At Long Last Love

by Milly Adams

  She said, ‘Cat got your tongue?’ She pulled away, and he could hear the hurt in her voice. He had to say something.

  ‘It’s just such a shock; well, a wonderful one. How wonderful to see you. Wonderful.’ For heaven’s sake, he had to think of something other than ‘wonderful’, because it wasn’t. ‘Let me take your case. I’m sorry, I can’t quite get my thoughts together. I thought you had left me for good?’

  ‘Perhaps I should have telephoned, but having made the decision to see you, I just jumped on a train, which took ages. You surely knew in your heart that I just needed a bit of time to sort myself out, darling silly one, to see a path ahead.’ She stepped back. ‘Oh dear, I need to pay the taxi. Would you, darling? I was in such a hurry I didn’t have time to get to the bank.’

  They returned to the taxi together and, still dazed, Tom paid what seemed like a fortune for one on his stipend, tipped the driver and watched the car drive away.

  Pauline was tugging at his arm. ‘Shall we go in?’

  ‘Well, of course, but I need to find you somewhere to stay. After all, it just wouldn’t do to share the vicarage without a chaperone. I know, I’ll telephone the Cat and Fiddle, they have rooms. Meanwhile, I have mint tea to keep you going.’

  Pauline linked her arm in his, and as they walked up the path she chattered about her journey from Swindon. Tom couldn’t give a damn about it, but that must be because he was still in shock, because he should be pleased to see her, although he wasn’t. And she’d never before called him her ‘darling silly one’. And he wasn’t, anyway. Not silly, and not her darling one; not recently anyway. He wondered if Dunkirk’s legacy of trauma had confused him, but he was too shaken to think of much more than putting one foot in front of the other.

  The next morning, at eight, when the baker opened for business, Kate lay in wait for Stella by the telephone box, pushing open the door as she passed. ‘Well, Stella, just who I wanted to see.’

  Stella Easton stopped. The energy had indeed fled from this young woman, leaving her uncertainty and grief increasingly obvious, but Kate hadn’t needed Tom Rees to spell it out to her. Or perhaps she had, because she hadn’t done much about it, had she?

  Kate drew in a deep breath. She had rehearsed in the privacy of the attic, trying all sorts of approaches, and deciding on this. ‘I need your help. You see, the man I thought I loved has left me for someone else. I just feel I will go quite mad unless I find something to do. May I please help at the school? I know I’ve asked before, and I haven’t many skills, but it would help me so much to feel needed. Perhaps I could help with teaching the three Rs? I thought we could also work together on the fund-raiser. I need to put whatever inadequate skills I have to good use, just to keep myself going.’

  She linked her arm in Stella’s, taking her basket from her and carrying it as she led her, not to the shops, but to Melbury Cottage.

  ‘We could sit down and plan it all. It seems such a shame to let down those who’ve attended the audition, don’t you think? You know, I have lots of tap shoes upstairs. Mum replaced mine whenever I grew out of a pair.’

  Stella was silent, but let herself be led through the gate and round into the back garden, which was empty, because Mrs Summers had said she’d keep Lizzy until the deed was done, taking her to school if need be.

  Kate led Stella through the kitchen. ‘Come with me to the attic where the trunk is, then you can see what we have.’

  She gripped the woman’s hand and led her up the stairs, talking all the time about Brucie, about Anything Goes, about Tom’s sermon. She felt that was pushing it, but it was worth a bash.

  Still Stella said nothing, but just seemed in a daze. Tom was right; she had crashed, as Kate herself had once done. They reached the attic ladder.

  Kate gestured upwards. ‘You go first. This is the attic where I sleep. I like the view, you see. Come on now, Stella. Just put one foot in front of the other. It’s not Everest.’

  Stella was standing, looking up. Tears had begun to stream down her face, though she made not a sound.

  Softly Kate murmured, ‘One step at a time, my dearest girl. You have to go forward, you know that, and while you’re doing so, you might as well do something useful.’

  Slowly Stella climbed the ladder and walked to the window. Kate was close behind. Stella’s tears were still falling. Finally she said, ‘So, will it really help us both?’

  The two women stood together. Kate said, ‘It will.’

  ‘I’m so alone.’

  ‘No, we will be in this together, and you have other friends. Together we’ll keep the school open, and raise money with a show that will also bring the village together. We’ll get Mrs B to play the piano for us, and maybe move her forward too. Perhaps even Adrian Fletcher will join us.’

  Stella turned to her, her tears finished now. ‘I can’t hope.’

  Kate gripped her hand. ‘Bradley is missing. Why not believe that he will be found, until you know differently. Show the children they have an example before them that they can follow.’ Kate stared again out of the window. She could smell the wood-smoke and the trodden grass, and knew she should have left with Andrei. If she had, her life would still be intact and she would be alive inside. She shuddered, then drew a deep breath. Enough. One day at a time was all it could be. ‘Now, tap shoes.’

  She pointed to the trunk in which she’d found them. She hadn’t known her mother had kept them, but this trunk had been hidden from sight in the cupboard under the eaves and had escaped the clear-out. She had dragged it out when she was after what she thought was a mouse one night. It had proved to be a trapped starling, which she had released into the air, watching it soar free.

  ‘Come on, Stella, we have work to do, and plans to make. I will come into school at lunchtime and we can think more about it.’ She knelt in front of the trunk, lifted the lid and picked up a pair of red tap shoes that she had worn at the age of five, when her mother enrolled her in Mrs Major’s dancing class. Her father hadn’t liked it, but as most of the village five-year-olds pounded away in the hall, what could he say?

  She pulled out another pair, also red. Would Stella help? Would Tom be pleased? She caught the thought. How absurd; what did it matter what the vicar thought? There was a movement and then Stella was kneeling by her side.

  ‘We could ask other mothers if they have kept any of their children’s ballet shoes or taps,’ Kate said, handing her a pair. ‘Practically all the girls, and a few of the boys, went to Mrs Major’s classes. Oh my, we thought we were the bee’s knees.’

  She heard Stella take a deep breath, then say, ‘Yes, Kate, I’ll put a notice on the board at school, and follow it with a note to take home. Or you could get the children to do that, as part of a writing exercise.’

  Kate groaned. Stella laughed, and though it sounded strained, it was an improvement. Kate said, ‘We’ll need a schedule for the auditions and must really crack on with it. We’ll need a meeting to gather backstage helpers together, and costume-makers. It should be soon.’ She didn’t want to give Stella time for second thoughts.

  Stella smiled wearily, but it was a smile. ‘You, Tom and I will meet after school tomorrow, at five, in the vicarage. I expect Tom has had a hand in all of this, so he can accommodate us. How about that?’ She rose from her knees.

  Kate said, ‘It would be better to have it today at five.’

  Stella raised her eyebrows. ‘You really have got the bit between your teeth, haven’t you? All right then, and now I must dash. I have the school to open and will tell them all that we have a new teaching assistant.’ She followed Kate down the ladder and, at the front door, Stella hesitated, turned and kissed Kate on the cheek. ‘Thank you, my friend, you carried out your mission well. I’m right, Tom Rees is involved somewhere?’

  The two looked at one another and laughed. As Stella hurried down the path, Kate called, ‘One step at a time.’

  Stella waved. ‘I understand, and again, I thank you both.’

 
; After Kate had cleared up Lizzy’s earlier breakfast things and Mrs Summers had taken her to school, she headed for the vicarage to inform Tom of the arrangements. She knocked at the front door and smiled as Mrs B opened it. Mrs B did not smile back. Well, why would she break the habit of a lifetime?

  ‘Is Reverend Rees able to see me, please, Mrs Bartholomew?’

  ‘He has someone with him.’ She blocked the doorway in her long, dark-green pleated skirt and cardigan over a white blouse.

  Kate asked, ‘May I leave a message then?’

  Tom called from the sitting-room doorway, ‘Who is it, Mrs B?’

  ‘The Watson girl.’ There was still a flicker of distrust and dislike in Mrs B’s eyes, but far less so than on Kate’s first day back in Little Worthy. Perhaps the old bag was warming to her?

  ‘Oh.’ Tom sounded strange.

  Kate slipped past the doorkeeper and approached him. Tom stood aside almost reluctantly and gestured her into the room. A red-haired young woman sat on the sofa, flipping through a magazine. She looked up, saying, ‘Oh, shall I leave you in peace, darling?’

  Kate smiled, but it was an effort. ‘Darling?’ Who was this woman? And what was she doing in the vicarage at this time in the morning? Surely she hadn’t been here all night? No, she wouldn’t jump to any conclusions, but for a moment she forgot why she was here. She took a moment and then, keeping her smile, said, ‘I won’t be intruding for long. Stella is willing, Tom. She’d like a meeting with you and me today, here at five. But I can see …’

  Tom looked embarrassed and dithered. ‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten all about that.’ He came to stand between Kate and Pauline, as though to block Kate’s view of ‘darling’. She looked at him instead, and felt shaky and confused as he said to her, ‘Don’t go, Kate. I’m sure Pauline has things to do and might even perhaps be on her way?’

  ‘Of course I won’t, darling. Not yet. I’ve only just arrived.’ Pauline came to stand beside Tom, taking his hand. She smiled at Kate, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. She said, ‘Do introduce me to your little friend – the Watson girl, as Mrs B so delicately put it, Tom.’

  Kate’s confusion cleared and in its place came irritation. She snapped, ‘I’m not little, and I’m not his friend. I’m one of his flock. A meeting here at five o’clock then, Tom?’ She turned on her heel, and strode out of the room, past a startled Mrs B. Kate wanted to say, ‘My word, it looks as though you have a sharp-tongued ally, Mrs B. You’d better get right in there and make a “get rid of Kate Watson” plan of campaign.’

  Instead she held her tongue and stormed down the path, slamming the gate behind her. ‘Little friend’ indeed; and if that hair was red, then she was a brunette.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the last week of September, Sarah was driven in a car with drawn blinds to a secret airfield, her mind carefully blank. She had been checked at the manor house nearby for clothing inaccuracies that could expose her, not just to the Gestapo, but to anyone who happened to look at her. Everything she wore was French, and old.

  They entered the airfield, though she only knew because the tarmac road had been smooth, and now they swung this way and that over bumpy, spongy ground, their speed slowed to a crawl. She wore a flying suit, with what seemed like a hundred pockets. Lizzy would have found them intriguing. It was only now that Sarah allowed herself last thoughts of her child.

  She had been given five days’ ‘embarkation leave’. Kate had brought Lizzy to her in Ringwood, and had returned to Little Worthy on the next train. Sarah and Lizzy had stayed in a small cottage in the New Forest. They had walked on the moors, seen the ponies, spent evenings in front of a log fire while Lizzy told her of school, and how Miss Easton was smiling again because she believed that Bradley might come home after all. Or that’s what Aunt Kate had told her.

  They had toasted bread on a fork in front of the fire, and Lizzy had mentioned the auditions, which had begun again. ‘Some people think they can sing, but the noise they make isn’t singing. The vicar is on the panel, or that’s what they call it. It’s Mr Sims’s wallpaper table. Aunt Kate, Miss Easton and the vicar sit at it, and I can see they are swallowing laughs.’

  Sarah had frowned. ‘I don’t think it’s nice to laugh at people.’

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ her daughter had said. ‘You’re always so … well, so serious. The people can’t see the laughs, but I can, because I know Aunt Kate so well. She’s kind, Mum. She gets them to try another key and, you know, sometimes it works. If it doesn’t, she thinks of something they are good at. Even Mrs B smiles; she plays the piano for the show. I didn’t know she could – no-one did. Aunt Kate teaches in school too, helping Miss Easton. The “three Rs” they call it. It’s nice having her there.’

  The car had now stopped. Sarah touched the revolver in one of her pockets, the knife in another, the flask, emergency rations, maps, compass, shovel. She could feel the money belt against her skin, holding thousands of pounds worth of francs, to be delivered to a contact in Vichy France. Last of all, she carried the pill that would kill her, if she was cornered and couldn’t bear the thought of capture.

  She carried French cigarettes in a case, which would be her means of contact in one of her destinations. She would offer the cigarettes to someone in Vichy France. Her mind clicked over the ration card, identity card, clothing coupons. Her suitcase was by her side. That had also been checked, and so too the false bottom.

  At the end of their time in the New Forest, she and Lizzy had taken the bus to the station. Kate was waiting on the platform and held out her hand for Lizzy’s suitcase. Lizzy said, ‘Who else has got parts, Aunt Kate? Have you started teaching tap-dancing yet? I told Mum I’m going to be one of the dancers. Miss Easton said I shone, didn’t she, Aunt Kate? Did I tell you that, Mum? Miss Easton said I was quite exceptional, didn’t she, Aunt Kate?’

  Lizzy was jigging about, as Kate used to, skipping from one foot to another, fizzing with energy. Sarah had stopped herself from saying as she usually did, ‘For goodness’ sake, stand still.’ For those, she realised at last, were the words of their father, and just look where they had led? So, no; instead she had said, ‘I will miss you, but you must have a wonderful fund-raising show, and I will try to be here for it. I’m sure you will be marvellous. I will write.’ Her London train had arrived as she hugged her daughter. ‘I love you,’ she said.

  She had looked up at Kate, who murmured, ‘She will be safe with me, but you stay safe too, do you hear me, Sarah? Do you?’ They had waved her off. Sarah had responded, leaning out of the train until they both headed for their own platform.

  Now she stood in the light of the full moon, which was when agents were dropped and picked up. Behind her the car’s engine was humming, the airfield empty but for the looming bulk of the Whitley bomber, and she allowed herself one final thought of Lizzy, one more thought of Derek. And although she couldn’t quite remember the details of his face, she could hear his voice saying, ‘I love you.’

  Then Sarah was back in Cécile’s world, which she had made her own. She nodded into the night, as she was fitted with a parachute harness. Her suitcase was given its own parachute and contained supplies for the reception committee and her clothes. Its false bottom contained her revolver and was suitably shabby. There were two people waiting in the shadow of the Whitley, and now she saw that one was Bernard. Sarah smiled, as he did; yes, this was her world, one she was trained for, one in which she felt at home, as she had never done anywhere before. She was Cécile Lamont from Limoges and had worked in a butcher’s shop in Poitiers; and she would be here, in this plane, with her friend Bernard.

  It had begun.

  They were helped into the bomber and clambered to the positions indicated by the RAF despatchers. Sarah sat on the floor, breathing in the familiar oily, metallic smell. It made her think of Darcel. Where was she? A wireless transmitter hung in a foam-rubber-lined bag from the fuselage, above the hatch through which they’d tumble, when the time came. She knew the t
ransmitter would be attached to its owner’s parachute and that they’d go down together. Well, rather him than her. She didn’t know the wireless operator; she only knew that she was to travel with one other person as far as … She stopped. No, don’t think of details. It was best, just in case.

  At least it wasn’t going to be a blind drop; instead they’d fall into the arms of a reception committee, or that was the plan. There was another dropping zone, if that failed. There was always another. Plan A, plan B, even plan C. The engines started, the fuselage shuddered, they bumped and lurched as the Whitley accelerated and then there was the thrust, which always felt as though it was stretching her face into a grotesque mask. Poor Tom Rees; how could he live with that scar? No wonder his girlfriend had left, and how amazing it was that she was back, or so Lizzy had said. No. Not that world. Sarah had to drag herself away from it. It didn’t exist, couldn’t exist in her head, if she was to survive. She was Cécile Lamont.

  The RAF sergeant brought them water. She drank, before lying down, as the wireless operator was doing. It might be her last chance for a while. Bernard inched towards her. ‘Ça va?’

  ‘Ça va. Et vous?’

  ‘Et tu, surely?’ The familiar voice was low.

  She smiled and continued in French. ‘Of course – the familiar.’

  He said, ‘We drop together, then you and I set off for the same destination.’ No names, always no names, just in case. ‘Like old times,’ he said.

  She clung to that thought. It was an exercise, that’s all, like it had always been. Because now, despite the drink, her mouth was dry. The wireless operator lay nearer the hatch. He would be a George. All operators seemed to be George, like the king. Which George, though? George the first, second, third?

  He edged towards them. ‘I’m George,’ he said. ‘I already know who you are. I go first, once we reach the dropping zone, then Bernard, then you, Cécile. After which I go my way, and you go yours. The Whitley will drop us on the first run; no need for a second, as there are just three of us to hit the dropping zone.’