‘Don’t you think Laura would want to do that herself? When she’s feeling better, I mean.’
‘No, best done now.’ She was busy writing as she spoke. When she finished, she ripped off the page and handed it to him, together with Laura’s list. Then she went into the front room and came back with an armful of gifts. ‘The names are on the cards. I’d better find you a couple of carrier bags.’
It all felt wrong. Mrs Drummond was taking everything out of Laura’s hands in a misguided effort to save her daughter pain, trying to put the clock back to a time before Bob had come on the scene, trying to wipe him from her daughter’s memory. Steve wanted to weep himself for the grieving bride. And for Bob.
His task was complicated because at every house he visited he was bombarded with questions. What had happened? How was Laura taking it? Could they do anything to help? And no, they did not want their gifts returned; they had been given. One day Laura might be able to make use of them. It meant he was obliged to return to the house.
It was not surprising that he could see no chink of light; the blackout was complete. If Mrs Drummond had followed her daughter to bed he would have to bring the parcels back another day or leave them on the back step. He was trying to calculate when he could expect to be off base next when the door opened. The figure before him was too tall to be Mrs Drummond.
‘Bob?’
He stepped forward. ‘It’s me, Steve. I had to come back—’
‘Oh.’ Laura put her fist up to her mouth and her dressing gown fell open. ‘I thought—’
‘I’m sorry. I wish I could be the man you hoped for.’
‘Come in.’ She turned away so that he could enter the kitchen. He shut the door and pulled the curtain across. She switched on the light and stood looking at him in bewilderment. ‘I was asleep and having an awful nightmare that everything was ready for the wedding and Bob had been shot down. I came down here and the house was as it always was. It could have been a dream. I almost convinced myself it was. But it wasn’t, was it? It was real. You did come and tell me Bob…’ She choked and rallied. ‘Bob is gone.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
She sank into a kitchen chair, seemingly unaware that her open dressing gown revealed the white silk underwear which had been under her wedding dress. ‘How long ago?’
‘Since Bob was shot down?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Just over twenty-four hours.’
‘Is that all? I thought it was longer than that, it feels like a week.’ She looked at the table. It was set with cups and saucers and cutlery for breakfast for two. Her mind, still functioning in a strange disaffected sort of way, registered the fact that it was not as it had been when she went upstairs. ‘Where is everything?’
‘Your mother sorted it out. She asked me to take some of the presents back, but most of the people didn’t want them back, so I’ve still got them here.’ He held up the carrier bags. ‘They said you might find a use for them.’
‘People are kind,’ she said dully. Then she gave a cracked laugh. ‘There’s one that can go back because I’ll never find a use for it. Come, I’ll show you.’ She took his hand and led him into the front room. He knew she was putting on some kind of act to deaden her pain, that inside she was falling to pieces, and he wanted desperately to put her together again. He went with her because there was nothing else he could do. Laura pointed to the monstrous glass punchbowl, surrounded by a dozen matching glasses with handles. It took up half the table. ‘See. It came from Bob’s sister. It’s obvious she has no idea what sort of home I come from. She thinks I live in a mansion like her parents.’ Her laughter was a harsh cackle.
‘Laura, stop it.’ Steve put the carrier bags on the table and took her hands in his.
‘Stop what?’
‘Stop pretending.’
‘Mum is pretending, isn’t she? She’s pretending it never happened. She’s swept it all away, except that monstrosity, and gone to bed. Is that what I’m supposed to do?’
He didn’t know what to say. And suddenly she crumpled. He took her into his arms and held her while she wept again. But these tears were different from her earlier hysterical sobs; these were quieter, as if she had come to accept the inevitable and was mourning what might have been. He held her for a long time, breathing in the sweet scent of her, feeling the softness of her hair under his chin, the dampness of her tears falling on his hand. At that moment he was a comfort, someone big and warm and blessedly silent. Oh, yes, he was silent. There was nothing he could say. But he would hold her as long as she wanted him to, even if he stood there all night.
Her tears slowed to an occasional sob and then stopped. She stood back. ‘I’ve made a mess of your uniform.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Do you feel better now?’
‘Better?’ She gave him a twisted smile. ‘Do you mean have I stopped crying?’
‘I can see you have.’
‘I’m not being fair, am I? Bob was your friend and no one has given a thought about you. We’ve leant on you and sent you on errands and never said how sorry we are that you have lost your friend.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I understand.’
‘Oh, Steve, what are we going to do without him?’ It was a wail and he was afraid she was going to start crying again, but she made a visible effort not to.
He took a deep breath to steady himself. ‘We’ll do what countless others have done through the ages, what so many are doing now and many more will do as this war goes on: we’ll gird our loins and carry on.’
‘Yes.’
She was calmer now and though he didn’t want to leave her, he felt he must. If he stayed with her, sharing her grief, he would end up in tears himself, and what a fool that would make him look. He managed a smile and put his hand under her chin to lift it. ‘I’ll have to go. Duty calls.’
‘Yes. Thank you for everything. You will keep in touch, won’t you?’
‘Yes, if you want me to.’
‘Of course I do. You are my link with Bob.’
He found his cap in the kitchen and let himself out of the back door.
The Rawtons arranged Bob’s funeral. If they had not put a notice in the personal column of The Times, Laura would not have known when it was. After a eulogy of praise for a loving son and brother who had lost his life in the service of his country, the time and place of the funeral was given. ‘Family and close friends only,’ it said.
‘They might just as well have said straight out, “Laura Drummond, keep away,”’ Laura said dully when she read it. ‘It’s what they mean.’ She had written them a letter of condolence, told them how she felt for them in her own grief, and had received a printed acknowledgement, such as everyone else had received; there had been no personal message. It had hurt her, knowing they thought her of so little consequence in their son’s life that they could dismiss her like that. A wicked little thought entered her head, that perhaps they were glad he had died rather than marry her. It was banished in a trice as not worthy of her.
‘So, are you going?’ After another night in the shelter, Laura and Anne were sitting over a breakfast of cornflakes and toast, spread very thinly with butter. ‘Scrape it on and scrape it off again,’ Anne would say, laughing, though she was not laughing now.
Laura had not cried again, not publicly, and she appeared to be mastering her grief, but there were hours when she simply stared into space, her mind spinning with memories of Bob: jokes they had shared, plans they had made, plans which could never come to fruition. And sometimes when something happened – a Hurricane flying across the sky, trailing vapour, or a piece of news on the wireless – she would think that Bob might have been there; or if someone told her an amusing tale, she would smile and think, ‘I must remember to tell Bob.’ Then it would come to her, as if for the first time, that she could not tell Bob; he was not there to tell. He was gone. For ever. The only thing that kept her going was the child growing inside her, a child who would be part of Bob, his legacy to her. ‘Of
course I’m going. He was to be my husband. If fate hadn’t been so cruel we would have been married and I would be his next of kin.’
Knowing how toffee-nosed the Rawtons were, she would not let her mother go with her. There were a great many mourners, taken to the church in a fleet of limousines. Some wore black, but many were in one kind of uniform or another, high-ranking most of them, with black armbands. Laura, carrying a single deep red rose, slipped into the back of the church after they had all gone in. While they sang hymns, read passages from the Bible and told everyone what a brave and patriotic man Bob was, she sat with head bowed and relived every moment of the time she had spent with him. She heard his infectious laugh; listened to his tales of life in the air force, the silly games the young men played when they were off duty; heard him tell her how much he loved her, how he looked forward to making her his wife; how they would have a handful of children, all as beautiful as she was. It was an indulgence she did not allow herself at home. Her mother always knew when she was brooding and would do everything in her power to snap her out of it. But she did not want to be snapped out of it; she wanted to remember, she wanted to remember the pleasure of knowing him, of loving him and being loved by him, not have it taken from her.
She recited his last letter in her head, every word indelibly printed on her brain. ‘My dearest, dear, my love, my wife. If Steve has given you this letter, then you will know I am gone from you, gone with your name on my lips, but please, my darling, do not grieve for long. I will always be with you in spirit and you must move on. Be happy for my sake, but do not forget me altogether. We crammed so much happiness into a short time and I am grateful for that, for the joy you brought me, for your courage in taking me on. Go on being brave. And laugh. I loved you in all your moods, but especially when you laughed. Goodbye and until we meet again, God keep you safe. Your devoted husband.’ He had not expected tragedy to strike before they were married and had not foreseen the letter being delivered to her on their wedding day. On the other hand he had always said she was already his wife and perhaps that was what he meant. And here she sat, listening to his funeral oration, shut out and grieving alone.
But she would not be alone; Bob would live on in their child. And soon she would have to tell her mother she was pregnant. But not yet, not until she was absolutely sure. She smiled a little quirkily when she thought of how Lady Rawton might react to the news. If she told her, which she might not.
The service ended and she stayed in her place until everyone had followed the flower-laden coffin to the churchyard for the interment, then she walked out into the sunshine and stood a little way off. Lady Rawton was hanging on to the arm of her husband, her face heavily veiled. On either side of them, family members gathered.
‘You should be there with them.’
She turned to find Steve beside her. A slight breeze was ruffling his fair hair. His face looked grey with fatigue, his blue eyes dark-rimmed. His left leg was in plaster and he was supported on crutches. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Bad landing,’ he said laconically. ‘Broken leg.’ He didn’t tell her that it had been hit by an enemy fighter and had limped home on one engine. It didn’t do to remind her that he had been luckier than Bob.
‘Oh, you poor thing. You look done in.’
‘Hardly surprising. We get very little respite.’
‘Squadron leader now, I see.’
‘Yes.’ His promotion had come as a direct result of Bob’s death, but he did not tell her that either.
The parson was intoning, ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ and Lady Rawton had stooped to pick up a handful of soil and scatter it on the coffin. ‘Go on,’ Steve urged her. ‘Go and say your goodbye.’
She walked forward slowly. The congregation were beginning to turn away, all except Sir Peter and Lady Rawton. They looked up as Laura approached, but did not speak. Laura dropped the rose onto the head of the coffin and stood a moment, her lips framing the words, ‘Goodbye, my love.’ And then she turned and stumbled back into Steve’s arms.
Chapter Two
STEVE COULD NOT fly with his leg in plaster, so he was given a temporary desk job: working out rosters, lecturing on aircraft recognition, chasing up spare parts for the maintenance crews, filling in forms. It was frustrating when he would much rather have been in the air. He was glad when, three weeks later, he was given leave and told by the MO to see his own doctor and come back when the plaster was off and he was ready to fly again. Hobbling on crutches, he hitched into London with one of the others also going on leave who had a car and had wangled some petrol for it. He was dropped off at Liverpool Street and managed to scramble onto a train, which he left at Attlesham and from there took a taxi the four miles to Beckbridge.
His mother was at the kitchen table filling some flasks with tea and putting them in a canvas bag when he arrived. She turned with a cry of joy and ran to embrace him, then stopped when she saw the crutches. ‘What happened to you?’
She was thinner than he remembered and had had her fair hair cut short and permanently waved. It had a few strands of grey in it, he noticed, and there were fine lines about her eyes which were new. ‘I made a bad landing,’ he said, propping the crutches against the table to hug her. There was no sense in adding to her worries by telling her he’d crash-landed because his kite was full of holes.
‘I was just going to take this down to the top field,’ she said, indicating the bag. ‘I won’t be long, then we can have a long talk.’
‘I’ll come too.’ He picked up his crutches and followed her.
The village seemed as tranquil as ever, hardly touched by the war. Steve leant over the field gate to watch the haymaking. His father was driving the tractor, a new Fordson Steve hadn’t seen before. Two land girls in brown dungarees and hair in headscarves, helped by Josh and hindered by a couple of evacuees, were busy raking it. The boys, Lenny and Donny Carter, were flinging the cut grass all over the place, smothering themselves. To them it was something new to play with, a fine joke. Boy, the family collie, circled them, trying vainly to round them up.
‘It’s good to see them laughing,’ his mother said.
‘The girls or the boys?’
‘All of them, but the twins especially. You should have seen them when they first arrived. They were filthy and Lenny had wet himself and tears had made streaks in the dirt all down his face. No one wanted them and I couldn’t just leave them, could I?’
‘Leave them where?’
‘In the school assembly hall. We’d taken them there from Attlesham Station; fifty altogether, boys and girls, all wearing luggage labels like a lot of parcels. Everybody who’d agreed to take a child came to pick the ones they liked the look of. It seemed a very unfair way to me, but you couldn’t make someone take a child they didn’t fancy, so all the pretty girls went first and then the more angelic looking boys. They were all marched away by their new foster mothers and Lenny and Donny were left in the middle of the hall with two pitiful bundles of clothes and their gas masks. The elbows were out of their jackets and their socks were down round their ankles. Lenny’s were wet. He’s the softer one of the two.’
‘I don’t know how you tell one from the other.’
‘Lenny’s hair is a little darker and he has a mole on the side of his neck. Donny is very proud of the fact that he’s ten minutes older; he thinks that gives him the right to boss his brother about.’
‘What about their parents?’
‘Father’s in the Navy, mother works in a factory somewhere in London. She came down once – last November, it was. I couldn’t take to her. She seemed very off-hand, didn’t seem to have much time for them. I wanted to yell at her to give them a cuddle, that’s all they wanted, but all she could manage was a peck on the cheek, as if she was afraid of smudging her lipstick. I thought she’d stay the whole day and I’d cooked a roast – we’d killed a pig the week before – but she said she had to get back. The boys had been so looking forward to her visit and had pla
nned to show her round the village, and they had drawn some pictures for her of cows and pigs and chickens in the farmyard. They’d never seen anything like them before. As far as they were concerned milk comes in bottles and you buy eggs and bacon in the corner shop. They were full of all the new things they’d seen and done, but she didn’t seem interested. Two hours she was here, just two hours; came on one train and went back on the next. Poor little devils, I could have cried for them. I think they hoped she would take them back with her, a lot of the evacuees went back when there was no bombing. She’s never been since.’
‘They seem happy enough now,’ Steve said, looking across at them.
They were rolling in the cut grass, which was too much for Josh. ‘Dozy buggers!’ he yelled, waving his rake at them. ‘Git yew outa it, ’fore I tek this here to yar breeks. How’s a body to wuk when it all git mussed up agin?’
The boys sat up and looked at each other, not understanding the broad Norfolk dialect of the old man; to their ears, he could have been talking a foreign language. ‘Boys, come here,’ Katherine called to them.
They obeyed, arms outstretched, making aeroplanes of themselves, imitating engine noises. Josh shrugged his shoulders and resumed raking the cut grass.
‘Come and say how do you do to my son,’ Kathy said. ‘Squadron Leader Steven Wainright.’
‘A pilot?’ Donny asked, looking up into Steve’s face and noting the smile of amusement and the clear blue eyes.
‘Yes,’ Steve said.
‘You got a Spitfire?’ This from Lenny.
‘No, it’s a Hurricane.’
‘Ain’t as good as Spitfires.’
Steve smiled. ‘They both have their good points. The Hurricane is the stronger of the two, or I wouldn’t be here now.’
‘You got shot down?’ Donny squinted up at him, his admiration growing.
‘No, I made a bad landing,’ he said, repeating the tale he had told his mother.
‘Have you shot an enemy plane down?’
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