to find a voice.
“Is that it, then? Have the bloody Jerries surrendered?” he said, looking greedily toward the church bell tower.
Lorna grimaced as she caught Paul’s eye, but he shook his head imperceptibly.
“Come on then, get the radio on,” Lorna’s father said as he strode inside.
“I’ll get it,” said Nellie. No longer hidden under her bulky uniform, her bump was already starting to show under the cotton of her summer dress.
Lorna’s dad disappeared after Nellie, and Lorna followed, clutching the basket tight. As she went in, Lorna realized that Paul hadn’t moved.
“Come and listen.” Lorna beckoned. “It might all be over.”
“Yes,” he said, “it might.”
The wireless burst to life inside and she could hear the chimes of Big Ben strike once, twice, three times.
Paul started to follow her, so Lorna went inside. Nellie and her father were already seated, leaning toward the wireless set. A voice, the unmistakable growling bass of Prime Minister Winston Churchill, crackled around the kitchen.
“Yesterday morning at two forty-one a.m. at General Eisenhower’s headquarters, General Jodl, the representative of the German High Command, and Grand Admiral Dönitz, the designated head of the German state, signed the act of unconditional surrender of all German land, sea, and air forces in Europe . . .”
Lorna clutched Nellie’s chair for support, her knees suddenly weak. She bowed her head.
It was true then—the war was actually over.
Paul stood just inside the scullery door, listening intently. His muscles were tensed, as if he expected to have to run for his life, but his face was as expressionless as the first time Lorna had seen him. He’d withdrawn behind the protection of his mask. And Lorna could guess why.
The war was over, yet the future was still uncertain, particularly for a prisoner far from home. How long would it take for the POW camps to be disbanded, and the men sent home? And did Paul even have a home or family to go back to? Lorna didn’t know. But she knew no letters had come through the Red Cross from his mother or his sister since before the bombing of Dresden in February.
Lorna shivered. What would that mean for her and Paul?
Lorna didn’t know the answer to that either.
“. . . Hostilities will end officially at one minute after midnight tonight, Tuesday, the eighth of May, but in the interests of saving lives the cease-fire began yesterday to be sounded all along the front, and our dear Channel Islands are also to be freed today. . . .”
Outside, the dogs were barking again, and Lorna opened the door just as Derek Milne propped his black iron-framed bike against the outside wall.
Lorna called Caddy out of the way as Derek almost tripped over her.
“D’you hear that, Lorna?” Derek wheezed. “It’s over, it’s all over!”
“Churchill’s on the wireless right now,” she said. “You didn’t need to come all this way, though. We heard the bells.”
The bright light vanished from Derek’s face, and he dug his hand into his pocket.
“Actually, I was on my way up here anyway.”
Derek pulled out a small brown envelope, but as Lorna went to take it, Derek held it back.
“It’s addressed to your dad.”
The memory of the last telegram, on the afternoon of her birthday, clutched at Lorna’s heart. Derek clearly remembered it, too.
“Is he inside?”
Lorna nodded as a wave of burning acid rose in her gut. She stumbled aside so that Derek could come into the kitchen. Her dad stood to greet him.
Churchill was still talking. “Advance, Britannia! Long live the cause of freedom! God save the King!”
As it had done four weeks before, the blood drained from her father’s face at the sight of the brown envelope in Derek’s hand. After a moment’s hesitation, he took it.
Everything froze. As the booming voice on the wireless dissipated into silence, there was only Lorna and her dad. And that envelope.
Lorna’s father tried to tear the flap, but his hands were shaking, his fingers suddenly too clumsy for the fine paper.
Lorna took the envelope from her father, pulled out the single sheet, and handed it back to him. Holding the message at an angle away from Lorna, he read the message.
Suddenly, his chin dropped onto his chest, and his whole b
ody sagged.
“Dad?” Lorna whispered. “Tell me.”
He lifted his head. His dark brown pupils were awash, the skin around his eyes reddening as the first tear trickled into the graying stubble of his cheek.
How could bad news be dropped on them so quickly on the tail of such good news? It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right.
But even as Lorna’s own tears brimmed over, the corners of her father’s mouth lifted.
“He’s alive, Lorna. My lad is alive.”
He held out the telegram, and as she took it, he sat down hard in his chair, dropping his head into his hands. His shoulders shook, and for the first time in her life, Lorna saw her dad sob.
As before, Lorna struggled to understand the message, to make sense of the contradiction of her father’s words and his tears. But sure enough, Sergeant John Joseph Anderson had been found in a prisoner-of-war camp in Germany. He was injured, it said, but alive.
Lorna dropped to her knees in front of her father. He wrapped strong arms around her, and she let his thick, warm shirt soak up her tears. She sniffed, and without letting her go, her father pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket.
How many little-girl tears had been dried over the years by her dad’s soft cotton hankie?
“Dad, I am so sorry! It was my fault that John Jo left.” Lorna was powerless to stop the confession that had been choking her for weeks. “He was angry with me for talking to Paul, and we had a fight. I said I didn’t care if he came back or not, and he punched Paul, and then he left. He didn’t even say good-bye.”
Lorna burrowed her face into her father’s shoulder.
“And if he had been killed, it would have been my fault too.”
Her father’s arms stayed tight around her. Then he gently pushed her away. He took the handkerchief and wiped her cheeks and nose. Then he hugged her to him again.
“It’s over. It’s all over,” he said softly into her hair. “And none of this was your fault. The war is over and our John is coming home.”
“But Dad, I—”
“The war made all sorts of people do all sorts of stupid things, but now that it’s over, we will have to work out how to make the best of the consequences.”
Lorna’s father laid his hand onto Nellie’s arm. She was crying too, pressing her knitting to her face.
“Isn’t that right, Miss Nellie? People make silly mistakes during wartime, but together we can work them out.”
Nellie dropped her knitting into her lap and held out her hands to Lorna and her father.
“Mr. Anderson, I’m so happy that John is safe. And that the war’s really over. But now,” Nellie sniffed hard, “I’m scared about what’s going to happen to me.”
“Oh, lassie, don’t you worry. You’re part of this family now, so we’ll be with you for whatever’s coming.” Lorna’s father gestured toward Nellie’s belly. “And something tells me it’ll be an adventure.”
Lorna glanced up. Derek had gone, and so had Paul, and one of them had closed the door behind them.
Her father patted his pocket. Failing to find another handkerchief, he used his shirtsleeve instead and stood up.
“Right!” he said, his voice cracking. “This calls for a celebration. Nellie, get some glasses down, and I’ll get the beer. I’m sure a wee drop of stout will do that baby of yours no end of good.”
He strode across the room, but at the pantry door, he looked back.
“And Lorna, go and bring back that young man of yours. We don’t have any of that fine German beer he was telling me about, but I am sure Belhaven’s will suit him just as well.”
Had he really called Paul that young man of yours? He knew? And he wasn’t angry?
Lorna’s father reappeared from the pantry, bottles in his hands. Seeing Lorna’s astonishment, he laughed out loud. Wonderfully loud.
“Lorna Jane, do you honestly think that your old man can’t spot the flush of a young girl’s cheek and the bounce in a young man’s step? For all that he’s a Jerry, Paul’s a good lad. He’s suffered enough for a boy of his age, so you might as well enjoy each other’s company while you can.
“But learn this lesson well,” he said, shaking his finger in mock admonition. “I have eyes in the back of my head. So wherever you go and whatever you do, you can assume I will know about it.”
He kissed her forehead.
“Now, get that boy in here before I change my mind and chase him off my farm with a pitchfork.”
He set the bottles down and flipped off the first cap with his penknife. Lorna hesitated only a moment longer before she did as she was told.
She had gone several steps when she sensed something behind her and turned. Paul was standing by the wall outside the door, head tilted back. He looked drained, exhausted, lost.
Would Paul still want to keep a distance between them now? Because she didn’t. She couldn’t.
Crossing the space between them, Lorna laid her hand against his cheek. His eyes opened, though they didn’t focus on her immediately, as if he were somewhere very far away.
“Paul,” she whispered. “I’m here.”
She slid her hand into the short hair at the back of his neck and drew his face down so she could kiss the soft skin of his forehead, then his cheeks, then along his jaw. Finally, she kissed his lips, tenderly, to reassure him that they could be together now, and that everything would be fine.
It wasn’t long before Paul’s mouth responded with reassurances of his own.
Twenty-Seven
Paul was opening another bottle of Belhaven’s when the door burst open and Mrs. Mack barreled in, flushed and breathing hard.
“Oh my . . . thank you, dear . . . goodness!” Mrs. Mack panted. “Isn’t it . . . marvelous? The news . . . about the war, and about . . . our John too. . . . Derek came straight to tell me . . . about . . . the telegram. So I headed right . . . back!”
Lorna took Mrs. Mack’s carpetbag and shopping basket, while the housekeeper flopped into a chair, drawing in long breaths and fanning herself with her coat collar.
“Oh, I shouldn’t be dashing around at my age . . . but it’s such wonderful news, isn’t it?”
Finally, she stopped talking and looked at the amused faces around her.
“Did I interrupt something?”
Lorna bent down to hug Mrs. Mack, and her father squeezed his old friend’s shoulder.
“Not at all, Edna,” he said. “And yes, it is wonderful, isn’t it? Thank you for coming back. Can I get you a glass of beer to celebrate, or a dram?”
“Oh no, dear, not whisky, but a wee cup of tea would be perfect.” She struggled to her feet. “Let me put the kettle on, and there’s a wee bit of cake in the pantry.”
Lorna gently pressed her back into the chair.
“You get your breath back. I’ll get the tea.”
As Lorna walked past her father, he looked pointedly at his watch.
“Once you’ve done that,” he said to her, “those heifers aren’t going to milk themselves now, are they?”
Paul put his glass down on the table.
“I am happy to milk the cows, Mr. Anderson. But before I go”—Paul hesitated—“there is something else I would like to do.”
As Paul drew a white linen wrapping out of his pocket, there was a knock on the door.
“I’ll get it,” said Nellie, already walking over to open it.
“Is Lorna home?”
Lorna immediately lost track of what Paul had in his hand. That was Iris’s voice.
“I’d like to talk to her, if she’s here,” Iris continued, “if she’ll speak to me.”
In two steps Lorna was across the room, throwing the door wide open.
“Of course I’ll speak to you, Iris, you ninny!”
With a cry, Iris rushed into the room, letting Lorna enfold her in a hug.
“I been wanting to tell you how sorry I am,” said Iris, “about John Jo, and about—”
“It’s fine.” Lorna squeezed
her harder.
“And I didn’t not want to talk to you, but William said I shouldn’t. And I wouldn’t blame you if you never want to talk to me ever again, after what I said to William about you and—”
Iris stopped talking suddenly. She was staring at Paul as if he were a growling dog, terrified but fascinated.
“Oh! I didn’t expect . . .”
Paul nodded to Iris, smiling slightly, and put whatever it was back in his pocket.
“Look who it is!” said Lorna’s father, walking toward Iris. “Young Miss Robertson. It’s been a long while since we saw you. And you’re just in time for a cup of tea.”
“Oh, thank you,” Iris stammered, dragging her eyes away from Paul. “It’s wonderful news about John Jo. . . . Derek stopped by to tell us.”
“Yes, indeed, a very special day. One we’ll remember for a while yet. Come on, Lorna, what about that kettle?”
“Now, Lorna, I’ll be getting that,” said Mrs. Mack, pushing herself out of her chair and walking stiffly over to the stove, “so you girls can have a natter.”
As Mrs. Mack picked up the kettle and headed into the scullery, there was another knock at the door.
“Who’s this now?” said Lorna’s father, with a chuckle. “It’s like Sauchiehall Street on a Saturday night.”
Nellie was still beside the open door.
“Hello,” she said to the new arrival. “Come to join the party, have you, duckie?”
“Is Mrs. McMurdough here?”
Iris froze.
“Who?” said Nellie, sounding puzzled. “Oh, Mrs. Mack!”
“Yes, Mrs. Mack. Is she here? My mother needs to speak to her.”
“William?” Iris gasped like a child caught doing something naughty, and grabbed Lorna’s hand.
William came into the kitchen, frowning.
“Iris, what are you doing here? I thought you were helping your mother with the bunting.”
“Oh, well, yes, I was,” said Iris, “but then, I decided that I had to talk to Lorna—”
“Had to talk to Lorna?” His tone was snide. “What did you have to talk to Lorna about so suddenly?”
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