by Iona Grey
Through the window she saw Peter Underwood, sitting on the old bench beneath the apple tree. He was reading a book, his dark head bent, legs crossed in that very precise, particular way he had, as if somehow trying to make as little of himself as possible come into contact with the mossy, peeling paintwork. It was like that when Charles touched her, she’d noticed. Although he was good at saying the right things and going through the motions of courtesy she could feel him shrinking away, as if she was contaminated.
Peter hadn’t come with them to church. When she’d expressed surprise to Charles he’d been tight-lipped, as if it were a grown-up matter that she wouldn’t understand. Peter had been asking some questions about his faith, he said tersely; that was why they’d stayed up so late talking last night. Charles was hoping to help him through the crisis, but until then Peter didn’t feel able to pray in church and needed peace and space to think. His tone made it clear that the subject was closed.
Except of course, it was still very much there. At lunchtime, as the cauliflower cheese cooled and congealed Charles said an extra-long Grace, thanking God not only for the food, but also for friendship, loved ones, the gift of days spent together. Throughout Peter stared out of the French windows, where leaden clouds had taken up residence in yesterday’s delphinium skies. Glancing at him surreptitiously Stella saw the expression of elaborate resignation on his thin, sardonic face, and when Charles had finished he said, ‘Nice try, old chap.’
Reverend Stokes broke the tension by picking up his fork and prodding the cauliflower cheese.
‘Sunday lunch isn’t what it used to be.’
‘No,’ Charles agreed testily, ‘it isn’t.’
Conversation over lunch was stilted and sporadic, the atmosphere curiously tense. Peter Underwood pushed his cauliflower cheese around his plate with barely contained distaste and laid his fork down with half of it still uneaten. Reverend Stokes brightened visibly when Stella brought out the rice pudding, but Peter looked at it, then laid his napkin on the table and quietly asked if they would excuse him. Charles watched him leave the dining room then, after a few seconds, stood up and followed him, redness blossoming on his cheeks as if he’d been slapped. Reverend Stokes looked up from his pudding in mild surprise.
‘Underwood chap not feeling well? Pity for him, but all the more for us.’
After lunch Reverend Stokes retired to the sitting room with the newspaper and the wireless. Stella was washing up in the kitchen when Charles came in and announced he and Peter were going for a walk. It had begun to rain now, a steady summer downpour. He looked so fraught that she felt sorry for him.
‘You poor thing. It hasn’t been a very restful homecoming for you,’ she said, drying her lobster-pink hands. ‘You’re supposed to be on leave from other people’s spiritual problems.’
‘Being a minister is hardly a job with conventional hours,’ he replied, as if spelling out something very obvious to a simpleton. The little flame of sympathy was snuffed out. She only just managed to stop herself sticking her tongue out at his departing back.
Mercifully, Nancy arrived early. Stella was rolling out pastry to make jam tarts with the last of Marjorie Walsh’s rhubarb and carrot jam when she heard the front doorbell over the din of the Home Service coming from the sitting room. She ran to let Nancy in with floury hands, and ushered her down the gloomy passage to the kitchen, where she shut the door and gave her a swift, fierce hug.
‘Well?’
‘Nice to see you too, I’m sure.’
‘Sorry – it’s always wonderful to see you, you know that, but I’ve been on pins all day. I’m dying to know how it went last night – did you see him? Was he cross that I didn’t come?’
‘One question at a time would be good. And put the kettle on – I couldn’t half do with a cuppa.’
She should have known better than to try and rush her; Nancy’s stubborn streak meant she only ever did things in her own time and on her own terms. As her nerves screamed with impatience Stella filled the kettle and waited while Nancy went over to the stove, flapped her wet skirt and proceeded to narrate the story of how she’d been planning to walk, until the rain began to come down in stair-rods, so she’d caught the bus. Eventually, when she’d got that off her chest, she perilously lit a cigarette from the gas ring and settled herself down at the table. ‘So – quite the charmer, isn’t he, your Yank?’
‘You found him all right?’ Stella’s knuckles were white on the rolling pin. She was caught between dread and excitement.
‘Oh yes. Recognized him straight away, didn’t I? He was the handsome one sitting at the bar with his eyes fixed on the door and a sort of hungry look on his face, like a dog outside the butcher’s.’ She giggled. ‘Poor love. Mind you, he didn’t have to look so disappointed when I told him you wasn’t coming and he’d have to put up with me instead. I almost cut my losses at that point; left him to drink on his own.’
‘You didn’t though, did you?’
‘Nah, course not. Wasn’t going to pass up the chance for a free drink. Or several, as it turned out. Not mean with his money, is he?’ Nancy flicked ash into a saucer. ‘I like that in a man.’
‘So what did he say? I mean, what did you talk about?’
‘This and that. You mostly.’
Happiness rose inside her, like a fat, pink sun and she laughed. ‘Not the most exciting evening out you’ve ever had, then.’
Nancy picked up the spoon Stella had just put down and ran her finger over it, sucking off the precious jam. ‘Course, he wanted to know all about the vicar, too.’ She dropped her voice and cast a furtive glance towards the door. ‘He’d had a bit to drink by then. Kept asking if he loves you.’
Quite suddenly the laughter had evaporated, like the sun going behind a dark cloud. ‘It’s all right, he’s out. If Charles loves me, you mean? What did you say?’
‘Well, I didn’t know what to say, did I? So I decided to tell it like it is.’ Nancy’s gaze held an edge of defiance as she slid her finger into the bowl of the spoon so that jam oozed over it like blood. ‘I said I wasn’t sure. I mean, it should be obvious, shouldn’t it? He should be going round with a grin a mile wide on his face to have landed a wife like you.’ She shrugged. ‘I might be speaking out of turn here, but I’m not sure he even notices you, never mind loves you, and that’s the God’s honest truth.’
Stella turned away, stricken, opening the oven door and slipping the tray of jam tarts into it. Hearing someone else, even if it was only Nancy, say out loud the secret that had been haunting her for months was shocking. Instantly a dozen responses bobbed to the surface of her mind: He’s just not the kind of person who shows his emotions . . . His faith makes it hard for him . . . The war has made it impossible to have a normal marriage . . . but she didn’t want to say them aloud and expose them to Nancy’s inevitable scorn.
From along the passageway they heard the front door slam, and the sound of voices in the hall. It cut through Stella’s thoughts, galvanized her into action. Flustered she looked around the messy kitchen.
‘They’re back – and I haven’t made the sandwiches yet, or laid the table.’
Nancy’s expression was difficult to read as she got to her feet. ‘Where’s the bread? I’ll make a start on the sandwiches. What are you putting in them?’
‘There’s not much. I was going to grate a carrot, and there are lettuces in the garden . . . I’ll open a tin of Spam.’ She grabbed the dishcloth from the draining board and was scrubbing at the sticky residue of pastry on the table when the kitchen door opened.
Charles’s cheeks were pinker than ever and crystal droplets of rain sparkled in his sandy hair. Coming into the kitchen he looked uneasily around, and although he took in the floury surfaces, the open jam jar on the table and the spoon resting stickily beside it, he seemed not to notice Nancy.
‘Tea will be ready soon, I hope? Peter needs to catch a train.’
‘Yes. I was just about to lay the table.’ Stella gestured to
the tray on the worktop, on which she’d put the cups and saucers and plates ready. Charles frowned.
‘Those cups?’ He made a little irritated sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. ‘Could we not use the ones Aunt Edith gave us as a wedding present? The rose-patterned ones?’
‘Of course . . . Sorry, how silly of me. It’s been so long since I used them I’d forgotten all about them. I’ll get them out now.’
She went past him into the dining room and opened the door of the oak sideboard. The tea set was stacked carefully on its shelves and she took out the cups, wiping the dust off them with her apron. She’d been so thrilled to receive them – how odd that she should forget about them. Placing the cups on the top of the sideboard she looked at the wedding photograph that stood there and noticed that it too was dusty. She’d just picked it up and was rubbing the corner of her apron over the glass when Charles appeared in the doorway.
‘You found them?’
‘Yes.’ She held up the photograph and smiled, feeling suddenly shy. ‘Almost a year. It hasn’t been the best start for a marriage has it?’
It was intended, perhaps not to bridge the chasm that lay between them, but at least to acknowledge it. To re-establish some connection, however tentative.
‘I’m sorry it hasn’t lived up to your expectations,’ he said coldly. ‘I suggest you stop reading those appalling novelettes and filling your head with romantic nonsense. Now, if we could manage to give Peter some tea before he leaves?’
He went out, and she stood there, still holding the photograph, feeling utterly foolish. Nancy’s right, she thought with a little gasp, setting it down again. He doesn’t love me. He never has. I’ve always known but I didn’t want to admit it. He really doesn’t love me at all.
She waited for the hurt to kick in, but instead the realization was like a weight falling from her – the burden of her guilt, she supposed. In her head the clouds rolled away and the sun came out.
16
22 June ’43
Dear Stella
It was good to get your letter. I didn’t want to cause trouble for you by writing when Charles was home, but I got worried when I didn’t hear from you for so long. I don’t know what I was worried about, exactly. Maybe I just missed hearing your voice.
I guess it’s not surprising that Charles isn’t being sent back to Tunisia – things look like they might be a whole lot quieter in North Africa for a little while, thanks to your guy Montgomery. How long will he be at the training camp before this new regiment gets shipped out? I got Johnson to look up Barnard Castle on those navigator’s maps of his. In English terms he reckons it’s a pretty long way away, which is great. I probably shouldn’t say that, but – what the hell. I hate it that the guy doesn’t appreciate you, which I guess is reasonable. I also hate it that he stopped me from seeing you that night, which I know is not. It was great to meet Nancy and put a face to the name (she actually looks like a Nancy) but it would’ve been so much better to see you.
This Peter Underwood guy sounds like quite an oddball . . . From what you say he sure seems to have a strange kind of a hold over Charles. Let’s hope he doesn’t happen to bump into him again the next time he gets leave.
I’m glad the peaches went down well. You don’t have to thank me – at least, as I remember, you already did (and I do remember it . . . over and over. I really liked your Ada, but she has lousy timing). Three crates of tinned peaches was a small price to pay for a kiss like that.
Look after yourself for me, beautiful girl.
Dan
27 June ’43
Dear Stella
Edge of Darkness hasn’t reached the movie theater in Bury St Edmunds yet, but I’ll sure look out for it. Last week it was showing I Married a Witch – again. I didn’t like it much the first time around, but Morgan is nuts about Veronica Lake so I somehow found myself sitting through it a second time. Guess what – I fell asleep. Sleeping through Veronica Lake in the company of a guy I spend far too much time with anyway is nothing compared to sleeping through Myra Hess with you. (You know, I actually can’t believe I did that, or that you were so sweet about it.)
It sounds like the machines you saw on the newsreel were the same ones I fly – B-17s. They’re big, but not as big as the B-24s that are coming over from home now. They all have names and pictures painted on the nose, though don’t ask me how that started. Ours is called Ruby Shoes, and she has a painting of a beautiful redhead wearing a pair of glittering red shoes and not a whole lot more. We picked the name for our ball turret gunner, a kid called Joey Harper. He’s the youngest member of the crew and was so homesick the first three weeks of training that he barely spoke, except to say how much he wanted to go home. Since he comes from Kansas we figured that what he needed was a pair of ruby slippers like Dorothy’s in The Wizard of Oz (did you ever see that movie?). The attractive lady wearing them is just a bonus.
Things have been busy around here. We’ve almost reached the fifteen mission mark, which is when they give you a medal (I guess they figure they ought to give us something now because they don’t think we’ll make it to twenty-five). They don’t count the extra rides I’ve taken with other crews. I thought it would get easier, the more missions you flew, but if anything it’s harder because you can’t help thinking about the odds getting shorter. It’s best not to think about it at all.
Take care of yourself.
D x
2 July ’43
Dear Stella
Forget what I said about flying and medals and odds – it was a stupid remark that I never would have made if I ’d thought about it for even a half-second. You’re not allowed to be worried, OK? Right now there’s nothing at all to worry about, except that I’m going to bankrupt myself at poker. Every morning we get woken up before first light and go through briefings and breakfast, only to make it down to the flight line and have the mission cancelled because of cloud cover over the targets. After that there’s nothing to do all day but play cards and soccer, which can get pretty competitive sometimes but hasn’t resulted in any casualties so far.
I’ve put in for a leave pass. I don’t want to tempt fate and assume I’ll get it, but I think there’s a good chance – they don’t want us all hanging around here and going slowly crazy with nothing to do. If I did, what would you say to going away someplace? If that sounds presumptuous, ignore it and I’ll never mention it again, I swear . . .
Take care of yourself for me.
Dan x
6 July ’43
Dear Stella
That’s a yes? You’re sure? I mean, you didn’t quite write it big enough . . .
So – where should we go? I guess New York and Paris are both out, and London isn’t exactly an escape for you. Should we head for the coast? Is there any coast left that hasn’t been barricaded up with barbed wire and gun placements? Will it be difficult for you to get away?
Take care, for me.
D x
11 July ’43
Dear Stella
Ah – so Nancy has a long-lost mom? And a long-lost mom who’s chosen right now to get back in touch? I think I love this woman (or the woman who made her up). Of course it’s natural that you’d want to be with your friend when she went to visit. And, if she lives somewhere nice, with a great hotel, well – that would be just perfect.
I’ve never been to Brighton, but from reading your description I’m pretty sure I don’t want to. I couldn’t give a damn about being by the sea – I see enough of the stuff flying over it – and you’re right about the trains. How about Cambridge? It’s a beautiful city, and a great place to get lost in, and we won’t waste a precious day to get there. Do you think that maybe Nancy’s mom might just live in Cambridge?
Another two missions down. No word on the pass yet. With any luck it won’t be long, but when these things come through they tend to be pretty immediate. Will that be a problem?
Take care of yourself for me.
Dan x
The ligh
t was nearly gone and it was almost impossible to make out the words. But excitement rose like wreaths of smoke from the page as the plans for those stolen days seventy years ago were made.
Jess sensed a change, and wondered what had happened to bring it about. Their initial tentative friendship had entered a different phase, and there was a sort of exuberance in Dan Rosinski’s tone. She remembered what he’d said about a kiss – a kiss that had been worth three crates of tinned peaches. A kiss that had meant so much it had made him able to forget that he was regularly flying deep into enemy territory and not knowing if he’d come back. A kiss like nothing Jess had ever experienced.
The book in the library had outlined the facts, and the odds that were stacked against the young American airmen who poured into East Anglia during the war. She’d skimmed over a lot of it, her attention diverted by the photographs; crowded dance halls decked with streamers and balloons, airmen queuing for coffee and doughnuts at Red Cross vans, crews lined up beneath their planes – pin-up girl paintings just like the one Dan described visible in the background. But one statistic stuck in her mind. A tour of duty consisted of twenty-five missions in 1943, she’d read. The average life expectancy was seventeen.
Dan Rosinski must have known that, but apart from that one bit about the medal for fifteen missions, he didn’t mention it. He talked about his friends and the films they’d seen, and he focused his mind on planning a trip he couldn’t guarantee he’d be alive to take with the woman he hadn’t meant to fall in love with.
She lay back on the pink counterpane in the evening gloom, and thought about Dodge. Even at the beginning, when she’d actually believed that he loved her, she couldn’t imagine him doing anything like that for her. But then she couldn’t imagine him setting aside his own needs, his own comforts, his own plans for anything that didn’t directly line his own pocket. His swaggering selfishness had almost, ironically, been part of his attraction – it was as if his belief in his own importance had made her believe it too. Dodge prided himself on being a seasoned veteran of many a violent war-zone but they were all ones that didn’t require him to move from the horrible black PVC sofa in the flat, or shift his eyes from the huge flatscreen TV as he gunned down enemies with a beer in one hand and a spliff in the other.