‘I can’t wait for me and Christina to have kids,’ Jack said suddenly, with surprising passion. ‘You know Dad’s moving out of number twelve when he marries, don’t you? There’ll be room in that house for me and Christina to bring a large family up.’
‘You won’t want so many blinkin’ kids if the first one’s anything like my Billy,’ Mavis said wryly, swatting a bee away. ‘You know what ’is last trick’s been, don’t you? Tryin’ to make a bomb in the back garden out of an empty shell casing and sugar and sodium chloride!’
Jack gave a crack of laughter. There was nothing he’d like better than to have a son as lively as Billy. They could go to football matches together and he’d teach him to box and how to play a mean hand at cards and. . .
‘We’ve been spotted,’ Mavis said, indifferent to the fact. ‘There’s a black straw ’at bobbing along over there,’ she nodded peroxide-blonde curls in the direction of the nearest of the three narrow roads that traversed the Heath, ‘and unless I’m very much mistaken, the body bobbing along beneath it, is ’Ettie Collins.’
Jack turned his head in the direction she was indicating, squinting his eyes against the sun. She was right. It was Hettie. And if the indignant set of her shoulders was anything to go by, she’d seen them and drawn a predictable, and very erroneous, conclusion. He gave a sigh. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t give a fig what conclusion Hettie had come to, only the present moment, with Christina behaving so oddly and his leave about to come to an end, was not normal circumstances. He didn’t want Hettie filling Christina’s head with ridiculous suspicions hours before he and Christina were going to be parted. An early demob was, after all, something he only hoped for, not something that was a foregone conclusion. It could very well be months before he was back home for good. It might not even be until next year.
‘Bloomin’ old tabby,’ he said, disgruntled. ‘Why she should be so ready to stir up trouble beats me.’
Mavis stretched out her legs and rolled on to her side a little. ‘She’s a bit of a stick-in-the-mud is old ’Ettie,’ she said sagely, resting her weight on her elbow. ‘She thinks you should ’ave married a south-London girl.’
Jack grinned, recovering his good humour. ‘How could I? The best ones were all taken.’
Incredibly, under her carefully applied make-up, Mavis blushed. Not wanting Jack to see her reaction she turned her head swiftly, looking again in the direction of the pond and Leon and Matthew. ‘Odd that neither of us worried what conclusion Leon might come to, seein’ us sittin’ on the grass together.’
His grin deepened. ‘You’re not sitting on it any longer. You’re lying on it. And no, it would never occur to me to think Kate’s bloke might come to a wrong conclusion and broadcast that conclusion far and wide. For all Carl Voigt’s a German, he’s the most non-judgemental person I know. Kate’s the same. And she’d never have married a judgemental man. Not in a million years.’
‘Unlike poor old Doris Sharkey,’ Mavis said, remembering Magnolia Square’s latest piece of titillating gossip. ‘Did you know Wilfred was seen in Lewisham ’Igh Street yesterday afternoon, paradin’ up and down with placards slung about ’is neck announcin’ that the end of the world was nigh? ’Ow Doris and Pru put up with ’im, I can’t begin to imagine. It must be like livin’ with Moses on a bad day!’
‘Why can’t I go with Matthew tomorrow to see Great-Grandad?’ Luke asked, tugging at Kate’s skirt as she rolled pastry for a strawberry tart. ‘Why can’t I go for a ride in a big motor car?’
Kate paused in her task, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face. The problems she had known would come when she had agreed to Joss Harvey renewing contact with Matthew, were already beginning. How did she explain to a three-year-old that, though Joss Harvey was Matthew’s great-grandad, he wasn’t his great-grandad? And that Matthew would now quite often be enjoying the kind of treats that he and Daisy would never be able to enjoy?
She bent down to him, taking hold of his chubby hands, saying gently, ‘Though we’re all one family, you and Daisy and Matthew all had different daddies, and so your grandads and your great-grandads on your daddy’s side of the family, are all different. That’s one of the things that makes all three of you so wonderfully special. And though it’s sad that only Matthew’s great-grandad is still alive and able to visit him and take him out for treats, we mustn’t be jealous of that, must we? Instead we must be very pleased for him. Nothing in life is ever the same for everyone, darling. And while Matthew is out with his great-grandad, you will be able to go somewhere nice with Daddy.’
Beneath his mop of silky dark curls, Luke frowned, struggling to understand the complicated talk of different daddies and grandfathers and great-grandfathers. ‘But, though my daddy wasn’t always Matthew and Daisy’s daddy, he is their daddy now, isn’t he?’
‘He’s going to be their adopted daddy,’ Kate said, drawing him into the circle of her arms, ‘and he loves them just as he loves you.’
Luke’s frown deepened, his toffee-brown eyes bewildered. ‘But if I share Daddy with Matthew and Daisy, why can’t Matthew share his great-grandad with me?’ His bottom lip began to tremble. ‘Want to go out with Great-Grandad Harvey,’ he said, his eyes brimming with uncomprehending tears. ‘Want to go for a ride in a motorcar.’
With an aching heart, Kate lifted him up in her arms. Perhaps Leon would be able to explain to Luke in a way he could more easily understand. Perhaps, in time, Luke wouldn’t mind the expensive treats Matthew enjoyed when out with Joss Harvey.
Cold shivers of apprehension slid down her spine. What if things went the other way? What if Luke began to mind more, not less? What if Joss Harvey’s re-emergence into Matthew’s life resulted in the relationship between Luke and Matthew being permanently marred? What would she do then? How would she ever forgive herself ? As Luke’s arms slid around her neck, she knew that she never would be able to forgive herself; that the entire responsibility would be hers, and hers alone. Luke’s tears trickled damply on to her neck and she hugged him close, wishing Leon would come home. She needed him to comfort her just as she was now comforting Luke. Once in the shelter of his arms, nothing would seem quite so daunting.
‘Come along, sweetheart,’ she said tenderly. ‘No more tears. Are you going to help me fill this pastry-case with strawberries? Would you like to make a strawberry tart all of your very own?’
Chapter Twelve
Christina lay beside Jack in their bedroom. He was sleeping soundly, his breathing heavy and deep, and she lay very still in order not to wake him. It was very early, faint slivers of light just beginning to ease the curtained darkness. He spoke indistinctly in his sleep. She wasn’t sure, but she thought he was saying her name. She stared up at the ceiling. In another few hours he would be leaving her. And when he returned, he would be doing so for good. Carefully, she slid her legs from beneath the sheets and stood up. It had been a hot night and the linoleum beneath her feet was welcomingly cool. With her cotton nightdress skimming her ankles, she padded across to the window and drew back a corner of the curtain.
Pure and piercing, the first fingers of the dawn stabbed the sky. Number eighteen was at the bottom right-hand side of Magnolia Square, and from her bedroom window Christina had a magnificent view of St Mark’s Church, standing proudly on its island of grass, and of all the even numbered houses, from number fourteen all the way to number two.
In the Lomaxes’ bedraggled front garden, a disused pram had joined Billy’s scrap-metal collection. Presumably he was going to strip it down and use the base and wheels for a trolley or go-kart of some kind. Next door to the Lomaxes’, the Helliwells’ flower-strewn bomb-site added a touch of exoticism to the Square. In the now golden light, roses of medieval France and Persia rampaged in what had always been an unorthodox garden. Left untended, the rose bushes had grown jungle-thick, reaching head-high in some places, white and crimson and heart-achingly beautiful.
Next door to the bomb-site’s botanical spl
endour was number twelve. One lot of banns had already been called for Charlie and Harriet’s wedding, and in another three weeks they would be man and wife, and living in Harriet’s house at the Blackheath end of the Square.
‘So you’ll ’ave plenty of time to fix number twelve up to yer own fancy before Jack comes ’ome,’ Charlie had said to her affably. ‘The only things I’m leavin’ behind that I care about are my pigeons. ’Arriet says there’s no room for ’em in ’er back garden. Wot she really means is, she don’t want a pigeon shed bang against ’er kitchen winder and pigeon droppings all over ’er lawn, and I don’t suppose you can blame ’er.’
Beyond number twelve were the heavily curtained windows of the Sharkeys’ house, windows that, as often as not, were now curtained throughout the day. What was going on there, Christina didn’t know, though there were rumours in plenty. Albert had told his clan that he had it on good authority from Daniel Collins that Wilfred Sharkey had completely lost his marbles. Miriam had given it as her opinion that Wilfred was a secret wife-beater, reminding everyone of the way Doris Sharkey had worn her hat halfway over her face at Kate and Leon’s wedding.
‘The nasty brute ’ad given her a shiner, I said so to ’Ettie at the time. Bible-bashers are all alike. All spare the rod and spoil the child, and I ’spect they’re just the same with their wives. Poor Doris never passes the time of day with anyone now. She scurries in and out of that ’ouse like a frightened rabbit, and word is Pru’s ’ad to give up ’er job at the solicitors in order to ’elp ’er mother keep Wilfred in ’and.’
Next door to the Sharkeys’, number eight stood starkly empty. The Tillotsons still hadn’t returned to the upper part of the house, and no-one knew when the Polish refugee destined to move in to the lower half of the house was going to put in an appearance, though it surely couldn’t be much longer before she did so. Then there was the Voigts’ house, soon, no doubt, to become known as the Emmersons’ house, and Harriet Godfrey’s house. When Harriet married Charlie she would become Jack’s stepmother and her stepmother-in-law. It was an odd thought, but so many of her thoughts were odd now that one more was of no importance whatsoever. What was important, though, was that she still hadn’t shared her innermost thoughts with Jack. She still hadn’t told him of her fierce hope that her mother and grandmother had survived the war, or of the efforts Carl Voigt was making, on her behalf, to find them. She leaned closer to the window, her cheek pressed to the cool glass. Why hadn’t she unburdened herself to him? Was it because the celebratory atmosphere of VJ Day, and days that had followed it, had been so ill-suited to such a discussion? Goose-bumps came up on her bare arms, but not from cold. The trip up town on VJ Day, with Jack, Kate, Leon, Danny, Carrie, Mavis, Malcolm Lewis and goodness only knew who else, had been a nightmare for her.
Relieved though Christina was that the war in the Far East was finally over, she hadn’t wanted to celebrate it by whooping and singing and making an exhibition of herself in Piccadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square. The others had, though. And they hadn’t been alone. Londoners had been out in full throng, and not just Londoners. There had been servicemen in Dutch, Polish and Czechoslovakian uniforms. There had been so many Americans and so many Stars and Stripes vying for prominence with Union Jacks that it would have been quite easy to imagine they were in an American city.
When people had begun dancing in the streets, the Magnolia Square contingent had joined in wholeheartedly, dragging her in their wake. In Trafalgar Square, Mavis, Carrie and Kate had scrambled up on to the back of one of Landseer’s bronze lions, and Jack had laughingly insisted on her joining them. Outside Buckingham Palace they had sung the National Anthem and cheered King George and Queen Elizabeth until they were hoarse. Then, when it was evening, they had forged a way through the crowds to Piccadilly Circus. At midnight, Big Ben’s chimes had boomed out resonantly, signalling the official end of the Japanese War, and what had seemed to be every motor horn in London had begun to blare.
Klaxons had sounded. Policemen had blown whistles. From the direction of the Thames, tug horns had hooted. The cheering had become deafening, and it had been then, at the apex of exuberant joy, that some GIs standing near them had stretched out a stout blanket to serve as a trampoline and Mavis had recklessly and willingly allowed herself to be flung by them, time and time again, high into the air, her legs and arms all over the place, her skirts flying. She rubbed the goose-flesh on her arms. Jack had roared out his approval along with every other red-blooded male massing the Circus, and she had felt, terrifyingly, mentally and emotionally distant from him. It had been a sense of distance that had escalated into an all too familiar sense of dizzy disorientation. Trapped in a sea of celebrants, her heart and mind obsessed with the probable whereabouts of her mother and grandmother, it was a disorientation she was powerless to suppress.
Round and round her thoughts had gone, wondering if and where her mother and grandmother were celebrating the end of the war in the Far East. Were they in a hospital? A refugee-camp? Were they perhaps picking up scraps from gutters in order to survive, as cinema newsreel films had showed thousands of European homeless doing? No-one around her, with the possible exception of Kate, was sparing her mother and grandmother a thought, and in such an atmosphere it had been impossible for her to have spoken their names to Jack. And so nothing had been said; not then; not afterwards. And now, in only a few short hours, he would be returning to his Commando unit, and unless she took very speedy action, the mental and emotional gulf yawning between them was going to remain unbridged.
He stirred, beginning to wake, stretching a naked, well-muscled arm across to her side of the bed. As his hand failed to come into contact with her warm flesh his eyes opened abruptly, sleep vanishing. ‘Christina?’ He pushed himself up against the pillows. ‘What are you doing out of bed at this unearthly hour, love? What is it? Five o’clock? Six?’
‘It’s just after five.’ She began to walk back towards the bed and he threw the sheets aside for her, suppressing a surge of impatience. If she’d woken early on this, the last morning of his leave, why on earth hadn’t she woken him also, in order that they could make love? Why, instead, had she been standing staring out of the window?
As she lay down beside him, he pulled her lovingly into his arms, his desire and need of her blatantly obvious. Answering response flared through her, to be immediately checked at the thought of the occupants of the adjoining rooms.
‘It’s Saturday,’ he said reassuringly, reading the expression in her eyes with unerring accuracy. ‘Miriam will have gone up to Covent Garden with Albert. She always does on Saturdays.’ He reached down, lifting the hem of her nightdress, sliding his hand up the satin smooth softness of her flesh. ‘And Leah’s snoring like an old porker,’ he said, cupping her left breast and gently brushing her nipple with his thumb, ‘and Carrie and Danny and the kids are still fast asleep.’
She trembled at the warmth of his touch, once again strung on exquisite cords of need that reached deep within her.
He sensed the instantaneity of her response and relief roared through him. She wasn’t regretting their marriage. She wasn’t beginning to fall in love elsewhere. She was still in love with him. And, dear God, he was going to make sure she stayed in love with him! He lowered his head to hers, kissing her temples and then the corners of her mouth, his eyes dark with passionate need.
She moaned softly in submission, her hands sliding up into the thick tumble of his hair. This time, when they had made love and were still lying conjoined, she would confide in him all her hopes and fears where her mother and grandmother were concerned. This time she wouldn’t waste the opportunity; she would breach the mental and emotional chasm dividing them and they would be united utterly, just as they should have been from the very first moment he had arrived home.
His hand uncupped the pleasing weight of her breast and slid downwards to the coarse, springy-dark triangle of her pubic hair. ‘This will be the last for a long time, sweetheart,’ he said h
uskily as he felt her warm, velvet-soft dampness, ‘let’s make it memorable, shall we?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered with fierce urgency, for once oblivious of Leah asleep in the room next door, and of the presence of others elsewhere in the house. ‘Oh, yes, Jack! Love me! Please love me!’
Only too happy to oblige, he eased his hard, superbly fit body over hers and silenced her pleas with hot, sweet lips.
Later, as they lay naked and sheened with sweat in a tangle of bed-linen, listening to the house beginning to creak to life, she said at long last, ‘There’s something I want to talk to you about, Jack. Something that’s been troubling me.’
He had been lying, one arm around her shoulders, a cigarette in his free hand. He took one last drag on the Craven ‘A’ and then stubbed it out in the saucer by the bed that served as an ash-tray. He’d known ever since he had returned home that there was something troubling her. Now, not before time, she was going to tell him what it was. He felt a spasm of apprehension. Christina was a highly intelligent young woman. Whatever was troubling her would not be trivial. He just hoped to God Carl Voigt wasn’t part and parcel of it. In another time and place, Carl Voigt was exactly the kind of well-educated, middle-class gent Christina’s family might well have been happy for her to have married. Or would have, if he had been Jewish. Even taking that little difficulty into account, he knew there were many people who would have found the idea of Christina marrying a widower of Carl Voigt’s standing a great deal less surprising than her having married a south-east London roughneck like himself.
Stalling for time, not knowing quite how to continue, Christina pushed herself up into a sitting position against the tumbled pillows. She didn’t only want to tell Jack about the search she and Carl Voigt had embarked on, she wanted to try and make him understand the burden of guilt and grief she felt at having survived the war in the cosy security of Magnolia Square, when so many millions of fellow Jews had perished in concentration-camp ovens – of the guilt she felt at having turned her back on her religion, and culture. She pulled a sheet over her knees and drew them towards her chin, circling them with her arms.
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