At Long Last Love

by Milly Adams

  The day of 20th December dawned crisp and clear. Kate hadn’t slept very well, and neither had Lizzy, who had slipped into her bed in the early hours, murmuring, ‘I will have bags under my eyes and look a fright.’

  Kate had laughed herself to sleep. Clearly Mrs Fellows had been chatting to the girls as she did their make-up for the run-through.

  At lunchtime, Stan, Roberto and Elliot arrived by bus from Yeovil. Elliot was outraged that he had had to pay for a seat for his bass, even though it stood up all the way. They ended up at the pub, ordering whatever was on offer – for medicinal purposes only, they insisted. Kate stayed with them for half an hour, paying for their sandwiches and a watery pint each, and putting bus money in Elliot’s pocket, as though he was a little boy. Meanwhile Stan dug out a bottle of Scotch from his pocket. ‘Courtesy of Brucie, not that he knows it.’

  Roberto saw the alarm on Kate’s face. ‘Don’t worry, we know we have to perform, but the party might run on afterwards, back here at the pub. We’re bunking up, you know, just in case we get plastered.’

  Cynthia, the barmaid, winked at Kate. ‘There’s no “just in case” about it, I tell you now. Go on, I’ll send ’em along in an hour, almost stone-cold sober and in time for their run-through.’

  The trio arrived promptly at two. Kate introduced Mrs B, who shook hands firmly. ‘I hope you’re not drunk. I won’t play with people who let me down.’

  Kate shut her eyes, but Stan roared with laughter. ‘It’s like meeting my mum. You play the fiddle, I hear.’

  ‘Young man, I play the violin.’

  Roberto was warming up the piano, and the spoons and comb were rehearsing quietly in the corner. The recorders were squeaking. Stan and Elliot looked at one another. Mrs B said, ‘We four just need to play up, that’s all.’

  Stan saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’

  They took up their positions in the roped-off orchestra pit on the left of the stage. They started with ‘Anything Goes’, but then Stan waved them to a stop. ‘Sing it for us, lovely girl.’ He beckoned Kate over.

  She said, ‘Susie will be singing it.’

  Elliot said, ‘Maybe, but we need a reward for leaving our pints on the bar.’

  She stood, her arm on the piano, and sang along. It felt good to be with the boys again and she relaxed into the song, drifting carefully across the floor and back, letting the words flow, coming alive. But that was wrong, because these days she had never felt more alive in her life. Mrs B’s violin was jaunty, the recorder players squeaked just a little, and the comb and spoons fitted in remarkably well.

  Tom watched with Lizzy, who leaned against him. Lizzy looked up and said, ‘She looks really happy, doesn’t she, Reverend Rees?’

  ‘She does.’ He felt nervousness sweep over him. He loved this woman with all his heart, far too much to keep her in the straitjacket of a vicar’s world if she’d really rather be elsewhere.

  At three thirty, Kate clapped her hands and chased the cast home, and the boys back to the pub, with dire warnings to keep sober, while Fran took Lizzy to her house for a quick tea. Kate had to help Percy and Mr Pritchard, the stage designer from Stickhollow, to adjust the flats, which had been a problem during the run-through. Tom stayed too, and the three men manoeuvred the flats into place, securing them with screws to the stage floor, and by rope to the overhead pipes.

  She and Tom walked back through the village. Kate was so nervous that she could hardly speak, and her stomach was churning. Would people really come? Would the chorus remember to smile, and keep in time? Would Susie hold the notes? Most of all, would everyone have fun? Tom held her hand and when they reached the gate into the vicarage she turned to him. ‘Thank you,’ Kate said. ‘For loving and saving me.’

  He kissed her as though it was for the last time. ‘You will be wonderful, and we will dance that tango as though we were born to do so, but still carefully, my post-op girl. Thank you for coming into my life, for making me whole again.’

  She kissed his cheek, his mouth. ‘Break a leg,’ she whispered.

  Within an hour they were back at the village hall, changing in the dressing rooms. Kate busied herself hurrying from pillar to post. Her task was to direct things, not perform, except for fronting the tap routine for ‘I Get a Kick Out of You’, as chosen by Stella and approved by the children. The WI had hastily produced a sailor suit. Then Kate would dance what she feared would be a tentative tango, before she sang the finale songs, ‘A Foggy Day in London Town’ and ‘Begin the Beguine’, at which point the audience was to be encouraged to join in and leave the hall on a high note.

  At the hall, the doors opened at six thirty. There were buckets in the kitchen, which would be placed at the exit afterwards, for donations towards the War Bonds. The villagers had donated a teaspoon of tea from each family, so that tea could be served in the interval. All this Kate ticked off on her list. She did her rounds of the changing rooms, calling outside the doors, ‘Everything all right?’

  Everything was.

  At seven prompt they began, with the chorus taking its place behind the closed curtain, while Susie and Adrian stood at the front, waiting for curtain up. The band began, with Roberto, Stan and Elliot in their dinner jackets, bless their hearts, and Mrs B in an evening gown; the others in their best bib and tucker too. Kate could have hugged them all, but instead she marked time in the wings, mouthing, ‘Smile.’

  The curtain rose. Susie started to sing ‘Anything Goes’, with the two lines of the chorus moving toe–heel, toe–heel as Kate directed from the wings, until the couple moved to the back and then the children were joined by Kate herself. The children swept into their routine, tapping it out, swinging their arms and smiling as though their lives depended on it, while Kate’s performance was more circumspect. She had no intention of undoing the good the operation had done. Their turn ended and the audience stood, the parents in tears.

  The ballet turn followed, which Kate had handed gratefully to Mrs Major’s daughter, the local dance teacher. On and on it went, as the scenes changed, the gangster became a minister, and then back again, and the American accents tended to fade in and out of Somerset and the East End.

  The curtains closed for the interval. Kate was exhausted, but so far nothing had gone wrong. She and Stella helped the children to change again, while Susie slipped into her tango dress, before creeping round to the men’s room, to help Tom and Adrian with their bow ties.

  The curtain rose on Kate, still in a sailor’s suit and tap shoes, and behind her the children in two rows again, on their marks for another tap routine, for ‘I Get a Kick Out of You’. She looked at the band. Roberto grinned. The music began, she started to sing while the chorus behind launched into the dance with gusto, swinging their arms and singing along with her.

  She laughed at the end of the song as the children took their bow, clapping them along with the audience, looking from one row to the other, until she reached the back. And there was Brucie, standing with another two men, one of them in GI uniform. It was Tim, the son of Mr Oliver, so the other must be Mr Oliver himself. The GI waved and whistled. Stunned, Kate bowed her head to them especially.

  The chorus tapped off the stage and she followed to change into her dress. The band played the introduction to ‘Jealousy’ and the audience settled as she and Susie entered the stage from the right, whilst the men sauntered on from the left. Susie and she sang ‘Jealousy’ as the men, slick in their dinner suits, circled, talked, circled again, then reached for their women who were beckoning to them, centre stage. The men clasped them as the lights faded a notch or two, and all stood motionless, elegant but passionate until, in response to the music, both couples turned into the promenade. Tom’s face was suddenly too serious for the requirements of the dance.

  She said, ‘I love you’ as he swung her into a gentle fall-away whisk rather than snapping her into such a move, as Adrian did for Susie.

  He whispered, ‘I phoned Brucie. He hired a car to bring the Olivers down in time for t
his. I can’t ask you to stay here and be a vicar’s wife, when the world could be at your feet.’

  They pivoted a quarter left, then swung right in a pivot arc. Kate squeezed his hand tightly and looked at him, heedless of the required head stance. ‘Sorry, Vicar, but you’re stuck with me. If you don’t marry me, then you will condemn me to fallen-woman status, because I’m moving in.’

  He eased her into a fall-away whisk again, looking into her face, long and hard, which was also a non-tango stance.

  ‘For the rest of my life,’ she finished.

  They performed the chassé, interweaving with Susie and Adrian, and now Tom and Kate’s passion was overflowing as they swept from step to step as though in some other universe until the music sliced to a stop, and they stood body to body, heaving breath to heaving breath. At last, as though awakening, he slipped his arm around her and held her close as they all bowed to riotous applause. The men and Susie left the stage, and now it was Kate’s turn to end the evening.

  Bob, who was in charge of the lighting, lowered the stage lights further and caught her – like a moth, as Brucie used to say – in the spotlight.

  She sang ‘A Foggy Day in London Town’, beckoning to the audience to join in, although no-one did. Lizzy called from the wings, ‘We want to listen to you, Aunt Kate.’ The audience laughed, so Kate sang and slipped into ‘Begin the Beguine’, which was supposed to be the last song; instead, the band played ‘April in Paris’. She sang it for Sarah. They played ‘Love for Sale’, followed by ‘All the Things You Are’. This was for Tom, and she held out her hand to him, as he stood in the wings, his face a picture of love and pride.

  Stan looked at her now, and nodded. She beckoned all the cast onto the stage, not knowing what song was about to be played. It was ‘We’ll Meet Again’, and this time the audience joined in, and by the second verse sadness and longing had gripped them all, but somehow they kept singing.

  As the last notes died, there was a moment’s quiet. The cast bowed and still there was silence, and then the audience were on their feet, cheering and applauding. Again she heard the GI’s whistle. What a shame to have made a wasted journey. As she bowed again, she felt a little hand in hers. It was Lizzy, who said, ‘Do you think we’ll ever meet Mummy again?’

  Kate lied deeply, deliberately and believably. ‘Of course.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sarah eased into her clothes after a lunch of bread and chicken soup taken, as always, in her room, although now she was strong enough to sit at a small table. She was tired, though, because she did not sleep for more than a few hours at night without the medication that might merely be used to drug her. When she did sleep a little, the shadows loomed, moving, hiding. The pain racked her, but she trusted no-one. It was what they had been taught, and why would she begin to trust now, held a prisoner, as she was, inside this room?

  It had been a full moon last night, and there would be another tonight. Would Bernard come today to take her to the dropping zone or would he take her back to the monsters? She continued to be compliant, to smile at Madame Lavender, longing to rest her head on her shoulder and accept her kindness as genuine. But how could she? She had walked around the room over the last few days, enflaming her toes, but perhaps she was a little stronger. Her toes were infected again. Madame Lavender had tutted this morning, ‘Soon you will be home. I do not wish to risk danger to our doctor again, so we will continue with salt and water. But why are they infected?’

  Sarah had lied, as she did so easily. ‘I don’t know.’

  She pushed the table to one side, moved to the door and listened. No voices, no clump-clump, spark-spark. The darkness of the cell seemed to close around her. She walked back to the bed, unscrewed the bed knob and kept it with her, in case they came. Madame Lavender entered. Sarah held the bed knob behind her. The elderly woman smiled. Again there was a memory, a resemblance … Then it was gone. ‘Thank you, Madame.’

  An hour passed, and then another. She heard a voice – male. She stood, and in her hand was the bed knob, ready. It might help her protect herself, because her hands were not strong enough on their own now. The key turned in the lock, the door opened. It was Bernard, wonderful Bernard. Or was he? She trembled. The knob dropped to the rug and rolled across the boards. Bernard looked from it to her. ‘It’s only me. You are safe, remember.’

  She nodded. ‘Old habits die hard. Sometimes …’ She rubbed her forehead. Her chest still rattled, though not as much; and her thoughts were still jumbled, perhaps even more than they had been. He held up a coat, old but wool. ‘Slip into this. We have transport most of the way. The Lysander will be at the zone, or so we hear. If it cannot be there, we will be back at the zone tomorrow.’

  She slipped first one arm into a sleeve and then the other, feeling captured as Bernard did up the buttons, because her fingers were too sore and swollen. Her thoughts were slipping again. She started to laugh. Well, if they thought she was well enough for more torture, they were wrong. Just one more day would kill her, because she could face no more. Trust no-one, she had been told. No-one.

  Bernard held her arm.

  Sarah said, ‘I won’t run away, I can’t.’

  He kissed her cheek. ‘You won’t need to. I am with you, and will be for as long as you need me.’

  He urged her forward, pulling the door open. There was no lock visible, and no key. She stared and touched the door. He said, ‘The lock is hidden, beneath that moulding.’ He pointed to the rose frieze. She thought she remembered it. He shut the door behind him while she watched. He took the key from a hidden hole in the skirting board, locked it and replaced the key. The rose swung back into place, hiding the keyhole.

  As he straightened he said, ‘This safe room was created in the First World War for escapees. It is being fully used in this one.’

  He held her arm and led her to the staircase. No-one else appeared. The hallway seemed too far away, but somehow she reached the bottom of the stairs. Bernard led her towards the back, through the kitchen and out. She braced herself for soldiers with guns. There were none, just a bitter wind and snow lying on the cobbles. Sarah felt sick and ill. A horse and cart drew into the yard. It held logs, a few of which the carter began to unload and stack in the log shed. They waited in the shadows until one side of the cart was clear.

  Bernard helped her up, into the space. ‘Lie down,’ he instructed. She obeyed, because she must do as she was told, until she could escape. Stay alert, the trainers had said.

  He covered her with what looked like a coffin, but lighter, because he lifted it himself. Then she heard the sound of logs hitting the coffin. The air-holes were clear. Then it was as though the world lurched, but it was the cart; and Bernard’s voice came, sounding rough, strange and old. ‘Come on, old mare.’

  She heard Madame Lavender call, ‘Thank you for the logs, Henri. Good luck with your other drops. May your day go well.’

  Sarah was knocked and bumped as the cart lurched over cobbles. Truth or lies? Genuine or not? She would know only when a Lysander came, or did not.

  The cart stopped after some hours – and yes, it was hours, because her watch told the truth, and perhaps it was the only thing that did. She could hear Bernard talking to another man. There were other voices in the background, all low, some no more than a murmur, but they were French, she realised. French, not German. How clever, or was it the truth?

  The cart creaked as someone jumped down. Bernard? Then there was the sound of scratching, as logs were removed, and finally the coffin was lifted. She stared up into a bright moonlit night, with barely a cloud in the sky. An owl hooted. Bernard stood over her, smiling, his finger to his lips. He helped her to sit up. She was sick over the side.

  ‘Something hurts,’ she breathed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He jumped down and held up his arms. She couldn’t jump, but sat on the tailboard and let him lower her to the ground. Behind him, in the moonlight, men were talking, heads close, while one gestured to the four
points of the landing strip. Some of the men melted away. She listened. It seemed to be a proper drop. She brushed bark and woodchips from her coat, shivering, as Bernard saluted someone who came out of the dark.

  ‘Good evening, Adèle.’ She recognised the voice before she recognised the man, and she wrenched free from Bernard, who clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Shh,’ he breathed in her ear. It was Pierre standing before her. Pierre, who was dead, but whom she had heard and seen, and who had held her down on the bed at Madame Lavender’s. He smiled, and now she realised it was the same smile as Madame Lavender’s.

  She couldn’t struggle. They’d have to kill her, because she was too ill, and too tired. And what was the point of living when you could barely trust anyone ever again. ‘Lizzy,’ she said against Bernard’s hand, which tasted of wood.

  Bernard spoke against her ear. ‘Pierre risked his life to put into play our plan. He played the traitor, but could only give the Gestapo Derek’s first name. We hoped that when the bastards only talked of Derek, you would understand and test them with a false surname. So we waited. I am going to take my hand away. Be quiet, because I can hear the plane.’

  He removed his hand. Pierre supported her on one side, Bernard on the other and they started to walk. She couldn’t think. ‘But I was locked in.’

  Pierre whispered, ‘If the Gestapo had come, they wouldn’t know the door was there, but it’s only totally secure when locked.’

  ‘Who else is to leave?’ she whispered.

  ‘George, who is blown and already at the zone; another incoming operator will be on the Lysander. Pierre is to leave with us too. The bastards think he is dead: charred remains and his hat were found at the copse. You don’t need to know whose body, but the man was already dead from an earlier fracas. Your “Madame Lavender” remains in place, but they do not know about her, yet.’

  ‘She should leave.’