by Iona Grey
Stella was too preoccupied to take offence. Glancing quickly around she said quietly, ‘Listen Nancy, I need to ask you a favour. I’ve got to judge the fancy dress in a bit – meet me outside?’
Half an hour later the peaches were all gone and Stella took off her apron and gratefully handed it over to Dot Wilkins. Outside, the playing field was gratifyingly crowded, and the wind cooled the sweat on the back of her neck. The White Elephant stall was doing brisk business, and the tombola table contained only meagre pickings now. Shouts of ‘behind you!’ from the children watching the Punch and Judy competed with the baying onlookers around the tug-of-war, almost drowning out the Co-op band playing You Are My Sunshine. Stella was relieved to see that quite a large group of women were clustered around the coconut shy, rising to the challenge of winning a cauliflower for supper. She spotted Nancy, sitting on the grass with her face tipped up to the sun, a cigarette creating a hazy halo of smoke around her head, and sat down beside her.
‘You got a dilemma with this fancy dress, I can tell you. Been having a look while I’ve been waiting and they’re none of them much cop, apart from him.’ Nancy took a suck on the cigarette then waved it in the direction of a small boy standing solemnly by himself beside the makeshift platform where the fancy dress line-up was scheduled to take place next. He was dressed in what was clearly an older brother’s Scout uniform, with the addition of a black tie and a red armband featuring a swastika. His hair had been Brylcreemed down from a side parting and on his top lip was painted a black toothbrush moustache.
‘Blimey. That’s scary.’
‘He’s totally in character too – you should see him goosestep. So – what’s this favour you want to ask me? Bear in mind I’d do pretty much anything for a tin of peaches . . .’ Nancy gave a saucy wink and Stella had a flashback to the dark church and Nancy’s legs entwined around the waist of the GI. She quickly banished it.
‘You don’t have to do anything, really, just back me up in a bit of a lie. I was hoping . . .’ She plucked at the grass, torn between shame and excitement. ‘I was hoping it would be all right if I said I was going out with you this evening.’
With slow deliberation Nancy moved her glasses down her nose again and fixed Stella with a searching stare. ‘That sounds interesting. Do you mean to tell me, Mrs Thorne, that you are intending to escape the Vicarage this evening with the purpose of enjoying a bit of entertainment of an illicit nature? With a person or persons such as the vicar might disapprove of?’
‘Shhh . . .’ Stella was laughing now, blushing, as the excitement she’d managed to squash down all morning came bubbling up. She looked around. Luckily no one was watching them, and the noise of the band and the tug-of-war crowd made it impossible for them to be overheard, but she felt nervous even so. ‘It’s the man who found my watch, Lieu tenant Rosinski. He was the one who supplied the peaches. He’s in town tonight and he asked me if I could meet him.’
Not long ago such explanations would have been unnecessary; they’d shared every detail of their lives and the secrets of their hearts. But now there were gaps. Big gaps, that Stella couldn’t really attempt to fill.
‘And being human, female, alive and not entirely barmy, you said yes . . . ?’ Nancy looked impressed.
‘Being married I should have said no.’
‘Pfft.’ It was somewhere between an exclamation of disgust and an exhalation of smoke. ‘Forget that. Got to grab hold of a bit of fun wherever you can in these uncertain times. If you shut yourself away in that tomb of a vicarage, the Rev will come home and find you fossilized at the kitchen sink. You did the right thing. Course I’ll cover for you. I tell you what, I fancy a go with this Madame Anoushka.’ The matter of Stella’s marriage vows dismissed, Nancy’s butterfly mind settled on a new topic of interest and she nodded in the direction of the fortune-teller’s faded tent. ‘I wouldn’t mind knowing what fate has in store for me, so long as it’s not a direct hit in an air raid.’
‘If you knew that you could get yourself a Morrison shelter and sleep in it every night. I don’t think she’s very reliable though. Ada booked her; apparently her real name is Annie and she mostly works in a pub in Potters Bar.’
‘Spoilsport. ’Ere, she’s got no one in there now. Why don’t you nip in first, while I finish my ciggy? Punch and Judy’s not finished yet – you’ve got time before you have to judge the fancy dress.’
It was the last thing she felt like doing, but Stella didn’t have the heart to argue, not when Nancy had just agreed to help her out. Together they went over and while Nancy stood outside the shabby little tent with its faded sign she drew back the canvas flap and went in.
It smelled of fermenting grass and mildew, undercut with the sharper tang of sweat. The light was murky and the air damp. Madame Anoushka was nowhere to be seen, but just as Stella was about to go out again she appeared from behind a flimsy curtain made from a moth-eaten shawl.
‘Sit down, my child.’
Her voice was husky, a mixture of Russian and Cockney. She was wreathed in scarves and cigarette smoke – the old girl must have been having a sneaky fag out the back of the tent. Behind their layers of kohl and mascara, her eyes gleamed when they came to rest on Stella, as if she had just remembered some private joke.
She slid a small enamelled dish across the table into which, Stella realized, she was supposed to put money. She fumbled in the pocket of her dress and reluctantly put in half a crown because she had nothing smaller. It didn’t seem appropriate to ask for change.
With impressive sleight of hand Madame Anoushka whisked the money out of sight beneath the purple chenille tablecloth and busied herself pouring tea from a tarnished silver spirit kettle. Stella’s mood lifted a little – having been on her feet all afternoon serving tea to other people, the prospect of a cup for herself was very welcome. The brew was black and smelled strongly of bonfires. The woman peered at her through the steam with the beady relish of a blackbird watching a worm.
‘ We start, I think, with the ’and. I sense you will have honest ’ands. Show me.’
Blimey, thought Stella, placing them uneasily on the purple chenille. She hoped they weren’t too honest.
Madame Anoushka seized her wrist and turned her hand palm upward, bending over it so that Stella could see the seam of white at the roots of her orange hair. She looked for a long time, twisting her hand this way and that, as if reading actual print. Stella stared over her head at the potted aspidistra behind her and let her thoughts drift deliciously ahead, as the noises of the fete floated in from the other side of the canvas. The fancy dress judging was next, and then there would be prize-giving to endure, and clearing up . . . It would be six o’clock at least before she could hope to be finished. Salad for supper; Reverend Stokes could complain all he liked. Her dress was hanging up on the wardrobe door – only the navy and white spotted one she usually wore for church, but aside from the green she’d worn last time it was the best she had. She wondered if she could get away with another bath before she went out—
‘You are married.’
Stella started in alarm, almost jerking her hand from the fortune-teller’s grip. It took her a second to realize that it was a statement of fact, not a reproachful reminder.
‘Oh . . . yes! Yes, I am.’
It was hardly proof of her psychic power, since Stella was wearing her wedding ring and Ada had undoubtedly pointed her out as the vicar’s wife. ‘There is break in marriage line . . . This shows separation – living apart.’
There must be an awful lot of people with breaks in their marriage lines at the moment, Stella thought. Restlessness was building inside her. Madame Anoushka was tracing a line across her palm with a long, slightly dirty fingernail; the sensation made her shiver involuntarily.
‘I sense passion. Great passion. But caution too. You are fearful. You do not trust easily.’ She ran her nicotine-stained claw along the curving line beneath Stella’s thumb. ‘But you have much to give – this passion again, an
d love. Very much love you have to give. Now – drink your tea.’
Stella took a mouthful of the dark brew – it tasted like it had been made with the contents of the ashpan rather than tealeaves. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable and longed to reclaim her hand. And wash it. Madame Anoushka was pressing her thumb over her palm now, as if testing the freshness of a piece of steak at the butcher’s.
‘You have needs to meet. The needs of a woman.’ There was something lascivious in her tone, as if she was taking some kind of vicarious pleasure in saying such things. Really, it was too much, but just as Stella was about to snatch her hand away she let it go. ‘Now, let us see what is written in the leaves.’
At least she wasn’t required to finish the tea. With relief she watched Madame Anoushka swill the remaining liquid around then tip it out into the saucer. She studied the flotsam of leaves washed up around the inside of the cup and gave a crow of triumph.
‘Ha – there it is!’ The claw hovered over a nondescript clump of tealeaves by the rim of the cup. ‘The oyster! And there too, the harp! Each are symbols of love, romance . . . Desire. And right at the top of the cup – that is indication of the present.’ She looked up from beneath her orange floss of hair with a coquettish smirk. ‘This passion will have outlet tonight . . .’
How did she know? Stella got to her feet, suddenly dizzy. Her breath seemed to be stuck painfully behind her breastbone. ‘Thanks,’ she said in a strangled voice. ‘It’s been fascinating, but I—’
She stumbled towards the tent door, fumbling for the opening in the canvas and desperate to be out of the fetid atmosphere. Nancy pulled back the flap and watched her emerge with mild surprise.
‘Steady on. You all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Stella was about to demur; to reassure her that she was fine and it was just the heat inside the tent and the voyeuristic suggestiveness in the creepy old woman’s tone. But something caught the periphery of her vision and made her turn to look across the field, to the figure standing beside the platform, surrounded by a little crowd of people. The blood left her head.
‘Oh my God . . .’ she croaked.
Nancy turned to follow her gaze.
‘Bleeding hell,’ she muttered. ‘That’s no ghost. It’s bloody Charles.’
He looked different: older, thinner, more weathered. His skin was too fair to turn brown, and it had a reddened, flayed appearance. There were new lines around his eyes, from squinting into the African sun.
‘I should have sent a telegram, but it was all so last minute, there really wasn’t the opportunity. Is it a terrible shock, darling?’
‘Well, yes, but . . . a good one, of course.’
Her voice seemed to come from a hundred miles away. She sipped the tea Ada had brought her and looked out of the hall window onto the field where the children were assembling for the fancy dress parade. There was no sign of Nancy; she must have gone in to see the fortune-teller. She should have saved her money, Stella thought with a flash of anger. The shameless old fraud – she must have seen Charles get out of the taxi while she was having her cigarette at the back of the tent, and come up with all that claptrap about passion and romance being imminent. If she’d had any genuine psychic ability—
‘I’m afraid there’s another surprise in store, but I hope this one won’t have quite the same effect. Who should I just happen to bump into at Victoria, but Peter? Got a few days’ leave too, and no specific plans for it, so I told him to come back here with me. He’s gone to the Vicarage, to wash off the travel grime. I hope you don’t mind?’
‘Peter? Peter Underwood? No, no of course not.’
In truth the news was curiously unsurprising, and came as a relief. Having Peter in the house meant that she wouldn’t be alone with Charles.
‘That’s very good of you, darling.’ Charles put down his cup and saucer and looked around. He was jiggling his knee in an excess of nervous energy, making the table vibrate and rattling the china, though he didn’t seem to notice. ‘I must say it’s quite a scene to come home to. Tranquil old England. The “green and pleasant land” of fetes and cake and afternoon tea.’
He said it almost like a criticism. There was a square of gingerbread cake on the plate in front of him from which he’d taken one mouthful and crumbled the remainder into dust. She wanted to remind him that it wasn’t always like this, and that the teeth of rationing seemed to bite deeper every week, but she reminded herself of where he’d come from and kept silent. Marjorie Walsh came over to take away their empty cups.
‘It’s marvellous to see you, Vicar, and looking so well! I’ll tell Gerald you’re home. Bearing up all right out there, are you?’
‘God is taking care of me, thank you Marjorie, but it’s good to be back and to see how well you ladies are keeping things going in my absence. The fete looks splendid – though I confess I’m disappointed there are none of your famous scones this year. They’re the only reason I came home!’
‘Thank you, Vicar. I wanted to make them, but there were those who decided otherwise. Have you finished with that? I’ll take it away, shall I?’
She picked up the plate of gingery crumbs and shot Stella a superior look as she bore it back to the kitchen.
Ada appeared in the hall doorway.
‘Sorry to drag you lovebirds away from your reunion, but they’re ready for you to judge the fancy dress now, Mrs T.’
On the platform a parade of ragged flower fairies, storybook characters and a League of Nations display of Dutch girls, Spanish dancers and Chinese ladies fluttered and shuffled, while the mini-Führer scowled and stared straight ahead, one arm raised. ‘My goodness,’ Charles exclaimed uneasily.
‘Standard’s not what it has been,’ Ada remarked. ‘Every spare scrap goes into making proper clothes these days, there’s nothing left over for fancy dress. Still, the Chinese girl’s very clever, with the dressing gown and the knitting needles in her hair . . .’
‘Really, Hitler is the best,’ Stella said. ‘Such a simple outfit, but brilliantly done.’
‘Poor taste,’ Charles said briskly. ‘No, Ada’s right. The Chinese girl.’ He clapped his hands and said loudly and heartily, ‘Well done everyone – splendid effort all round, but this year’s prize goes to our lovely Oriental lady!’
There was a ripple of desultory applause. The Chinese girl simpered and the Führer’s military bearing dissolved, his despotic scowl melting into a little boy’s expression of naked disappointment. Stella turned away, anger quickening her blood. Across the grass Nancy was just emerging from the fortune-teller’s tent.
‘Here, Mrs T. – you can present the prize,’ Ada said, holding out the inevitable tin of peaches.
She shook her head, already moving away. ‘Charles decided. He ought to do it.’
‘Foreign travel!’ Nancy called as she came towards her. ‘I says to ’er – I hope that means I marry a Yank and go back to the States, not join the bleeding Wrens. She says, could be. There was an oyster in my tealeaves which means passion, apparently. So –’ she dropped her voice as she came level with Stella, ‘how’s that for a shock? What you going to do about your American?’
‘I don’t know.’ Dan’s face came sharply into focus in Stella’s mind and she was suddenly afraid she might cry. ‘Obviously I can’t go now, but I don’t even know where he’s staying to get a message to him. He’ll be waiting for me, and he won’t know why I haven’t come.’
‘Where were you supposed to meet him?’
Stella repeated the message she’d read on the clipboard.
‘Hmm – the Trocadero, very nice, I must say.’ Nancy snapped open her handbag and took out a little square mirror. ‘Well, don’t worry; just leave it to your Auntie Nancy,’ she said, checking her make-up. ‘Does he know you’re married?’
‘Yes, of course. Oh Nancy, would you really do that? Thank you, thank you. Tell him I’m sorry and that I’ll write as soon as I can . . .’
‘Shh – that
’s enough now. Here comes the vicar.’ Looking past Stella she smiled her pussycat smile. ‘Hello Reverend Thorne – fancy seeing you here.’
‘Nancy.’ Charles’s voice was as stiff as his smile. ‘Nice to see you.’
‘Likewise, looking tanned and handsome with all that African sun.’ She dropped the mirror back into her bag. ‘I’d love to stay and talk but I’m afraid I’ll have to love you and leave you. Important date to get ready for this evening.’ She winked at Stella.
‘Come for tea tomorrow,’ Stella suggested slightly wildly. ‘You can tell me all about it!’
‘I wouldn’t want to be in the way—’
‘You wouldn’t at all. Charles’s friend Peter is staying, and Reverend Stokes will be there, so the more the merrier. Isn’t that right, Charles?’
‘Quite,’ he said, but without bothering to make it sound like he meant it.
He was her husband, and yet he was still a stranger. She knew that it must be difficult for him, adjusting to being home again after the things he had seen and experienced in the desert, but with Peter staying there was no opportunity for her to talk to him and find out what those things were, and she had the feeling that he despised her slightly for not knowing. Not understanding. Absence had not made his heart grow fonder. Rather, it had hardened the spaces between them into something impenetrable.
I am a bad person, she told herself, coming back from church alone while he stayed to talk to his parishioners. My husband has come home and I am not glad to see him. In fact, I resent him for being here. She closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall in the chill of the scullery, where Dan had kissed her. I am irritated by the way he treats me like a child and assumes I can’t do anything properly, and most of all I resent him for keeping me from the man I want to be with.
It was a relief to put it into those stark words. Laid out like that in her head she could see how selfish she was being, how unreasonable. Faithless and weak-willed, like the worst kind of stereotype of a wife left behind while her husband did his bit for King and Country. Ashamed and sobered, she collected the cauliflower (slightly battered) from the scullery shelf and took it into the kitchen.