Never Leave Me

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘We’ll go in the morning, before breakfast,’ Greg said, striding out of the shower, towelling his hair vigorously. He stopped suddenly as he saw her white face. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, crossing the room towards her, his eyes dark with concern. ‘Don’t you feel well?’

  She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

  ‘I’ll call the ship’s doctor,’ he said, stretching out his hand to the telephone.

  ‘No! Please don’t Greg. It’s only a headache. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.’

  He looked down at her doubtfully and she forced a small smile. ‘Please Greg. There’s no need to worry.’

  ‘If you’re sure. What about an aspirin? A brandy?’

  She shook her head again, her heart hurting with pain and grief. ‘No, all I need is some sleep. Goodnight, Greg.’

  ‘Goodnight, sweetheart,’ he said gently.

  She squeezed his hand and when he slid into bed beside her she lay against him, but she didn’t sleep. Not for a long time.

  A week later they passed the Statue of Liberty at sunrise. ‘Oh, isn’t she magnificent?’ Lisette exclaimed, her eyes shining with delight. ‘I’d never realised she was so enormous!’

  They leaned against the deck rails and Greg slid his arm around her waist, hugging her close as the Liberté glided into the welcoming waters of New York harbour.

  ‘Will we stay in New York?’ she asked as they cleared customs. ‘Will we be able to see the Empire State Building and Central Park?’

  He laughed, delighted with her enthusiasm, delighted to have left a war-ravaged Europe far behind him, and delighted to be once more on American soil.

  ‘We can stay here as long as you like, sweetheart. We can have our honeymoon here.’

  Her eyes were bright, her voice teasing. ‘I thought our honeymoon was the voyage over.’

  ‘Our honeymoon is never going to be over,’ he said, his eyes gleaming in such a way that the breath caught in her throat. ‘Let’s book into the Plaza and I’ll show you New York.’

  Her first shock was how few people spoke French. The concierge at the Plaza spoke a few carefully pronounced phrases, but the rest of the staff were able to do nothing more than courteously wish her good-day and good evening.

  ‘I thought everyone would speak a little French,’ she said, a note of alarm in her voice. ‘How shall I manage when you are not with me? My English accent is terrible.’

  ‘Your English accent is delightful,’ Greg said truthfully, kissing the top of her head. ‘Everyone will adore your accent. And you.’

  She had been doubtful, but in the following days discovered that he was right. Everyone she spoke to beamed at her immediately and listened with immense patience as she sought the right words with which to express herself.

  She liked New York. It was big and brash compared to Paris, and utterly alien compared to the villages and market towns of Normandy, but there was an excitement about it that she responded to. Everywhere she went she was met with friendliness and she was stunned when she discovered that the friendliness was not always what it seemed to be.

  They had run into an old college friend of Greg’s in one of the art galleries. When Greg had introduced her as his wife, the American greeted her effusively, telling Greg that he was damned lucky. After a little while, Greg and he had begun to talk of people and places that she did not know and she had gently excused herself in order to go to the powder room. It was when she was on her way back to them that she heard the American say, ‘She’s a stunner, Greg, but you were taking a risk weren’t you? From what I’ve heard of Vichy France not all French girls were violently opposed to the Krauts!’

  She thought Greg was going to punch him on the jaw. His fist bunched, his face went white, and then he spat, his eyes blazing, ‘Never speak like that about my wife or her country again! You know nothing about the French! Nothing about what they endured! My God, when I think what Lisette suffered at their hands … her home overrun with them … burying with her bare hands a member of her family killed by them…’

  His friend looked uncomfortable. ‘You didn’t tell me that. But Newsweek has been running pictures of French girls who didn’t suffer. Who collaborated. Girls who had had their heads shaved publicly in the streets. There was a lot of it going on out there while we were risking our necks to liberate them. That’s all I’m saying.’

  The tendons in Greg’s throat bulged. ‘Don’t say it again!’ he snarled savagely. ‘Now get the hell out of here!’

  His friend backed away from him hurriedly. ‘OK, OK, don’t get so heated about it. A hell of a lot of Americans died saving Europe from the shit it got itself into. When I meet anyone from over there I just to be sure whose side they were on, that’s all.’

  Greg’s patience snapped. He took a step forward and his friend turned and fled.

  She couldn’t move. She was shaking. The hideousness had erupted so suddenly, so unexpectedly, just as the hideousness in Bayeux had erupted the day she had given birth to Dominic.

  Greg turned, saw the stricken expression on her face and walked swiftly towards her, holding her tight against him. ‘Don’t take any notice of that cretin’s stupidity. He doesn’t know a damn thing about what went on in Europe and he never will.’

  ‘It’s all right … I understand.’

  But she didn’t understand. She didn’t understand what he had meant by saying so vehemently that she had buried a member of her family with her bare hands. A member of her family who had been killed by the Germans. The only person she had ever buried had been Dieter. Greg himself had given her permission to do so. She felt sick and dizzy, wanting to question him and not daring to. Fearful where any such questioning would lead her.

  ‘Let’s get out of here and have lunch,’ Greg said, aware that the altercation had made them a centre of attention. She nodded, forcing a smile, but the day had been spoiled. She knew how very nearly it could have been a picture of herself in Newsweek, and she knew with what horror and revulsion Greg would have regarded it.

  Two weeks later they left Grand Central Station for the three-day train ride to San Francisco. Greg had looked at her a little anxiously as the train inched out of the station and began to hurtle through New York. Whenever she thought she was unobserved, he had seen a strange look creep into her violet eyes. Almost a haunted look. He wondered if it was because she was sad to be leaving New York.

  ‘We can come back here any time we please,’ he said reassuringly. ‘There’s no need to look so sad about leaving.’

  ‘I’m not sad,’ she had said quickly, slipping her hand into his. ‘I’m quite sure I shall love San Francisco and Dominic will adore the sun and the sea.’

  ‘He’s already adoring the train,’ Greg said with a grin as Dominic gurgled delightedly in his carrying cradle.

  She smiled, but as she turned her head away from him and looked out of the window at the suburbs flashing by, her smile faded. She had spoken the truth when she had said to him that she wasn’t sad. Sad was no adequate description for the growing inner turmoil she had felt ever since the unfortunate encounter in the art gallery. She felt guilty. She was hiding the most important part of her past life from Greg. Deceiving him in a way she had never intended. Luke had been right when he had urged her to tell Greg the truth, but she hadn’t done so and now it was too late. She had allowed him to think that another man’s son was his child and she had no alternative but to live with the consequences of that decision.

  They changed trains at Chicago and then thundered on, across the vast plains of American towards Denver and the Rocky Mountains.

  ‘This is my part of America,’ Greg had said exuberantly. ‘Do you like it, sweetheart?’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said truthfully. It was beautiful. Great, soaring mountains capped with snow. But she couldn’t help feeling homesick for the lush meadows and high-hedged lanes, the scudding clouds and windswept headlands of Normandy.

  The next morning they woke to find
the Rockies far behind them. The land was now flat, the hills in the distance gentle.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ Greg said, and she sensed his excitement. He was coming home. His parents would be there waiting for him. His sister, too. She felt a flash of panic and tried hard to stifle it. They were Greg’s family. Her family now. The azure blue of the Pacific Ocean gleamed dazzingly and subconsciously reaching for comfort, she gently lifted Dominic from his carrying cradle and held him close.

  ‘Are you ready, my love?’ he asked, as they prepared to leave the train.

  ‘Yes.’ Her mink coat had been discarded when they had left the chill of New York behind them. It was a beautiful December day. The sun was shining, the air crisp. She wore a dove-grey suit, a peplum emphasising the minuteness of her waist, a white silk shirt tied in a loose cravat at the neck. Her shoes were grey suede, high and peep-toed, her only jewellery the magnificent ring he had bought her, and a double rope of black pearls that had been her grandmother’s. She looked magnificent. Slender and petite. Totally chic. Totally French.

  ‘Stop worrying,’ he said, seeing the anxiety in her eyes. ‘They’re going to love you.’

  His family’s welcome was ecstatic. Any fears she had that they would be disapproving and unhappy about Greg’s unexpected marriage were quickly dispelled.

  ‘We’re so pleased to meet you at last!’ his mother cried, hugging her tight. ‘Welcome to San Francisco, Lisette! Welcome home!’

  She was a tall, amply proportioned woman, her chin firm, her eyes bright. This marriage was not the marriage she had wanted or expected, but if this was the girl her son had fallen in love with, then she had every intention of being loving and supportive towards her.

  The instant she saw Lisette, any doubts she had about Greg’s wisdom in marrying a girl of a different nationality and culture, a girl he must have barely known, vanished. She was exquisite. There was a natural grace about her that went straight to Isobel Dering’s heart. Lisette responded immediately to the older woman’s warmth and sincerity, and she felt suspiciously like crying as Isobel at last released her and turned to embrace her six-foot two-inch tall son.

  ‘Thank God you’re home safe,’ Lisette heard her say huskily, and then Greg’s father was kissing her welcomingly on the cheek.

  ‘Welcome to San Francisco, Lisette. It’s a little different from Normandy, I expect, but I hope you’ll be very happy here.’

  He was powerfully built like his son. There were deep lines running from nose to mouth on his deeply tanned face. His hair was grey, still thick and with a touch of the same unruliness as Greg’s hair. His eyes were kind, his handshake firm.

  ‘I’m sure I will be,’ Lisette said, overcome by the warmth of her welcome.

  ‘Hi, I’m Chrissie,’ the pretty girl at his side said impatiently, ‘I’ve never seen anyone look so stunning! I feel as overdressed as a Christmas tree! Will you show me how to do my hair like yours? I feel all frills and curls, and totally without style!’

  Simonette stood a foot or so behind them, a curious eyed Dominic in her arms. Almost at the same moment, the Dering family became aware of him. Isobel Dering drew away from her son, her eyes widening. Gregory Dering’s brows were slightly raised as he waited for an explanation. Chrissie, aware that something momentous had caught her parents’ attention, swung away from Lisette and on seeing Dominic her mouth rounded on a gasp of incredulity.

  Greg grinned. ‘There’s another introduction still to be made,’ he said, stepping towards Simonette and gently lifting Dominic from her arms. ‘Mom, Dad, meet your grandson, Dominic.’

  For a second no one moved and then Isobel Dering said weakly, ‘Oh, my goodness! I’d no idea. Isn’t he gorgeous!’ She stepped forward towards him. ‘Let me hold him! Why didn’t you tell us, Greg?’

  ‘I didn’t want to load too many shocks on to you all at the same time,’ Greg said, his dark, rich-timbred voice amused. ‘Besides, I didn’t know myself till a few weeks ago. He was born in February while I was fighting in Germany.’

  Isobel Dering had taken hold of Dominic and was looking down at him, her face radiant. ‘He’s beautiful, Greg! Absolutely beautiful! I can’t believe it! Here I am, holding my first grandson in my arms!’ She turned towards Lisette, her eyes shining with tears of happiness. ‘Thank you, my dear. This is the nicest surprise anyone has ever given me.’

  Greg had slipped his arm around her and she knew that she dare not tremble. Dare not give way to the emotions flooding through her. God in heaven, why hadn’t she foreseen all this? Realised what his parents’ reaction would be? She wasn’t only deceiving Greg, she was deceiving his whole family! The enormity of what she had done nearly swamped her. She could not allow Isobel Dering to continue believing Dominic was her flesh and blood. It was too monstrous a crime to perpetrate. Too obscene.

  She knew that the blood had left her face. That she had to speak. To put and end to the fiasco she had plunged them all into. ‘There is something I have to tell you …’ she began unsteadily, her face white, her nails digging deep into her palms.

  Greg’s arm slipped around her shoulders. ‘The baby was six to seven weeks premature,’ he said easily. ‘I told her not to worry. That there would be no misunderstanding about that here.’ He flashed her a down-slanting smile, his arm tightening reassuringly around her. ‘We’re accustomed to premature babies in this family, sweetheart. Look at Chrissie! Born at seven and a half months and given only a few hours to live. No one who was around when she was born would have thought she’d grow up into a lady basketball player!’

  Chrissie threw him a playful punch on the chest. ‘Less of the insults, big brother. Can I hold the baby? I can’t believe it! I’m an auntie. What do aunties do? Can I take him for walks? Change his diapers?’

  They were all laughing. Only Gregory Dering’s eyes were speculative. The marriage had been in July and the baby had been born in February. It wasn’t a case of the baby being conceived before they were married. It was a case of the baby being conceived before Greg had even landed in France. No wonder the girl had looked so distressed. He gave her a swift look and relaxed, trusting the judgment that had made him a self-made millionaire. His new daughter-in-law wasn’t a trollop. He’d stake his life on it. If they said the baby was premature, then they were speaking the truth.

  ‘Let’s get along home,’ he said. ‘A train station is no place for a family reunion.’

  ‘No … please. Just a minute …’ She felt as though she were falling. As though the ground were dissolving beneath her feet.

  ‘It’s OK, honey,’ Greg said, his arm tightening around her shoulder. ‘They understand. There’s nothing more to be said. Let’s go home.’

  For one fevered moment she wondered if he knew. If he had known all along.

  ‘No,’ she gasped, as his father began to lead the way towards their waiting limousine. ‘They don’t understand! You don’t understand. Please listen to me, Greg!’

  ‘Later,’ he said, the tone of his voice brooking no argument. ‘You’re tired and overwrought. We can do all the talking in the world, later.’ He ushered her into the limousine, slamming the door behind her and striding round to the other side.

  She felt sick and dizzy. Chrissie was sitting beside her asking questions about Paris, about fashions. Marvelling at the magnificent pearls she wore. She tried to answer her, to collect her scattered wits, but her mind was whirling. Did Greg understand, or had he again misunderstood her, as he misunderstood when she had talked of Dieter and he had thought she was talking of Luke Brandon? She pressed a hand to her throbbing temples. If he knew, it was obvious that he wanted no one else to know. That he didn’t want it spoken of.

  Isobel Dering was sitting in front of them, Dominic still in her arms. ‘His hair is beginning to curl just like yours,’ she said, turning her head around to speak to Greg.

  ‘He’s got my nose and mouth as well,’ Greg said, and at the pride in his voice Lisette knew with despair that she had been wrong.
He had suspected nothing. His only concern was that she did not distress herself over what he believed was his son’s prematurity.

  ‘The train station is in a pretty ugly part of town,’ he was saying to her. ‘It’s not all like this. In a few minutes you’ll see how beautiful ’Frisco really is.’

  ‘I’ve never been so happy in my life,’ Isobel Dering was saying ecstatically ‘My son home, safe and sound. A wonderful new daughter-in-law, and a grandson I’d only dreamed about. God is being very, very good to me.’

  Lisette felt as if she were shrivelling up and dying. The moment was over. Gone. To speak would be to destroy not only Greg’s happiness but Isobel Dering’s as well. The burden of her guilt would just have to be borne.

  ‘We’re coming into the heart of the town now,’ Greg said enthusiastically. ‘There’s the Golden Gate Bridge. Have you ever seen anything so lovely?’

  ‘No,’ she said, forcing a smile, touched by his obvious love for the city that was his home.

  The bay lay on their right, shining and still, dotted with boats and rimmed with hills. All around them were steep hill-sides, the houses built on them looking like something out of a child’s picture book. There was no uniformity of style, nothing remotely resembling the high, slate-roofed houses of Sainte-Marie-des-Ponts. Most of the houses were pastel coloured: pale pink and blue, lavender and green, their gardens a riot of colour.

  ‘It’s lovely, Greg,’ she said truthfully. ‘Like something out of a fairy tale.’

  ‘Wait till you see the house,’ Chrissie said, pleased that her beautiful French sister-in-law was impressed by their city. ‘Mom has supervised every detail of the decor for you. She says you can alter things around as much as you like, but she wanted it to look and feel like home for when you arrived.’

  Lisette looked from her sister-in-law to her husband, not quite understanding. Greg squeezed her hand. ‘The bachelor apartment I lived in before I left for Europe wouldn’t have been big enough for us. I asked Mom to arrange somewhere for us to come home to.’