A Stranger Light

by Gloria Cook

  ‘Tom, language,’ Emilia warned. She had seen Tom’s vexation building up for days and she was worried there would be a quarrel. Lottie could vent a hurricane when she got started. It would alarm Paul and Carl, who had been fed and were now glugging down bottles of warm milk in their high chairs. Lottie refused to talk about her reasons, even to Perry, whom she was usually eager to share things with, but it could only be because she was missing her Texan husband Nate, whom she had met while Cornwall had been packed with American servicemen during the enormous build-up for the D-Day landings. It was a pity, for she had so much to look forward to. Nate had got his discharge, and because he had no family of his own, rather than Lottie emigrating as a GI bride he had sold his ranch and was soon to join her to settle down in Cornwall. They were planning to buy a farm of their own.

  Jill pulled Tom’s hand down and took the spoon away. ‘Shush, Tom.’

  ‘No, darling, I won’t shut up, and Mum, never mind about my language. She,’ Tom pointed at Lottie with his forefinger, ‘bawls people out for no good reason and I’m not prepared to put up with it any longer. Lottie, what is it? Tell us.’

  ‘It’s all right for you!’ Lottie tossed back, showing her teeth like a snarling dog.

  Whiskery Edwin Rowse, sitting stooped with his battered tweed cap on the remains of his donkey-grey hair, tapped her shoulder. ‘Steady, maid.’ He was a quiet plodder, unruffled and satisfied, and had a close, caring relationship with his grown-up grandchildren, but his usual common sense couldn’t make out Lottie’s problem.

  ‘Oh, Granddad, no one understands!’

  Perry, dark and of chivalrous charm, glanced at the little boys but they were sucking away on their bottles, oblivious to the tension. ‘Tell us darling, what is it that we don’t understand?’

  Lottie gave him a glowering look, something she had never done before, hating the despairing look he aimed up the table to her mother, but she was just as impatient with him. She was used to claiming a lot of Perry’s attention, but he, as a leg amputee in the Great War, a former Army surgeon, spent much time nowadays supporting fellow sufferers from the more recent battles, and he’d been too busy to read her misery.

  ‘Lottie, shall we go somewhere on our own?’ Emilia offered in her most maternal voice. She was aching to know what was causing her daughter such distress that it had rendered her unjustifiably rude.

  ‘What good would that do?’ Lottie barked back.

  ‘Can I do anything for you?’ Jill ventured over her cold porridge.

  ‘You’re the last person I’d ask!’ Lottie snapped.

  ‘Don’t you dare speak to Jill like that!’ Tom was appalled and furious. ‘Apologize at once or I’ll wring it out of you.’

  ‘You’ll do—’ Emilia was broken off before she could add, ‘no such thing, Tom,’ for Lottie jumped up off her chair. Tom had risen to his feet and was about to rail further against Lottie, but Emilia silenced him with a raised hand. Tom managed the farm, but his father had bequeathed it to her.

  And with her stately bearing and resolute manner, it was she who was in charge. She gazed at her daughter with vexation. Lottie might feel she had a justifiable grudge and wanted it aired, but this wasn’t the way to go about it. It spoke of her immaturity at nineteen years, despite her being a wife and mother. ‘Go on Lottie, let’s hear exactly what you have on your mind. I’m sorry about this, Midge, do get on with your breakfast.’

  The little, leathery-skinned cowman did just that, helping himself to milk and a sprinkle of sugar. He cocked his ear to listen to what Lottie had to say. Emilia – Mrs Em to him – had not suggested he leave the room, and it did not occur to him to make a withdrawal. He was as much a part of the set up here as was the solid, functional Victorian furniture and the three generations of family.

  Faced with her mother’s stern face, and Perry and Jill’s and her grandfather’s bewilderment, and Tom’s fury, and old-fashioned Tilda’s anxious hand-wringing, Lottie saw with a sinking heart that she had let her grievances get out of hand. It was really none of their fault. It was Nate’s. He should be on a transatlantic ship on his way to her for good, but instead he had chosen to visit his former ranch hands and say goodbye to them. She hadn’t seen him since Carl’s christening, the only time he had seen his son, when he had got a twenty-four-hour pass. Shortly after that his unit had returned to the States. His absence had made them miss out on a wonderful opportunity. A month ago a farm of two hundred and forty acres had come on the market in a nearby hamlet, Taldrea. It would have been perfect, near enough for her to keep easy contact with her family. She had phoned Nate and asked if he would allow Tom to put in a bid on their behalf, but Nate had said he wanted to be there to choose their new home for himself. Lottie’s prayers that the farm wouldn’t sell quickly had gone unanswered. A retired major had snapped up the farm. She was furious and left feeling rejected. Nate should be eager to be with his family. She and Carl should be his first priority.

  She lowered her eyes and intended to lower her voice, but it came out steeped in resentment. ‘It’s just that I’m surrounded by happily married couples and people who are getting on with their lives, and until Nate finally arrives my life is on hold.’

  Her explanation did nothing to make Tom less riled; he had missed her mournful notes. ‘Oh, that’s typical of you, Lottie. Nate’s giving up everything for you, his ranch, his friends, even his country. You’re so selfish. You should be counting your blessings that he survived the war, that you’re not widowed like Susan Dowling. You should take a leaf out of her book. She doesn’t harp on about her fate but shows quiet dignity. Our own brother was shot down in his plane and denied his future. And don’t forget those who are still suffering, Jim Killigrew, for instance, trying to run his building business with only one arm, and what about the chap staying at Faye’s? He went through every sort of torture under the Nips yet he took it upon himself to come down to see the Smith kids at the earliest opportunity. You saw for yourself what a mess he’s in.’

  ‘I know all that,’ Lottie cried. ‘And don’t you dare accuse me of being selfish. It was Mum’s intention to leave the farm to both of us but I’ve forsaken my half so you and Jill can have it all one day. You and Jill are already settled. When you start a family you’ll have everything, so Tom Harvey, don’t you dare preach at me.’

  ‘OK, OK, I take your point,’ Tom said, less irate. ‘But do you have to be so damned cantankerous? Carry on like this, when Nate does arrive and he’ll turn straight round and return to Texas.’

  A shrill sound escaped Lottie’s throat. Before she could utter another word, Perry got up crossly from the table, lifted Paul out of his high chair and banged out of the room. It wasn’t unusual for his stepchildren to squabble, and Lottie was normally the instigator, but it was the first time he had felt compelled to desert a meal table. Emilia had watched him and their son disappear. She said forcefully, ‘Right, that’s enough, you two. A lot of hurtful things have been said and I’m ordering you both to stop before one of you goes on to say something unforgivable. Lottie, you and I will discuss your concerns later. In the meantime, you will both apologize to everyone here for disturbing their peace, and later to Perry. Eat up, the country still needs feeding, and as far as the running of this farm is concerned we’re all in it together.’

  She watched grimly as her son and daughter mumbled apologies, then turned and went to the den to Perry and Paul.

  Perry was bouncing Paul in his arms, making him chuckle as he made funny faces.

  ‘Sorry about that, darling,’ Emilia said, putting her arm round his waist.

  ‘You’ve no reason to say sorry, Em, darling.’ Perry brought her into his embrace. ‘I hope Nate sets out for Southampton soon. Perhaps we should suggest to Lottie that she travel up alone to meet him. They could badly do with a proper honeymoon.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t think trouble between them is inevitable, do you?’

  Perry’s deep blue eyes displayed surprise. ‘Don’t you
?’

  Emilia sighed and snuggled into him. ‘I know what you mean. We’re getting crowded here now that there’s three separate families with their own ideas and needs. And Lottie is feeling let down by Nate’s decision not to join her at once. And Lottie being Lottie, she’ll not rest until she’s hammered her point home to him.’

  Chapter Five

  Faye looked down on Mark’s sleeping form in one of the twin beds in the guestroom, and was pleased to see he was peaceful and still. He was on his side, stretched out, his breathing coming effortlessly. She had crept into his room yesterday morning to check on him and found him sleeping fitfully, twitching and groaning. The bedcovers had been heaped on the floor and he was shivering with cold. She’d rushed to cover him up, tucking the blankets in and smoothing the candlewick bedspread over them, hoping he wasn’t suffering harrowing flashbacks of his incarceration.

  It was only five months since he and the pitiful number of survivors, out of thousands of British and Australian troops, and other nationals and natives had been liberated from the labour camps. How long, if ever, would it take him to get the horrors and deprivations out of his mind? She felt compassion for him, how could she feel otherwise? But there was something more burning away in her heart. She wanted to care for Mark, to comfort him and cherish him, show him how grateful she was for his sacrifice and how she admired him. Last night Mark had told her uncle he had fought against his medical discharge. For a career soldier it was a terrific blow. What would he do with his life now? Her uncle was worried about him. ‘There was a sense of shame for the men put under surrender at Singapore, but there was no other option,’ Tristan had said. None of it was fair to Mark, and Faye wanted him to feel his life was worth living, and she was furious with his uncaring wife. Justine Fuller should have done more for him.

  Mark had been under her roof for three days now and didn’t rise until late. Everyone was careful to allow him a quiet breakfast and not to engage him in long conversations. Then he’d sit beside the drawing room fire, listening to the radio, or browsing through the newspaper. His wife rang each evening at six o’clock and he’d spend a short while in friendly conversation with her. No one asked him what she’d had to say. The only questions put to him, apart from inquiries if he was comfortable and had had enough to eat, were by the Smiths.

  On their arrival home from school, after being drilled by Tristan that they mustn’t overwhelm Mr Fuller, the children had filed eagerly into the drawing room, keeping a pensive hush, to hear about their father’s death. Tristan and Faye had sat in the background in case any of the children needed a comforting hug, or Mark’s mind switched off.

  Mark had stood up to greet them and sat down again when the children were settled in a tidy row on a sofa, Pearl in the middle, all holding hands. Faye noticed he had studied their avid little faces. He smiled. ‘You boys are very much like your father, and you, Pearl, are the image of your mother. Vincent showed me a family snap in Singapore, he used to bring it out and show all the men and boast about how proud he was of all of you. You’ve all grown very nicely. Your parents would be delighted to know you now have a loving home.’

  ‘Was our dad one of your mates?’ Bob asked, leaning forward over his grubby knees.

  ‘Not at first, I was an officer over him. But after we were captured things levelled out a bit. Vincent was quite a comic. He lifted the spirits of the men. He was a very efficient black-marketeer, but he never kept anything for himself but traded with the natives for medicines for the sick, and there were a lot of sick men. He liked to act and fool about and make people laugh. I expect you remember him like that, always happy, making others happy too.’

  ‘Yes, that’s our Dad,’ Len said proudly. ‘He used to joke like Bob Hope. Did he kill many Japs?’

  ‘No. None of us did really. The British surrendered in 1942 and were taken to British barracks which the Japs renamed Changi because they were near the infamous Changi jail. The barracks had been a wonderful site with all sorts of amenities including cinemas, tennis courts and yacht clubs, but before the surrender British forces had destroyed the water supply and everything so the Nips couldn’t enjoy the comforts, so it wasn’t all that nice for us.’ This was an understatement. The degrading conditions, the deaths by beatings and disease prepared none of the men for the hell that was to come. ‘Then after a while we were taken on a long march through the jungle to various camps to help build a railway.’ They were forced to trek through pitiless terrain, straining under the weight of heavy equipment, then to live in squalor, and work as slaves, even the sick, on rations barely enough to sustain an infant. Death had snatched lives away in droves every day. Mark would never tell another human soul about what had really gone on.

  He grew serious and looked into each child’s face. ‘Do you know anything about how your father died?’

  Bob shook his head. ‘Mum wrote to us just before she got killed in an air raid, that she got a telegram telling her that he’d gone up to heaven.’

  A shadow fell across Mark’s face and Faye knew he would hold back the true facts. ‘Well, a lot of men got sick. You know how at school there are outbreaks of mumps and measles? It was a lot like that in camp. Men got fevers and sometimes it was quite serious and they’d die. It was what happened to your father. There was a doctor and a hospital’ – called the death house, he didn’t say, just a bamboo hut – ‘and after a short stay in the fever ward Vincent died very peacefully. The padre and I were with him. I promised him if I got the chance I’d come and see you, tell you all how much he loved you and wanted you to have a good life.’

  ‘We’ve got that,’ Len whispered. Like his twin and his sister, his eyes were wet with tears as the loss of both of his parents and the family home bit into him.

  Pearl let go of her brothers’ hands and approached Mark shyly. She had a deep pocket in her skirt and she took something out of it. It was a photograph. A copy of the one Vincent Smith had shown him. ‘That’s them, our Mum and Dad. Mum gave us this before we was evacuated. Uncle Tris got us each a copy. I take mine everywhere.’

  ‘Do you, sweetheart? That’s lovely.’ Mark had to fight back a burst of emotion. The photograph brought back vivid memories of the time at the base before the surrender, and the harrowing and tormenting ones after that, and the true nature of Corporal Vincent Smith’s death. A guard discovered him trading cigarettes for medicine with an old Burmese woman. The cheroot the tiny woman had clamped between her lips had been kicked out, smashing her jaw, and she had been bludgeoned to death with rifle butts. Her agonized howls had reverberated round the camp for hours. Mark shut off the terrible images of Vincent’s unspeakable, drawn-out end, staked out in the blazing sun and tortured. If he allowed it to invade his mind, he would not be able to present a calm front to the children.

  The twins got down off the sofa and went to him. ‘Thanks for coming to us, Mr Fuller,’ they said together.

  ‘It’s an honour to have done this for you all and for Vincent.’ Mark bent forward and kissed the top of Pearl’s head. The boys put out their hands and Mark shook them. Then as if drawn by invisible threads the four joined together in a hug.

  Tristan swallowed the lump building up in his throat. Faye had to wipe away the tears searing her eyes. ‘Now children, you know that Mr Fuller is not very well. Why don’t you run along to the kitchen where Agnes will have your tea ready.’

  The Smiths trooped out, but not before they’d received a few gentle words and a kiss from their guardians. ‘We can’t thank you enough, Mark,’ Faye said. ‘As the years pass by for the children, you coming here like this will mean so much to them.’

  ‘It means a lot to me.’ Mark’s voice had grown cracked and dry. He was drained by the effort, but he had done his duty, he had kept his promise to his comrade, and some of the downheartedness lifted away from him.

  Mark retired for a nap, and woke forty-five minutes later. He was always sluggish and confused first thing; sometimes the rumbling of the trains o
n that dreadful railway, which had usually run at night to avoid allied bombers, echoed mockingly through his mind. This time he felt warm and cosy and instinct told him he was safe. Keeping his eyes closed he enjoyed the snug weight of the covers over him and breathed in the fresh smell of clean sheets. He was wearing a pair of pyjamas he’d kept for home leave. They were two sizes too big for him now, but it was a luxury to have anything on his scrawny form that wasn’t tattered, crawling with stinging bugs, and soiled and soaked with sweat.

  He listened to Susan singing downstairs, and thought about Justine. Mark was philosophical about the breakdown of his marriage. His father and Justine’s had served at the same Army postings, so they were lifelong friends. They had been greatly fond of each other and always would be. On one occasion, he a young officer then, after they’d had too much to drink they had fallen into bed and had enjoyed a lustful relationship. When Justine’s mother suggested they get engaged they had gone along with it – it was the usual thing to do, get married and raise a family.

  Justine had not been a typical officer’s wife. She had refused to live in married quarters, saying she had seen enough of them, and had plumped for a new suburban semi instead. Her job as a hospital almoner was important to her. He hadn’t minded. His career was uppermost in his mind and he’d not desired the rounds of drinks with other officers and their wives. When he’d been posted to Singapore, she had only joined him for the odd month or so, for holidays. Thank God she had not been there when Singapore had been surrendered. Women and children had also suffered horrendously in Japanese internment camps. Knowing Justine was relatively safe at home had kept him going during the horrors.

  Susan’s voice carried to him: ‘There’ll be blue birds over the white cliffs of…’ He wasn’t feeling too frail this morning, he’d take a stroll round the garden and if his energy held up he’d look over Faye’s farm. As he stretched his long thin taut limbs and got out of bed, he smiled at thoughts of Faye. Like Susan, she was a thoroughly nice, caring woman. Both were attractive. He smiled to himself: for all his weaknesses he must be in some sort of good nick to have noticed that.