String of Pearls

by Madge Swindells

  There was no doubt about her love for her children, but they needed joy as well as love. Daisy’s life was very dull compared with that of teenagers in the States and he felt for her. As for Miro, she mollycoddled him. Just look at the fuss Helen had created when he fell off Daunty during a jump. ‘How will he ever be a man if you treat him like a girl?’ he had snarled at her.

  For her part, Helen griped because their fields were occupied and that the church fete could not be held this year because all the available sites were full. Of course, it was his fault that Daunty could not be isolated now that a mare had come on heat. Overall, he reckoned her tension had nothing much to do with these matters, but was caused by her feelings, which she was going to great lengths to deny, along with every other joy in her life.

  Simon had to pick up a shipment of valves from Southampton docks on the way back from London and from there he took the route through the New Forest, but as he drove towards Mowbray, a dog fight took place a few miles to the west. German bombers, pursued by Spitfires, were dropping their bombs to lighten their loads as they fled. Alarmed by the proximity of the raid to the canteen where Helen worked, he did a U-turn in the main street and sped back.

  By ten-thirty Helen was exhausted. She glanced at her watch. Thank heavens it was nearly closing time. Then she heard the siren.

  ‘We don’t get many raids here,’ she told the men over her shoulder as she battled with eggs, sausages, baked beans and jam on toast. ‘Not much point in bombing fields and woods . . .’ Hearing an explosion, she stood listening. It wasn’t close, but it was on this side of the forest. She frowned. There was another explosion, nearer this time. A plane was dropping its bombs and it was coming their way. The third bomb was close enough to hear its whistling descent. It was a strangely eerie noise, but rumour had it that if you heard the whistle it wasn’t coming for you and that always comforted her. Everyone froze. Hard and fast came the next explosion, much closer this time and three seconds later the third blast fell too close by far. The ground shook, plaster fell from the ceiling and the iron roof rattled.

  ‘Everyone down. Take cover,’ one of the ARP men yelled. ‘Get away from the stove,’ a soldier shouted at Helen. She switched off the taps automatically and fell to the floor, her hands over her ears, eyes tightly shut, tensed up and waiting . . . but for what? A monumental explosion rocked the warehouse and the windows shattered, but Helen could only thank her lucky stars that it had fallen on the other side of the building.

  ‘The bomber’s passed over,’ she yelled, hanging on to the counter to steady herself as she scrambled to her feet. She couldn’t breathe, dust was falling from the ceiling and rising from the floor. Pieces of plaster were floating down like petals in spring. The noise and the blast had felt like physical blows and now she was unsteady, her hands shaking, ears still ringing. It was all she could hear. She walked forward a few steps feeling wooden and unreal.

  ‘I don’t feel as if I’m really here,’ Joan whispered beside her. She was leaning against the cupboard. ‘We were bloody lucky, fucking bastards,’ Joan said. Helen giggled. Joan was so controlled. She never swore.

  Helen could hardly see across the room. Dust and bits of plaster were floating around her. She grabbed the pan and scooped the sausages into a dish on the warmer. They shouldn’t stand in congealing fat like that, makes them tough and oily. She flicked off pieces of plaster with a knife. It was over. No reason to slacken. She looked around. ‘Next,’ she called.

  ‘Is everyone all right?’ an ARP man shouted.

  ‘I’ve cut myself. Damn glass is everywhere. Got a broom here?’

  ‘The brooms are in that cupboard,’ Joan called out. The customers began to clean up fast. Helen wiped the counter, Joan was wiping the stove. Grimy faces surrounded her. There were a few smears of blood from unimportant scratches, someone’s nose was bleeding.

  ‘It’s nothing. Just pressure from the blast,’ he said, holding a handkerchief to his face. Two women from the Rescue Service honed in on him. He was cursing as they made him lie on the floor.

  ‘Bloody fools. You should be in bloody London, then you wouldn’t bloody worry about a bloody nosebleed.’ Fury held them all in its red hot grip. They wanted to hit back, pummel the bastards who were knocking down their homes, killing and maiming innocent civilians, bankrupting their country. Their suppressed fury came out in strangely violent spurts. A mouse came skittering across the floor, stupid with panic. It was hammered to death in an orgy of rage. A glass broke in a customer’s hands, the blood dripped into the sugar and someone swore, not at him, but at the bloody pilot who had only just missed them. They weren’t going to show that they’d been scared, but anger was another matter. They were all hunched up and bursting with rage.

  ‘If the pilot had to bale out now, I doubt he’d survive,’ Helen whispered to Joan. ‘Next.’ she called.

  When Simon walked in, looking neat and clean and larger than life, Helen’s reality retreated even further ‘Simon? I must be dreaming?’

  ‘Let’s get you out of here,’ he said, striding to the back of the counter. He put his arms around her, hugging her. ‘I was scared half to death when I heard the explosion. Thank God you’re all right. Come on. I’m taking you home.’

  ‘I can’t leave now. We don’t close until later.’

  ‘The Yanks get all our best girls,’ a soldier called. A chorus of cat calls followed. ‘Here, miss. I’m available. British-made.’

  ‘You’re in shock,’ Simon said, ignoring them. ‘Your hair’s full of plaster, you’re covered in dust.’ He grabbed her hand. ‘Look at your hands . . . you’re badly burned.’

  ‘No, no, not badly and it wasn’t the blast. It was my careless cooking.’

  ‘You go,’ Joan said, looking offended. ‘I can cope.’

  ‘Certainly not. We close at eleven and there’s another half an hour to go,’ she said firmly. ‘I have my bicycle here.’

  ‘Don’t argue. You’re coming with me,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Maybe.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘But only after eleven. You can sit over there.’

  ‘I’ll wait in the jeep. It’s right outside.’ He looked furious as he strode out, but Helen merely shrugged.

  ‘My lodger,’ Helen explained to the astonished Joan.

  She left at eleven, leaving Joan to lock up. ‘Will you call ARP headquarters for new windows, or shall I?’ she asked.

  ‘I will,’ Joan said.

  ‘Can we give you a lift?’

  Joan shook her head. ‘It takes me all of five minutes to cycle home.’ She was still offended. For Joan, all men were bad news, but the Yanks were the worst.

  Her bicycle was in the back of the jeep, Helen noticed.

  ‘How much do they pay you for six hours hard labour? Whatever it is, it’s not worth it.’ His voice was deeper and gruffer than usual.

  ‘It’s voluntary work, Simon. I don’t get paid.’ She became watchful. She wasn’t going to be bossed around by her lodger. She had a stray memory of Eric, arms folded, lips pressed into a tight line, like Simon’s were now, as he laid down the law. It had taken all her courage to face up to his temper when she disagreed on anything, however trivial.

  Simon was looking shocked. ‘Don’t you have enough to do, running a family, working in a factory, running a riding school, without this? Let someone else do it.’

  ‘You’ve missed the point,’ she said icily. ‘There isn’t someone else. We’re all doing as much as we can. Tonight . . .’ She broke off because it was hard to explain. ‘Not just me . . . all of us . . . we were angry . . . we wanted to hit back. We do whatever we can to hit back – packing explosives, helping to run the canteen – it’s what keeps us sane. This anger inside me is sometimes hard to bear, it hurts me physically. I get rashes and stiff necks, hay fever and a pain in my shoulder blades. All tension symptoms and it’s not caused by fear, but by anger. Sometimes I feel like one of those fabled Valkyries, only warring counts. I’ve no other emotions lef
t.’ She closed her mouth firmly, hoping that this was the end of the matter.

  ‘I think you are mistaken there. Can I kiss you?’

  ‘That would be playing with fire. Please start your jeep. Let’s go.’

  ‘What have you got to lose?’ he asked, switching on the ignition. ‘Eric’s run off with someone else. He hasn’t seen you for months.’

  ‘How kind of you to remind me.’ She glared at him. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Daisy told me.’

  ‘Why are you always spying on us?’

  ‘Why do you always change the subject?’

  She felt infuriated with him. ‘Jesus, one should never get involved with a lawyer.’

  ‘Are you involved with me? I see no sign of it, but I’m involved with you. You fill my thoughts most of the time. I have to watch myself. Much against my wishes, I’m intrigued and obsessed by a strange woman who wears darned stockings and ugly clothes and hides her beautiful hair in an ugly bun, hidden under an even uglier turban, and is doing her utter best to hide her innate sexuality and her extraordinary beauty in every way she can.’

  Helen laughed harshly. ‘I’m much too old for this kind of nonsense,’ she said primly. ‘Besides, whatever looks I might have are fast fading.’

  ‘Who are you lying to, me or yourself?’

  ‘Oh Simon, you’re being unfair. Besides, you’re taking advantage of the situation. It seems as if you are one of the family, but of course you are not. We are pushed into close quarters for the war effort and you are using this situation to your own advantage. No good can come of it. You want bed and board with all the trimmings. Well, it’s not on.’

  ‘Jesus. You know how to hit below the belt, don’t you?’

  He put his foot down and for a while they drove too fast through the dark and empty streets. Helen sat in silence, stiff and upright, staring ahead, trying to persuade herself that she had done the right thing, however much she longed for him. So what if he’s in a temper? He’s spoiled, she decided.

  Soon they were passing through a narrow lane with woods on either side.

  ‘Do you cycle through this wood late at night by yourself?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Yes, of course. Why not?’

  ‘Don’t you get nervous?’

  ‘I love the countryside. It’s about the only place where I feel truly safe. Nowadays a house is not safe. We’ve had two houses destroyed by the blitz and Daisy’s school was burned down. There’s nothing safe about our lives, so I’ve given up looking for safety. I’m just moving along, surviving by doing what I can. One day all this will be over and then I’ll take stock. But not now. Imagine by-passing the woods because it’s dark and scary and then cycling bang into a bomb.’

  ‘So it’s dark and scary. Well, that answered my question eventually.’

  ‘Damn all lawyers,’ she said with a smile.

  Simon parked on the outskirts of the wood in a car park used by picnickers and foresters. Switching off the ignition he sat very still, but she could see how tense he was. ‘I know you’re in a hurry to get home,’ he said, looking unsure of himself for once. ‘There’s something I want to know so badly.’

  ‘Tch! What is it?’

  ‘You try to pretend that you have no feelings for me, but I happen to know that it’s not true.’

  ‘What conceit. What makes you think that?’

  ‘Your body tells me when you’re talking to me: your cheeks flush, your eyes brighten, even your nipples harden . . .’

  She didn’t bother to argue. What was the point? ‘So ask your damned question?’

  ‘Can I kiss you?’

  ‘You idiot!’ She had expected some heavy soul-searching. Exploding with laughter, she grabbed him by his neck, pulled him towards her and kissed his cheek hard, but when she tried to let go she found she was trapped with his left arm around her back and the other encircling her neck. His lips were on hers, soft and supple, his tongue caressed them. Forked lightning of pure pleasure pierced her body, she had never experienced such exquisite sensations.

  She came to eventually to find her knee thrown over his lap and wedged under the steering wheel. One hand was gripping his shoulder, the other was behind his neck. His hand had shifted back and found her breast. She was crying with frustration.

  ‘For God’s sake stop. I told you it would be playing with fire.’

  ‘And you were right. At least we both know where we stand. I want you. You want me, so where do we go from here?’

  ‘Home. Please! Right away,’ she said, extricating herself from the steering wheel and the hand brake. ‘This was a mistake. Blame it on the war and loneliness and of course I’ve just been dumped. I didn’t intend to kiss you.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t. I know that. When you’re not suffering from shock over the bomb blast, and totally exhausted by hard work, and scared half to death by the woods, you’re a very sensible woman who plans her life and gets on with it and never gives in to emotions, or longing, or listens to her heart.’ He skidded around the corner and for a while they drove in silence.

  ‘I know I took advantage of the situation, but I really do care,’ he said as they turned into the driveway. ‘We don’t know each other well yet, but I want you to know that I have never before met a woman I admire so much. Add to that, intense physical attraction and you can see that I’m in trouble.’

  The moon broke through the clouds. Simon drew her back to him, opening her coat and pushing his hand under her jersey, gently stroking her naked back and her breasts. She lifted one hand and drew his head towards hers, pressing her lips on to his. Then she moved away.

  ‘You must have left a string of broken hearts behind you, Simon. Well, I’m not going to be another notch on your belt. I’m married and I’m still hurting and that’s the truth. Eighteen years takes some forgetting. You must try to understand that right now I’m not available.’

  ‘Can’t you let go? He has.’

  ‘It’s not a case of just letting go. I’ve been badly hurt. I don’t need another hurt and you’re merely passing through.’

  They sat in silence. She glanced sidelong and saw his pursed lips, narrowed eyes and a deep chasm between his thick eyebrows. He was a man whose passions ran deep and right now he was baffled because he wasn’t winning.

  I don’t care. I have enough problems, she told herself.

  She had been meaning to tell him to use the empty bay, next to John’s car, but now would not be the best time, he might think half the bedroom would follow.

  ‘I have to be in London tomorrow morning. I’ll be away for a few days. Will you be OK?’ When he gazed at her he looked so sad.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be? Have a good trip. Goodnight,’ she said briefly and hurried inside.

  She listened for the sound of his footsteps in the hall, but after a while Simon started the jeep and drove into the next-door camp. Hating herself, she climbed into her lonely bed.

  Fourteen

  The following morning soon after seven, Simon and his driver left Mowbray for London. It was bitterly cold with a heavy white frost over the fields on either side of the road. On the outskirts of the city they encountered a traditional London smog. Visibility was down to a couple of feet, the smell of oily black soot and grime was overwhelming and disgusting and they were forced to crawl along at five miles an hour. He was going to be late for his appointment with Lieutenant General Walters.

  Seething with frustration Simon passed the time by reviewing his problems. First and foremost was Helen. She had got under his skin and he knew that she felt the same way as he did, so why was she wasting their time? These precious months might be all they had. But these were not the sort of thoughts he should be entertaining.

  He switched over to the job on hand. His main frustration was that he was losing and it was bugging him. One of the reasons he wasn’t getting anywhere was the time that he had to spend in London. Thank God he had finished the classes and with any luck, the men he had picked and tr
ained would be able to cope with any problems that might arise in their areas, which was more than he was doing.

  He still had no idea who was spreading disinformation in Mowbray, but he suspected that this person could be living in the house where he was billeted

  Of the four suspects in Conway House, he was inclined to cross Daisy off the list. She was unlikely to spread damaging stories about a guy she was sweet on. Helen might be gossiping to friends at the canteen or the explosives factory where she worked, although she didn’t seem the type. That left John, whom he planned to investigate. John was a man with a secret. Two or three evenings a week, he crept out of the house at ten p.m. and returned in the early hours of the morning. This was made more difficult for him now that Simon had taken over his former office with the French windows leading to the garden. Lawson had been detailed to follow him wherever he went, but Simon doubted that the culprit was John. He was very English, very bright, a true traditionalist. The most he could be guilty of was gossiping at the pub.

  That left Miro. Simon frowned. Time and again his mind veered off Miro. Of course he was a natural target to be coerced into spying for the SS, which was the reason why German foster children of seventeen plus were interned on the Isle of Man, but Miro had been only thirteen when he was sent to Britain. Simon saw something special in the boy, despite his emotional scars. He had witnessed his love of horses and all animals. Miro’s affection for his foster family was obvious. He saw adoration in his eyes when he looked at Daisy, love when he gazed at Helen. He had bonded with John and spent his spare time helping him with his chores. He was a boy with his priorities in the right place. Simon had learned early in his career never to ignore his instincts. Most people underestimated their natural born gifts, but Simon took his seriously. He would swear that Miro would never knowingly harm the Allied efforts to win the war.