‘I don’t want to use up your rations.’
‘You won’t. I assure you, the supply of fresh produce from Cornwall is steady.’
So they ate two thick slices of bread each, spreading them generously with butter and blackberry jam and washing them down with scalding cups of tea. It was incredibly cosy in the warm kitchen and so easy to be with Harry.
Georgina found herself thinking again about the fuss of last year’s season – the drama of choosing the right gowns, of learning how to process through the royal palace and to curtsey before the King and Queen, the pressure to be seen with all the right people, at all the right places, at the most glittering parties. The expense, the glamour, the bright lights, the music and the handsome young men, all looking so dashing in their full evening kit.
So much had changed so quickly. Almost all of the young men she’d danced with last year were in uniform now. Some had been killed already – Freddy Mathews, Charles Hawthorne, Michael St George.
Even for her, there’d been massive changes. Before the war, she’d hardly ever stepped below stairs to this kitchen. And now, this night . . .
Sharing tea and toast with a man from another world, a man who at any moment would be sent to somewhere terrible.
Watching Harry over the rim of her teacup, she tried to imagine where he might be heading. What lay in front of him? What might this war demand of him? She shivered. ‘Do you know where you’ll be sent next?’
‘No idea. We’re here to defend England, waiting for orders.’
Outside there was another burst of gunfire, another explosion. A small impatience flashed in Harry’s eyes. ‘I must admit we’re pretty keen to get stuck into Jerry.’
He drank the last of his tea and set the cup down in its saucer. ‘Thank you. I can’t remember a meal I’ve enjoyed more.’
Nor could Georgina, but she wasn’t quite brave enough to say so. She collected their plates and cups and wine glasses and took them to the sink in the scullery.
‘Would you like a hand with the washing up?’ Harry asked from the doorway.
‘No, thank you.’ She raised her voice over the thumps of guns shooting at planes overhead. ‘A daily help will pop in for an hour or two tomorrow and she can look after these.’ Her heart was beating fast. It was time to discuss their sleeping arrangements, which weren’t straightforward now that most of the house was closed up. ‘You haven’t told me what sights you want to see after you’ve finished with your business in the morning,’ she said, still skirting the awkward topic. ‘I – I suppose you’ll want to see all the main attractions – the Tower Bridge, Buckingham Palace, Big Ben.’
‘That’d be great.’ Harry casually leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. ‘I had been hoping to see a painting in the National Gallery, but I heard they’ve evacuated everything out of there.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid all the paintings have been ferreted away for safe keeping.’ Curiosity compelled her to ask, ‘Which painting did you want to see?’
‘Oh, it’s just a small thing my father told me about. A watercolour called something like “The Dales at Dawn”. Apparently, it was painted by my great-grandfather.’
‘Really? He must have been jolly good to have something hung in the National Gallery.’
Harry simply smiled. He was still standing in the doorway to the scullery, virtually blocking her path. Quietly, he said, ‘It’s occurred to me, George, that you’re not the run-of-the-mill upper-class English girl.’
It took a moment for her to catch her breath. ‘And I suspect you’re not the run-of-the-mill Aussie soldier.’
His light-grey eyes blazed in his brown face and the air between them seemed to crackle with tension. She sensed that Harry wanted to kiss her and she knew, without question, that she wanted him to. But annoyingly, she heard her mother’s voice.
You must never let a man kiss you unless you’re engaged to marry him.
The effects of this unsolicited advice must have shown in her face, for instead of stepping towards her, as she was sure he would, Harry frowned and moved away, allowing her to pass easily through to the kitchen.
Drenched by maddening disappointment, she wanted to cry. She wished they could go back to the start of their ‘run-of-the-mill’ conversation. It had been so brimming with flirtatious promise. Why on earth had she given a moment’s thought to what her mother might have said aeons ago, before the war arrived to turn everything upside down.
Nothing was the same now. Nothing.
Nothing.
‘George?’
Her head snapped up. ‘Yes?’
‘You look upset. Would you like me to —’
‘Yes,’ she broke in quickly.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Yes, I’d like you to kiss me.’ Before she completely lost her nerve, she added, with a timorous smile, ‘Please.’
A painfully long beat passed before he lifted his hand to touch her cheek. A moth-like touch. ‘Hasn’t anyone ever told you that it’s dangerous to say please?’
‘I – I think I’d rather like to live dangerously.’
They stood facing each other in the silent kitchen. The only sound was the ticking of the kitchen clock and then the distant clanging of a bell – an ambulance or a fire engine rushing to yet another scene of devastation.
Then, to Georgina’s intense relief, Harry Kemp gathered her in and kissed her.
9
In the little room beside the kitchen, which Mrs Rogers, the housekeeper, had formerly used as an office, a shaded lamp now cast a gentle glow, a small circle of light, over the rumpled bedclothes where they lay.
Weeks ago, Georgina had turned it into her own bedroom, organising for the lamp, along with the double bed, to be brought down from one of the now disused upstairs rooms. She’d also brought pretty frilled cushions and a chintz coverlet to make the serviceable little room more feminine.
Harry turned to her in the soft light. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Tell you what? That I was a virgin?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what would have happened if I’d told you?’
With a gentle hand, he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. ‘I would have had second thoughts . . . about this.’
‘Which is exactly why I didn’t say anything. I’m sorry, Harry, but I wanted you to make love to me and I’m ever so glad you did.’
She saw the movement of his throat muscles as he swallowed. ‘It – it was – wonderful,’ she said softly.
He drew her against him and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Happy, Georgina closed her eyes and lay against his warm solid chest, listening to the steady, comforting thud of his heartbeats.
After a bit, she asked, ‘Is this your only night in London?’
‘I’m afraid so. I have to be back in barracks by tomorrow evening.’
‘Then I’m especially glad about this,’ she said and then she spoiled the moment by yawning.
‘You should go to sleep.’
‘I’m not sleepy.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘Not really.’
‘You’re exhausted. You fell asleep on the train.’
‘Oh yes, that’s right. Thank heavens I did, though, or I might not have met you.’
He made a soft sound that might have been a chuckle or a sigh. ‘Good night, George.’ He pulled the bedcovers back over them, and tucked the sheet high under her chin, then turned out the lamp. The room was now completely dark. Dark and warm and safe with Harry beside her.
‘Good night, Harry.’
She settled into her pillows and they lay in silence, their bodies nestled, but of course she couldn’t possibly drop straight off to sleep. She had far too much to think about. She wanted to remember every detail of this amazing night. The life-changing moment of meeting Harry on the train. Their cosily intimate supper. Harry’s thrilling, beautiful kiss that had ended with them hurrying to this bed.
After the initial, exciting shoc
k of being naked together, she’d been swiftly overwhelmed by the utter magic of Harry’s tenderness and passion. She’d had no idea that sex could be like this. He’d made her feel incredibly desirable and cherished.
I’ve been waiting for him, she thought happily.
But then, not quite so happily, Trust me to fall for a man who’s neither an officer nor British.
Her mother would have such a fit if she knew.
An Australian!
Georgina could so easily imagine the snobbish, horrified sneer in her mother’s voice.
Sadly, it didn’t really matter. The unpleasant truth was that after tomorrow, Harry Kemp would be gone to God-knew-where and Georgina was unlikely to ever see him again. She lay awake for ages thinking about that.
They both had a restless night, but their tossing and turning had little to do with the German planes overhead. Georgina wondered if or rather hoped that Harry might take her into his arms again, but he made no further attempt to seduce her. She wondered if her virginity had scared him off.
Eventually she fell asleep, but she woke as usual just as daylight crept greyly around the edges of the blackout curtains. Her first thoughts were about Harry, but when she rolled over, the bed beside her was empty. Then she heard a small clatter in the kitchen and she reached for her dressing-gown, slipped her feet into fluffy slippers and hurried to find him.
His hair was damp and she could see that he’d already washed and shaved, and had dressed in his uniform. He had the stove lit, too, and the kettle was humming, close to boiling.
‘Morning, George.’ His smile this morning was a shade less confident. Perhaps sadder.
Georgina felt rather sad, too. Last night’s romantic tryst should have been nothing more than a simple fling, time-out from the beastliness of the war, but she knew that her heart had become inextricably involved, and when she thought about Harry leaving today, she was engulfed by a wave of awful, gut-wrenching loss.
But she managed to smile as she said, ‘Good morning,’ and then quickly, as she headed for the scullery, ‘I’ll get that bacon I mentioned last night. It will go down well with tea and toast.’
They worked quietly together, almost like an old married couple, with Georgina frying the bacon while Harry made the tea and buttered the toast, and in no time they were once again sitting opposite each other.
‘I hope you don’t mind my eating in my dressing-gown,’ she said.
‘Of course not. It’s your day off. I’d say it’s compulsory.’
His gaze warmed her, like sunlight on her skin, and she felt sadder than ever. ‘Tell me more about Kalkadoon,’ she said, suddenly anxious to know as much about him as she could. ‘What does the name mean? It sounds Scottish.’
Harry merely shrugged. ‘The outback is about as different from Scotland as you could possibly imagine. My grandfather named the property after the local tribe of Aborigines. They’re fearsome warriors, so I suppose that’s something they have in common with the Scots.’ A gleam of the old amusement shone in his grey eyes. ‘So, what’s your next question?’
‘Am I being too nosy?’
‘I don’t mind.’
With a piece of bacon poised on her fork, she asked the first question that leaped into her head. ‘What do cattle graziers eat for breakfast – when they’re not away fighting wars?’
‘Steak, of course. Steak and eggs.’ Still smiling, Harry narrowed his eyes. ‘What about minor baronets and their families? What do they dine on for breakfast?’
‘Well, I should think that apart from their farm produce, my parents are on rations now, pretty much like everyone else, but before the war, there would have been bacon and eggs, kidneys, salmon, kedgeree, coffee . . .’
Harry’s smile sobered.
‘What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?’
‘No, ’course not.’ But his mouth was firm, his expression serious. There was a perfectly good clock on the kitchen wall, but he slipped back the cuff of his uniform and unsnapped the leather cover on his wristwatch. ‘I need to get to that meeting by eight, so I’d better get cracking.’
‘It won’t take you long on the Underground, but of course, don’t let me delay you.’
He drained his teacup then stood. ‘I’m not sure how long this will take. Can we meet at midday? I’d like to take you to lunch.’
‘That would be lovely. Perhaps we should meet at Piccadilly Circus?’
‘Sounds good to me. How will I find you?’
‘I’ll wear a red carnation in my buttonhole.’
At this Harry grinned a lovely, face-lighting grin, and for Georgina the whole world felt better.
‘Actually, I’ll be waiting right in the middle of the intersection. There used to be a statue of Eros, but it’s been dismantled and covered in sandbags and huge ads for war bonds. You won’t miss me there.’
‘Right.’ He came to her side of the table and leaned down to kiss her cheek. ‘I wouldn’t want to miss you.’
After he’d left, Georgina vowed to be sensible. She would make the most of this one day and let tomorrow take care of itself. After all, the war left her with little choice.
She took the breakfast dishes through to the scullery and, as the daily help was inclined to gossip, she changed the bed sheets, took them to the laundry and set the washing machine going. Then she had a long bath and washed her hair. Wrapped again in her dressing-gown, she drew back the curtains.
The sky had clouded over but at least it wasn’t raining. She looked out at the neighbours’ houses, which were all, thankfully, still in one piece, although bearing the effects of war with their sandbagged doorways and windows crisscrossed with tape to stop glass from flying in a bomb blast.
She paced restlessly while her hair dried. It was still far too early to meet Harry, but she changed into a grey woollen skirt and a deep cherry angora sweater tucked into the skirt’s belted waist. She thought about wearing her pearls but opted for a more casual, floaty silver scarf. She carefully put on make-up and sprayed scent on her wrists.
Then, unable to sit still, she decided to leave early and she walked to the corner to catch a bus to Piccadilly Circus. The view from the bus window was grimmer than ever. Office blocks had storey after storey of blown-out windows, shopfronts were boarded-up, a brigade of civilians was sweeping rubble into the gutters with wide, stiff brooms.
St James’s church was a dreadful sight with its toppled steeple, the roof burned and collapsed and the lovely stained-glass windows gone, and there was a huge bomb crater on the opposite side of the road.
But Harry was ready and waiting for her – such a lovely surprise. ‘I got away a bit early,’ he said, ‘so I grabbed a carnation.’
What he offered her, however, was not one carnation, but an entire bunch of bright crimson blooms.
His smile was infectious and Georgina was grinning as she buried her nose in the scented bouquet. ‘Where on earth did you find these?’
‘Covent Garden.’
She knew they must have cost a small fortune. Almost all the flower gardens had been given over to growing vegetables as part of the Dig for Victory campaign.
‘Have you any idea what a thrill it is to let famous names like Covent Garden just trip off my tongue?’ Harry said.
‘Then we’ll have to make it our mission to fit as many of those famous names as we can into one afternoon.’
‘But first, I promised you lunch. I’ve been paid, so I’m flush.’
He took her to the Criterion, which wasn’t Georgina’s favourite restaurant, but it hardly mattered when she was there with Harry. The place was warm and smelled of good food and the inevitable cigarette smoke and it was filled with men in uniform and elegant women, who may have been the men’s wives but probably weren’t. And it was suitably impressive with its imposing arches and ornate décor, especially the curved ceiling of glittering golden tiles.
Apart from all the people in uniform, there was no hint of the war, which was perhaps the best
thing of all.
‘We can’t stay here too long if you want to do some sightseeing,’ Georgina warned as Harry helped her out of her coat.
‘Yes, but we’ll still need a drink.’
They were shown to a table. Georgina set her flowers between them and Harry ordered a bottle of champagne, which came with gratifying speed.
‘Cheers,’ he said as he raised his glass.
‘Here’s mud in your eye,’ Georgina responded, quoting her father’s favourite toast.
Harry took a careful, almost cautious sip.
Watching him, Georgina said, ‘Don’t you like champagne?’
‘Must admit, it isn’t my usual poison.’ He took another sip and grimaced.
Oh dear. ‘You really don’t like it, do you?’
Harry shrugged and gave a lopsided grin. ‘I guess aerated vinegar is an acquired taste.’
‘Well, it’s very kind of you to buy it for me anyway. Thank you. I happen to love champagne.’ To prove it, she took a long, appreciative sip before she set her glass down. ‘Have you had a successful morning?’
‘All the necessary plans are in place.’
‘That’s good. And don’t worry, I won’t pry, Harry. Honestly. I know from my own work that you can’t talk about these things.’
‘Oh, it’s not top secret. Your brass will be jawing about it soon enough. They’re going to have a parade with the Australian troops marching across Westminster Bridge. I was just sent up here to do the leg work.’
‘When are you marching?’
He named a date about three weeks away.
‘So, you’ll be coming back to London. That’s —’ Georgina was about to say wonderful, but hesitated. She had already decided it was completely foolish to think that she and Harry had any kind of future beyond this day. ‘That’s nice,’ she finished lamely.
‘It won’t be all that nice, trying to round up my mob and get them spit and polished.’
‘A little like herding your cattle?’
‘More like herding cats.’
Harry’s smiling gaze connected with hers and the crowded restaurant faded until nothing mattered but the two of them. And again Georgina could feel that delicious stirring of unbearable excitement. It was like hearing the first familiar bars of a heartbreakingly beautiful piece of music.
The Secret Years Page 9