by Rachel Hore
‘No, of course not! I said it wasn’t for me, that another friend wanted to know. Did you bring . . . ?’
She nodded, then dipped her left hand into her handbag. When she brought it out a plain gold band gleamed on her fourth finger. Seeing it there, he felt emotion rise in him, pride, yes, and a deep joy. Their eyes met, complicit.
‘Does your mother think you’re staying with your Aunt Susan?’
‘She didn’t ask. I don’t think she’d care at the moment, Paul.’
‘Every mother cares about her daughter.’
‘I think mine has given up on me. Last time we spoke about you she told me I was old enough to make my own mistakes.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘What did she mean by that?’
‘I think she understands that I won’t love anybody else. Ivor Richards was her last hope for me to do the conventional thing. The war has changed everything, she knows that. She’s more concerned about . . . well, Diane goes about in her own little world at the moment. She’s recovered from . . . you know, but she is so thin and so dull and quiet.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, peering up at her over his cup as he sipped his tea.
Sarah stirred hers thoughtfully.
‘I know I said we shouldn’t talk about my family, but everything seems to come back to them. I don’t seem to be able not to, Paul.’
‘Never mind.’ His cup clinked as he set it in the saucer, a lump of sadness swelling in his throat. ‘I wish I could forget mine, too.’
‘I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me. But you wouldn’t want to forget your parents, would you, not really.’
‘No, of course not. Sarah, do you believe you will see your father again? And your little brother? I can’t bear the thought that I won’t . . . see my parents, I mean. One of the men in my unit says that while you can remember them they’re still with you, but it’s that that brings the pain, isn’t it? Remembering.’
‘Yes, but it’s that which makes us higher than the animals, Paul. We can remember those we’ve lost and anticipate seeing them again. It’s like the seasons. After winter comes spring. It’s what gives our lives meaning.’
‘But what if there is no point to any of it and this world is all there is?’
‘Then we only have death and despair and I will not accept that. Paul, look at me.’ He raised his eyes to her face, saw the gravity in her eyes and it held him steady. ‘You must feel very alone, but you have me and you have a task to do. We can’t know what will happen, but we must trust that . . . we will endure.’
He reached and gripped her hand, feeling the ring on her finger, hard and warm. And once again he felt the strength in her pass into him and it calmed him.
‘You are so wunderbar, meine Liebchen,’ he whispered, leaning in towards her. And in the same hushed tones, ‘Are you finishing your rock cake or may I have it?’
‘I’m eating it myself, thank you,’ she said, with a toss of her head, and he laughed and reached and dabbed up a crumb before she could stop him.
‘Signore, signora, please, this way.’
The restaurant in Old Compton Street was charmingly eccentric, with a Union Jack hanging prominently above the bar and cheap prints of famous Italian landmarks on the walls. The very delightful moustachioed proprietor admitted them with a flourish and waved them into a cosy room full of tables laid with gingham cloths and candles stuck in Chianti bottles. It was early yet and there were only a few other diners. Paul and Sarah were briskly relieved of their coats and their luggage and ushered to a tiny table in the window. Candles were lit, menus thrust into their hands, aperitifs brought and orders for food taken.
‘For the wine, I have something verrry special. Verrry romantic. No, no, the price is reasonable.’ The man waved the matter of money away as though it were nothing.
When he’d left them, Sarah leaned forward to whisper, ‘This is lovely. How clever of you.’
‘It’s very bohemian, I hope that is all right.’
‘Very much all right. Listen!’ Strange accents floated out from the kitchen, laughter, and above it all a snatch of opera in a hearty tenor voice. The smell of smoky hot oil mixed with herbs wafted through the air. ‘Do you think they’re doing it on purpose?’ Sarah’s eyes were full of fun.
‘I expect so. We could be in Italy!’ Paul said, smiling.
‘It’s probably nicer to be here than Italy at present, don’t you think? With that nasty little Mussolini man in charge.’
A waiter arrived bearing plates, and the food was good, too, vegetable soup served with the freshest bread Paul had tasted for ages. The plat du jour was a rich stew described as alla romana, then for dessert there was some sort of creamy ‘shape’ that was several miles away from the insipid powdered egg version served up in the mess.
Paul laughed as Sarah’s eyes narrowed with pleasure at the taste. The dusty bottle of red wine the proprietor had decanted proved to be extremely decent, too, sweet and heady. He hoped he had enough money to pay for it.
They talked about Westbury. ‘There’s another land girl now,’ Sarah told him. ‘Rita. She’s only nineteen, very sweet, but she’s from the East End and doesn’t know one end of a cow from the other. I had to explain to her which was the bull.’
‘That could be dangerous for her. But I didn’t know there were cows now as well as the pigs.’
‘Yes, didn’t I write? Only a dozen. They’re dairy cattle. It was Major Richards’ idea. Harry Andrews’ father is helping us with them.’
‘Is there any news of Harry?’ Paul had liked what he’d seen of Harry. A good sort with none of what the English called ‘side’.
‘He’s with the regiment roaming the Scottish Highlands, I believe. Training new bugs. I don’t think he’s seen action since Dunkirk. Not from what his father says. I say, Ivor is in the same company; yes, I’m sure of it.’
‘I wish that I was with them,’ Paul growled, spooning up the last sweet scrapes of dessert before pouring more wine. ‘This really is very good.’
Sarah nodded, taking a sip from her glass. ‘And I’m glad you’re not with them, Paul. I couldn’t bear it if you were sent into danger.’
‘I know, my love, but I cannot help what I feel. Useless, a lesser man. I have written to the adjutant, you know, but all I received was an acknowledgement of my letter. It wasn’t even signed by him.’
‘Write again if you must, Paul. Though I wish you wouldn’t.’
‘I will. Do you think it would help if I wrote to Sir Henry too, asking him to provide a reference?’
‘I’m sure it couldn’t do any harm. Though if there are rules in place that debar you from fighting I don’t see how they would be able to accept you even with his support.’ Sarah spoke bitterly, as though such a rule was her last hope.
‘I am half-English, remember. It might make the difference.’
‘After all that you’ve gone through you say that?’
‘Yes, I know it hasn’t so far, but I am sure it was Sir Henry who put in a word for my release from internment and his word may carry weight in this, too. And if my letter to the regiment is eloquent enough.’
‘Let’s not talk about it any more,’ she cried, with distress. ‘I know it’s important to you, but I can’t bear it tonight.’
He reached for her hands and held them in both of his, kissed her fingers. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m being selfish, I know, but I’m so tired of being second class. And I want to be a man worthy of you, Sarah.’
‘Fiddlesticks,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t care about all that.’
‘Well, I do.’ Paul signalled for the bill and was relieved to see how reasonable it was, even the wine. In gratitude he left a large tip.
Outside, as they picked their way through the jostling crowds in the moonless darkness, Sarah walked ahead, Paul stumbling clumsily behind. She was angry with him, he knew, but he also knew that there was nothing he could do about it. He was who he was and was determined on his course. He sensed, t
oo, that she understood and she was principally angry with the situation, with the whole war, if you like.
After a few minutes they arrived at the Underground and Sarah fell back and took his arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. He hugged her and she buried her face in his neck and for a moment there was only the two of them, swaying gently in their own private dance. For a sweet moment, the bustling world around them fell away.
The hotel was in a shabby white stucco terrace behind South Kensington station. The street was dark and silent and only the shaded beam from Paul’s torch prevented them tumbling into a large hole in the pavement outside. Still, when they entered, the hallway was bathed in a cheerful glow and a vase of artificial flowers on the desk represented an attempt at a welcome. A bell summoned an ageing, vampishly dressed woman from a door at the back. As she presented the register for Paul to sign, she studied them with a benevolent expression. Then she reached for one of the keys hanging on a varnished rack behind her that had Welcome in several languages painted across the top. Next to it was a framed list of house rules, which he saw included the scrawled addition: If there’s no hot water, there is no hot water. This failed to dent Paul’s feeling of happiness. His nerves vibrated with energy like the strings of Horst’s violin.
‘Third floor, dearies,’ the woman said, fondling her carmine bead necklace. ‘Breakfast is at seven, but,’ her smile was kind, ‘tell you what, if you’re a little late down I’ll save you some.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Paul mumbled in embarrassment. Up several flights of stairs they went, then he wrested open a door at the top, and they found themselves in a small chilly room with a sturdy-looking double bed, a chest of drawers with a jug and bowl on it, painted with flowers, and a matching chamber pot under the bed. The ceiling light didn’t work, but the bedside light did and cast a cosy yellow glow.
‘I’m sorry it’s so ordinary,’ Paul said, taking her in his arms. ‘I wish we had something more glamorous than this.’
‘It’s lovely, really.’ Sarah kissed him and smoothed the worried lines from his brow. He helped her off with her coat and it joined his on a hanger that clattered on the back of the door, then they sat together on the edge of the bed, knees touching, and he took her hand. After a moment he leaned over and found her lips with his and she stroked the soft skin of his cheek. He kissed her again, more deeply this time, and she kissed him back and he wrapped her tightly in her arms and drew her down onto the pillows. In the glow of the lamp her eyes gleamed hungrily for him and he felt for the buttons of her cardigan.
‘How does this work?’ he murmured, struggling with the belt of her skirt and she showed him, then helped him with the top button of her blouse.
She shivered in her underwear and he tucked her tenderly between the sheets before undressing himself. She watched, her eyes on the strength and sheen of the muscles of his chest and arms.
‘How did you do that?’ she whispered, nodding at the angry bruise running down his thigh.
‘It’s nothing.’ It was from a piece of falling masonry; he hardly felt it now. He went and lay beside her in his drawers under the bedclothes, one arm cradling her head. For a time, neither of them moved. They felt the beats of one another’s hearts, the warm smoothness of skin against skin, then gently he began to stroke her breast through her petticoat, eased the straps from her shoulders. Sarah sat up and lifted the shift over her head, making her hair crackle with static, but then she hesitated, crumpling the garment protectively across her caged breasts, and from the way she looked at him he knew she had something important to say, something she’d been dreading, but which she would not shirk from, not if there was to be complete honesty and openness between them. He waited, heart thudding.
‘Paul, I’ve been thinking how to say this.’ She paused. ‘It’s not my first time.’
He tensed, the hurt rising in his throat. Gently he disengaged himself and lay apart from her, the back of his arm resting on his forehead. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but not this. He sensed her rolling over, then she lifted his arm to see the expression in his eyes, must have read his pain and uncertainty. She snuggled down again next to him and lay staring at the ceiling as he was. There was a large patch of discolouration there, suggesting there had been a leak in the roof. He wondered if the water had dripped down through the mattress and to the floor beneath and tried to think what to say. He struggled to understand why what she’d said mattered, but eventually he did. He must make his own confession.
He turned his head to look at her and whispered, ‘I’m sorry, I should have imagined. We’re not so very young, there’s so much about you I don’t know. Please, don’t think I’m judging you, I only need to accommodate myself. It is mine, you see. My first time.’
She was silent and when he turned to her he saw her eyes were shining with unshed tears and his heart melted. What did it matter, after all? What she had done was long before he’d met her and now, seeing her sad, he felt confident again that he could make her happy. He smiled, and bent to kiss the tears away, then her arms were round his neck and they both laughed with the joy of each other. Gently he kissed her neck and his hand explored the soft fullness of her breasts. After that her body guided him in what to do.
Bright spring sunshine glowed through a gap in the blackout curtains by the time the lovers awoke. After they had visited the freezing bathroom down the landing and dressed, they went downstairs to find that their vampish landlady was as good as her word and brought them a rasher of bacon each and a mound of hot toast, which they devoured hungrily, trying not to giggle about her sentimental glances. She must really have taken a shine to them, for she agreed to look after their luggage while they spent much of the day visiting the Kensington museums and walking in the park, exhilarated by the blustery wind.
The time was all the more precious because it was about to come to an end.
‘This has been the most wonderful twenty-four hours of my life,’ Paul told Sarah as they strolled back to the hotel, her arm tucked in his.
She smiled up at him. ‘And mine,’ she said simply. It had taken time for him to realize that she did not express her feelings as easily as he, but he loved her for it. He loved everything about her: her neat, lithe figure, the way she wore her hat tipped back, ready to face the world, the generosity in her smile. He felt so proud to be walking with her on his arm and was dreading the moment of parting.
‘Goodbye,’ she said simply when she saw him onto his bus. His last view of her was as a brave, upright figure, her gloved hand raised in a wave, becoming smaller and smaller until a bend in the road hid her from sight.
Thirty-two
June 1942
Suez, a busy, dusty port at the top right corner of the map of Egypt on the ops room bulkhead. Because of the Axis domination of the Mediterranean, Paul’s convoy had had to slip down one side of Africa and up the other to reach it, a voyage lasting nearly eight hot and tedious weeks. They’d docked on several occasions for supplies and each time Paul had been glad to stretch his legs and see new places. He’d found himself in markets vibrant with colourfully dressed natives and chattering monkeys that swung down from palm trees to steal ripe fruit from angry stallholders. In Cape Town, Table Mountain had been obscured by mist, and he’d had to rescue one of his cabin mates, found huddled dead drunk outside a brothel, his wallet gone. And now here he was at his destination, and as they all crowded on deck waiting for the order to disembark, he felt a mixture of excitement and disappointment.
Paul had had his wish. He was on the high seas. And now, finally, they were in Egypt, that was the excitement, but what he could see did not accord with his mental expectations of the country. There was plenty of sand, indeed, but it was grey and stony, and the buildings were greyish, too, and functional in appearance.
‘Where are the pyramids then and the crocodiles?’ the chap next to him, Bob Black, known as Blackie, was asking, which was a more simply put version of what Paul was thinking.
He smiled. ‘At least there are camels, look.’ The beasts in question, three of them, were kneeling in the shade of a scrubby tree at the roadside below, and were also greyish, weary, patient beasts. Their drivers squatted beside them in the dust, playing a game of dice to pass the time. Further along the road, the late morning sun glinted off a long line of army trucks, waiting to ferry the troops onward.
The heat was already unbearable on the ship by the time the gangplank was fitted firmly into place. As the men began to swarm downwards, whispers spread back like wildfire.
‘Tobruk has fallen, yes, Tobruk. We surrendered to the Jerries.’ Paul digested this worrying news with a thrill of shock. Tobruk, everybody knew, was a key strategic port on Libya’s Mediterranean coast, right next to its border with Egypt. It had been besieged for months and bravely held by the Allies, but now . . .
‘That’s it, I suppose,’ pyramid-loving Blackie declared cheerfully. ‘They’ll be sending us right over to defend the road to Cairo. Cannon fodder, lads, that’s us.’
‘If that’s what we’re here to do then we’ll have to do it,’ Paul murmured. This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it, what he was trained for, to see action, to fight for his adopted country against the people in power who had killed his father. In a way, he was lucky to be here, he told himself, remembering how it had happened.
The second letter that he’d sent the adjutant more than a year ago now had initially not been answered. He’d written then to Sir Henry at the House of Lords, asking if it were possible to meet with him. He was surprised to receive a handwritten note from the man himself, inviting him to dinner one night in March at his club in St James’s.
The patrician figure of Sir Henry who rose from the leather seat in the bar to greet him was thinner and more worn than Paul remembered, but his grip when they shook hands was as firm as ever and his smile lit up his wise and wary eyes. ‘Ah, Hartmann, glad you could make it. Don’t suppose there’s much let up for you lads at the moment.’