Gracie's Sin

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘I really don’t know. I’m not sure what I feel. I suppose I may change my mind, in time.’ She saw his face light up with pleasure and hastily attempted to dampen his enthusiasm a little. ‘But don’t bank on it. We’ll have to wait and see.’ Gracie hated the feeling that she was letting him down in some way, letting Irma down. Irma certainly thought so.

  ‘So what’s wrong with my lad then? Why won’t you go out with him? Is he not good enough for you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Irma.’ It shook Gracie that every detail of this friendship seemed to be closely monitored by her landlady. Why did he have to tell his mother everything? ‘You can’t just order someone to fall in love. It has to happen naturally, of its own accord.’

  ‘But you need to provide the right environment in which love can flourish. If you don’t go out with him, how will you ever find out what you feel? Give him a chance, at least. He’s a good lad. You and he are meant for each other. Any fool can see that.’

  Gracie stifled a sigh. ‘I’ve promised to think about it. That’s all I can say.’

  She found it hard to concentrate on Adam’s needs. She was far too confused by her own.

  Later that day she manufactured an opportunity to call in on Madge, but it was young Matthew quietly serving behind the counter, so she bought two ounces of Dolly mixtures and left. But then, who could possibly help her to deal with Irma? Nobody.

  When the detail arrived, Gracie’s heart skipped a beat. Her request had been granted, just as Alf had promised, including the prisoner who’d been incarcerated in the cellar, which seemed surprising in a way. His name, apparently, was Erich Müller. He had an arrogant, almost superior air about him, but then he was a Lieutenant, a higher rank than Karl who was an NCO. Gracie didn’t even dare to glance in his direction. Her lungs seemed to be squeezed so tight, she could barely breathe.

  There was a guard with them, as expected, but not the difficult one. This one seemed more lax and easy going, perhaps because he had only two prisoners in his care. He propped himself on the stile beside the farm gate, pulled out a newspaper and settled for a spell of quiet reading, glancing up only occasionally to check that all was proper and above board.

  While Adam demonstrated the task of how to cut part way through the long woody stems and weave them in to form a layered hedge, Karl’s gaze kept sliding over in Gracie’s direction. She tried to pretend that she hadn’t noticed but, despite all her efforts to ignore him, she was acutely aware of his every movement. She greatly longed to just gaze and gaze at him. She felt the need to absorb every detail of his face, to examine the way his blonde hair sprang back from a broad, strong forehead. A film of fair whiskers grew across his upper lip. The mouth itself, full and sensual, curled upwards slightly at the corners. A strong, square chin. Wide flared nostrils. And most bewitching of all, those pale blue eyes which, when they weren’t seeming to look into the depths of her soul were fixed on some far distant place, as if searching for something. Freedom perhaps.

  Gracie found herself edging closer so that she was standing no more than a few feet away from him, as close as she dare without alerting the guard,.

  Dear God, what was happening to her? This man was one of the enemy. When he’d been at sea, lurking in the cold depths in his U-boat, he may well have fired at British ships, killed British sailors. Hadn’t she read in the newspaper only the other day how the U-boats were maintaining a crippling attack on the Allied ships. He could easily have bombed Gordon’s ship, for Christ’s sake. What was she even thinking of gazing at the enemy in this moonstruck way? Gracie knew she should be ashamed of herself, yet all she felt was a breathless excitement: a rapid beat of her heart as the blood seemed to pump around her body at a record rate.

  Somehow she knew, by the desperate appeal in that unflinching gaze, that he was as overwhelmed by emotion and circumstance, as was she. In another time, another place, he would have walked over and spoken to her, perhaps asked her out. She would have smiled, willingly accepted and they would have become instant friends. She knew all of this with a certainty that shocked her. Just as she knew that they would, without doubt, have become lovers. Did this mean that her father was correct? That she was impure, that she did have sin imprinted in her soul?

  The morning wore on and, as they worked, the two PoWs were kept well apart from herself and Adam. Only once, as the guard ordered them to march to a quiet corner of the field to eat their lunch, did he come anywhere near her. Even then he made no attempt to speak, as this would have been against the rules. But as he passed by, he brushed against her hand. It was the merest touch, the slightest butterfly kiss of flesh against flesh and, for the briefest of seconds, her fingers curled naturally into his. When he moved on, Gracie had to steel herself not to cry out and call him back to her. Even her fingers felt bereft.

  Despite the terrible odds against them, it was clear to Gracie and, she believed, to Karl, that they were destined to be together. The only question was, would the war, and his enemy status, be too great an obstacle?

  The next time Karl and Erich Müller came, Gracie was ready. She’d persuaded Irma to make extra cheese and onion pasties, and wrapping three of these in napkins she took them over to the guard. He was so pleased at the prospect of good food instead of dry sandwiches, that he raised no objections when she asked if she might give the other two to the prisoners. Wafting a hand at her, as if telling her to get on with it, he sank his teeth into the rich hot pastry, soon so engrossed in savouring the tasty cheese, he paid little attention as Gracie hurried over to the two young Germans.

  ‘Guten Tag, wie geht's?’

  ‘Danke, gut.’

  Having exhausted the extent of her schoolgirl German, and feeling suddenly overcome with shyness, Gracie dissolved into an embarrassed silence. It came to her that she only had to reach out one hand to touch him, which made her cheeks redden at the thought, almost as if she had actually done so. Inwardly scolding herself for her inadequacy, she gave an apologetic smile and quickly reverted to English. ‘Sorry, b-but I thought you might enjoy these. My landlady made them and she is an excellent cook.’

  Gracie held out the two pasties wrapped warmly in their napkins, with hands which weren’t quite steady. It was Karl who took them from her, his eyes, fringed by thick blonde lashes, never leaving hers. ‘Thank you. That is most kind of you.’

  ‘You speak English.’ She was stunned, and thrilled. ‘How did you learn so quickly?’

  ‘I learn before the war. I visit England many times, with my mother.’ His w came out all wrong, more like a v, but Gracie found his accent charming, and without stopping to think, said so. It was his turn now to fall awkwardly silent. Gracie could have kicked herself for making such a fatuous remark since she wanted him to go on talking. She wanted to soak up the sound of his voice so that she could replay it later in her head. But then she needed to know everything about him. Why had he come to England before the war? What was his mother like? Was she concerned and worried that her son was now a prisoner, or was she content that he was safely out of danger? And how did he feel about it all?

  ‘What is she called?’

  ‘Pardon?’ He frowned slightly, a crumb of pasty caught at the corner of his mouth as he smiled. He licked it away and Gracie felt her heart contract.

  ‘Your mother.’

  ‘Ah, she is Margaretha. You like?’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s a beautiful name.’

  ‘And your friend?’ She jerked a chin in Erich’s direction. ‘The incident with the stick when he nearly got shot. What was his problem?’

  ‘There are people in the camp who don’t like him. Now he has cooled off his hot head.’ He shrugged and grinned at her, and her insides seemed to melt.

  Gracie became aware that she was staring, her gaze having been riveted to his for several long moments. So long in fact, that his companion started to chuckle. He said something in German to Karl, which Gracie didn’t understand. Nonetheless she blushed because she could guess the inf
erence. She was making a complete fool of herself, leaving her emotions dangerously exposed as she stood transfixed before them like some lovesick schoolgirl. Spinning on her heel she began to walk quickly away, and then to run. She heard his voice call after her.

  ‘Please don’t go!’

  And then a sharp reprimand in German from the guard who, having wiped the last crumb of cheese pasty onto his sleeve, belatedly returned to his neglected duties.

  Gracie didn’t stop running until she gained the sanctity of her room, where she slammed shut the door and leaned back against it. It was some long moments before her heart slowed its beat sufficient for her to breathe normally again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rose made no mention to anyone about her stay on the Sullivan’s farm, or what had occurred there. That was something best forgotten. She felt as if she’d fought her own private war, never mind the one raging world wide. First against Eddie’s bullying, and then having to deal with Agnes’s vicious attack. Even now, months later, she would start to shake whenever she thought of that woman’s hands clawing at her.

  It had crossed her mind to wonder what Maurice’s reaction would have been when he went back into the kitchen that night and found his wife. Was she dead? Rose hadn’t hung around long enough to find out. She’d worried about this for quite a while but not any more. Maurice had tried to warn her, and he could easily dispose of the body on his farm, had probably already done so. Who would be curious about one old woman? People went missing all the time in a war. The police would have come to arrest her by now if they’d found her. And even if they did, how could they blame her? Agnes had attacked her. If she hadn’t, it wouldn’t have been necessary to hit her so hard with the poker. It was all her own fault. Rose didn’t believe, for one minute, that she was in any way responsible. Any more than she was responsible for Eddie being shut up in the cellar.

  But she’d discovered two things as a result of the various traumas she’d had to deal with these last months. That she was a far stronger person than she’d realised, and that she could look after herself. Rose had no intention of ever again being thought weak, or stupid. She absolutely refused to be a victim.

  She’d found the recruiting office, hadn’t she? Joined the Timber Corps and successfully completed her training in Thetford. She was reunited with her friends and Rose was determined that from now on, her life would go from strength to strength. She was free at last, and meant to have some fun. She was still young after all, not quite eighteen.

  ‘Not going out again?’ Jeannie asked, as she watched Rose apply lipstick in front of the dressing table mirror they shared. Who’s the lucky blighter this time? Awch, not that terrible old Geordie you took up with in the bar parlour the other night?’ She rolled her rrr’s with such emphasis the word somehow sounded far worse. Rose only pouted her lips, applied a second coat of scarlet lipstick and lifted one shoulder, indicative of her free-and-easy approach to life these days.

  ‘I simply can’t stand being stuck in this cramped little bedroom the whole time. So what if I do like to dress up a bit and sit downstairs in the bar, its surely better than looking as if I’ve just been dragged through the proverbial hedge backwards.’

  ‘You mean as we do?’ Lena complained, sounding wounded. ‘Aw, that’s not fair Rose. We’re too exhausted to bother about paint and powder. Anyway, what chance is there of our having enough hot water for us all to get ourselves properly cleaned up every night? None at all.’

  Rose fluffed up her hair then lifted her skirts to reveal long, smoothly golden legs. ‘Which of you has the steadiest hand tonight then?’

  ‘Awch, for goodness sake, where’s the point in drawing lines up yer legs when yer only going to be sitting doon all night,’ Jeannie protested. ‘Who’d notice?’

  ‘Depends who’s there. You never know, I might meet someone exciting one of these nights.’

  ‘Fat chance.’

  'OK. Forget it. I’ll do it myself.’ Taking an eyebrow pencil, Rose twisted round and started to draw a line from her heel up the calf of her leg. Her hand quavered slightly and the line wove perilously off course.

  ‘Gi’e it to me lassie. The way you’re managing, it’d look like a drunken snail after a night on the razzle.’

  The imitation stocking seams in place, a final dab of powder on her nose and Rose declared herself ready. ‘Are you coming, or not?’ When she got no response, beyond a shrug from Lena and a sound rather like ‘Pschaw,’ from Jeannie, she told them that if they wanted to behave like old women they were welcome, and flounced downstairs to ‘test out the talent’, as Lou would say.

  She’d grown fond of trying out Lou’s phrases, though sadly, from Rose, they didn’t carry quite the same note of teasing good humour. Rose’s version sounded far more of a openly sexual, provocative challenge.

  Tonight, she soon felt nothing but gratitude for the fact that her room mates had refused to accompany her, for she did indeed spot some new talent. An airman, seated at the bar. Rose sauntered right over, climbed on to the bar stool next to his, crossed those wonderful legs and asked if he’d care to buy her a drink.

  He took one look and choked on his beer. ‘Sure. Happy to. Josh Wilton’s the name.’ As they sat together in a corner by the fire, he explained how he was stationed with a crew at Silloth and had come down to the Lakes for a few days break. ‘Not having any family over here, I have to take my leave where I can.’

  ‘And what family do you have back home, Mr Wilton?’

  ‘Hey, call me Josh. We don’t have to be too formal, do we?’

  From the start Rose was captivated by Josh’s wide, teasing smile, his beautiful white teeth and witty remarks. Being a Canadian, he seemed taller, smarter, better looking and far more romantic and cosmopolitan than any of the village lads she’d seen thus far. He was also more sincere than the yanks she’d met while on training in Norfolk, who’d been over-opinionated and thought only of themselves.

  He called her ‘a little honey’ and asked if he could see her again.

  The next day Rose pretended to be too sick to work and lay groaning in her bed, impatient for Jeannie and Lena to leave while they both fussed over her, offering various pieces of advice and lists of instructions as to what she should do to get better. By seven-thirty they had gone. By ten o’clock she was dressed in grey slacks and a summer blue sweater, seated beside Josh in his jeep and careering along the empty lanes. He took her to lunch, then to a movie, as he called it. After that, he drove still further north through Borrowdale where they walked, hand in hand, savouring the utter silence. The summer day was hot and sunny, cooled by a gentle breeze on the high fells above Buttermere. The craggy spines glinting like silver along the ridges, broken by darker patches of heather and trees.

  He somehow managed to find a quiet little inn where no one seemed to have heard of a war, let alone coupons. They ate spicy Cumberland sausage by a roaring log fire, washed down by several glasses of frothy beer. It was the most wonderful day of Rosie’s life.

  And Josh proved to be great company. He talked about life back home in Canada, about how much he missed it and how Rose would just love living out there. Perhaps this was why she knew that she could trust him, could believe everything he told her, because he was already making plans, and she was very much a part of them.

  ‘You know I’ve been waiting for a girl like you all my life. You’re a real honey.’

  Rose loved it when he called her Hon, or Honey. He said it would be his pet name for her from now on. Nobody had said such things to her before. When he kissed her, she went weak with longing, burning with need just as if she had a raging thirst which demanded to be quenched. So when he suggested that maybe they should stay the night, as he’d drunk rather more than he’d intended and wasn’t really safe to drive back along those narrow roads just yet, Rose simply looked at his gorgeously beseeching, little boy smile and thought, why not?

  There was a war on after all. Every film she’d seen, every newsp
aper she picked up seemed to be filled with stories of young people like themselves falling instantly and passionately in love, many of them getting married within days of meeting. Look at Lou. She’d met and married her Gordon within a week, and they were blissfully happy. There was absolutely no reason why it couldn’t happen for her too, and why the hell not? Who knew what could happen tomorrow? He might be killed. They might both be killed. What did she have to lose, for God’s sake? What had being a goody-goody all her life ever achieved? Nothing but bullying, jealousy, resentment and abuse. Rose fervently believed that you had to snatch at happiness while you could, and look after number one.

  Josh was her chance of happiness. At last. If he wanted to make love to her, didn’t that just prove how very important she was to him, how much he loved her?

  It would also prove that she was a proper woman, no longer an abused child. She would finally be able to banish all the haunting pain of her past.

  Their love making had been every bit as exciting and thrilling as she’d hoped. Lying next to him in bed as he slept contentedly beside her, she couldn’t resist kissing and teasing him into wakefulness again. She wanted his hands in her hair, smoothing her naked flesh, his lips upon hers. The very thought made her ache with fresh desire. When he didn’t immediately respond, she straddled him, nipping at his mouth with her sharp white teeth, smiling to herself as she heard him groan.

  ‘You little witch!’

  He rolled her over, pinning her down with one hand clamping both her wrists against the pillow, nudging open her legs with his knee although she needed no such persuasion. Rose arched her body and lifting herself to him, she wrapped her long golden limbs about his thick, strong body so she could hold him close. The intensity of their passion made her oblivious to everything but the sensations he was stirring within her. When, in the exultation of the moment he finally released her hands, she grasped at his shoulders, holding him fast, clawing at his back in her determination to keep him inside her. She gave him all of herself with a sensuality which was both startling and wondrous. Rose felt as if she had found someone who truly loved her. As if to prove it, before they finally got ready to leave around lunch time, she urged him to make love to her yet again, and once more she gave herself to him unstintingly.