At Long Last Love

by Milly Adams

  ‘Of course it is. You’ve cleared it with Mrs B?’ Kate hung up her coat, but then put it back on. ‘It’s so cold.’

  ‘I know, it hurts my leg, I broke it three years ago, and the winter sets it off. Would you nip to the vicarage and remind her on your way home. I think it needs to be five thirty, after tonight.’

  Kate sat down carefully. Of course, how silly not to realise it was the weather that was causing her back to play up too. How often on ARP duty had Frankie bemoaned his joints?

  Stella handed Kate the register for Class A. ‘Do you realise that our little War Bond fund-raiser has attracted people from as far as Yeovil?’

  Kate levered herself to her feet. ‘I thought I’d get the little ones to copy out the programme. With every seat sold, we need plenty more.’

  That morning the children bent over their desks, tongues between their teeth, writing the programmes. It would take more than that, though, and she wondered if Tom could ask the congregation to put their pen-hands to the project.

  At break time Kate hurried home, then used her tools to reseat the tap, replace the washer and put it together again. She stood back. Good, no drips. She called into the vicarage on her way back, drawing in a deep breath and thinking hard. How should she approach Tom? Yes, he was generally so much more himself, now that Pauline had gone, but she hadn’t spoken to him on his own.

  She knocked. Mrs B opened the door. ‘Wipe your feet. He’s in his snug, doing heaven-knows-what.’

  ‘Snug?’ Kate took her boots off, because her life wouldn’t be worth living if she left even a smudge of mud on the slate floor.

  ‘The annexe, Kate. Keep up.’

  Mrs B didn’t smile, but she didn’t frown, either. Kate smiled uncertainly and hurried to the snug. She knocked. Tom called, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Kate.’

  ‘Am I in trouble?’ Ah, that’s more like it, she thought.

  ‘Not yet, but there are hours to go before dusk.’

  ‘Enter.’ He didn’t sound annoyed.

  She did, stepping down into the snug. He had the fire lit, and she warmed herself in front of it, not knowing quite how to start. Another deep breath. ‘I need a favour.’ He was at his desk, writing.

  ‘Why am I not surprised? I’ve said I’ll do the tango, but I can’t sing.’

  As he turned she said, ‘I just need you to ask your congregation if, like all good men, women and children, they would be prepared to write out some programmes. We have such a large audience, we haven’t nearly enough. I thought we could charge threepence per programme, which will boost our profits.’

  He smiled, pointing past her to the fire. ‘I thought I’d gone cold. You’ve blocked the heat.’

  She said, ‘I’ll move when I have your agreement.’

  ‘You have it – now move. You should be in school.’

  She laughed, with relief more than anything, and headed for the steps, before adding, ‘Just one more thing.’

  Tom groaned.

  ‘Mrs Woolton needs you to try on your tango outfit this evening.’

  He sat looking at her. ‘Not like the one poor Adrian has to wear?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘But, they’ve made his jacket so tight, and it’s a bit shiny. So are the shoes. It’s—’

  ‘A tango costume, or would you prefer to wear the frock? I’m happy to change places.’

  He grinned, gesturing her away. ‘Go to work. I’ll see you this evening.’

  She shut the door behind her, then did something she had never dared to do before and knocked on the kitchen door. ‘Yes,’ Mrs B barked.

  Kate said through the door, ‘It’s me. May I ask you something.’

  ‘Open the door, I don’t bite.’ Kate pondered this, because Mrs B had always had a reputation for being on the verge of doing just that. Had she changed that much? She opened the door a little and looked round it. ‘Will you be available at six this evening, and thereafter at five thirty? We have so much to do, and I know it’s a nuisance, but we’ve brought it forward to an earlier time and …’

  Mrs B held up her hand. ‘Of course. I have blocked out my diary for just this eventuality. Timing gets tight as the date draws near.’

  ‘You sound as though you know all about it, which is more than I do.’

  ‘I wasn’t always a dried-out old prune. Once I sang and danced, but then the boys died of diphtheria, and John left. I forgot that I had once lived.’

  Kate slid into the room. Should she hug this woman for finally saying what everyone actually knew?

  ‘I am fine, Kate. I am enjoying myself. It is most refreshing.’ She paused. ‘I liked your mother very much. I think you stopped living, in a way, when she died, and then your dog, and finally Melanie left. All gone.’ She nodded.

  Kate repeated, ‘All gone.’ She paused, and the words came in a rush. ‘I felt I didn’t quite exist, as though I was here, but not. And then it just got worse.’ She stopped, saw the clock. ‘I need to get back to school.’

  She turned on her heel, and the pain caught her again. She reached for the door frame, and waited just for a second, then moved into the hall, breathing carefully. It would take a moment, but all would be well. It’s what she told herself a lot of the time, these days.

  Mrs B followed her. ‘Kate, I don’t think you look well, as though something is wrong.’

  Kate pulled on her boots, opened the door and stepped onto the porch. She didn’t turn, just waved. ‘Oh, it’s only the cold – it gets into my back.’

  She reached the gate, opened it, moved onto the pavement, closed it and looked back. Mrs B stood there.

  Kate said, ‘The village needs you, Mrs B.’

  Mrs B said, ‘Thank you, Kate, and just look how we are beginning to need you. Everything will be all right.’

  ‘The show?’

  ‘Everything, Kate.’

  As Kate walked back to the school, she knew it never would be.

  Tom Rees had listened to the conversation between Mrs B and Kate from the shadows of the doorway of the snug. He gently eased the door shut and slipped to his desk. He had burned all but the last notebook; this he had locked in the safe. Somehow, some day he would admit to Kate that he knew the truth of the rape, that he had Hastings’s words written in black-and-white – well, navy-blue-and-white. He would ask her if she wished him to show the village, or at least her sister. He would ask Kate what she wished to do about Dr Bates: would she like to report him to the police or not? It was such a huge question, with children involved.

  She had a right to that decision, though, after all that had happened to her.

  He picked up his pen to begin a letter of condolence to Mr Smith the postie, whose son had been drowned on a merchant ship when his convoy had been attacked by U-boats. Later, he would visit them. He paused, staring at his calendar. Where the hell was Sarah Baxter? She was in the FANYs, but she hadn’t been home for so long, not even when Derek was officially recognised as dead. She wrote, yes; or so Lizzy said.

  Kate had merely shaken her head when he had asked at the rehearsal yesterday evening when Sarah would return to support Lizzy. ‘She is doing important work. Had Derek been injured, she would have come.’

  He had nodded and asked how she was doing. ‘I’m all right, I’m always fine.’

  But she wasn’t; Mrs B was right: Kate looked ill and strained. Was it too much, with the show and Lizzy? Getting back to Sarah, hadn’t the woman thought that if Derek died, her daughter might feel injured?

  He threw down his pen. He’d go to see Mr and Mrs Smith; what good were scraps of paper when hearts were broken?

  Kate left school at the end of the day, carrying about thirty handwritten programmes tied together with string. She walked behind Lizzy and the Billings children who talked among themselves, until they reached the letter box, when they clapped their hands together and did a star-jump. Then, as they walked on, they practised the shuffle, the toe–heel, toe–heel. She joined in, singing ‘A
nything Goes’, swaying as she walked. Other children caught up and added their voices.

  Mrs Woolton came to the door of her shop. ‘You look like the Pied Piper, Katie Watson.’

  Kate grinned and broke off from singing. ‘Mum called me Katie.’

  ‘She’d be well proud of you, my dear.’

  Kate watched the children, saw where they were in the dance and picked up the song. Another three children ran to catch them up and joined in, the mothers laughing quietly behind. Kate let the children take over, and called over her shoulder to the women, ‘Dress rehearsal tonight, plus endless other bits and pieces – even the tango. The vicar will be performing. I know you will have a note from Miss Easton, and there’s another on the parish noticeboard, but it’s six tonight, five thirty from tomorrow, if you can bear it. Stage designers are working flat-out in the day.’

  One of the women, Mrs Edgerson, raised her eyebrows. ‘The vicar, you said – that’ll be a sight for sore eyes.’

  Mrs Williams’s eldest daughter, Anthea, shrieked with laughter. ‘Not that sort of performing, Mrs Edgerson.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said someone else.

  By now the children were humming, and the dancing had ended. Gradually they peeled off to their own homes, Kate calling after the mothers, ‘Remember, six o’clock tonight; a lot to do. Bring your costumes. If you haven’t yet got yours, don’t worry; they will be there tonight.’

  Fran’s three ran into their garden.

  ‘I’ll pick you up at your gate at ten to six,’ Kate reminded them.

  Lizzy slipped her hand into Kate’s. ‘I like living with you, Aunt Kate. It’s different – fun.’ Her face was suddenly alight with energy again.

  Kate squeezed her hand. ‘I love it too, but it’s fun because of the show. Your mum will be back one day, and clearly she is doing something of great importance, which is helping to keep us all safe, so we must be proud, and let her do it.’

  They were at their own front door. Inside there were letters on the mat. She collected them up.

  ‘Quick,’ said Kate. ‘Let’s get the kettle on. You will have cocoa, and soup. I will have reused tea leaves, and soup. How about that?’

  She added the letters to the programmes that she carried. Her back was aching even more, and no wonder: dancing with her arms full of paper, and a bag slung over her shoulder. She could hear her mother’s voice: ‘When will you learn to pace yourself, Katie darling.’

  Once in the kitchen, warmed by the range, they sat at the table having their snack. As Kate drank the last of the tea she leafed through the letters, discarding the bills to be paid, with money that Sarah had left. She stared at Brucie’s handwriting. Good heavens, she had almost forgotten London, and the Blue Cockatoo, and Bruce almighty Turnbull.

  ‘Who’s that from?’ Lizzy was running her finger round the inside of her mug, then sucking it.

  ‘It’s rude to do that with your finger. Do you remember the Blue Cockatoo?’

  ‘“Waste not want not,” that’s what Mrs Woolton says. And yes, I do. You were so good.’

  Kate read the letter, then folded it and replaced it in the envelope. ‘He’s just writing to see how we are. And don’t be cheeky. Mrs Woolton didn’t mean that it was all right to forget your manners.’

  ‘But, Aunt Kate, I want every last bit of the cocoa.’

  Kate shook her head. ‘“I want” never gets, but I take your point. Just in wartime then, you may use your finger, but don’t ask me how long that will be, because how long is a piece of string?’ Lizzy grinned at her. Kate added, ‘Hurry, though, because we need to be at the village hall in half an hour to help set it up. Poor Miss Easton and her helpers can’t be expected to do everything.’

  They collected their tap shoes and chorus costumes. Kate found her maroon tango dress and shoes. She took a selection of programmes and some paper, so that anyone with spare time could copy more. They hurried out into the dark, cold evening, and while Lizzy ran to wait at Fran’s gate, Kate thought of Brucie’s letter again. The GI’s father would be over from New York and wanted to see her perform on 20th December, which was the date of the concert:

  Get back here, babe, whatever you think of me. This is your chance, and there won’t be another. Mr Oliver is the real deal, straight up, like his son said.

  Fran herded her children out of the house and down the path.

  Kate switched on her smile. ‘Here you are too? You can carry some of the programmes, my girl.’

  Fran groaned, and put them on top of the sailor costumes she carried. ‘Just finished. Tell me again why on earth are we doing this?’ she muttered.

  Quite, Kate thought, because what is there for me, when the war is finished and Sarah is back? And why had she made a sort of bargain in her head with someone up there, that staying and making it a successful show would be a way of getting Sarah home safely? It was all too stupid, it was nonsense, but it had somehow taken root, so how could she break it?

  They hurried on, through the cold to the village hall, where they found Tom chatting to Mrs Woolton, who was holding a black jacket against him. Fran whispered to Kate, ‘All he needed to do was take his dog collar off. His work clothes would be fine.’ They laughed together, but then Stella called, ‘Come along, ladies. Much to do, and Miss Watson, leader supreme: according to my programme, we have you onstage, leading the chorus, in twenty minutes, complete with costumes. Adrian and Susie are just changing into their sailor suits.’

  Kate headed for the small committee room, designated as the girls’ changing room. She hung up Lizzy’s two costumes. One was a sailor suit and the other a girl’s summer dress. She hung up her own dress, and the children gasped. ‘You’ll look like a princess,’ Milly, one of Fran’s children, said.

  Fran nodded. ‘I forget sometimes that you are a real singer. What must you think of us idiots?’

  ‘I think you’re the most amazing group of people I’ve ever worked with.’

  Mrs Woolton came in, carrying another pot of kirby grips. ‘“Amazing” can mean many things, young Kate.’ She set about some of the children, sorting out flyaway hair.

  Kate was helping Lizzy to change into her sailor suit. ‘Indeed, but this time I mean spectacular, talented …’

  ‘Down, girl,’ Stella admonished, standing in the doorway. ‘Five minutes, gang.’

  Kate pinned Lizzy’s plaits to the top of her head, settled her round white hat on top and fixed it securely with grips, then joined Mrs Woolton in checking everyone else. Susie Fletcher was in a dress, and didn’t tap, but wore low heels and just swayed about a bit, as she put it. Kate called, ‘Susie, can you knock up Adrian from the other committee room. We’re on, any minute now.’

  She could hear the band warming up and winced. They’d miss Mr Smith’s saxophone. Susie disappeared, almost bouncing with confidence. Adrian should be wearing striped trousers, a jacket and a boater. Kate snatched a look around the room, as Mrs Woolton joined her, and Kate murmured, ‘Is Adrian as he should be?’

  ‘Oh, indeed, in more ways than one; sometimes death is of benefit, don’t you think?’ She swept out.

  Kate lined the children up, waiting for Stella’s gong, which she had taken to whacking with great gusto. Kate wondered if it was some sort of ‘missing my Bradley’ therapy. The music was playing, if you could call it that. Somehow the spoons and combs were out of sync, the recorders squeaky, though the drums were true, thanks to percussionist Ben Woodhouse, aged fourteen, of Star Cottage. Mrs B was banging out the tune on the piano, probably in an effort to drown the rest, but if she went on like that she’d break her fingers. Kate smiled at the children, and at Susie and Adrian.

  ‘Whatever goes right, or wrong, smile and focus ahead.’ She led them on, and they milled about as Susie and Adrian started to sing ‘Anything Goes’, then the children found their marks and formed two rows, chatting silently amongst one another, just as they should. At the crash of the cymbals they galvanised themselves. Kate forced herself to smile
in spite of the pain in her back, and to relax, to start moving her feet, toe–heel, toe–heel. The children were with her. Here came the shuffle – it was immaculate. Everyone in the hall was watching, and the mums were in tears as their children outperformed Kate, who then melted into the wings, watching, hardly daring to breathe.

  ‘Swing those arms,’ she murmured. ‘Now the star … That’s it, you’ve nailed it, you’ve damned well got it.’

  Tom’s voice sounded just behind Kate as he came to stand close, his arm pressing against hers. ‘Indeed they have. Will we? I haven’t really practised – well, not with you; all you’ve done is stand in front and shout at me, and Adrian, when we get it wrong.’

  She murmured, ‘Feast your eyes. This is what makes it all worthwhile. Just look, all angels for a few moments.’

  She longed to sit down to ease her back, but instead she must remain visible to her charges. Each day her back seemed to grow worse, but then each day the weather was colder. It couldn’t be anything to do with her dancing, because her back was essential for the production, and for her future. She thought again of Brucie’s letter; would she never really get another big chance? What’s more, a job would take her across the Atlantic, so that when Sarah returned, she wouldn’t have to experience exclusion again. But what about this show, these children and, damn it, perhaps even Sarah’s safety? A brain was a funny thing. Why did it work in deals, and bargains, which were anyway just a trick of the imagination.

  The children finished, counted to three and bowed. The hall erupted in cheers and applause. She gestured that they bow again and beckoned them off, leaving Susie and Adrian to take their bow. The children clattered past, looking to Kate for her response. ‘Bravo,’ she said to each one. ‘Bravo – so good, so wonderful.’ Lizzy passed. Kate pulled her back and hugged her. ‘Wonderful, so good; your mother will be proud. Don’t worry, I will write it all down and we can send the letter.’

  Lizzy ran on, tapping her way along the corridor.

  Kate turned to Tom, ‘Now, our turn to get changed and—’ She stopped. ‘What’s wrong? You look so sad.’