by Gloria Cook
Next morning, she carried her overnight bag downstairs.
‘You’re leaving?’ It was the dry, breathless voice of her father. He’d just come through the front door. He looked as if he’d stayed out all night and slept in the woods.
‘I was hoping to see you before I go. I haven’t got time to talk now, I’m expecting a cab. I’m, ah, planning on coming back fairly soon and bringing someone with me.’
‘Are you?’ he asked, as if his mind was in a fog.
‘Do you mind?’ She tried to read what was going on through the muddle of him. She’d spoken in challenge, but she was coming back anyway. He might not want to forge a father and daughter relationship but he owed her, owed her a lot. Simon too, for he was his own flesh and blood.
‘No. Do what you like, Faye.’ He held up his hands, saw the layers of dirt on them. Became aware of the shabby, sweaty state of his clothes. He had his work boots on, they were caked in mud. He’d never entered the house before in his boots. ‘Do forgive me. I must freshen up.’
Faye didn’t know what to make of him. ‘Has something happened?’
‘What?’ he said stupidly. ‘Um, nothing… not really.’
She wished she could think of a way to bring him out of this extraordinary haze. He had been horrid to her but she didn’t like seeing him like this. Like someone broken and utterly lost. ‘Are you all right, Dad?’
‘I just need a bath and a rest. Excuse me, Faye.’
He lurched off, heading for the stairs. Tristan was coming down for breakfast. ‘What the heck?’
The telephone rang. Faye froze, afraid she was about to hear complications to her plans. Tristan answered it. ‘Can you try later? I’m afraid my brother’s temporarily indisposed.’ He argued for another couple of sentences. ‘Ben, it’s for you. The chap’s most insistent, he refuses to talk to anyone but you. He says it’s very important.’
Ben had no strength left in him. He juddered to the bottom stair and fell down on it. Tristan put the receiver into his hand. ‘Yes, I’m he, Benjamin Harvey. Yes. Yes. I understand. Of course. Thank you for ringing.’
‘Who was it?’ Tristan asked, trading an anxious glance with Faye.
‘Can’t say.’ Ben gazed up at his daughter and his brother and there was now a glimmer of life in his drawn face. ‘You’re going to have to manage without me being around for a long time. I have to go away.’
Chapter Ten
Lottie was in Truro. Free time was scarce, but her mother insisted every family member took an afternoon off at least once a fortnight. Usually, she went riding, or if it was very wet weather she’d curl up in her room with a book. Occasionally, she went into town and trawled through the clothes shops, as she was today with the bonus of some precious clothes coupons.
She wished Jill could be with her, to try on things together, to have fun. Jill had given her the few coupons she had. ‘Would you mind seeing what you could do with these? I don’t care what you choose. It can be a blouse, nightie or undies. You have such good taste. I’ve never really had the confidence to buy things for myself.’ Jill’s clothes were either her grandmother’s hand-me-downs or juvenile. She’d get something pretty for Jill, even glamorous, to dazzle Ronnie when he – Lottie crossed her fingers – when he eventually got leave.
As she crossed over the threshold of a quality fashion shop in King Street, Lottie broke into a smile. Right in front of her on a mannequin was just the thing for Jill. A frock with intricate detail on the bodice and a cowl neck in a fabulous shade of pink. Dark rose pink, the assistant who hastened to serve Lottie proudly announced. And to go with it Lottie chose a little piece of frivolity, a red, velvet-look hat with a net front. Jill deserved something chic and daring. Lottie would add her coupons and the rest of the required price, three pounds, nine shillings and tuppence, to Jill’s meagre lot and take home a prize to delight her friend.
She hurried out of the shop, eager to get back. She’d slip straight up to Jill’s room and put the frock on a hanger and leave it suspended outside the wardrobe, and she’d place the hat on the chair and place the chair beside the frock. She’d accompany Jill upstairs immediately after supper, and make her close her eyes before entering her bedroom.
Picturing Jill’s expected gasps of wonder, Lottie nearly collided with someone outside on the pavement. ‘Oh! Sorry!’
‘My pleasure, miss,’ a friendly American voice replied. The GI was with a group of others. All expressed animated interest in her, all wore highly polished shoes, all were chewing gum.
Lottie scanned their faces and was disappointed not to find Herv, or Jeff, or Todd, or Mort, or Brad among them. Or Corporal Nate Harmon. She was keen to show them, and the quiet-eyed sergeant in particular, that she wasn’t ill-mannered, or childish, or an English snob, as she must have seemed to them in Hennaford’s social rooms. She had never cared before what people thought of her but she wanted to make amends for her behaviour. Again, particularly to the corporal. ‘Excuse me, please,’ she mumbled, dodging round the GIs.
She went on her way, climbing up the hill of Pydar Street, pinking up as she was followed by a shower of wolf whistles. ‘Come back, honey,’ one of the GIs called after her.
Once she would have uttered under her breath, ‘Buzz off!’ But Nate would be offended. Damn! Why did she keep thinking about a man whom she had only met once, for a few minutes? Why was it important what he thought of her? He probably had a wife or a girlfriend back home anyway. Why on earth did she care about his marital status? How was it someone could affect her in such a way? She had asked Jill if she had fallen in love with Ronnie at first sight.
‘No,’ had been Jill’s amused reply. ‘We lived next door to each other, remember? Love was something that grew gradually between us. I suppose we took it for granted that we would marry one day. The war hurried things along, our feelings for each other, I mean. When the war’s over, Ronnie will return to university and finish his degree.’
‘And when you get married I will be your bridesmaid, won’t I?’
‘Of course. I’d like that.’
‘Good. Pappa can give you away. He’d be honoured to. When the war’s over, you must continue living here with us, do you hear?’
She’d enjoyed the thrill shining out of Jill’s face. ‘I’d love to stay on, if Mrs Em will have me.’
‘None of us would have it any other way. Tom thinks of you as another sister, you know.’
Jill had become emotional on hearing that. They had exchanged a hug. ‘Why did you ask me about being in love, Lottie?’
‘Oh, I don’t know really. Just curious.’ She couldn’t admit she had been thinking about Nate Harmon. She’d feel a fool, especially as on every mention of Americans before she had haughtily disparaged them.
She had walked the six miles into town, the distance being little more than a stroll to her. Rather than ride on the noisy, stuffy, boneshaker bus on the way back, and wanting to think over the strange new insight of thinking continually about a stranger, a stranger who had been abrupt with her, she continued on her way home. Nate Harmon had put her in her place. Something she wouldn’t have tolerated before. She had been noticeably quieter ever since. Tom had asked her if she was sickening for something. Her mother and Tilda were concerned about why she wasn’t eating properly.
She had to cross over the road and she stepped up to the edge of the pavement. An American jeep pulled up and the driver, close to her due to the left-hand drive, motioned to her to pass by. It was Corporal Nate Harmon. Without thinking twice she smiled at him. He lifted his hand in a little wave. She knew she was blushing fiercely but it didn’t matter. All that was important was that he saw her this time as friendly and polite. She crossed over to the opposite pavement. She turned round immediately and nodded to him and called, ‘Thank you.’
He returned the nod, put the jeep in gear and drove on, turning left, heading towards Castle Hill.
For the first time in her life Lottie knew the meaning of frustration. And
dejection. And misery. She had wanted so much for him to stay and talk or something. Pulling in her mouth and keeping her head down, she trudged on and upwards. Arguing with herself. So he really did think I was unforgiveably rude. Well, l deserved to be ignored. If he’s married or spoken for he wouldn’t be interested in me anyway. It’s a good thing he drove on. I’m glad he’s not too free and easy. There are too many people seeking cheap thrills nowadays.
She trudged on, turning off before reaching the Kenwyn area, passing a solid group of Victorian houses, taking the route home through the quiet lanes. This way took her past the entrance to the back steps leading up to St Keyne’s churchyard and then on through the tiny hamlet of Idless, a heavily wooded area with a complement of a mill and a few whitewashed dwellings.
She travelled on and on, her shopping only a light burden, the business now of walking under a blue sky and warming sun both calming and uplifting. Half a mile away from home she came to the lonesome parish church of Hennaford, the minerals in the ancient stones of the tower glinting sagely in the strong light. The main body of the church and the graves were screened by yews and oaks, and high hedgerows massed with burdock, wild garlic and foxgloves, and walls creeping with stonecrop and feverfew. She thought to stand awhile at the Harvey grave plot, its newest incumbents her baby sister and father. Death had snatched them both away at very young ages. Death was disintegrating innumerable families on a daily basis. What was the point of being where the sister she had never known was lain, or her father who’d died when she was only five years old. It was better to be with the living. To forget that there was a narrow line between happiness and security and loss and tragedy.
She was on Harvey land, but wanting to stay alone for as long as she could, she climbed over the next field gate and headed for a secluded spot. A hillock in the middle of a long field where bullocks were pastured, and within the hillock, capped with small leafy trees and banked with golden gorse, was a natural depression. She sank down in this little valley, sharing it with fritillary butterflies flitting on the bracken fronds. Putting her parcels carefully aside on the fragrant grass, she rested her face on her knees. Who needed romance? A boyfriend? Especially a foreign national who didn’t approve of her, when she had – war permitting – part of all this to inherit and a close family and good friends? She stayed perfectly still in peace and lazy contentment.
‘Hi.’
She thought she had imagined the word, so quietly spoken. It was just the breeze lightly stirring the low, encircling branches, or whispering through the long grasses. An echo of a childhood dream. She hugged her knees and closed her eyes to meditate, breathing in the clean air and soothing warm scents of nature’s finest. Here she felt safe, at one with the land she loved.
‘Miss Harvey. Lottie…’
‘What?’ She lifted her head. ‘Corporal Harmon! Nate! How…? I mean, how did you know I was here?’ She could almost believe she was seeing a vision of him, tall and dominant, yet unassuming, unconscientiously trailing his cap from his fingertips.
‘I’ve driven through Hennaford a few times. When I came off duty a short while ago I thought I’d take another look at it. I knew roughly where to find the farm. I came across Jill, the land girl, in the lane. She told me she saw you from a vantage point, strolling this way. Hope you don’t mind me showing up like this. Can I join you?’
Mind his unexpected appearance? It thrilled her. He had driven this way to see her. After their earlier fraught history, her mixed feelings about him, she was surprised at how at ease she was with him. ‘Yes. Of course.’
He sat down at her side, facing her. ‘This is a nice, peaceful little place.’
‘It is today.’ She smiled. ‘As a child I used to play very noisy games with my older brothers and cousins. I could never keep a frock clean.’
He returned the smile. ‘I can imagine that. It’s good to be somewhere peaceful, away from the constant hustle of camp. I miss the peace of my home. We have something in common. I’m a farmer’s son. Well, a rancher’s.’
‘Really? Where? Texas?’
‘That’s right. Can you tell from the drawl?’
‘Not really,’ she admitted. ‘My brother Tom could, I’m sure. He goes to the pictures when he gets the chance. He likes Western films. I don’t think you’ve got much of a drawl actually. My uncle married an American, but they’re divorced. She originated from Wyoming, but when she returned to America she settled in Washington. Wyoming is all prairie and cattle country, isn’t it? Their daughter Faye was at the dance. Perhaps you spoke to her. She’s up in Scotland at the moment. I’m hoping she’ll return soon. I like to have as many members of the family as possible round me. You must be missing your family. Is your ranch very big?’
‘I noticed the commotion your cousin caused when she arrived in your little village hall. And the ranch, well, Hennaford could be swallowed up in one tiny corner of it, but I don’t mean that in a boastful way. A lot of you English seem to think that some of my countrymen and I have big mouths.’
‘Oh…’ Lottie thought he was making a dig at her, until she saw the humorous glint in his eyes. How gentle his eyes were. She had read romantic stories about velvety eyes and scoffed over it, but it was just how Nate’s were. She had read about girls wanting to gaze into a man’s eyes all day long and thought it daft, but it was exactly what she wanted to do now. Gaze and gaze into Nate’s gorgeous eyes, eyes that were settled firmly on her.
He took in the trees, the dots of red, yellow, white, pink and blue of the wild flowers, the banks of fern, the sky overhead, where cottony clouds floated by as if careful not to blot out the friendly sun, giving no clue that up there in the heavens, day and night, tragedy was played out on a daily basis. ‘I really like it here. It feels like you could just fall asleep and find yourself in another world, one where there’s only peace and harmony.’ His voice, so soft and rich, dropped to a huskier tone.
‘This is my mother’s land.’
‘So I understand. I had a pleasant conversation with your mom at the dance. She seems a fine woman.’ He raised an eyebrow. It was steeped in meaning. ‘I’d like to meet her again.’
‘I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you came back with me for tea. Mum loves a houseful. I’m lucky to have a big, close family. Have you got brothers and sisters, Nate?’
‘No. My daddy died six months ago. I’ve got no folks at all now, Lottie.’
‘Oh, that’s sad.’ She paused, then asked with lowered eyes, ‘So you’re not married? Or attached?’
‘The girl I had in mind not long ago married the local pastor. Do you have anyone? Anyone special, I mean.’
‘No.’
‘Can’t say I’m sorry to hear that, Lottie.’
She was rapt to hear him say that, but was now a little shy. She searched her brain for something to say. ‘So you like England? Cornwall?’
‘I sure do. I like your sleepy old churches, your bluebell woods. Everywhere is so green. It’s different to how I imagined it on the troop ship coming over.’ He didn’t mention how primitive he and his countrymen found the country, especially the outdoor privies. It touched many a man’s heart at how much the shortages made people, particularly the children, go without. ‘And you’re different to what I first thought of you, Lottie.’
‘You didn’t like me?’
He gave her a sideways glance. ‘I thought you were cute. Very cute. I was about to ask you to dance, then I overheard you giving poor Herv plenty of lip. Uh oh, I thought. This little honey’s got a sting in her tail.’
‘But you do like me now?’
‘I do. I like you very much, Lottie. If that’s not too forward.’
‘No. My question was rather forward.’
‘Rather… I like the way you people say things like “rather”. I’d like to hear you say a lot more things, Lottie. I have to get back fairly soon. Shall we go now so I can meet your folks again? I’ve parked the jeep by the field gate.’
Lottie realize
d the afternoon was drifting away. It was time she went home. It was going to be brilliant to be driving back with Nate. To show him off as her newest friend…
Chapter Eleven
Louisa picked sprays of apple blossom from her back garden and strolled along to the churchyard to place them on her adoptive uncle’s grave. Julian Andrews, brother to her Aunt Polly, had died young, ten years ago, of a heart condition. She remembered little about him, so frail and quiet he had been, but she knew him as a kind, gentle person, and that he’d liked the glorious sweet fragrance of apple blossom.
The church of St Keyne appeared to be sleeping peacefully. As always when she came here, she paused near the porch and drank in the view of the three-spired cathedral down in the town, and the tidal river away in the background; its thickly wooded banks wound on, soon to converge with the River Fal. She tried to forget those not-too-distant waters and the surrounding areas, frantic with the preparations for the Second Front in Europe, the long-planned major assault on the German occupying enemy, assumed to be at the nearest port of Calais.
She carried on along the well-trodden path, much of the sky blotted out with ancient towering trees. To reach the grave she must begin the descent of the steep slopes that fell down towards the Idless valley. Nestled down among the headstones, as if he was a monument himself, was a man. Louisa would have to pass by him. She slowed her steps, wanting not to disturb him, but within moments she came to a halt. There would be nothing unusual in a mourner paying homage to a grave if it was not for whose body lay beneath this particular small expanse of sod. The almost blank headstone had been placed there reluctantly by the next of kin. The words it bore were few. Ursula Harvey. Died 1918. It was the grave of Tristan Harvey’s first wife and no one except Jonny, her son, was known to visit it, for she had died in disgrace. Aunt Polly had mentioned that some people had voiced their objection to her being buried here.
Louisa crept up behind a high marble angel. There was something about the forlorn appearance of the man that bade he be left in privacy, but she couldn’t help being curious. She had never seen him before. He was about sixty years old, white-haired, slightly bent over and leaning on a horn-handled walking stick. His clothes were a little shabby. He was holding a panama hat pressed to his chest as if he was having trouble breathing. Louisa could see he was weak. Every so often he gave a gasping cough.