Never Just a Memory

by Gloria Cook

  ‘Why?’ Tom was disappointed there was to be no lovemaking but it was obvious her feelings had taken a swift dive. He escorted her, in the reserved manner of one taking a lady in to a formal dinner, back to her seat at the table. ‘What have I done wrong? I suppose I’ve shocked you. You’ll want time to think about it. Perhaps discuss it with someone.’ She kept silent, toying with her empty wine glass. She was making him feel foolish. He lit a cigarette, took a long, heavy drag. ‘Lou, you look so miserable. Aren’t you the least bit happy?’

  She wouldn’t offer anything to make him feel more at ease. ‘It was hardly the time and place to ask such a thing, Tom. If you were asking me to marry you.’

  ‘Marriage? Of course I meant marriage.’ He stroked one of her fingers, cold and unyielding on the stem of the glass. ‘I know you wouldn’t sleep with me unless we intended to make it legal. Oh, hell, forgive me.’ He stubbed the cigarette out. ‘I’m making a right mess of things. That’s because I’m not any good at this romantic stuff. I’m sorry, Louisa, darling. I love you. Please will you marry me? Think about it for as long as you like.’

  ‘Thank you, Tom. I will, think about it, I mean.’ She gave him a half-formed smile. After all, he couldn’t help his prosaic nature, and so much else about him was good.

  ‘You could ask Mr Ash what he thinks about it,’ Tom said, hoping the suggestion would lift the mood. It was the first time things had gone badly between them and it was horrible, like being dunked in icy water and left to shiver all night.

  ‘I might do that,’ she lied. She had introduced Tom to Bruce as an old childhood friend of hers. Knowing already that Tom was her Aunt Emilia’s son, Bruce had taken him only as her friend and had shown no more interest in him.

  ‘Good,’ Tom relaxed, feeling he was beginning to win back lost ground. ‘Now I’m likely to be your husband I think it’s reasonable that you tell me soon all about him. You keep him shrouded in mystery. Why are you so keen to keep him a secret?’

  It was all she could do not to tear her eyes away from him. She was afraid he’d read that she was hiding something that concerned him personally. Tom was one of the most pleasantly natured people she knew but he was unlikely to ever approve of whom she was sheltering or the fact that she was doing it. ‘You don’t need to know this very minute.’

  ‘No, I don’t. I’ve spoiled the moment, I mean, about us and… you know… There’s some champagne left. Shall we cuddle up on the sofa and finish it off? I’ll stay quiet and you can think about my proposal.’

  Quiet he was, assessing what the future would be like as a married man. It would be very strange, but everyone settled down eventually. It wasn’t as if a wedding, if there was to be one, was going to be arranged straight away. He held Louisa, caressing her, stroking her long, scented hair – he’d never stop enjoying being close to her.

  Louisa found herself too raw to think about marriage to Tom. It hadn’t been sensible of her to think about it: nothing could be settled anyway until after Bruce had died. Her hopes had been scattered and right now she was incapable of reforming them. But they intruded in different ways, all bringing heavy emotion with them. Each thought had a name. An identity. Bruce. Tom. Jonny. Tristan Harvey. The first she was inevitably going to lose. She could have the second yet she feared she’d lose him because she wasn’t confident he’d really thought what his proposal would really mean to him. And she feared she’d lose the third because of the last.

  She was keeping a secret. It was obvious that Tristan Harvey was too. In a moment of panic she knew that her happiness, her whole future, centred on what his secret might be.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The wind was thrashing through the trees and practically blew Jill across the yard from the milking shed. Now expert at using the milking machines and cleaning down, she was the last to leave the parlour, carrying a bundle of white coats, hats and aprons to the wash house. She put the bundle in the giant-sized basket by the copper. She wasn’t thinking about anything except a warming breakfast of porridge. One of the best things about working on the farm was the quantity and quality of food. There was more meat and eggs to be had, cake was put out nearly every afternoon and cream made the puddings yummy. ‘Yummy’ was a word Lottie used often. Jill smiled. The silly, happy little word had come to her automatically. The hurt and rejection of Ronnie’s cowardly silence was losing its grip on her. She was free to find love again but would be content with her life if love didn’t bother her again.

  Although Lottie had been downhearted back at Christmas over Nate’s cancelled leave, Jill had enjoyed the best Christmas Day of her life. She had been overwhelmed with presents and now had a well-stocked toiletry drawer. Edwin Rowse’s gift of a few clean pages from an old exercise book placed in a box he’d carved himself from scraps of wood had particularly touched her. ‘For when you can start writing to someone again, maid.’

  Jill sauntered along to the house and saw a familiar van in the yard. Next instant, she was assailed by the village butcher.

  ‘Morning to ’ee, my luvver. I’ve come for the pig Tom put away yesterday. How are you, then?’ he asked in his demanding loud voice, looking her over as if she was a prime piece of meat, and he like a bloodhound on the scent. ‘Got a spring in your step. Nice colour in your cheeks. Love life going well, is it?’

  ‘I’m very well, Mr Eathorne. I haven’t got a love life any more.’ There was no point in letting people believe she was still engaged and she might as well get the news spread round Hennaford all in one day. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m just perky. What happened then? Someone else, was it?’ Sidney always shot straight to the point in the hope of as much drama as possible. He held her up, determined to pump her of every bit of information, before going inside and inviting himself to breakfast.

  ‘He simply felt he wasn’t ready.’

  ‘Not ready? For a fine young maid like you? How could he think that? The man’s a fool! He must be mad. You’re taking it well, if you don’t me saying so. Well, you won’t stay alone for long, but for goodness sake pick one of our boys. Not like young Lottie, dallying with a blooming Yank. They drive too fast, have made our roads dangerous. Isn’t one of our lot good enough for her?’

  ‘Of course. You can’t help who you fall in love with, Mr Eathorne.’ Jill tried to dodge round him, but Sidney was expert at keeping his prey exactly where he wanted them.

  ‘Love? As serious as that is it? Well, the maid’s not a dallier like her brother, although Tom’s mended his ways a lot lately. Seeing someone in particular, is he?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what Tom gets up to, Mr Eathorne.’ Tom had been unusually subdued for the last two days, offering various irritable excuses, that he was going down with a cold, or had indigestion, or was just plain tired. He had made Jill ponder on his mood by declaring to her privately, ‘You might come to think you were better off before, Jill, when it was just you and your grandmother. There’s no getting away with the slightest little thing here with so many people always around.’ If there was anything wrong with Tom it had nothing to do with illness or fatigue.

  ‘Faye Harvey came into my shop yesterday. ’Tis a brave thing she does, bringing her baby along everywhere she goes. She had the little evacuee maid too. She done wrong but she’s a natural mother, I’ll give her that. People are still talking about her – they should mind their own business! You’d think they’d have something better to do.’ He nudged Jill as if they were used to sharing confidences. ‘Was her young man taken before they could get to the church?’

  ‘I don’t know the circumstances.’ This time Jill walked on resolutely, her ear turned away from him.

  He just as resolutely dogged her steps. ‘Married man, was he? Left her in the lurch? Some men can be cruel and irresponsible. Don’t know what Mr Ben will make of it all when he comes home. Any word about he?’

  ‘None that I know of, Mr Eathorne.’ Jill smiled sweetly. She was taking off her boots to go inside. ‘You can ask Mrs E
m all you want to know now.’

  ‘Ah, ah, uh,’ Sidney blustered. Jill grinned maliciously to herself. Mrs Em was one person Sidney Eathorne never got the better of when rooting for gossip. She was likely to accuse him of being an old busybody. He’d be wary of Lottie too, she wouldn’t hold back at being rude to him. ‘Can smell the porridge from here. You lead the way in, my handsome.’

  They found the kitchen in uproar. Emilia was clutching the table with one hand, gripping her side with the other and wincing. ‘No, Tilda, I haven’t got time for breakfast. This isn’t the start of a long labour. The baby’s coming right now!’ Suddenly she was standing in a pool of water.

  ‘What?’ For a second Perry was thrown into a dither, then he took charge. ‘Right. Don’t worry, darling. Everything’s under control. Tom, help me to get your mother upstairs. Lottie, phone for the district nurse.’

  Emilia leaned forward, panting. ‘No time to do that either. Take me to the sitting room. Bring the maternity things down from our room. I’m giving birth almost at once, like I did to little Jenna. Perry, you need to hurry!’

  Jill squeezed her way into a corner, out of the way but ready to spring into action if she was called on.

  White-faced, Tom opened the passage door so Perry and Lottie could rush his mother through.

  ‘Hot water. Hot water,’ Tilda muttered, shaking visibly.

  Only Edwin was calm. ‘Em’s used to all this. She won’t panic.’ He filled his pipe for an expected celebratory smoke.

  ‘Anything I can do?’ His lips pulled back, revealing his big teeth in anticipation of dramatic news, Sidney peered down the passage after the sitting-room door was shut. Delight at coming straight into some excitement was written up and down every quivering, prying inch of him.

  No one answered. Taking Jill with him, Tom went to listen outside the maternity door. Edwin joined them. Sidney crept after them.

  ‘Ow, ow, ow, owah!’ Emilia was heard yelling at the top of her voice.

  ‘Oh my God…’ Tom glanced anxiously at Jill. He had never heard his mother in such pain. He was scared.

  ‘Nearly there!’ Perry exclaimed.

  ‘She’ll be all right,’ Jill whispered to Tom, but she was worried too, praying that this wonderful family wouldn’t be hit by another tragedy.

  Five minutes passed in which Tom sighed and shook his head and stamped his feet, like a handsome proud hunter restrained from the chase, in which Jill increasingly touched him, gripped him, held on to him to reassure him. She wondered how Lottie was holding up – she was probably too busy to think about anything more than what she was helping with. Lottie suddenly cried, ‘Go on, Mum. Push!’

  Tom, Jill, Edwin and Sidney jumped in their skins in unison, then gave a joint noisy exhalation of breath.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Tom pleaded.

  ‘Shush, boy,’ Edwin restrained him.

  There was the sound of a lusty cry. A baby’s cry. ‘Is it all over?’ Tom whispered, still fearful.

  Edwin was grinning broadly. For a short man he suddenly appeared six feet tall. ‘’Es, ’tis. Another grandchild. My dear Em’s done it again, bless her. Your gran would have been some proud to see this day. Come on, boy, we’d better make some tea.’

  ‘But I want to know what it is.’

  ‘Aw, they’ll need a little while yet.’ Edwin dragged him along to the kitchen.

  For once, Sidney was drooped-mouthed and speechless.

  A short while later Tom was holding his baby brother, wrapped in the shawl that he and all his siblings had first been kept warm in. ‘He’s a good weight, fine and healthy stock. How do you feel, Perry?’

  ‘This is the happiest day of my life, but it wasn’t me who did all the hard work. Are you sure you’re all right, darling?’ He was holding Emilia’s hand, kissing it, kissing her flushed cheek.

  She gentled a finger down his face. ‘I feel strong enough to go tattie-picking. Don’t worry, I’m only joking.’

  Lottie was hopping round Tom. ‘Let me have him. That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. I hope all my babies come as quickly as that.’

  Emilia welcomed the tea Edwin brought her. ‘It can be a bit of a shock, Lottie.’

  ‘He’s absolutely beautiful.’ Jill gazed at the baby.

  ‘All these years and now we’re back to nappies, Mrs Em.’ Tilda was sniffing into her hanky. ‘I couldn’t be happier.’

  ‘I’ll give Uncle Tris a ring. He’ll be delighted. And then I’ll let Lou know,’ Tom said.

  ‘You might be holding one of your own soon, eh, boy?’ Edwin thudded on his back. ‘We’re all expecting an announcement from you and Louisa, you know.’

  Tom made no reply, instead tossing a helpless look at Jill.

  ‘Tom?’ Emilia eyed him quizzically.

  Sidney was noting yet another juicy morsel to pass on. ‘Oh? More need for congratulations then, young Tom?’

  ‘There might be.’ Tom dropped his eyes to his baby brother. ‘We’ll concentrate on him just for now.’

  Emilia was satisfied with the answer. She reached out. ‘Can I have my baby now?’

  Tom handed him over. Perry put his arms around Emilia and their child. The room went quiet.

  Lottie asked, ‘What are you going to call him? William?’

  ‘Perry and I have spoken a lot about the baby’s name,’ Emilia said, stroking her son’s pink, downy cheeks. ‘Perry had suggested William as a second name for a boy. It was a lovely thought, but I think the name should remain with his older brother, and my brother, his Uncle Billy. We hope he’ll grow up in a world very different to the way it is now, a new world. So we’ve decided on names new to the Boswelds, the Rowses and the Harveys.’ She kissed the baby’s cheek. ‘Welcome to the world, Paul Michael Bosweld.’

  Jill stood back and surveyed the joyful scene. A lump of emotion high in her throat.

  Emilia beckoned to her. ‘Come closer, Jill, and take a good look at him. You’re an aunty now.’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t have come at a better time,’ Sidney deliberated. He tapped sharply on Tom’s shoulder. ‘Now then, young Uncle Tom. The wind’s picking up mightily. There’ll be rain any minute. Help me get this pig aboard.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Like a shadow, Ben slid out of the woods and scrambled down the banks of brambles and concealed himself among the long-deserted farm buildings. He longed for a smoke but waited patiently, knowing he wouldn’t be disappointed. The person he was waiting for rode along this way every day to the village, a few kilometres from St-Lo. Five minutes later came the sound of a creaking pushbike. Stepping out of his hiding place, Ben placed himself directly in the path of the rider.

  The man, middle-aged, his plump cheeks threaded with red veins, a beret tight over his balding head, a heavy black topcoat flapping round his legs, brought his conveyance to a wobbly halt. ‘Ah, my dear Jean-Claude. I haven’t seen you for these past seven or eight weeks. How rugged you look.’ He spoke with eloquent turns of his puffy brown hands. All the while his small, deceptively vacant eyes were darting at Ben and the vicinity.

  Ben’s hair was long under his wool hat and he had a full beard. His clothes were dark and they were crumpled because he slept in them. He strode forward until there was barely a foot’s space between him and the Frenchman. He answered in fluent French. ‘Maurice. That’s because I’m living in what my countrymen would call the great outdoors. My field name is no longer Jean-Claude. I can’t take on another SOE identity, the scar across my eye is too much of a giveaway following the detailed account given by the betrayer of my appearance. There’s a price on my head. I now fight the guerrilla way. Patrice, my wireless operator, was betrayed too. Vichy scum turned him over to the Gestapo, they tortured him to death.’

  ‘That is unfortunate.’ Maurice pushed out the flesh of his lower lip. ‘You have my sympathy for your compatriot.’

  ‘Your sympathy’s not required.’ Ben’s hand strayed inside his rough jacket. ‘Those responsibl
e have all been hunted down. Today they will be put to death. In fact there’s only one left to die a traitor’s death.’

  Maurice’s face hardened. He reached to his waistband but Ben pulled his gun out first. In panic, he licked his lips. ‘Jean- Claude, I don’t understand what this is all about.’

  Ben stared him in the eye. ‘Collaborator.’ Ben’s shots entered cleanly between Maurice’s eyes. Man and bicycle clattered to the ground. Blood spread over the dirt; he should have had blood on his conscience.

  As quickly as he’d emerged from the trees Ben re-entered them, leaving the body as a warning to others. He had no qualms about dispensing with the life of Maurice. He was a savage, who had readily betrayed his countrymen and women, not out of cowardice but out of greed, for money. Twelve innocent villagers had been lined up in the village square and shot because of his betrayal. Ben joined those waiting for him, fifteen men and three women who lived without papers and an identity, members of a non-political Maquis. Most were young, living in the woods, the hills and the mountains to escape being gathered up by the Germans and taken away to work in labour camps. Ben kept in touch with the SOE circuit leader. The war was turning a little more to the Allies’ favour. The most important work for him now was to make things as difficult as possible for the enemy invader. The RAF and the American ‘heavies’ – many planes, he was sure, from his home county – were daily bombing German strongholds, a softening up for the Allied invasion that was to come from the sky and the sea. Ben’s task with these resistance workers was to stop German troops, tanks and ammunition getting to the front line. Although he lived every moment on the edge of his nerves, he did so with a calmness and cunning and expertise that had earned him the nickname le loup, the wolf.

  Deep amid the trees, he lit a cigarette, indulging in that short moment to think of Faye, to love her. Then he put her out of his mind. He needed to concentrate. To plan and make the explosives for the next bridge he and his comrades were to blow up.