He showered and dressed and crept downstairs, scenting coffee as he neared the kitchen door.
‘Coffee’s ready.’ Helen called. ‘Help yourself. It’s yours after all.’
She flushed prettily when he walked into the kitchen.
‘Not mine. Uncle Sam’s,’ he said automatically.
‘It’s a pity my husband isn’t here right now,’ she began, and something about the way she said this made him realize that she had rehearsed her speech. ‘He’s a salvage expert and a deep-sea diver, so you and he would have a lot in common. He left us, as you know, but I think he was having a breakdown. He was badly injured earlier this year in a wreck he was repairing in Plymouth docks. We’ve tried to trace him . . . John tried for weeks and the police are still searching for him.’ She bit her lip and stared fixedly at the percolator she was holding. ‘I expect he will come home soon.’
There, that was it. That was what she had been rehearsing. She was still married, and with divorce being extraordinarily difficult in Britain, she was likely to stay married. She was warning him off. He was getting to know her a little better.
‘I’m in the throes of a divorce myself,’ he told her. ‘It’s much easier on the other side of the Atlantic. It’s a straightforward affair.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said.
No more questions? How very English. Maybe she just didn’t give a damn. Why should she? Two lies in two days. I will never lie to this woman again, he said to himself, but his promise was futile.
‘What exactly do you do in London?’ Helen was asking. ‘It’s hardly the place for a scuba diving expert I would have thought.’
‘I help out on legal matters.’ He thought how easily lying came to him nowadays. He gulped his coffee and left. When the war is over, he told himself solemnly on the drive to London, I’ll go on a six-month rehabilitation course. It will be tough, but I’ll survive and I’ll be truthful.
Eleven
It was a small Anglican church dating back three hundred years, but the well-heeled citizens of Mowbray had kept it in good nick. Miro particularly liked the stained glass windows, the vague scent of incense, and the highly polished wood, all of which was very different to the synagogue back home. They were reciting the twenty-third psalm which had always been his favourite ever since he could remember. ‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’
When he first arrived in England and Helen had persuaded him to accompany them to the Sunday morning church services, Miro had been shocked by the similarities between Christianity and Judaism. The ethics and even the words they used in the services were the same. Amen was a Hebrew word which meant ‘so be it’. Likewise Hosanna, which was Hebrew for ‘God save’, and Hallelujah, which meant ‘Praise be to God’. So many of the prayers, hymns and all the psalms were from Judaism. He had always been taught that Jews were chosen by God to spread his word, in other words, the Bible. Jesus had done that and he was a Jew. So why did everyone think that they were so different? He would never understand this.
At last they traipsed out into the fresh air. A brisk east wind had cleared away the morning’s heavy mist, revealing a hazy blue sky and pale December sunshine. Soon, the family had collected their bicycles and they were strung out along the winding country lane which provided a shortcut to their home. As winter morning’s go it was superb, the air was sparkling and there was a smell of wood smoke drifting over the fields.
‘Aren’t the trees lovely even though they’re bare,’ Helen called.
‘Yes.’ Daisy answered, as if in a muse. Miro guessed that she was dreaming about Mike Lawson. Lately he was all she thought about. Gazing rapturously at nothing in particular she cycled straight into the ditch and momentarily disappeared.
‘Ouch!’ Miro ran to haul her out of nettles and brambles. ‘Idiot! Will you never look where you’re going? Just look at your face.’ He felt furious as he pulled her up on to the bank.
‘I’m not hurt. Really I’m not. I was looking at the silver birch . . . so lovely.’ She looked upset, but surely not because he was cross with her.
‘Just look at your blisters and scratches,’ he scolded.
‘Hang on,’ Gramps said. ‘Dock leaves always grow around nettles.’
‘Here’s a few clumps,’ Miro called, breaking off the leaves.
‘Give me a leaf, I’ll do her face,’ Gramps said.
‘Push your arms out, Daisy,’ Miro ordered.
Helen was on her knees, rubbing her daughter’s legs.
‘If you had only worn stockings, like I told you to, instead of ankle socks, you wouldn’t be so blistered.’
‘They’re school stockings and I hate them.’
‘How many times must I tell you to look where you’re going. One day you’ll kill yourself,’ Miro snarled.
‘Oh Miro, don’t say that,’ Helen called. ‘We’ll have to hurry. I promised we wouldn’t be late.’
‘Promised who?’ Daisy asked.
‘Yes, who?’ Gramps sounded furious.
‘It’s a surprise. I said I wouldn’t tell you.’
‘It’s Dad. It’s Dad,’ Daisy cried out. ‘I knew he’d come. I knew it!’
‘Oh. God! No! It’s not. I’m so sorry, darling. It’s Captain Johnson. I promised not to tell. He called last night from London. His plan was to drive back early and arrive shortly after we left for church. He’s bringing a turkey. It’s an early Christmas affair – a surprise. I said I wouldn’t tell you. Oh Daisy!’ She fumbled for a tissue and handed it to her daughter to wipe away the tears that were rolling down her cheeks. ‘Sorry, darling.’ Moments later they were clasped in each other’s arms.
‘Fancy crying for joy over a turkey,’ Daisy sniffed, trying to make a joke out of her tears.
‘Is he a cook?’ Miro asked.
‘He’s a scuba diving instructor,’ Helen told them.
‘Let’s get going.’ Daisy got on her bicycle. ‘These stings will probably hurt all day. Serves me right.’
‘What about vegetables and gravy?’ John sounded dour.
‘He’s probably waiting for us to do that,’ Helen said.
John glared at Helen. ‘I don’t know how you could leave a stranger alone in your kitchen . . . or the house.’
‘Anyone who brings a whole turkey can feel free in our kitchen. The captain says it will help him to feel at home and start him off on a favourable footing.’
‘Do we want him to feel at home?’ John asked cautiously.
‘We’re stuck with him, like we’re stuck with the horses on the lawn, rationing, blitzes, blackout . . .’ Helen broke off.
The truth was she resented Captain Johnson because he made her feel down at heel. As the former managing partner in a Manhattan firm of lawyers, as he had explained to her, he was surely used to sophisticated, fashionable women who had never had to endure blitzed houses, no clothing coupons to replace the things they’d lost, no time to put on make-up, working until you could drop with exhaustion. ‘It’s just that he’s spoiled,’ she grumbled. ‘Otherwise he’s all right.’
‘But handsome,’ Daisy added.
‘To you everything’s fine as long as it looks OK,’ Miro said bitterly.
‘You’re very handsome, Miro,’ Daisy teased.
‘You’re too impressionable. Handsome covers a multitude of sins,’ Helen lectured her daughter.
‘That’s because she’s an artist,’ Miro interjected. He always jumped to Daisy’s defence.
‘For goodness sake, let’s get going. Are you feeling a little better?’
‘I’m fine,’ Daisy said, but Miro knew she was lying. She was badly stung, she’d hurt her neck and she was bitterly disappointed.
‘A turkey deserves some wine.’ Gramps was looking a little happier. ‘I have a few bottles stowed away for a special occasion. I think I’ll retrieve two of them.’
‘Bet he hasn’t stuffed it,’ Helen muttered.
‘I bet he has,’ Daisy challenged her. ‘Some exotic Mexican stuffing.’
‘I like sage and onion,’ Gramps said.
‘Just look at us,’ Helen said. ‘We can’t talk about anything but the turkey. Just shows how starved we are.’
‘Perhaps we should keep a few turkeys,’ Gramps suggested.
‘Why bother?’ Miro retorted. ‘Mum wouldn’t let you slaughter them. They’d all become family pets . . . like Cocky.’
‘Here we are. Please stop talking about the turkey, act civilized and try to look surprised. I wasn’t supposed to tell you. You have five minutes maximum to wash and get downstairs.’
Five minutes later they were gathered around the kitchen table smiling with pleasure at the sight of dishes of sweet potato, roast potato, yellow rice, peas, butternut, broccoli, a steaming, crispy turkey and a bowl of gravy. The kitchen smelled wonderful, a scent of spices, vegetables and turkey mixed together in the steaming atmosphere.
Their chef was wearing khaki trousers and a white cotton sweater. He looked pleased with himself, but anxious. ‘I thought we could help ourselves from the kitchen table. I couldn’t see a warmer.’
‘Bombed!’ Daisy said. ‘First one, then another.’
‘We gave up after that.’ Helen told him. ‘Besides the wood stove is perfect, but I didn’t light it. I couldn’t expect you to keep it stoked as well as cooking.’
‘What’s this then?’ Daisy asked pointing at the stuffing in the turkey which had burst out of the turkey breast. ‘It smells wonderful.’
‘Dried apricots and sultanas mixed with minced giblets and a few spices. A Mexican recipe.’
‘I told you so,’ Daisy gloated.
‘You’re psychic,’ Miro laughed.
‘Oh my! This takes me back to prewar days.’ Helen sighed.
‘Would you carve, John?’ Simon asked.
‘Your treat,’ John said. ‘But let’s see you whip up something tasty when we’re clean out of coupons. You had it easy today.’ He sounded churlish, almost jealous. Miro noticed that Helen was glancing anxiously at him.
‘OK, sir. I’ll carve now. Could someone lay the table? We don’t want to let it get cold, do we?’
John went to fetch the wine, Daisy started laying the table, leaving Helen in the kitchen. ‘You must excuse my father,’ Helen said. ‘He’s had a bad time and he worries about us. He took us in after we were bombed out three times, and he tries to solve all our problems.’
‘Oh, Miro. I didn’t see you there, but it’s true, isn’t it?’
‘I expect he felt I was being praised for doing very little and he was right,’ the captain said. ‘I told the chef to pack me a hamper. As easy as that. Don’t worry, Mrs Conroy. I admire your father. I’ll try not to throw my weight around again.’
‘Oh Lord. You have taken it the wrong way. Please don’t. Look, just forget an old man’s envy. He’s very kind. I think you should call me Helen . . .’ She broke off and shrugged. ‘Let’s get going, shall we?’
A few minutes later they were gathered around the dining-room table.
‘Do you say grace?’ Simon asked.
‘Sometimes on Sunday. Not often.’ John frowned. ‘We don’t always get the chance to eat together.’
‘Why don’t you say grace?’ Daisy said to Simon. ‘It’s your treat.’
‘I only know one that my grandfather taught me. He was Jewish.’
‘A Jewish grace for a Christmas lunch?’ Miro laughed cynically.
‘Miro!’ Helen said.
‘For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful,’ Daisy gabbled fast and furious. She sat down and the others followed her example.
‘Tell us about your grandfather,’ Daisy prompted Simon.
‘His story is a bit of a cliché. He left Poland as a young man, having sold everything he owned to pay his steerage passage to the States. He hitched all over the States until he found where he wanted to stay, which was San Francisco. His name was Mendel Mazinter. He turned his back on Judaism and married a Polish dressmaker. Together they built his small tailoring workshop into a cut, make and trim workshop and then they branched out with their own brand of men’s shirts. Finally they scored. He had two sons and a daughter, the sons went into the business, but my mother married an English lawyer from an old Bostonian family. After he retired, my grandfather began to hanker after the old ways. He went to synagogue and he taught me many of the old traditions, but of course, I’m not Jewish.’ He paused. ‘So where did you have your Bar Mitzvah, Miro?’ Simon asked.
‘In Volary, a quaint old town in Sudetenland, Czechoslovakia, eight miles from the German border, but I’ve put all that behind me. I am no longer Jewish.’
‘Really. Is it a matter of choice then?’ Helen asked, looking puzzled.
‘Everything in life is a choice, Mum. We are free to choose, but we don’t always make the right choices.’
‘But you have a Jewish background,’ Simon persisted. ‘So why have you made the choice to turn your back on Judaism?’
Miro stared at him, but he could see no malice in his expression, so why did he have the feeling that he was being interrogated? ‘One of our greatest rabbis of all time, Rabbi Hillel, was asked to define the essence of Judaism while standing on one foot. He said: “What is hateful to you, don’t do to your neighbour. The rest is commentary. Now go and study.” I guess he knew that it is not always clear which is the ethical way, hence the need to study. Judaism has hundreds of laws on ethics and they all have to be studied, but life throws up new calamities all the time. You can’t always find the answers in an old book. For instance, how would one make a choice between two great evils, if there were no other way? The answer to your question is, it’s all too complicated for me, so I opted out.’
There was an awkward silence. Miro sensed that they were feeling embarrassed. The English didn’t talk about love or feelings, especially not religion that easily. He wished he’d kept his mouth shut. He had never intended to voice his dilemma. He must be mad to blurt it all out. It must be the wine.
‘You’re talking in riddles, Miro,’ Daisy said. ‘Let’s talk about riding. Do you ride, Captain Johnson?’
‘Oh, please call me Simon. Of course I ride. I’m hoping you’ll let me ride that magnificent black stallion I’ve seen around the beach.’
‘Wear the bugger out . . . any time.’ Gramps was delighted. It was the first time he’d looked pleased with Simon. The conversation seemed to stick to horses after that, which was a safe topic. Simon arranged to take Daunty for an early morning ride whenever he was there.
They were eating their Christmas pudding when the doorbell rang. John was getting up when Daisy put her hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ll go,’ she said.
Picking up his empty plate for a second helping, John went through to the kitchen.
‘This is from our brigade commander,’ John heard a voice at the door say quite plainly. ‘It’s an invitation to our Christmas Dance for your family. It’s on the twenty-third. It starts at eight and goes on until there’s no one left.’
‘Oh, Mike. What fun. Will you be there?’
‘Of course I’ll be there. Please come? I would have been over before, but I’ve been ordered not to see you.’
‘So have I. We’re a modern day Romeo and Juliet.’
‘Hang in there, Daisy. We’ll have a happy ending. Promise.’
‘Yes, we must. Mike . . .?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘I’m sorry. That evening . . . I drank too much wine.’
‘That was my fault. I let you drink it like lemonade. I didn’t realize that you’re just a silly kid. I’m sorry, too, Daisy. I was upset when I found out how young you were. Of course, you’ll grow up fast. I’d better go. Is the captain there?’
‘Yes, we’re having lunch. He cooked it.’
‘Wow!’ He laughed. ‘That’s a talent I never suspected. See you soon. Hey come here. Five stars . . . OK?’
&nbs
p; He heard a gasp. Then silence. The silence was going on too long.
‘Daisy,’ John called from behind the kitchen door. ‘Come and help me clear away the plates.’
Top marks for perseverance, sergeant, he thought, as Daisy hurried back with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. She really likes him, but she’s far too young to be courting anyone, least of all a Yank.
Daisy went into the dining room. ‘Look everyone, here’s an invitation to a Christmas dance on the twenty-third. I said we’d all go.’
‘Well, you can certainly go with Miro. I’m not sure if I will,’ Helen said.
‘I was rather hoping you would come with me,’ Simon said. ‘It will be very informal . . . a get-together, with drinks and dancing.’
‘Can you jive, Captain Johnson?’ Daisy asked.
‘Well, naturally I can. It’s all the rage back home.’
‘Wow! D’you still go dancing?’
‘Sometimes,’ he said, trying not to think about Maria.
‘Would you teach me to jive?’
‘If your mother says it’s all right. Is that all right, Helen?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Sure. Can you dance?’
‘We had lessons at school. You know foxtrot, waltz, one, two, three, one, two, three . . . that sort of thing.’
‘That sort of thing is damned useful, but is that it?’
‘Yes. I’ve never been to a dance.’
‘Oh come now, Daisy. What about the hotel in Brixham?’ Helen said.
‘You danced. I just sat watching.’ Daisy looked petulant. ‘I didn’t dance with anyone.’
‘No, that’s not true. Your father danced with you.’
‘Once. And anyway, he is no one.’
‘Don’t speak like that about your father. He’s still your father.’
‘He spoke like that about us.’
Helen seemed to shrink into herself. She had no answer.
‘Sweet sixteen and you’ve never been dancing. Now that’s a real shame.’ Simon looked questioningly at Helen.
‘Childhood is so precious. They grow up too quickly, wouldn’t you say?’
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