by Ian Slater
Robert had chickened out from asking either Rosemary or her parents about marrying her but gathered his forces and did so on the second to last day of his leave.
Richard Spence was stunned. As he confessed later, it had really been Anne who, to use his potential son-in-law’s idiom, “carried the ball.” She hadn’t seemed surprised at all. But Anne Spence had already lost one child and might lose more if the Russians managed to drive through in the next great offensive and take the French ports. England would be next.
They gave their blessing to Robert and Rosemary, but Richard was still fretting on the last night before Robert would have to leave and go north to Holy Loch. In their bedroom Richard was pacing back and forth, Anne having already taken her pill, trying, despite her jangled nerves, to get some sleep. “Will you stop!” she said finally.
“Too fast,” said Richard. “It’s all too fast for my liking. Too fast!”
“Perhaps not fast enough,” his wife said quietly.
“What do you mean?” he shot back.
“None of us knows whether we’ll be here tomorrow. They might as well.”
Richard didn’t speak for a long time, and not until he was in bed did he concede the point. “Perhaps you’re right.”
* * *
In the blacked-out living room, Robert and Rosemary held each other, not saying much, neither wanting to talk about the cold fact that tomorrow he would be off again to war.
“If you want,” she began.
“No,” he said, “though I suppose you think I’m nuts.”
“I think you’re wonderful and I love you and — I’m so afraid for you.”
“Maybe we should put it off then until—”
She placed her finger on his lips. “No,” she said softly, shaking her head, resolute in her decision. “No. We’ll get married as soon as you come back. As we planned.”
There was a taping on the front door, and from the living room Robert could see the small red light that came on as whoever was outside also tried the chime bell.
“Chime doesn’t work,” said Rosemary, getting up and brushing herself down, looking presentable as she walked toward the door.
Outside, a policeman was standing beneath the porch light, rain glistening on his cape.
“Yes, Constable?”
Rosemary came back, her shapely figure outlined in the spillover of the kitchen light, one hand on her chest in relief.
“What’s up?” Robert asked.
“The drapes. Apparently there’s a slit of light from Mummy and Daddy’s room.”
As she walked down from her parents’ room and he saw her silhouetted again, this time in the faint hallway light, he didn’t think he could control it any longer. Nor could she.
He took her by the hand, and in the darkness of the living room they made love.
“Tell me…” she said, “promise me, you’ll come back.”
From the coast came the dull thudding of antiaircraft fire and the high, swishing noise of missile salvos, and he remembered Lana’s premonition of danger, her counsel to give love, to have love, while one still could.
“I’ll comeback.”
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