Last Letter Home

by Rachel Hore

  It couldn’t have been Aruna, she concluded as she stared into a gift shop window at the garish flowerpots and tea towels within. Lots of women had glossy black hair and that style of sunglasses, a tasselled leather bag swinging from their shoulder. What a silly mistake she might have made, barging in to greet her. Her face grew hot at the thought. She stopped at a newsagent to buy a paper and couldn’t resist adding a tub of expensive ice cream from a freezer cabinet to her purchases. She walked slowly back past the bistro on her return to the car, but a party of people had gathered inside the door, blocking her view.

  Twenty-five

  October 1940

  Sarah had finished mending a puncture on an upside-down bicycle late one afternoon when she heard footsteps on the gravel path. She glanced up to see a familiar uniformed figure.

  ‘Ivor, good heavens,’ she said, holding out oily hands. ‘I didn’t know you were coming home.’ He took off his cap and crossed the grass to hug her and kiss her cheek.

  ‘I thought I’d surprise you.’

  ‘You certainly did that.’ His admiring gaze as ever left her flustered. ‘Where have you popped up from?’

  ‘Today, London. Before that, Scotland. I’ve a week’s pass. How are you? You look . . .’

  ‘A mess, I know, but I’ve looked worse. Straw in my hair and dust in my throat a few weeks back.’

  ‘But it was a good harvest, my pa says. That’s marvellous. And what I was going to say was that you look as beautiful as ever.’

  ‘Ivor, you’re very flattering, but I’m afraid it’s simply not true.’ Sarah began to rub the grime off her hands with a rag, ashamed of her callouses and broken nails.

  ‘What needs doing here?’ He bent over the machine.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve done it. I rode over some barbed wire on a footpath. Stupid, really.’

  He flipped the bicycle up onto its wheels and tested the handlebars with his weight. ‘You’ve done a good job.’

  ‘Thank you, kind sir. Don’t sound so surprised.’ She wheeled it into the shelter of the veranda, then invited him inside for a drink.

  ‘Mummy is over at the Bulldocks. Mrs C. has put on a benefit – something to do with India, so she wasn’t allowed to say no. And Diane’s in Dundee. She’s joined the Wrens, I expect you know.’

  ‘Yes, so I heard from Mother.’

  ‘We were astonished when she told us. I don’t think she likes it much. She’s a coder, whatever that means. Says the work is tiresome and they haven’t received their uniforms yet. Pour yourself a whisky, if you want one. I shan’t be long.’

  Sarah flew upstairs to the bathroom, where she washed her hands and face. As she changed in her bedroom, she caught her reflection in the wardrobe mirror and was horrified at how Ivor must have seen her. Freckles on her face and arms, a long bramble scratch along her collarbone and sun-bleached hair as frizzy as a furze bush. Still, her eyes were bright enough and it was nice to step into a frock for a change. She attacked the furze bush with a hairbrush and went back downstairs.

  Ivor was sitting flicking through the evening paper, but threw it aside when she entered. He handed her a whisky and soda that she didn’t want and once again she was aware of his admiring gaze as she sat down beside him and sipped the drink politely.

  ‘I can’t offer you much to eat, I’m afraid,’ she sighed. ‘Nothing nice, that is. Mrs Allman’s left us a rather fearful-looking cold collation.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m expected home for supper. My mother’s killing the fatted calf. Or the fatted chicken, rather.’

  ‘I don’t know where we’d be without the hens and the rabbits. Derek, our evacuee, has a young boy’s healthy appetite, though he doesn’t like goat’s milk. But tell me where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing. Nothing too dangerous, I hope?’

  ‘It’s been pretty dull actually. But I believe we’ll see some action soon.’ He explained how since coming home from France he’d been mostly training new recruits. He was full of funny stories about incompetent officers and nervous rookies, but behind the laughter Sarah sensed worry and frustration. Apprehension, too. He avoided saying where his company might be going next, if indeed he knew. Instead they moved on quickly to speak of concerns nearer home.

  ‘Has there been any news of Bob?’ The Bulldock boy’s company had become separated from the rest of the battalion in France and taken to Germany as prisoners. The family had been reassured to hear from Bob via the Red Cross in July. ‘But it’s a terrible strain on the family,’ Sarah sighed. She stood and fetched the decanter to refresh Ivor’s glass.

  ‘Absolutely. Whoa, thank you. I heard about Hartmann, too,’ he said in a nonchalant way and her hand froze on the decanter as she set it on the tray. ‘A poor show sticking everyone behind bars like that, but you have to see it from Churchill’s point of view. It’s not worth the risk. I know you’re sympathetic to him, Sarah, but England is on its own in all this. The risk of treachery is very real.’

  ‘It’s downright cruel,’ Sarah insisted. ‘Paul Hartmann hates Hitler and everything he stands for.’

  ‘He’s still a German, though. A man’s natural instinct is to support his homeland, though I accept that Hartmann must feel pulled two ways.’

  ‘Rubbish. There was no need to lock him up. You heard about his poor mother, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, my ma wrote me,’ he said. ‘A crying shame.’

  ‘She was only fifty-one. I was surprised, as she seemed much older. I was the one who found her, did your mother say?’

  ‘Yes, that must have been a shock.’

  ‘It was. And it was awful writing to Paul to tell him. I feel so dreadfully for him about it.’

  ‘You poor old thing. Still, you mustn’t get yourself in a state.’

  ‘I’m not in a state, Ivor, I’m just concerned. What must it be like for Paul? He’s on his own now, and nobody seems able to say what will happen to him.’

  ‘Hartmann will be all right. We’re a civilized nation. We don’t treat these people badly.’

  ‘No? What about that ship that sank, the Arandora Star? It was taking enemy aliens to Canada. Canada! How cruel to separate families like that. And to risk the U-boats.’

  She’d started to shake and when she sat down again he took her hands in his. ‘Nobody wanted any of them to die, Sarah. Oh, you poor girl, I don’t like to see you anxious about these things. I’ll tell you what, why don’t we go out somewhere tomorrow night. It would take your mind off everything.’

  ‘Not tomorrow, Ivor. I’m too damned tired at present.’

  ‘At the weekend, then. Oh, Sarah, I have missed you. I still feel the same, you know. Have your feelings for me changed one little bit?’

  He was close to her now, she felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek and her distress was melting away. How could it be that one was attracted to a man and yet not know if one loved them? And then his lips were on hers, hot, fierce, forcing open her mouth, his tongue exploring, and she slid her arms up round his neck.

  ‘Sarah!’ he murmured, his mouth moving to her neck, causing her to shiver with ecstasy, then back to her lips again. He pressed himself against her and his body was hard, urgent, unyielding and then his hand brushed her breast and travelled downwards, pulling at her dress, forcing its way between her thighs.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’ She fought against him till he let go and they sprang apart panting and gasping.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, the shame clear on his face. ‘I’m a brute. But you do it to me, Sarah. I can’t get you out of my mind.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have let you . . . oh, what’s the point. You’d better go, Ivor. The others will be back soon.’

  ‘I’m sorry, darling.’ He leaned in and she let him kiss her more chastely on the cheek. Then he snatched up his jacket and backed out of the room, giving her one last lingering look. She heard the front door slam and his footsteps smacking on the path.

  She wiped his kiss from her cheek and san
k down on the sofa. Her body shaking all over, she fought against threatening sobs. What had she done? She didn’t love him, she knew that really. Didn’t even like him, hated the casual way he’d spoken about Paul. She knocked back the rest of her whisky and sat staring at the shadows moving on the wall until she was calm. At the creak of the garden gate, she stood up, checked her face in the mirror and went to open the front door to her mother.

  Sarah did not see or hear from Ivor at all the following day, and she supposed he must be angry with her. She told herself that she didn’t care, but she hated falling out with anyone close to her and it was with a heavy heart that she went about her tasks on the estate.

  On the morning of the second day, a silent, bullet-headed man arrived on cue to take away the two pigs they’d been fattening in a wooden sty behind the kitchen garden and although she told herself not to be sentimental Sarah couldn’t help having a little weep after they’d been loaded onto his wagon and driven away squealing, more in dismay at being separated from their trough – or so she wanted to believe – than in anticipation of their brutal end. Still, there must be ham and bacon and that was that. She marched determinedly past the desolate pig house, which she couldn’t face mucking out while the straw was still warm, and engaged herself with Sam in some industrial-scale cabbage planting to take her mind off her troubles. These, she remonstrated with herself, were not really troubles at all compared with some people’s.

  At four o’clock as the light was beginning to fade, they both downed tools, and Sam went off home smartly on some pretext that Sarah thought was to do with a girl. She, however, pottered about a while longer in the Kellings’ garden behind the hall. There had been signs that builders would be at work on the interior soon doing whatever was required to turn the hall into a rest home for wounded soldiers. She imagined that the invalids would want a pleasant garden to sit in, so she had been trying to keep the weeds down in the flower beds while Sam periodically scythed the lawn.

  It was almost an hour later, as she was scraping clean her tools, that she glanced down the hill, then shaded her eyes against the lowering sun to watch a lonely figure hefting a bulky bag trudge up the drive. There was something furtive in his movements – he kept glancing behind him and once or twice broke into a weary trot before falling back again into the plodding walk. Realization crept up on her. It couldn’t be. Then their eyes locked and when he raised his hat and waved it at her, Sarah was sure. She dropped the trowel, left the guttering tap and took a step towards him, then another, and soon she was running.

  ‘Paul!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Paul.’ And then, somehow, they were in each other’s arms, hugging and laughing with joy. How thin he was, she noticed with concern. She could feel his ribs beneath his threadbare jacket. When they disengaged themselves, she was shocked to see the hollows under his eyes. He might have been ten years older. What had they done to him?

  ‘I called at Flint Cottage just now,’ he said, beaming at her, ‘but there was only Mrs Allman and a boy.’

  ‘Yes, that’s Derek, our evacuee. Oh, Paul, you’re home. I can hardly believe it.’

  ‘And you mustn’t believe it. I’m not home, Sarah. Only visiting. I should not be here at all.’

  ‘Why?’ She didn’t understand, then she froze. ‘You didn’t run away, did you?’

  ‘No, no. I’ve been formally released from the camp. I’m not sure yet, but I think I have Sir Henry to thank for that.’

  ‘Good old Sir Henry.’ She allowed herself to think warmly of him again. ‘I wonder how he managed it.’

  ‘Some of us are being released now the danger of invasion has receded. But, Sarah, I am forbidden to come home to Norfolk. Any coastal county. They still fear that we will escape to the Continent, I suppose, or pass messages on to German ships. If I’m seen here . . . well.’

  ‘But you came anyway.’

  ‘I wanted to see Mutti. I’ve just visited the churchyard and saw the wooden marker. She’s in a nice place there under the trees, I’m glad.’

  ‘Paul, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I know. And I wanted to see my friends, you particularly. Sarah, you don’t know how much I looked forward to your letters. They helped me so much.’

  ‘They weren’t very exciting, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It was the normality of them that kept me going. The sense that you were all there carrying on as usual. Mutti’s letters . . . ah, I shouldn’t complain. I loved to hear from her, but they were full of her unhappiness.’

  ‘She was so worried about you, Paul. But now she is beyond all worry.’

  ‘Yes. I must learn to think like that. And now I’ll visit the house. There are some things I need and—’

  ‘I expect you’d like to be by yourself for a while.’

  ‘Yes, you understand, I knew you would.’

  ‘How long will you be here, Paul?’ Would she see him again before he left? ‘What will you do?’

  ‘An Austrian man I met was released at the same time. He has family in London and says I’m welcome to stay there. It’s in Hampstead, near the Heath. I don’t know what work I’ll do, but it’s a start . . . Mein Gott,’ he breathed.

  He was staring off at something behind her. When she turned, her breath caught. It was Ivor, trampling across the cropped field towards them, his face, as he drew near, like thunder.

  ‘Hartmann,’ he called out. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Paul said nothing, only waited for Ivor’s approach.

  ‘I didn’t know they’d let you out.’

  ‘Yes, two days ago. I’m not back to work, I’m afraid, tell your father.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to be here. You know the rules as well as I do.’

  How did he? Sarah wondered.

  Paul took a deep breath. ‘Don’t worry, I’m only here to collect some clothes and then I’ll be gone. There’ll be no cause to suspect I’m a traitor, please be sure.’

  ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘I think I do know what you meant,’ Paul said smoothly, but two bright spots on his pale cheeks conveyed his anger. His eyes blazed. ‘Whatever your reasons, you don’t want me here, so I am pleased to assure you that I’ll not trouble you long. I am sure you would not deny me the short respite, but don’t worry, tomorrow, I will, as you have often told me to, cut along.’

  Ivor growled, ‘It won’t be soon enough as far as I’m concerned.’ His expression was fierce at Paul’s directness.

  ‘Oh don’t, both of you,’ Sarah cried in distress.

  ‘You and I must say goodbye, Sarah,’ Paul said, taking one of her hands and kissing it in a daring gesture. ‘There may not be an opportunity to see you in the morning. I think Captain Richards here will want to be sure I’m gone.’

  ‘Goodbye then, Hartmann.’ Ivor spoke quietly, then they watched Paul swing his bag onto his shoulder once more and set off round the corner of the walled garden in the direction of Westbury Lodge.

  Sarah surveyed Ivor coolly until his face reddened. ‘You’ve disappointed me, Ivor. I expected better of you. Why are you so hard on him? Are you jealous because he and I are friends?’

  ‘I don’t like him being around you, that’s all. He’s not good enough for you. I can’t think your mother would approve. He’s German and he’s the under-gardener. Or rather, he was.’

  ‘And what about me, in this? I’m a land girl. Paul’s better educated than I am. His father was a university lecturer and his mother is related to Lady Kelling. But why do I bother to say all this? All you see him as is a humble gardener.’

  ‘A humble German gardener. Without even the decency to go back and fight for his country.’

  ‘So now you’re accusing him of cowardice?’

  ‘Sarah, please, I don’t wish to quarrel with you over Hartmann. He’s not worth it.’

  ‘Well, he’ll be gone tomorrow, so we won’t need to quarrel about him. I’m off home, Ivor. I’m tired, dead tired.’ Wearily she rescued her trowel and fork from the ground, wiped
them dry with a rag and shut them with the other tools in the shed.

  Ivor waited for her. ‘When will I see you next?’

  ‘At the moment, Ivor, I honestly don’t know.’ She pulled on her coat, tied her scarf round her hair and mounted her bicycle. Only when she reached the bottom of the drive did she look back at him. Ivor was standing legs apart, hands on hips, watching her with the pride of some mountain chieftain, she thought. As though he owned her. Crossly, she turned her face from him and set off in the direction of home.

  Her mother was pleased to hear that Paul had been released, but otherwise not more than politely interested. Sarah did not hear from him that evening, though she was alert to any knock on the door or rattle of the letter box. In bed she lay awake for a long time imagining his lonely vigil. The morning brought only the usual post, gathered from the mat by Derek, who bore it proudly to the table before taking his seat. She noticed he was being careful not to slurp his porridge and thereby bring the cold eye of Mrs Bailey upon him, but he relaxed when her critical gaze fell instead upon Sarah.

  ‘What’s the matter with you today? You’re jumpy and it’s getting on my nerves.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong, Mummy, except a headache. I didn’t sleep well. Is that really a letter from Diane? What does she say?’

  ‘The food is good, but her stockings are all dying, and she wants her pale-coloured nail varnish. Here, you can read it yourself.’ Diane was as poor a letter writer as Ivor, her missives full of requests.

  Sarah’s mind was in turmoil. Seeing Paul again, yesterday’s conflict with Ivor, both had struck deep at the roots of her happiness. Each of the men was important to her, she recognized that, but each disturbed her in different ways. Ivor, with his fair good looks and definite position in the world, made her body thrill to his touch, but his sense of his manhood could be fragile, as though some fault line ran through his psyche. She was aware of this sensitivity when he was with his father, or with Paul, which was worse, for Paul, despite his greater height and physical strength, was in a weaker position than Ivor was. Yet, for some reason, Ivor could not be generous to him, an exile from his homeland, a landless, lordless man. Was it this lack of status that Ivor despised, as well as Paul being German? Or was it jealousy of a potential rival in love that drove him? She didn’t know and wondered whether Ivor did either.