The Summer House Party

by Caro Fraser

  ‘You’re a brick to come all this way to see me, Sonia. How was your journey?’

  ‘The less said about that the better.’ She smiled. ‘But I’m here now.’ She glanced around at the handful of men scattered round the room, some playing cards, others chatting. ‘I must say, this is a very nice room. Lovely and warm. And such a view.’ She turned her attention back to Dan. ‘Now, tell me how you are.’

  ‘Better than I was this time last month. The doctors seem happy with the way I’m coming along now. I’ve had the best possible care. The staff here are pretty marvellous.’ Nurse Blain appeared at that moment bearing a tray, with two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits. ‘And here’s the most marvellous of them all. This is Nurse Blain. Nurse Blain, my godmother, Mrs Haddon.’

  ‘How d’you do,’ said Nurse Blain with a smile. She set down the tray. ‘Your godson is quite the charmer, Mrs Haddon. We’re all very fond of him.’

  ‘I hope he’s a good patient.’

  ‘Good as gold. Now, enjoy the shortbread. It’s from a tin my mother sent. The hospital’s a wee bit short on biscuit rations at the moment.’

  ‘How kind of you,’ said Sonia. ‘Thank you.’ She watched as Nurse Blain left the room. ‘What a pretty girl.’

  ‘Isn’t she? I’ll miss her when I leave.’

  ‘When will that be?’ Sonia stirred her tea and took a sip.

  ‘The doctors say it’ll be at least another two months until everything heals. Then there’s talk of sending me south to some convalescent place in England so that I can recover my strength properly. I’ll be glad of that. Much as I like Scotland, I miss home.’

  ‘Well, now, I should like to invite you to Woodbourne House to recuperate. Would the powers-that-be allow that?’

  ‘I suppose I can pretty much convalesce where I like, so yes, thank you.’

  ‘I’ll be glad of your company. It’s very quiet now. Helen has gone back to London. She is convinced the tide of the war is turning our way, and I’m sure I hope she’s right, but according to her last letter the bombing goes on just as hard as ever.’ Sonia nibbled a piece of shortbread, then went on, ‘Still, we do seem to be making progress. Wonderful that the Russians have taken Warsaw. Do you remember the poor Mayor of Warsaw making that brave, despairing broadcast back in nineteen thirty-nine? I suppose he’s long dead.’

  They talked for another hour or so, until Dan had to go and have his dressings changed, and Sonia went back to Inverness.

  Sonia came to visit Dan every day that week. The late-January weather was bitterly cold, but clear, and each day they would take a walk around the hospital grounds, Dan in his greatcoat and boots and a woollen cap, leaning on his crutch, Sonia in her fur coat and hat. They would go as far as the fishpond, then walk slowly back. After that they would have tea, and chat and play draughts or dominoes. They talked about everything – the war, politics, art, the keeping of pigs, the future of the world.

  On the final day of Sonia’s visit they took their customary walk and had tea in the recreation room.

  ‘I’d best be going,’ said Sonia at last. ‘My train is in an hour and I have to collect my things.’

  Dan rose and helped her into her coat. ‘Thank you for coming all this way to see me. You don’t know what this week has meant. The chaps here are a decent bunch, but it’s been pretty lonely.’

  ‘Well, I look forward to seeing you in a few weeks. Just write and tell me when you expect to be travelling and I shall have everything ready.’

  *

  A few weeks after Sonia’s visit, the doctors pronounced Dan well enough to leave hospital.

  On his final morning at Moray House he washed and shaved and breakfasted, and finished the little packing he had to do, then took his customary walk. Ever since Sonia’s visit, when he had taken his first tentative steps to the fishpond and back, he had been extending the distance of his daily exercise, and for the past two weeks he had been able to make the three quarters of a mile to the shores of Loch Ness without difficulty. The majestic sweep of the grey waters, the hazy spring tints of the heather on the surrounding hillsides, and the utter silence were a balm to his soul.

  He sat for a while on an outcrop at the shoreside, mulling over his thoughts, then walked to the water’s edge and picked up a few flat stones, sending them skimming across the glinting loch. He had been exercising his right shoulder in this way for the past fortnight. His first efforts had been achingly feeble, but he had persisted, and now his muscles were stronger, and the stones scudded over the loch with a satisfying smoothness. He sent the last stone flying, and counted ten bounces before it sank into the grey water. Not bad. He turned and began the journey back to the hospital for the last time.

  His taxi was due at half past two, and after lunch he went in search of Nurse Blain, who had been on leave all weekend, to say goodbye. He found her in the laundry room, paper and pencil in hand, counting sheets and pillowcases. She looked up, vexed at having her calculations disturbed, but smiled when she saw who it was.

  ‘Hello, there.’

  ‘Nurse Blain, the goddess of hospital linen. I’ve been wondering all morning where you were.’

  ‘I only came on my shift an hour ago.’ Realisation dawned. ‘It’s never today that you’re leaving, is it?’

  ‘How could you possibly forget?’

  ‘Conceit. You’re not exactly number one on my list of priorities, Lance Corporal Ranscombe.’

  ‘Aren’t you the least bit sorry to see me go?’

  She sighed. ‘I cannot possibly keep count with you havering on. Yes, of course, you silly man. I miss all the patients when they leave. Well, the nice ones.’

  She turned her attention back to her list, but he saw that her cheeks were lightly flushed. He moved forward a little on his crutch until he was within touching distance of her, then reached out and stroked the curling wisps of hair escaping from beneath her cap.

  ‘A whole four months, and you still don’t call me Dan, and I don’t call you Catriona.’

  ‘I hardly think that would go down well with Sister McInnes, do you?’

  Her look was inviting, expectant, and he leaned forward and kissed her parted lips. Then he put his free arm round her, drew her towards him and kissed her again, this time with great thoroughness. The sense of mutual desire was so strong and sudden that it left them both breathless. Dan looked down at the keys dangling from her belt and murmured, ‘Does one of those lock this door?’

  She nodded, unhooked the keys from her belt, and went swiftly through them. ‘This one.’ He took the keys from her, pushed the door to, leaned his crutch against a shelf, and turned the key. A minute later she was in his arms, backed up against a snowy bale of towels, her starched skirt and apron around her waist, and Dan was tugging her serviceable knickers down over her black stockings. Between kisses she fumbled with his belt buckle, pulling his trousers open. He held back momentarily, looking down at her. ‘Gently, Nurse Blain, gently. I’m a recovering invalid, remember.’

  It went on for longer than he could have thought possible, after all the months of abstinence. When it was over, she let out a long, shuddering sigh, her eyes closed.

  ‘I think I’m well on the road to recovery, don’t you?’ said Dan, kissing her neck.

  ‘You are that,’ she murmured, then opened her eyes. ‘We must be mad,’ she whispered. ‘What if Matron was to find us here?’

  She straightened her cap and pulled up her knickers, then smoothed down her skirts. ‘Where are the keys? Oh, crivvens, I never thought I’d do a thing like this. Never.’ She found the keys and swiftly unlocked the door, then opened it and peered round. The corridor was empty.

  ‘You’d better go before someone comes along,’ she said. She had resumed her brisk tone, and in spite of what had just happened – or perhaps because of it – could not meet his eye.

  He put a finger beneath her chin, turned her face up to his, and kissed her. ‘It’s been a pleasure knowing you, Nurse Blain. In a differe
nt world and time, I should like to have known you better.’

  ‘I think we know one another quite well enough now, Lance Corporal Ranscombe,’ replied Nurse Blain, and whisked away down the corridor.

  *

  On a damp day in early March, Paul was home on weekend leave working in the vegetable plot, with the assistance of Max. Meg had decided to embark on the cathartic business of washing sheets and pillowcases. At the end of the afternoon, when Paul came in from the garden, she was busy arranging them on the long kitchen pulley.

  ‘Here, let me attend to that,’ he said, and hauled on the cord to raise the pulley to the ceiling so that the linen could dry high in the warmth of the kitchen.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Meg, unpinning her overall. She was bedraggled from washing, scrubbing and mangling, and when Paul put his arms around her and gave her a hug, it irked her, because it reminded her how unattractive and unkempt she felt these days. Still, she returned his embrace, and dwelt for a moment in its safety and comfort. It made her sad to think how thrilled she had once been to feel his big, masculine body against her own, and how naïvely she had confused that feeling with love.

  ‘Poor old girl. I hate to see you working away like this. Why don’t you try to get yourself a maid to help with all this? And maybe a cook?’

  She gave a short laugh. ‘Is that a comment on my cooking abilities?’ She left his arms and turned to the sink, running water to peel the vegetables for the evening meal. ‘You know very well that every girl and woman in the country is doing war work. There are hardly any maids to be had. And cooks are an impossibility.’ She knew what she was about to say next was pointless, but frustration compelled her. ‘You can’t imagine how often I wish I was back at Woodbourne House. At least there I had company, and everyone worked together. And we had decent food.’ She scraped savagely at the carrots. ‘I’m afraid I can do no better than pilchards and boiled vegetables for supper, and the two apples I’ve baked won’t go very far. They’re all I could get at the greengrocer’s. I wonder you don’t go back to the mess early and get something decent to eat.’

  ‘I’m not going back to the base this evening,’ said Paul mildly. ‘I’ve been called to London for a meeting tomorrow. Being Wing Commander involves new responsibilities.’ He sat down at the kitchen table and stared at his earth-stained hands. ‘I know it’s hard for you here. I hoped having our own home again, seeing a bit more of one another, might make up for it. Having you closer has certainly helped me. When I go out on operations I feel… well, I just like to feel that I have you and Max, my family, to come back to.’ Meg laid down her knife, listening. He went on, ‘But I see how difficult it is for you. And how lonely. What I hoped would happen between us hasn’t, has it? I was probably a fool to think it would. So if you want to take Max and go back to Woodbourne House, I would understand.’

  There was silence in the kitchen. Meg gazed out at the back garden, where Max was still playing. This was her life. What she and Dan had had was over. It had receded like some distant dream. With every passing day and month he had grown further and further from her.

  She turned to him. ‘No. I shouldn’t have said such a selfish thing, and I only said it because I hate not being able to make the kind of home for you that I want to. The kind we used to have.’ It was true. If they’d still had Hazelhurst, how much better everything would be. ‘And if it’s hard for me, then it’s just as hard for everyone else. We have to carry on, and see what happens when things get better. When the war ends.’

  He stood up, crossed the kitchen and took her hands. ‘I need to believe you think things will get better. I need to believe you think we are worthwhile, because without that, I don’t think I could fly these missions, or care about any of it.’

  Tears filled her eyes, and she leaned against him. She could find no more words. She was filled with a sense of utter unworthiness. He was such a good man, for all his problems, and she… well, she had failed him in every possible way.

  Max came through the back door. ‘Mummy, is tea nearly ready? I’m starving.’

  Meg wiped her eyes hastily and moved away from Paul. ‘Yes, darling. We’re having an early evening meal, because Daddy’s got to go to London. It should be ready in fifteen minutes or so.’

  ‘Will there be time for me to listen to Children’s Hour afterwards?’

  ‘I should think so. Now, run upstairs and give your hands a thorough wash. Take your shoes off first, there’s a good boy.’

  After the meal the three of them sat around the living-room fire, Paul with his newspaper, Meg with her sewing, while Max listened to Children’s Hour. An episode of an Arthur Ransome serial was followed by music from Peter and the Wolf, and then members of a boys’ club talked about their garden plots. Six-year-old Max listened with interest.

  ‘They’re going to grow potatoes and cabbages, just like me. And marrows. Will we be growing marrows, too?’

  ‘Not if I have my way,’ said Meg. ‘I don’t like the taste at all. Besides, they take up too much room. Now, quiet while we listen to the news.’

  When the bulletin was over, Paul knocked out his pipe and switched off the wireless.

  ‘The Russians may have let us down last time around, but they’ve jolly well come back with a vengeance.’

  ‘Hitler must be throwing fits in a back room somewhere,’ said Meg, biting off a piece of thread.

  Max rolled his toy fire engine across the rug. ‘Does that mean we’re winning the war?’

  ‘Not quite, old fellow,’ replied his father. ‘General de Gaulle is right when he says the Germans aren’t beaten yet. But if the Allies can cross the Rhine and get to Berlin – well, then we’d be making real headway.’

  ‘Now,’ said Meg, folding up her sewing, ‘Daddy has to go soon. Go and put your shoes and coat on, and we can walk him to the bus stop.’

  Paul caught the train to London, arriving at Liverpool Street just after eight. He had intended to catch a taxi and go straight to his club for the night, but on his way out of the station he ran into a fellow pilot with whom he’d trained at RAF Halton, Alec Hammond. He was a thin man in his early thirties, with a spruce moustache and a bright, eager manner.

  ‘What brings you to town, old man?’ he asked, shaking Paul’s hand. ‘I’m on leave. What about you?’

  ‘I’ve been summoned by the brass for some sort of meeting at the War Office tomorrow morning. I’m Wingco now.’

  ‘I say, that’s capital. Have you plans for the evening, or can I tempt you to a drink?’

  ‘No plans. A drink sounds like a splendid idea. Where had you in mind?’

  ‘I’d rather steer clear of pubs, if it’s all the same to you. They’re all stuffed with Yanks these days – nothing against our American brethren, you understand, it’s just that a chap likes to drink his beer in relative peace. There’s a rather jolly service club I know near Shepherd’s Market. How about trying that?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Paul. ‘Let’s see if we can find a taxi.’

  They took a taxi to Berkeley Square and made their way to the club, which was packed with servicemen and -women.

  ‘So much for what I was saying about noisy GIs,’ said Alec. ‘Look, there’s a table over there with some chaps just leaving. You try to bag it, while I get the drinks.’

  Paul successfully claimed the table, and Alec returned a moment later with two pints of beer.

  ‘That was a stroke of luck,’ he said, setting down the glasses. He took off his coat and cap and hung them next to Paul’s, and sat down.

  The two men sat supping their beer and exchanging accounts of their various operations, and the fortunes of those they had trained with. Paul talked fondly about Meg and Max. After a while Alec glanced towards the bar, where a few RAF men and two WAAFs in uniform were drinking, talking and laughing loudly.

  ‘They’re a rowdy lot.’

  ‘Comes with the job,’ said Paul. ‘They need to let off a bit of steam. Can’t say I blame them.’ He studied the grou
p. ‘Actually, I know the dark-haired girl. She’s a friend of my sister’s. Haven’t seen her in an age.’

  ‘She’s quite a stunner,’ said Alec, stroking his moustache. ‘Wouldn’t mind being introduced.’

  ‘Well, I will, if she comes over.’

  Glancing in the direction of the two officers, Eve recognised Paul and raised her glass with a smile. She’d been waiting for an opportunity such as this for a long time. She left her friends and came across to their table. Any sense of rank couldn’t displace Alec and Paul’s lifelong habits of courtesy, and they got to their feet. Eve offered Paul a cheeky salute.

  ‘Paul. It’s been an age. I don’t think I’ve seen you since Diana’s wedding. All those stripes. Are you someone terribly important now?’

  ‘Wing Commander.’ He shook her hand. ‘Nice to see you, Eve – and in uniform, too. May I introduce Squadron Leader Hammond? Alec, this is Miss Meyerson.’

  ‘Oh, please – call me Eve.’ Alec shook her hand and she added, ‘Help – I should probably be calling you both “sir”, shouldn’t I?’ The way she laughed made both men realise she was a little drunk.

  ‘I’m sure we can dispense with formalities when we’re all off-duty. I’d much rather you called me Alec than Squadron Leader,’ said Alec. He pulled out a chair. ‘Won’t you join us? We were just about to order more drinks.’

  ‘Thanks, I will.’

  ‘What will you have?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Gin and it, please.’

  Paul went to the bar and returned with their drinks.

  ‘I was just telling Alec what fun we all had at the shooting party a few years ago,’ said Eve as he sat down. ‘Though as I recall, some of us were frightfully badly behaved.’ She gave Alec a smiling glance. ‘There was some bed-hopping going on, if you catch my drift. Paul caught his sister in flagrante with a very dashing racing driver. But he married her, I’m happy to say. Though you didn’t approve much at the time, did you, Paul?’ Paul smiled stiffly. ‘At least it had a respectably happy ending.’ She drank some of her gin. ‘Not like us, though.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Paul.