At Long Last Love

by Milly Adams

  Mrs Woolton, Mrs Martin and others clustered around like a gathering of sparrows. ‘Surely you won’t.’

  ‘That won’t do at all.’

  Mrs Whitehead said, ‘My husband and I will speak to the bishop.’

  He held up his hands. ‘What parish would have me, after I’m seen cavorting about doing a really, really bad tango? So I suspect I will be allowed to stay.’

  Mrs Williams laughed. ‘You’ve got a point there, Vicar. We need our Kate back, to teach you proper.’

  The women went on their way and at last the church was empty. He snuffed the candles. The smell of melted wax was comforting and reminded him of Christmas when he was a small boy. He looked up at the stained-glass windows, with the thin, cold December sun casting coloured shadows. Turning, he took in the church. Mrs B was stacking the prayer and hymn books on the side table near the door. Doubting Thomas had been given St Thomas’s parish, and now he realised he wasn’t doubting any more. Little Worthy had worked its magic – a microcosm of life being lived in a time of despair, pain, hope and laughter.

  He laughed at himself. Good grief, he sounded so theatrical he’d end up on the stage, at this rate. Mrs B switched off the lights. Tom looked up at the ceiling, which had been decorated just before he came. It reminded him of something important. He walked down the aisle towards the font. Mrs B waited. He said, ‘I need paint, to cover the stain on Kate’s ceiling, and I need it now. What can I do to get some?’

  ‘Let’s go and see if we have some at the vicarage, shall we?’

  They rooted about in the sheds and the garage, which housed no car, and found a gallon tin of white emulsion. Mrs B discovered a screwdriver with which to prise off the lid. It was half full.

  ‘Enough for the ceiling?’ Tom asked her.

  ‘How should I know, Vicar? I’m a housekeeper, not a decorator; but I know who is, or was, when he could still scamper up a ladder. Percy. But I have shepherd’s pie in the oven and, though it’s mainly parsnips, I’m not having such waste. So you’ll cycle to him after lunch.’

  He did, allowing Mrs B to visit Kate in his place. She then promptly arranged with Mrs Summers that they would both go with Mrs Martin in her car in an hour or so, taking Lizzy as well. He wondered just how much choice Mrs Martin had in the matter, but he was too busy thinking through his decorating to worry about it.

  He lugged the emulsion to Percy’s house, and the ARP warden reckoned that if they mixed the half tin with some of his paint, they could put a couple of coats on with no trouble at all.

  ‘There’s a stain on the ceiling, you see.’

  Percy had a pencil behind his ear. It reminded Tom of the stub of a pencil that often had pride of place behind Lizzy’s ear too.

  ‘What sort of stain?’

  ‘Water, I think.’

  ‘Well, if you think emulsion is going to cover that, you have a lot to learn. Come along, I’ll have to take over, I can see that.’ He called to his wife. ‘Ethel, just nipping out to put the vicar right on a few things.’

  She replied from the kitchen, ‘Lucky old vicar. I’ll be here by the fire. Give Kate my love, when you see her, and tell her I’ve almost finished the costume for the WI’s song-and-dance routine. It’s de-lovely, right enough.’

  Tom laughed, but Percy was already out of the door, carrying his own tin of emulsion, bustling along East Street and turning right into the High Street. Tom picked up his tin and ran to catch up. At Melbury Cottage they nipped along to Fran. Lizzy was still there, and Tom explained why he needed to get into the house.

  Lizzy said, ‘The key is always under the pot that has geraniums in the summer. You know, Tom, the one by the fountain in the front garden – the one that doesn’t work, the rusty one.’

  Fran was laughing. ‘Got that, have you, Tom?’

  He saluted, and Percy followed him out. ‘What does she use the pencil stuck behind her ear for?’

  Tom smiled. ‘It was her dad’s.’

  ‘Ah.’ There was no need to say anything else.

  Once in the house, they climbed the stairs. They found the bedroom with the stain. It smelled musty. Percy muttered, ‘Ain’t been slept in for many a long while.’

  ‘She sleeps in the attic. She … well, she keeps this room ready for a nanny, but there isn’t one. Not sure there ever will be, at least not until the end of the war.’ He stopped. Would Kate leave then? He couldn’t bear the thought.

  Percy was looking up at the ceiling. ‘This needs papering, if it’s to look all right, then painting.’

  Tom looked at the walls with their old-fashioned wallpaper composed of a green background and large roses. ‘But it will be so dark.’

  ‘Not that, you daft lug; we’ll use lining paper and paint it. That old stuff on the walls should be taken off, if you ask me.’

  ‘I haven’t papered before.’

  ‘Look, Padre, you’s good at spouting in a pulpit, but I dare say you’re a load of old bollocks decorating. I’ll paper the ceiling while you strip the walls, then at the end we’ll emulsion the lot. Looks like a ruddy morgue in ’ere, and this old furniture doesn’t help.’

  Tom looked around, and at the bed. No, Kate wasn’t sleeping there ever again. He and Percy arranged that the ceiling papering would begin tomorrow. Apparently Percy still had paste left from before the war. Tom set off on his bike, knocking on doors until he found all the replacement furniture he needed, but then he had to find someone who would like the old furniture and, what’s more, take it away.

  The publican rubbed his nose with his finger. ‘Leave it with me, guv’nor.’

  A van arrived on Monday morning and Tom helped a man he didn’t know, but who heralded from Somerton, down the stairs with the mattress, the bed, the chest of drawers and the wardrobe. He then rolled up his sleeves and worked around Percy, soaking the wallpaper and scraping it off the walls. He had to stop at two, in order to rush to the school to teach Kate’s class. He gave them more programmes to write, and when they groaned, he suggested that they coloured in the margins with whatever pictures they wanted. This they liked.

  When school finished he had to cycle on his rounds, before rehearsals at five thirty in the evening. He hadn’t had a chance to visit Kate, but Mrs B reported that the sickness was passing and she was beginning to be a nuisance, so eager was she to be out.

  ‘Not yet,’ he warned. ‘Her room isn’t ready.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, Vicar. She’s not ready either, the sister says, and even Kate can’t best a woman like her.’

  They laughed together and set out for rehearsals. Tom went in old clothes, and the others asked how he was getting on with the decorating. It was only after the rehearsal that he returned with Lizzy and Mrs Summers to Melbury Cottage. He rolled up his sleeves, clambered up the ladder and applied the first coat to the lined ceiling, but did nothing else because it would disturb Lizzy. He would check in the morning to see if Percy had been right and the stain was covered. If it wasn’t, he would do whatever it took.

  He was up early and changed into the same old clothes, but Mrs B caught him as he was leaving. ‘Breakfast first, please. Lizzy won’t be out from under your feet yet.’

  He arrived at nine, when all were in school. Percy was there too and must have come straight off his ARP shift. Tom shook his head. ‘Did you sleep at all?’

  ‘Old ’uns don’t need it like you young ’uns.’

  They stood in the bedroom and examined the ceiling. ‘Not a hint,’ Tom crowed. ‘You are a wise and exceptional man, Percy, and to heaven you will go.’

  Percy rolled his pencil between his fingers, much as if he was rolling a cigarette. ‘Got a direct line to ’im, ’ave you?’

  Tom muttered, ‘How nice that would be. Bit of a smoker, are you, Percy?’

  ‘Was I, you mean? Then came rationing, and the wife’s tongue.’ He picked out the sponge from the bucket of water. ‘Hop up the ladder, and I’ll clear the walls of the last bits. The plaster’s good and won’t need lini
ng, so you can get painting.’

  The two worked together all day, until both were finished. Percy’s navy overalls were covered in a fine spray of white emulsion. ‘There, that’s your lot, lad. I’m off on my way to me bed now.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets and left the room. From the landing he said, ‘I always reckoned there was more to the poor girl’s going, you know. I ’eard tell about something shocking in Great Sanders, some while after she left. About a young girl and that Dr Bates.’

  Tom was silent for a moment, not knowing what to say.

  Percy sighed and walked down the stairs. ‘That’s what the village reckon, now they’ve met Kate, now they remember, though it’s taken time. But they won’t say nothing. There’s Lizzy after all, ain’t there?’

  ‘What do you know?’ Tom asked.

  ‘I reckon the women have come to know it all. Them weren’t born under a gooseberry bush, they have eyes to see, and ears to ’ear. If they know, then so does the rest of ’em.’

  The front door slammed.

  Tom worked hard, painting the woodwork. He would leave the windows open, put another coat on the walls tomorrow and move in the new furniture. Then Kate could come home, if she was allowed, and have a proper bedroom. Mrs B would be round before then to help him move Kate’s clothes, which he’d heaped into boxes.

  As he washed the brushes in the bathroom he heard a knocking at the door. ‘Damn.’ He shut off the tap and hurried down the stairs. Had the furniture come early? But no, a villager would have shouted. He opened the door. A large man stood there in a homburg hat and an expensive grey wool coat, with an astrakhan collar.

  ‘Yes, can I help?’ Tom asked.

  The man stuck out his hand. ‘Bruce Turnbull at your service, sunshine.’

  Tom checked his hands. ‘Sorry, they’re wet. I’ve been freshening up the bedroom.’

  ‘Oh well, when you’ve finished, tell your boss I’ve come to fetch her. I sent a letter about an agent coming across from America to gather up singers for his Broadway shows. I ain’t heard from her. She’s my main girl, Kate Watson is. This is her big chance. Tell her to give me a tinkle at the pub, Squire. I’ll be there to take her back, so we have time to get the act right.’

  He dug in his pocket and drew out half a crown. ‘There you are, lad. For your trouble.’

  He spun on his heel and sauntered down the path. Tom watched him go, the man’s words resonating through him: Kate had received a letter; her big chance. Had she read it? Perhaps. But what if she hadn’t? He should let her know, but then she might leave.

  Bruce Turnbull was shutting the gate. He tipped his hat at Tom, who couldn’t bear the thought of Kate going, so why say anything? Even as he thought that, he called out, ‘She’s in hospital. She had an operation on her back. They say she’ll be better before too long.’

  As Bruce turned, Tom told him how to get to the hospital and the name of the ward, then shut the door. He would put the half crown in the collection on Sunday.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Tom received the furniture the next day. After school Lizzy helped him place it in the room.

  ‘No, not so far over, Vicar. This way a bit.’

  He pushed. There was the sound of screeching. He stopped. He had scratched the floorboards.

  Lizzy put her hand to her mouth. ‘Put it back and hide the scratch, but lift it, Vicar. Lift – don’t be so weedy.’

  Mrs B poked her head round the door. ‘Trouble?’

  He shook his head, but Lizzy pointed. ‘Just look, Mrs B, he shoved it.’

  ‘I’m not a circus strongman,’ Tom grumbled.

  Mrs B nodded, ‘Well, that’s abundantly clear.’

  Mrs Summers entered with a vase of chrysanthemums. ‘Now, now, Mrs B. He can’t help not having biceps.’ Tom watched Mrs Summers put the vase on the windowsill. The rain was pouring down, and the smell of gloss paint was slowly dissipating. He hurried across and opened the windows wider. ‘Don’t do that,’ shrieked Mrs Summers. ‘The rain might damage the paint.’

  Lord, save me from this regiment of women, Tom thought, as he closed it to within an inch. ‘Will that do?’

  ‘Perfect,’ Mrs Summers said, standing back and admiring her flowers, while she fluffed her hair. She had always reminded Tom of something, and now he knew what: a fluffy chicken that busied itself around the chicken coop. He decided that as he was becoming vaguely wise in the ways of women, he would not share that with her.

  Mrs B had taken all the drawers out of the new white-painted chest and had laid them on the bed. She now lifted the carcass, with Lizzy at the other end. ‘That’s how you do it, Vicar, for another time.’

  She replaced the drawers. There was new bedding, found in various bottom drawers and donated at the rehearsals over the last two nights, because no-one had spare ration coupons. Mrs Summers smoothed the patchwork quilt. ‘I sewed this last year. It kept me calm when the war news seemed so hopeless. It’s bright and cheerful, Vicar. And you and Percy have done a magnificent job. Our Kate will be so pleased.’

  Why did no-one ask why Sarah hadn’t visited Kate, or even come home on leave? Did they know she was up to something? He didn’t doubt it for a moment, knowing this village, and at last he was catching up with them, and knew that Sarah had lived and worked in France for a couple of years before she was married.

  He checked his watch. He was supposed to visit Kate this evening, but he couldn’t bear to. What if she told him she was leaving? What if she wouldn’t be here to dance, gently, with him, to grow to like him? What professional performer wouldn’t at least go for the audition? But if she did, would the village see it as betrayal? What example was it to the children who shone, just for her? What about Lizzy?

  Mrs B came to stand next to him, with Lizzy on the other side, while Mrs Summers plumped up the cushions on the small armchair at Kate’s bedside. The blackout blind had been replaced, the curtains were new, and the small flowers on the white background contributed to the cheerfulness of the room. Even the lampshade had been changed for an almost-new cream one.

  ‘I think it’s ready now,’ said Lizzy. ‘The only trouble is: Kate likes to stand at the attic window and remember how she climbed out and ran to the woods, feeling free.’

  Mrs Summers eased her shoulders. ‘Well, perhaps she will feel she won’t need to any more. We can but hope. Now come on, Vicar, you did say you’d visit. I think Kate’s been expecting you.’

  They shooed him down the stairs. He changed into his better trousers in the kitchen, plus a sweater, put on his coat, wound his scarf round his neck, pulled down his woollen hat and checked that the slit paper was in place over his bicycle lamp. He set off, using the back road. He should be at the hospital within the hour. The bitter wind was behind him, so he felt as though he flew, but that could be because he wanted to be there, with Kate, while there was still time.

  He toiled up the hill, ‘A Foggy Day in London Town’ playing through his mind. It was a song that all the cast would sing as their finale, though it had nothing to do with Anything Goes. At the moment the run-throughs were messy, but that was because Kate wasn’t there to herd them into shape. As he pedalled over a bridge he smiled, picturing her conducting with every fibre of her being.

  He reached the hospital, chained his bike to a lamp post and entered the blacked-out door, telling the night porter where he was going. ‘That’s all right, sonny. Been in action, have you?’

  For days at a time now, Tom forgot about his face. ‘Yes, it keeps me out of the firing line, but then we do have a lot of women in the village who make a good imitation of the enemy. Or at least aren’t a million miles from the sergeant-majors I worked with.’ The porter’s laugh followed him up the stairs.

  In the ward there was a buzz of chatter. Sister Newsome sat at her table, writing. He skirted her post, but she had eyes like a hawk.

  ‘Ah, you are here to deliver some more spiritual guidance this evening, are you, Vicar? You’ve been a bit remiss, haven’t you?
On the other hand, Kate’s survived with just we nurses ministering to her and absolutely no heavenly choir in the background.’

  He stopped and laughed. ‘I’m quite sure, Sister Newsome, that nothing would dare to go wrong in this ward whilst you ministering angels are on duty.’ Her loud, long laugh was a surprise.

  ‘Get on with you. Men of the cloth shouldn’t sweet-talk, should they? But I have to say, she’s got her voice back. She’s been practising for her big night, or so she tells us. The trouble is, it doesn’t stay a solo for long, but ends up as an ensemble with quite a number of the other patients joining in – I’ve even been known to harmonise with her myself. A sing-song does everyone a power of good.’

  He almost turned and left, because he couldn’t bear to hear what he suspected the big night was. Instead he approached Kate’s bed. She was reading music, but looked up and grinned at him. ‘Ah, I thought I’d scared you off, what with the dirty hair, and Lord knows what else. Thank you for all you did for me. You kept me immobile, I hear, but if you hadn’t, what on earth would have happened?’

  ‘Perhaps we wouldn’t have been able to dance the tango, even be it most carefully, at the show.’ He waited.

  Kate said, ‘Ah, the rehearsals, how are they going? I should be up and at it, very soon. I walked about the hospital today, you know, Tom. Up and down the stairs too and there was no pain, just the stitches pulling. It’s as though I’ve been given a new life. Can you believe what that is like?’ She looked closely at him, and gripped his hand. ‘Of course you can, because look at you. A new eye, and there’s a spring in your step. You look different, sort of alive. That’s how I feel too, as though the world has opened up for me. Now, tell me about Lizzy? She was in yesterday and seemed to be brimming with news she absolutely refused to tell me.’

  ‘Ah, that’s because the tap dance is looking so good.’