‘I can’t. Deliveries. See you next week?’ His breathing was loud.
She didn’t answer. Instead she said, ‘Do you love me?’
‘Yes,’ he called back. ‘Always.’ The wind took the words and whipped them away before he could unsay them. He didn’t know what it meant but he had been saying it to himself for so long it was the only answer. She gave him a small, sad smile and walked off in the direction of the farm.
When she was gone, he became aware of the rain falling heavier now, dripping even through the thick canopy of pines and the wind howling out at sea. He realised he hadn’t asked her if she loved him back.
3.
Gales officially forecast in nearly all districts of the British Isles
All afternoon, as the rain fell unceasing outside her window and the sky turned from dull to black, Verity stayed shut up in her room. She alternated between lying on the bed, face down, and pacing between the door and the window. She was supposed to go to the dance in town but how could she go now? When Jack had asked her, just over a week ago, it had felt like a small but important victory. The thing between them would no longer be hidden and sordid but something else. But so much had happened since then: the argument yesterday and then, today, Arthur. Now it felt like a cruel, horrible joke she had played on herself.
Tea came and went. She couldn’t face eating. The wind began battering the windows and Peter stomped out into the rainy afternoon to make sure the cows were secure in the cowshed. Still, she didn’t change, her face remained bare. Finally, she stripped out of her clothes and sat in front of the dressing table in her room. Her face was blotchy and red, her hair a mess. It was hard to reconcile the image of the girl in the glass with what she had done. She was a coward, a craven coward. Unable to tell Arthur the truth, she had done something much much worse. Perhaps there was something wrong with her. She gagged and reached the sink in the corner of the room just in time to retch into it, a thin acid yellow stream of bile dripping into the sink. She sank to the floor and held onto the pink ceramic, her face pressed against its cool edge. The room darkened. Downstairs, she heard a door slam. Slowly, she pulled herself up, filled the sink and washed herself with her flannel, wiping the smell of the vomit away. She brushed her teeth. It felt good to be clean. Her heart was still beating too hard, as if it was waiting, getting ready to fight or flee.
The downpour became a patter and a drip and then stopped. The moon was rising and silver droplets covered the garden hedges. She looked at her bedside clock. Nearly five. The dance would already have started. She stood again by the glass in her slip and tried to see herself as Jack saw her – something worthy of attention. But she scowled at her image. In her dressing table drawer, poking out from beneath her underwear, the Turner postcard and the exhibition brochure he’d got from America. The fact that he’d found these precious things for her meant something. To decide what to do, she had to see him. She took them out and propped them against the mirror, then flung open the wardrobe.
*
Arthur felt the imprint of Verity’s mouth on his, still tingling, as he rolled his bike back along the path, the sea a roar, black in the twilight. He could barely see the trees in the dark and was too stunned to cycle but clung to the line of the woods to make his way back. The night was closing in on him. He should have left earlier and he felt a physical relief when he reached the end of the path and pushed the bike up the slipway to the West Bank where he could see the lights of the village. The night was coming and Mother would expect him for his tea.
Behind him, the moon shone through the clouds, casting a silvery light on the boats in the harbour. There was the same strange yellow tinge to the twilight. The water in the harbour looked oily and black. With the wind up, Arthur could see the boats swaying on the water. His mac flapping and his cap pulled low over his ears, he rode hard for home.
As he neared the shop, a solitary old man in a peaked cap called out, ‘Best watch out on that there bike, there’s a foul old sou’wester coming.’
Arthur said he certainly would. But the old man stood motionless, staring out at the boats in the East Fleet as if he was waiting for them to give him the sign to do something.
‘Tide’s not ebbing,’ said the man. ‘Fair rummen.’
Mother was still in the shop, stock-taking, marking it all out in her blue notebook.
‘I’m back,’ Arthur said, poking his head round the door.
She looked up briefly, nodded. ‘Set the table,’ she said, and continued noting down stock.
He went back up to their quarters and laid the table for two, put on a pot of water for tea and buttered bread for their bread and jam. His mind was full of Verity.
‘You look a mess,’ said his mother. She switched on the radio and the Saturday big band concert was just coming to an end.
‘Windy out,’ he said.
‘You’re stopping in now, though.’
‘Still got a couple of deliveries.’ He couldn’t stay in with Mother, just the two of them on a Saturday night. Other people were out, having fun, going to dances, that sort of thing. He had to get out.
‘On a night like this? Don’t be silly.’
‘It’s fine, Mother, I just need to do two more.’
‘There was a ship went down near Ireland. I heard it on the wireless at the four o’clock bulletin. Nearly all of them drowned.’
‘That’s terrible,’ he said. He wished she wouldn’t do this.
‘All the women and children. Imagine it.’ She had a relish in the horror of it. It had been the same in all her letters throughout the war. A running tally of the dead, as if in cataloguing all the deaths she was remembering – or memorialising – every single one of those lost. Every lost child was one of hers. All the babies she’d never had; all the names of people he never knew from his father’s side, killed in the camps; his father as good as dead. Only he and her left now. Arthur said nothing.
‘Listen,’ she said, and turned the radio up.
‘The full force of the gales is being felt in the extreme north of Scotland.’
Her face was rapt. ‘All sea and air services there are at a standstill, and from all parts of the islands there are reports of small boats sunk, roofs blown from houses, and trees uprooted.’ It went on for some minutes, detailing all the effects of the gales in Scotland and Northern England, but eventually it moved on to other news items and she turned it back down.
*
Strong north-westerly winds veering to northerly Gales 120 mph
The hallway was dark, only the small orange glow of a single lamp by the telephone table providing any light. Verity was about to open the front door to slip out when she heard a hacking cough from behind her and the heavy footsteps of her father.
‘Verity? Where are you going?’
She stiffened, but plastered on a smile and turned to face him. ‘There’s a dance in town, Father. I’m meeting some friends there.’
‘Friends?’ He spat this out as if he’d never heard of anything so ridiculous.
‘Yes, school pals, that’s all.’
‘Your mother—’ He stopped and seemed to sway as if a strong wind was battering him. Verity almost ran forward to save him, but he pulled himself up tall. ‘Your mother would be worried about you if she was here. These dances, these parties. You need to meet the right sort of chap.’
Her fists closed, opened and closed.
‘I could get a job,’ she said. ‘I could teach.’ The words had blurted out. She sounded desperate, not even believing it herself, but there had to be some alternative to helping out at the farm until she married a member of the farming gentry, which is all she had to look forward to. She wanted to say more, to ask him to help her find a place in the world, to plead for him to understand, to tell him she missed the way he used to talk to her as if she was worthy of educated discussion. But he was far away at the other end of the hallway, wreathed in shadow, the circle of lamplight not reaching him.
‘De Vere sa
ys his son would be willing to take you for a drive next week,’ he said. ‘For her sake, you could at least consider the boy.’
A scream rose in her throat but she clamped it down. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, and opened the door to gusts of wind from the cold night. She thought she heard a door slam upstairs.
‘You’re still a minor until you’re twenty-one,’ he said, his voice unexpectedly loud in the echoing hall, but she didn’t reply and ran out, letting the door shut behind her.
On the way to the dance the rain returned, harder than before. She ran, collar up and head down, against the driving rain, her scarf scant protection against the wind and the bottom of her stockings damp. Glimpsing the harbour as she ran, she saw in the moonlight the water was bulging and swollen. It moved back and forth like an animal waiting to pounce. The tide was high, too high, threatening to spill over the quay wall. God, she hoped their land wouldn’t be too affected if the tide overspilled tonight; salt was the enemy of the farmer.
Outside the door to the dance, she hesitated. In a puddle she glimpsed her reflection, shining, lipstick-bright, until a gust of rain fractured and scattered it. Under her mother’s trench coat, she was wearing a purple silk dress her mother had made for her years ago, for a hunting party, and underneath the dress, nylons Jack had given her. The dress was too tight around her bust and it came a little higher over the knee than it used to, but it was her only good dress. She didn’t count the blue she had worn at Midsummer; she’d made that one herself from cheap satin. For the purple, her mother had chosen everything – the material, the design – and Verity had hated it. Her mother cared about fashion and took all the magazines. She remembered an evening gown her mother had worn for a party early on in the war. It had been a pale gold colour that shimmered in the light. Her mother had answered a knock at the door. Then the sound of a glass smashing. The gramophone playing a jazz tune. Someone said, ‘Nicholas, you’d better come,’ to their father. Verity saw him kneeling by their mother’s fallen form, the telegram in her hand, shattered glass by the hem of the gold gown and wine seeping into the floorboards.
This must have been Jeffrey, only nineteen, the last of the line. Her mother kept saying, ‘What will happen to Felford?’ As if the family estate was all that mattered. It was all gone now and the gold dress hung in the wardrobe, too small for Verity to ever wear. But she saw the purple dress now for what it was – an act of love her mother had been unable to express otherwise.
She was cold and the wet would ruin her hair, but she was paralysed on the threshold. What if he wasn’t there? What if he was there? What if Arthur was there? God, no. But he had said he wasn’t going. She had no sense of exactly what she was going to do, and it sent a shiver all over her. She swallowed. Her empty stomach growled.
She pushed open the door.
It was so bright inside, not like the moody, romantic atmosphere she had expected. She blinked in the doorway. Everyone was twirling each other, moving at speed around the floor, the band in full swing. The beat was fast and rhythmic. Teeth flashed as they spun past her. It was much livelier than the dance at Midsummer. The world had been smashed open since then. She took off her scarf and shook out her hair, trying to smooth it, scanning the dancers for him. No sign. She edged around the crowded floor and found the little bar, which was staffed by a brassy woman with piled-up hair whom she’d never seen before.
‘Can I… could I please have a lemonade?’
The woman stared past her.
‘I’m getting this one. Two whisky sours for me and the lady.’ A hand was on her elbow, she was turned around and there was Jack, his smile inscrutable. She took all of him in in a daze: his hazel eyes, the freckles on his thin, crooked nose, the too-wide mouth. The familiar rush of heat spread up her body and prickled on her skin.
‘Hey,’ he said, holding her elbow. ‘I thought you’d stood me up. But here you are, Aphrodite, come to life right here in front of me.’
She didn’t want to but she smiled and blushed and took the drink with gratitude from the brassy woman. Her hand shook. She smiled her thanks at the woman too. Nasty cow.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Jack,’ she said, and blinked furiously, trying not to give in to him. Not yet.
‘Let me take your coat, you can’t sit here in a coat.’ She passed him the mac and sat at a trestle table by the bar, shivering in her dress. She saw now the cut was far too low. He put her coat over the back of another chair and whistled.
‘That is some dress.’ She had to look down and take another large gulp of the bitter drink. It was important not to lose her resolve.
‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she said.
‘Who says? Pete? Art? They ain’t your keepers—’
‘My father, everyone. Me.’ She tried to glare at him but looked fixedly at his ear.
‘I don’t believe you.’ He sounded as if he was humouring a child and leaned back.
She took another sip of the whisky. He had not understood. She was trying to make it right. ‘I can’t be seen with you. I… love someone else.’ This was not true. With a wrenching pull of sadness, she knew she didn’t love Arthur. This morning she’d thought the only way out of this disaster was to return to him. Now she was here, in Jack’s presence, it was falling apart.
Jack’s smile was twisted in bitter amusement. He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘But you’re happy to be with me when no one else is looking? You said this to Arthur too?’
She leaned back from him. ‘No! And what about you? I don’t even know if you mean anything you say. I don’t know anything about you. I’m sorry about what I said but this still has to stop, Jack. It’s wrong.’ Even as she said it, she didn’t believe herself. Oh, what a hideous mess she had created.
He was looking at her as if weighing something up. He leaned in again, close enough for her to see the specks of gold in his irises. ‘I don’t think this is wrong, Vee. Maybe, those other people, maybe they were wrong. Maybe we’ve both made mistakes. But this? It doesn’t feel wrong to me. It feels right.’ His hand came over and covered hers. She noticed how the freckles were sprayed over them like glitter. ‘Listen. I’m not going anywhere – no flying tonight. Come with me—’
‘Shouldn’t we dance?’ she said, standing up quickly, still with his hand in hers.
‘Yeah, sure.’ He put his arm around her waist and pulled her to the floor.
The next few minutes were a blur of feet and arms, Jack’s face close to hers, holding her gaze. Together and out. Together again. His left hand gripped hers and his other was on her waist, a burning imprint through her dress onto her skin. She should pull away, release herself, but she couldn’t do it. The beat of the music, pounding in her ears and in her stomach. All the time his grip on her never faltered.
After a few minutes, she felt dizzy and sick. They sat out the next one and she waited for the vertigo to pass. She watched the other dancers, only vaguely recognising a few of them from the town. She didn’t mix with these people, they were people from Wells, not her sort. She thought they might know her but the dancing made her reckless and she didn’t care. If only they knew what she had done! A bubble of laughter almost escaped before she swallowed it back down. Jack was wearing his uniform and she felt a rush of silly pride that she was with an American officer, the man with the most life in him. It was vain but she thought how handsome they must look, the two of them, the brightness of his hair against her dark – his uniform and her purple dress. An image formed of herself on his arm, a couple. On a ship to America, his arm tight around her waist.
He pulled her up again although her head hurt. He had his hand at the base of her spine. ‘This is what flying feels like,’ he said.
‘Yes?’ She was only half listening. She was looking at the whiteness of his teeth and the golden flecks in his hair, catching fire in the bright lights, and she realised that he was entirely beautiful to her now. Every single freckle, blemish and line was fascinating.
‘I’d like to take you
up in a plane. Take you away. Fly over the ocean and show you the mountains and the desert. The harshness of it, the brutality, not like here. Everything so damp. We could go riding together, you and me. You could teach me.’
She couldn’t look at him.
‘And I could take you to New York City and we could climb the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty and go to the Met to see those paintings you love.’
‘They’re in London too,’ she said in a low whisper, trying not to smile.
‘We’ll go to London then. We’ll go anywhere you want to go.’
‘Stop it,’ but she didn’t want it to stop. ‘I was supposed to go to university,’ she said in desperation.
‘I’m not stopping you doing anything,’ he said. They twirled around and he brought her in close and breathed into her ear, ‘How about it?’
‘How about what?’ she said, fighting the smile on her lips. ‘It’s just a dream you’re spinning, a fairy tale, a mirage, an illusion.’
‘It doesn’t have to be—’
‘But if it’s all a lie… I have no idea who you are, Jack. Who you really are. I mean, I know you’re a pilot. At least I think you’re a pilot. And are the planes carrying atomic bombs? And you’ve never told me anything about your family. And I don’t know if you’re playing around with other girls. It’s not fair.’
The tune came to an end and they were standing, facing each other. The band struck up another song but they stayed quite still.
‘You know,’ he said, stroking her wrist, ‘last night when you walked out, that was a bad day. We lost someone, that night. I mean truly lost. That’s why I was late. It wasn’t another girl. I swear to you.’
She swallowed. ‘But what about all the other lies, why can’t you tell me—’
‘None of it’s a lie. I wanna tell you—’
A girl tapped Jack on the shoulder. Bewildered, Verity realised it was Muriel with orangey-red lipstick and her blonde hair done up in curls, a dark green dress clinging to her hips and bosom.
The Night of the Flood Page 16