At Long Last Love

by Milly Adams

  They talked of this and that, until time was called. Kate still held his hand, but Tom didn’t know what it meant, and she said nothing at all about things he wanted to understand. Nor did he ask; he didn’t dare. They just sat quietly as the sound of the bell faded.

  After the other visitors had left, Sister Newsome stood at the bottom of the bed, tapping the watch-brooch pinned to her chest.

  Tom asked, ‘When will she be coming home, Sister?’

  ‘You can pick her up on Sunday, but of course you will be busy doing what you do, so perhaps someone else can.’

  He stood. ‘In the morning?’

  Kate released his hand.

  He stooped and kissed her forehead and smoothed back her hair, for what could be the last and only time. ‘See you on your return. I’ll come round.’

  ‘Pastoral visit, eh?’ She looked at him and waited.

  He didn’t know what to say or do. He nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’

  He left, wanting to run back to Kate and carry her away with him, but what would he do then? Put her on his crossbar? A girl like that deserved so much more than a parish, the duties of a vicar’s wife and very little pay. He’d been mad to think for a moment that he had anything to offer her, with the bright lights within reach.

  On Sunday 13th December Tom finished morning service, all the time wondering if Mrs Martin and Lizzy had brought Kate home. Mrs B had left a neck-of-lamb casserole in the oven at Melbury Cottage first thing that morning, so all the bases had been covered. He stood in the church porch, shaking hands. Most parishioners wondered if Kate would be up to directing the rehearsal. ‘We must wait and see,’ he said.

  He walked along the path with Mrs B, who patted him on the back. ‘She will come and see you, don’t you worry. Or you could go to her: faint heart never won fair lady.’

  ‘You’re a witch – you have second sight.’

  ‘No need for that; first sight is quite sufficient to see how you feel.’

  They entered the vicarage by the back door, wiped their feet and Tom sat at the kitchen table, wanting to put his head in his hands like some lovelorn prince. Instead he shook out his napkin. ‘I have nothing to offer a potential star of the stage.’

  ‘I know it’s been worrying you, ever since you told me of the agent arriving, but you don’t know she’ll go. Kate hasn’t said anything to intimate that she is not attending rehearsals or the show.’

  ‘But she hasn’t said she is.’

  Mrs B placed the casserole on the table. It was also neck of lamb, because she had brewed up two in her ‘cauldron’, as Tom had said at the time. She had not been amused, so he didn’t repeat it. ‘Why would she? If she’s turned down that ghastly man, then nothing has changed.’

  She dished up the casserole and although there wasn’t a lot of lamb, the parsnips were, yet again, plentiful. In the vegetable dish there were sprouts and cabbage, with a few carrots, plus a baked potato. Tom wasn’t hungry, but he wasn’t about to tell Mrs B that, or he’d be wearing the casserole dish. Steam was rising from it, and the smell began to tempt him.

  He downed the lot, eating the last sprout as the doorbell rang. Mrs B rose. Tom waved her down, but before he could get up and go to the front door, Kate called from the hall, ‘I let myself in, but I bet you’re eating. So sorry, but may I use your telephone? It’s rather urgent, and there’s a queue outside the phone box.’

  He sat quite still. Mrs B cocked her head at him. He said, ‘Would you do the honours, Mrs B?’

  ‘Lizzy is quite right to call you weedy,’ Mrs B whispered.

  ‘Kate hasn’t said anything about the room,’ he whispered in reply.

  Mrs B was by the door and whispered back, ‘Give the girl a chance. It’s a miracle she’s made it here.’ She returned in a moment. ‘She’s on the telephone, to the Blue Cockatoo. Get out there at once and listen.’ It was still a whisper.

  He shook his head. ‘She’d see me.’

  ‘Then come here.’

  Mrs B opened the kitchen door just a fraction. Unable to help himself, Tom joined her. He heard Kate’s lovely voice. ‘Yes, Frankie, it’s me. I’m so much better, my wonderful friend. I feel a new person, full of beans. Please, Frankie, do me a huge favour. I need Stan to come to the village on the night of the twentieth – before, if possible. Our band is, I fear, rather depleted because our saxophonist postman is grieving and hasn’t the puff. The village needs help.’

  Mrs B poked him with her elbow. ‘I think she’s staying.’

  He whispered back, ‘She hasn’t said that, only that the band needs someone.’ He didn’t dare hope, and how could Kate put her dreams to one side? Perhaps she and Brucie had discussed another date?

  ‘Yes, Roberto and Elliot too would be a miracle, but I know it’s a big ask. Hello, hello. Oh, Brucie, you shouldn’t snatch the receiver off people, it’s rude. I know, I meant to write, but I’ve only just made a decision. Look, I can’t come to any audition. We have our own musical. No, no, stop shouting for heaven’s sake, it will get you nowhere. No, really, our concert is just as important. A great many people have put in a lot of work and, what’s more, they’re worthy, but I doubt you understand what that means?’

  Tom murmured to Mrs B, ‘I can’t bear it for her – it’s not fair.’

  Mrs B pulled at his sleeve. ‘Trust her. I reckon she’s going to send him on his way.’

  There was a long silence, then, ‘Goodbye, Brucie. Yes, by all means let Cheryl have her chance, why not? It will put an ocean between her and me.’

  Mrs B nudged Tom again, so hard it hurt, but he didn’t care because none of this was right for Kate, though he longed for it to be so. He wrenched open the door. ‘Don’t hang up, Kate. You must take this chance. It might not come again, and you deserve it. We’ll be all right.’

  But it was too late. Kate had replaced the receiver. She stood still for a moment, then turned towards him. She spoke quite calmly, as he stood in the doorway, with Mrs B right behind him. ‘If you think that an audition is of any importance, when a dear, kind man tells me to lie still and stops me from being paralysed, then tells me of Hastings’s diary, you have another think coming.’ She moved a step closer. ‘What’s more, this wonderful friend protected me at the hospital, along with the equally wonderful Mrs B, standing up to the formidable Sister Newsome, which is above and beyond the duty of any man. Sister Newsome told me this man insisted on staying until my operation was over. So, if you think I would choose not to dance the tango, enormously carefully, with him, you are sadly mistaken.’

  She walked across the hall, her coat hanging open, her hair awry from the wind, her cheeks flushed, and she had never looked more beautiful to Tom. Mrs B shoved him, and he was striding towards her. Kate stopped a pace from him.

  ‘This wonderful man has wiped the past from my room. In more ways than I can possibly imagine, he has brought me peace, and you will have to prise me from him, from this day forward, and nothing will change my mind.’

  Her words melted his heart, and he longed to tell her he loved her, and would until the day he died. He reached forward and she took his hands in hers, pulling him towards her. He stood against her, kissed her, and now his arms were around her, holding Kate so closely and carefully that he felt they could become one; and it was all that he had thought it would be. Her arms were round his neck, and then Tom was holding her face between his hands.

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  ‘I love you too,’ she replied. Her lips were soft against his as she spoke. They clung together, kissed again, and then she kissed his scarred face, her touch tender and loving. He traced his finger from her hair to her eyes, to her mouth.

  ‘I’m so happy,’ he murmured.

  ‘As am I, far more than you.’ She was leaning back against his arm.

  He responded, ‘No, I am happier.’

  They were both laughing. Behind him, Tom heard Mrs B say, ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’ The kitchen door slammed. They laughed harder still.r />
  Then he said, ‘Truly, darling Katie, I love you up to the sky and back down again, and that’s an end to it.’

  ‘But there is something we have to do,’ she said, all laughter gone.

  He nodded. He knew what that would be. ‘Today?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I will order a taxi.’

  He heard the kitchen door open and Mrs B called, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, but Mrs Martin will lend you her car. Just pay for the petrol. It’s funny-coloured stuff; I think it should only be used by farmers, but they like her.’

  Dear heavens, Tom thought, does everyone know everything about everything. It wasn’t a question.

  Kate had discovered Dr Bates’s address and gave Tom directions as he drove, her hand tucked under his arm. They talked a little, and let the silences fall as they willed. Eventually they drew up outside Dr and Mrs Bates’s house. Tom let Kate lead the way up the path. The doctor’s brass plate was dull, old and pitted with green. Kate knocked.

  After a while Mrs Bates opened the door. She was a woman in about her mid-fifties, wearing an apron. She wiped her hands down her front. ‘Yes, can I help you?’

  Kate said, ‘We were passing, Mrs Bates. It’s Kate Watson, I’m home for a while. I thought I would just drop in quickly to see Dr Bates.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, how very kind of you, but I’m afraid dearest Joseph died two months ago now. He had a stroke some years ago, of course, so it wasn’t altogether a surprise. Come in, don’t stand there letting in the cold.’

  She shut the door behind them and led the way into the sitting room, where a fire burned in the grate. There were some early Christmas cards on the mantelpiece.

  ‘I thought you had left to go to London, Kate. I know that Joseph valued his friendship with your family, and of course with your father. They built up that golf club together, but then somehow they drifted apart. I was surprised when dear Joseph retired early, but he said he was suffering from nervous exhaustion. Who did you say your friend is, dear?’ Mrs Bates gestured to the sofa. They both shook their heads.

  Kate said, ‘We can’t stop, Mrs Bates. This is Tom Rees, the vicar of Little Worthy. We are to be married.’

  Tom smiled. Oh, he did hope so, but was this all part of the patter?

  He moved to the fire, where photographs stood on the mantelpiece, half hidden by the Christmas cards. There was one of Mrs Bates and the doctor, on their wedding day. He saw Lizzy in the doctor’s smile, but the rest of the face was emotionless, superior, without life. He wanted Kate away from here, but only she could decide when it was time. He hoped, though, that she wouldn’t tell all to Mrs Bates. The woman presumably knew nothing, so why destroy her life?

  Kate was shaking Mrs Bates’s hand. ‘We must get on our way, I’m so sorry to disturb you.’

  ‘I like being disturbed, I see so few people now. Somehow our friends have disappeared. Perhaps it’s something to do with Joseph being a doctor and knowing their problems.’

  ‘Probably,’ Kate said.

  Mrs Bates saw them to the door. They walked back to the car. Tom started the engine. ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s over.’

  ‘Lizzy?’

  ‘She can’t ever know. If she asks, then the father is my friend, Andrei, the gypsy. I think she’d like that idea. But that’s up to Sarah, if – no, when – she returns.’

  Tom drove off. ‘You’ll marry me then?’

  ‘I rather think I pushed you into that. So wait until you’re sure.’

  He could have banged the steering wheel in frustration. Did she or did she not want to marry him? She really was the most infuriating woman, but he loved her more than he had ever thought it possible to love anyone.

  She leaned against him. ‘I’m happy, which I never thought would be possible.’

  Well, what could be better than that, for now? As they drove along, Kate knew that even if she had been able to leave Tom, and the children, and all the villagers, she would still have forfeited her audition because she feared that Sarah would not survive, if the show collapsed. It was her own bargain, with whoever it was up there in the ether. She laughed at herself. How absurd even to think that a bargain that she herself had devised would make a difference, but she couldn’t take the chance.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sarah sat wedged upright by Renée as the train left the station and trundled towards Le Mans. Both women rested books on the wicker baskets Renée had bought at the station. Both of them wore gloves, and thank goodness, because Sarah’s fingers would give the game away. Especially as she had new forged papers in the name of one Adèle Carron, so she had to be very careful not to stand out.

  The train chugged through countryside Sarah vaguely recognised. But only vaguely, because it was as though there was a mist she couldn’t brush to one side. Every time this mist fell, Sarah raised her hand to brush it away, and Renée grasped it, drawing Sarah’s attention back to a page in her book, before replacing her hand in her lap. Why? She hadn’t the strength to ask.

  As a fellow passenger left the train at her station, her basket reeking of leeks, Renée whispered, ‘Don’t touch your face; your make-up will transfer to your gloves and reveal your bruises. Neither must you remove your gloves, or people will see your fingernails. Well, where they once were.’

  Sarah sat, letting the book rest on her basket, her hands too painful to hold it; everything too painful. She could hear her chest rattling, and her breath wheezed in and out. She was as hot as a furnace, which made her lucky, as there was no heating in the carriage. She half laughed. More snow had fallen early or even overnight, and it hadn’t thawed.

  At Le Mans they left the train, muddling in with many others as German soldiers guarded the ticket office, checking tickets and IDs. Sarah smiled as she handed hers over. Her hat was set at a jaunty angle, as was Renée’s, and Renée launched into a flirtation with the men. The French citizens glowered at her and shoved the two women. The soldiers checked their papers, waving them through. The younger of the two smiled. The elder did not.

  They hurried out of the station. It was swarming with troops and police, all alert, all scanning the crowds. For her? Sarah kept her mind on being Adèle Carron from Paris, who had just been to see her mother. How did Bernard get the papers? How had he arranged for her to be here?

  They strolled along the narrow cobbled streets, in shadow from the typically tall town houses. The cathedral loomed, and the River Sarthe fed the damp and cold wind battering their coats and trying to snatch their hats. Another German patrol yelled, ‘Halt.’ They did. Renée’s flirting knew no bounds, and Sarah tutted her disapproval, snatching her away.

  ‘Excellent,’ murmured Renée as they clattered along on their wooden soles. ‘You feel better now, Adèle?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sarah lied. She didn’t, and wondered how much longer she could walk as though untroubled. Renée walked on, and somehow Sarah kept pace until they stopped at one of the tall, thin houses. Renée knocked twice, then once, then once again. They waited as Renée counted under her breath. She knocked twice more. The door swung open.

  Renée spun on her heel and walked away. A woman reached out and took Sarah’s wrist. So, whoever it was must know about her hands. She was drawn into the darkness and the smell of lavender and polish. The wide oak floorboards shone in the slits of light shining through the shutters.

  ‘Come,’ said the elderly woman, still holding her wrist. She pointed up a wide staircase. Sarah couldn’t manage another step, but somehow she did, agonisingly slowly, not caring any more what lay at the top. Did another traitor lie in wait? Or was this an angel at her side, careless of her own safety? She coughed, clung to the banister, and now a strong arm was around her, half carrying her upstairs. She saw in the dim light that the elderly woman was in front. How strange. How very strange. Did angels exist?

  They moved along a landing until they reached a wall, decorated by a running alabaster frieze of roses. The w
oman pressed a rose. Part of the wall swung open, like a door. They entered a bedroom. Sarah was led to the bed. The woman said, ‘You must lie down. I will care for you until you go home. You are safe – as much as anyone is.’ The woman took Sarah’s weight now and eased her to the bed. The scent of lavender was all around. She heard the floorboards creak. She turned, and all she saw was a man disappearing onto the landing. The door closed.

  ‘Thank you,’ she croaked.

  ‘Shhh,’ the woman soothed, stroking her hair, like Bernard. Like Derek used to. Derek Smith, Derek Baxter – Derek, whom she now felt was dead. Somehow, after all this time, Sarah felt that was the case. It meant nothing, because the darkness was growing, though there was daylight streaming into the room from the window. There were shutters, but they were open. She saw roofs and sky, and birds flying free, but then the darkness took her over.

  Sarah slept, sweated, burned up and coughed. A doctor came, just as Dr Bates had come to Kate but this one was kind, and proper. Dr Bates had not been, though no-one had believed her poor little sister. Sarah believed her now. Or was she Cécile, or Adèle? One of them, or all of them, knew the difference between a lie and the truth. They could see it in the eyes, but it had taken too long to reach this point. She had failed her younger sister at the time and done little better ever since, because she simply hadn’t thought about it. She should have known during her training, when lying became an art. Derek Smith – so said that fool of a major who wasn’t a man, but a devil. Did he think she couldn’t read him? She should have read Kate like that.

  She stopped. It was all so long ago – a lifetime – but if she survived, she would make it up to Kate. If.

  Later, how much later Sarah did not know, but the sun still shone and deep snow gleamed on the roofs, she heard a soft French voice. ‘Be calm, we have the doctor here again, to help. This is your third day here, and you are not quite well, but you know that.’

  Sarah breathed in the scent of lavender, and coughed; her chest rattled, her head was bursting, her body hurt, her feet and hands throbbed, her eyes were dry, her belly ached. Was that a new pain? She felt an arm beneath her, and her crisp white pillows were changed. She was lowered gently.