Summer House

by Nichols, Mary

  Steve was introduced to Robby and agreed with everyone that he was a lovable little chap, but he was no nearer to Laura. She was still the same at the end of the week as she had been at the beginning; friendly but slightly distant. He knew she was still thinking of Bob. On the last evening of his leave they went to a dance, taking the Humber into Attlesham. It was the usual small-town hop but the band was reasonably good and they danced almost every number together. He even risked a little cheek-to-cheek in the last waltz and was encouraged when she did not draw away. She drove him home afterwards and stopped the car at the farm gate. He did not immediately get out and they sat for a moment in silence. He knew what he wanted to say, but could not make up his mind how to say it. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘For driving you home without crashing the car or for not standing on your toes?’

  ‘Everything. I’ve enjoyed this week.’

  ‘So have I.’

  ‘You will go on writing to me?’

  ‘Of course, but don’t expect long epistles. I shan’t have the time.’

  ‘I realise that, but a few lines will do, just to let me know you are thinking of me, because I shall be thinking of you.’ He picked up her hand from her lap and put it to his lips. ‘You know I am in love with you, don’t you?’

  ‘Are you?’ she asked, guessing what was coming and shying away from it. She didn’t want to get too close to anyone when the memory of Bob was still so fresh and the manner of his death so frighteningly real. At least it was a quick, clean death and not the half-life of the poor fellows she nursed.

  ‘Oh, yes. Have been for some time, I think.’

  ‘Steve, please don’t expect me to reciprocate. I can’t. I like you a lot, but that’s all it is. It’s less than a year since Bob died and I’m only just beginning to put my life together again. I simply will not risk it happening again. You are my friend, Steve, perhaps my best friend, let’s leave it at that, shall we?’

  He leant over to give her a chaste kiss on her cheek. ‘Whatever you say.’ He got out of the car and walked up the path to the door. The next morning he went back to Scampton.

  Although he had two weekend passes in the meantime, it was Christmas before he got his next full leave. Meg was spending it at home, but Daphne, whose mother had died in a road traffic accident in the blackout the previous summer, opted to stay at Bridge Farm with the boys. The twins, having had their first term at grammar school, were disappointed their father could not get leave, but he was out in the Atlantic somewhere on convoy duty. Kathy did her best to make it a happy occasion in spite of the war and the shortages, and indeed, it did look as though things might be looking up with the entry of the USA into the conflict after the Japanese raid on Pearl Harbor. But the euphoria was short-lived. Hong Kong surrendered on Christmas Day, the Germans were at the gates of Moscow and the British fleet in the Mediterranean sustained terrible losses trying to get to the aid of beleaguered Malta. But Christmas was Christmas and Bridge Farm was a haven of gaiety, even if it was a little forced. Steve was determined to enjoy it and refused to think about bombing raids and flak and anything except that he was home and that he could see Laura.

  They had been corresponding but that was hardly satisfactory. He could not tell from the written word what she was really thinking and feeling; her letters were newsy and affectionate, but as one friend to another. He lost no time in walking up to the Hall with Christmas presents. She was expecting him and was dressed in a pretty blue silk dress with a matching bolero. Aunt Helen was there too, a little greyer, a little thinner, but that wasn’t the only change. She seemed to glow with something he might have called love in anyone else. The nearest he could think of was fulfilment. After years of living the life of a recluse, she was busy, and glorying in it. He kissed them both on the cheek.

  ‘How are you?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Fighting fit. And you?’

  ‘Ditto.’

  He lifted the parcels he was carrying. ‘Christmas presents.’

  He watched them unwrap them. A scarf for Helen and a silver brooch in the shape of wings for Laura. For Robby he had found a teddy bear, dressed in a flying jacket and helmet. The two women thanked him and kissed him, and Laura fetched Robby to receive his. He was growing into a sturdy boy, able to crawl all over the floor and pull himself up to his feet if he had something firm to hang onto. On this occasion it was Steve’s knee. This, he realised, was the test. Could he love the little lad, could he forget he was Bob’s and that Laura held Bob’s memory sacred? If he showed the slightest hesitation about that, Laura would know. He picked him up and sat him on his knee. Robby grinned up at him, revealing tiny white teeth.

  ‘The men all spoil him,’ Laura said. ‘He doesn’t care what they look like.’

  It deflated him. He was one of many. Nevertheless, he asked her to go to the New Year dance with him.

  Midnight struck during the last waltz. Everyone turned to everyone else. ‘Happy New Year!’

  Steve held her in his arms and kissed her. ‘Happy New Year, love.’

  ‘And to you.’

  He drove her home in the Humber and stopped outside the coach house. ‘Back to the grind tomorrow. I have to catch the six-thirty in the morning. It was a smashing evening, I really enjoyed it.’

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘Nothing’s changed, you know, not on my side…’

  Laura ignored that. ‘Another year gone, who’s to tell what we’ll be doing this time next year. My wish is that this dreadful war will be over and there will be an end to all the carnage.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ he said, though he didn’t see how it could be. She wasn’t going to tell him what he most wanted to hear. He got out and opened the car door for her. They walked across the cobbles of the yard to the kitchen door. ‘Goodnight, sweetheart,’ he said and took her into his arms to kiss her again. She responded with more warmth than she had done before and then gently pushed him from her. ‘Go on. It’s getting late. You’ve got to get up early in the morning, and so have I.’

  Reluctantly, he turned to go. Almost as an afterthought, she said, ‘Steve, you always wear gloves and goggles when you’re flying, don’t you?’

  He knew the reason she asked, but chose to answer flippantly. ‘You bet I do. It’s damned cold up there.’

  He went home humming ‘Goodnight, sweetheart’ to himself.

  What made Jenny decide to go into the café on that Saturday afternoon, she did not know. A jaunt into town, especially when she had the use of the car, meant she had several errands to run, not only her own, but for everyone else in the house. Her mother had asked her to try and find some shampoo since the village shop had run out of it, and to see if the twins’ school trousers had arrived at the outfitters. They were continually going through the knees of their trousers and, what with clothes rationing and shortages, replacing them was causing headaches. Many boys were being kept in shorts in spite of the school rules stating they should wear long trousers, but Donny had been looking forward to going into proper grown-up trousers and her mother had given in to his vanity, and, naturally, Lenny had to be treated exactly the same. Meg had heard there were stockings in at Woolworth’s, Daphne wanted a lipstick and she herself was looking for a couple of maths textbooks to supplement those she had been provided with. Having accomplished as much as she could, she had turned into the café, her coat flapping open in the first mild day of the year.

  She didn’t see the soldier with a captain’s pips and the Canada flash on his shoulder, carrying a plate containing a sticky bun in one hand and a very full cup of coffee in the other, as he made his way from the counter to a table where he had left his haversack and cap. They collided in a bump that sent the cup flying and the coffee down the front of her skirt and blouse.

  ‘Gee, I’m sorry.’

  ‘My fault.’ The hot liquid was seeping through to her underclothes, almost scalding her. She tried to hold the blouse away from her body until it cooled. ‘I wasn’t loo
king where I was going.’

  ‘It’s burning you.’ He had reddish hair, an open sort of face, clear blue eyes and a wide mouth, which looked as though it laughed a lot. He was not laughing now as he surveyed the damage.

  ‘It is a bit hot.’

  ‘Here, let me help.’ He put the crockery down on the nearest table and produced a big white handkerchief.

  Afraid he was going to start rubbing her down she stepped back half a pace. ‘It’s all right. Please don’t worry about it.’

  He handed her the handkerchief and watched as she dabbed at the stain. ‘It’s not going to come out, is it?’ he said.

  ‘I’ll put it in to soak when I get home. It’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘Do you live far? Let me take you. Better still, let me buy you a new outfit.’

  ‘Nonsense, this is nothing special. I’ll go home and change. Thank you for your concern.’

  He picked up his haversack and cap and reached the door before her. ‘I ruined your clothes, so come on, let me buy you a new dress.’

  ‘Clothes are rationed.’

  ‘So I heard, but how do you ration clothes?’

  ‘You have so many coupons in a year and you hand them over when you pay for whatever you’ve bought. A dress costs eleven coupons if its made of wool, nine for cotton. A blouse is about five, a skirt a little more, depending on the amount of material in it. A coat is eighteen. And there’s underwear and stockings, even handkerchiefs, they all need coupons.’

  ‘That doubles my culpability. Let me make amends.’

  ‘You don’t need to. It was my own fault.’

  ‘I insist. Please let me do it. I shan’t sleep tonight if you don’t.’

  She decided it would be churlish to continue arguing. With him at her side, she crossed the road to Bonny’s dress shop, where she tried to select the cheapest blouse and skirt she could find, but he gently steered her in the direction of the top end of the merchandise. ‘This green skirt would suit you, and how about this blouse to go with it?’ He took a cotton blouse in a swirling pattern of green, black and tan from the rail and held it against her. It was perfect, but the price appalled her.

  ‘But I can’t accept anything so expensive.’

  ‘But the quality’s good. Go on, try them on.’

  While she was in the changing room, he asked the assistant to wrap her stained skirt and blouse, so that she had no choice but to hand over the coupons and put her coat on over the new clothes.

  ‘Are you always so masterful?’ she asked, as they emerged from the shop.

  ‘Only when I have to be.’ He had picked up her shopping basket and obviously had no intention of handing it over and disappearing. She could not have allowed it if he had.

  ‘Let me buy you a coffee,’ she said. ‘Since I spilt the one you had.’

  He laughed. ‘Thanks, I’d like that. I ought to introduce myself. My name’s Wayne Donovan.’

  ‘And I’m Jenny Wainright.’ Solemnly, they shook hands.

  They went back into the café and sat talking over a cup of coffee, which made him grimace. ‘Not what you’re used to,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Oh, it’s not so bad.’

  ‘How long have you been in England?’

  ‘A few months. I came hoping to see some action, but up to now, nothing.’

  ‘Perhaps you should be thankful for that. What are you doing in Attlesham, or shouldn’t I ask?’

  ‘I had a spot of leave and thought I’d look up my mom’s folks. I’ve gotten their address and I know it’s near here, but that’s all. You can maybe help me. How do I get to Beckbridge?’

  She laughed. ‘Well, you could come with me. That’s where I live.’

  ‘Is that so?’ he said in delighted surprise. ‘Then maybe you know my aunt. Her name’s Joyce Moreton.’

  ‘Oh, everyone knows Joyce and Ian. I’ll take you to them, if you like. I’ve got Dad’s car.’

  ‘Gee, that would be great.’

  They finished their coffee and made their way to where she had left the Ford. A few minutes later they were cruising towards Beckbridge. ‘Have you been to England before?’ she asked him.

  ‘No. Mom’s always said she’d bring me to visit and show me where she was born but we never made it. She met Pop in the last war when he was stationed near here and she went back to Canada with him after he was discharged.’

  ‘Then you’ve never met any of your relations?’

  ‘No.’ He laughed. ‘Is there something I should know?’

  ‘Not at all. Stalwarts of the village, they are, especially Joyce. She is the postwoman and works in the village shop.’

  ‘So Mom told me. I believe her husband has a small farm.’

  ‘You could say that.’ Jenny could not help the smile. ‘He does a bit of everything.’

  ‘My cousin Ken, I know, is in the Royal Air Force.’

  ‘Yes, he’s in my brother’s crew.’

  ‘What are they flying?’

  ‘Steve started out in Hurricanes, but for some reason known only to him he switched to Lancasters, and that’s when he and Ken found themselves on the same station. Steve’s a bit older than Ken and he’s been flying since before the war, so he tries to look out for him.’

  ‘What about you? What do you do?’

  ‘I teach at the village school.’

  ‘And your folks?’

  ‘My father is a farmer, we live at Bridge Farm. It’s been in the family for ages. I expect Steve will take it over one day.’

  ‘What do you do for entertainment?’

  ‘Go to the pictures in Attlesham, sometimes to the Saturday hop. There’s not much in Beckbridge itself. Walks and whist drives at the church hall and the pub of an evening. Quiet really.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘We did have a bomb drop in the grounds of the big house. It demolished a summer house.’

  ‘The big house. Is that what you call Beckbridge Hall?’

  ‘Yes. My mother’s cousin owns it. It’s been in her father’s family for generations. Her husband was killed in the last war and they never had any children, so she stayed living at home. It’s recently been made it into an air force hospital.’

  ‘I’ve heard my mom speak of it. She used to work there, it’s where she met Pop.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’d like to visit it while you’re here.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  They were driving down the hill into the village. ‘This is Beckbridge.’ She laughed. ‘You’re in it and out again before you know where you are.’ She negotiated a right turn into a narrow rutted lane and drove carefully along it for a couple of hundred yards, then she stopped at a green-painted gate. ‘Here you are. Beck Cottage.’

  Wayne leant forward to look. He didn’t know what he expected, but this place was tiny. Made of brick and flint, it had six little windows and two doors, which suggested it had once been two even smaller dwellings. His idea of a farm it certainly was not. No wonder Miss Wainright had smiled. He got out of the car, fetched his haversack from the back seat and bent to thank her. ‘I’ll see you around perhaps.’

  ‘Oh, more than likely.’

  While he went to the door she drove on a few yards, turned the car in a farm gate and stopped again. She saw him at the door and Joyce flinging herself into his arms, and then quietly drew away.

  ‘Wayne, why didn’t you let me know you were coming?’ Joyce cried, dragging him inside. ‘We could have killed the fatted calf. Or at least a pig.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure when I’d get leave. It came unexpectedly and I figured I’d surprise you.’

  ‘You’ve done that all right. Here, let me look at you.’ She held him at arm’s length. ‘Goodness, you’re the spitting image of Valerie. Come in and sit down. I’ll make some tea. You do like tea?’

  ‘Sure.’ He sat down and looked around him. He was in a small living room which contained a horsehair sofa, two matching armchairs, a dining table and six dining chairs. The chimney alcove on one side was fil
led with shelves cluttered with ornaments, vases, a letter rack stuffed with correspondence and a bowl containing wrinkled apples. On the other side was a cupboard on which stood a wireless set, powered by accumulators. The single window was tiny and the room cool and dim.

  They heard the sound of someone coming into the next room, which he assumed was the kitchen. She went to the connecting door. ‘Ian, look who’s here. It’s Valerie’s boy, Wayne, come to see us.’

  Ian, dressed in corduroy trousers and a collarless shirt, came into the room. Wayne stood up and shook his hand. ‘Glad to meet you, sir.’

  ‘Sir!’ Joyce giggled. ‘He’s your Uncle Ian, for goodness sake. I’m just going to make a cuppa,’ she informed her husband. ‘Do you want one?’

  ‘Won’t say no.’

  ‘Go and call Ma while I make it.’ To Wayne she explained, ‘She has her own place over the lane, but she spends half her time here with us.’

  Ian disappeared and in no time at all, Wayne heard an excited cry and a little old lady dashed into the room and flung herself at him. He was rocked by the onslaught but held her firmly and bent to kiss her. ‘You must be my gran.’

  ‘’Course I am.’ She grabbed his hand and put it to her cheek. ‘I never thought I’d see the day. Let me get a proper look at you.’ She stood back, still holding his hand, and looked him up and down. ‘He’s the image of Valerie, don’t you think, Joyce?’

  Joyce, who had just come back into the room with a tea tray, agreed. ‘Yes, I saw it straight off.’ She set out cups and saucers, milk jug and sugar basin and went back into the kitchen to fetch a cake on a plate. ‘How do you like your tea?’ she asked Wayne.