A Gathering Storm

by Rachel Hore

  When the song was over, they went back to their seats. The young Flying Officer from Ed and Peter’s school reappeared. The Italian beauty had vanished. Dougie started on some anecdote about a friend Guy and Judy seemed to know.

  ‘Would you like to dance?’ the Flying Officer asked Beatrice and it seemed impolite to refuse. Nick, she thought that was his name. He led her round the floor in an uncomfortably brisk fashion and asked her how she knew the Wincantons.

  ‘We were neighbours in Saint Florian,’ she told him.

  ‘I wanted to tell you,’ he said in her ear. ‘Peter. I didn’t like to mention this in company. A pal told me he’s doing something frightfully hush hush. His father got him the introduction. I don’t know if it’s true, but it’s rather interesting if it is. Clara’s right, he is rather a strange chap.’

  Beatrice resisted the temptation to pull away. Peter had to be defended. ‘He’s shy, I told you. And a little unhappy, I think. He’s always been rather kind to me, actually.’

  ‘Has he?’ Nick said, staring at her. ‘Well, I’m pleased to hear it. I’m sorry if I’ve said the wrong thing. I intended no offence, you know.’

  ‘None taken,’ Beatrice said, but knew she sounded cool. As soon as the dance was over, she thanked him quickly and started to walk back to her seat.

  ‘Air raid. AIR RAID. AIR RAID,’ a stout warden was hollering. ‘Out you all come, gentlemen and laydees. The fun’s over for now.’

  There was a great fluttering as people searched for bags and coats and began to swarm to the exits. A few didn’t move at all. One couple continued to sway together on the dance floor, as if welded to one another, though the band had stopped playing.

  Beatrice found herself caught up in a surging tide of humanity squeezing up the bottleneck of the stairs and out into the square, where they finally heard sirens. She saw Judy, briefly, a few yards away, but then she was borne out of sight by the crowd. Someone took her arm. ‘Beatrice,’ Guy said in her ear. ‘I thought we’d lost you.’

  The atmosphere was surprisingly gay. A party in front were rather the worse for drink, the men joking and the girls shrieking with laughter as they stumbled along the road in the direction of the Underground.

  ‘Looks like we’ve lost Dougie and Judy altogether,’ Guy said, looking about.

  ‘I saw they were with one another, at any rate. Look, there’s a side entrance through here,’ Beatrice said, hoping it would be less busy, and she led them along an alleyway and then down a flight of steps just as the hooter sounded for ‘danger overhead’.

  Down on the platform they had to step round the regular occupants, who’d already arranged themselves for the night. The atmosphere was raucous here, with singing and laughter. Eventually they found a few square inches of space in a passage and Guy folded his great-coat for them both to sit on. They waited together, feeling the air sucking and blowing about them, whether from trains or explosions, Beatrice couldn’t tell. Every now and then the whole edifice around them shuddered in a terrifying fashion and everybody would cry out in fear. Guy’s hand felt for hers and she clutched it tightly. When someone passed them tea from a Thermos, they shared the cup. Later, he put his arm around her and held her close.

  After what might have been an hour the message was handed down that the all clear had sounded, and the more temporary residents started getting up and gathering their possessions. When Beatrice and Guy emerged into Leicester Square, it was to see that it had escaped the bombs altogether. And there were Dougie and Judy waiting for them where the railings would have been, had the authorities not taken them away for scrap.

  ‘We thought you’d spot us all right,’ Dougie said. ‘Don’t know what you think, but I’d say we’ve seen the best of this place tonight. Would you girls like to come on with us? We’re kipping with a pal near Manchester Square.’

  ‘I’m up for it,’ Judy said. ‘How about you, Beatrice?’

  ‘Is it far? What about Matron? We’d need to be able to get back to Bloomsbury afterwards,’ Beatrice said. They’d get a terrible ticking off if Matron realized they’d been out all night.

  ‘Honestly, that woman treats us like children,’ Judy muttered, but the complaint was half-hearted.

  ‘It’s only a little way north of Oxford Street, practically round the corner from you,’ Dougie wheedled. ‘We’ll see you get home safe, I promise.’

  It was getting on for midnight when they stepped out of a taxi into pitch darkness. Tinny dance music swirled in the misty air and when a front door opened to disgorge party guests, a feeble yellow light was cast briefly across the pavement. Long enough for Beatrice to take in a terrace of white-painted houses, the end one on the left roofless, like a broken tooth, exposed to the sky.

  Dougie knocked on the door of one to the right of the party house. There was no response. ‘Perry must be out,’ he told the others. He foraged under a window box, produced a key and got the door open.

  ‘He showed us where everything is so we’ll make ourselves at home, shall we? Ah, here we are, come in.’ They walked into a hall where the light didn’t work when Dougie tried it, and through a door to the left.

  It had once been grand, Beatrice saw, looking round the drawing room with its crumbling plaster decoration and its faded velvet curtains. Now it smelt terrifically of damp, there was a great crack down the front wall, and the striped paper was dark with mildew. The music from the party next door ebbed and flowed through the dividing wall.

  Dougie vanished and when he returned he held two half-bottles of whisky to his chest. Guy, meanwhile, set about switching on lights and an electric fire, and the girls were coaxed finally into unbuttoning their coats. Dougie splashed whisky into tumblers and sat on one of the sofas with Judy snuggling into him, while Guy and Beatrice shared the other. Guy brooded unhappily and Beatrice wondered how long it would be before she could go home.

  After Dougie refilled everyone’s glasses, to Beatrice’s horror he pulled Judy to her feet and said, ‘We’re going on a wander. See you later, I expect.’

  Beatrice and Guy listened to them tramping noisily up the stairs, Judy shrieking with laughter, then came the sound of a door slamming. Alone now with a stranger, Beatrice huddled into a corner of the sofa, unable to think of a thing to say. Guy cleared his throat and moved a little closer. He said, ‘Shall we? If you want to?’

  It took her a moment to realize what he meant. She shook her head fiercely. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’

  Guy looked relieved. ‘I didn’t think so,’ he said.

  ‘It’s just . . . not me,’ Beatrice stammered.

  He smiled, all his nervousness gone, and now she thought how nice he looked.

  ‘Thank heavens for that,’ he told her. ‘I’m afraid I’m a bit out of my depth with girls like Judy.’

  ‘I’m awfully fond of her,’ Beatrice said, her face warm from whisky and embarrassment.

  Guy lit a cigarette and said, ‘Dougie’s crazy about her. Bores us all rotten about it. Look, I heard you say earlier you hail from Cornwall. I know the place a bit. Used to holiday in Newquay with my aunt, in fact. Which part are you from?’

  And Beatrice found herself telling him about St Florian and about her parents and her early childhood in France, and in return he described his upbringing on the Welsh borders near Hay, where his family were landowners and farmers. The lilt in his voice became more pronounced when he spoke of two elder brothers, of a little sister who’d died of meningitis. After boarding school in Malvern he’d applied for a commission a year or two before war broke out. His company, like Rafe’s, had been in France, and he’d been evacuated from Dunkirk, being picked up by a Hythe fisherman. ‘Forevermore I’ll associate the white cliff s of home with the stink of fish and oil,’ he said, with a smile. ‘But don’t think I wasn’t grateful.’

  ‘I have a friend who was in France.’

  ‘He’s alive?’

  ‘Yes. He was taken prisoner. But we haven’t had news of him for a long while now.’


  There was silence between them. So much of this war was about waiting, about not knowing, Beatrice thought, and hardly daring to hope.

  The music next door stopped abruptly, to be replaced by the sound of voices raised in argument, then a woman’s angry squeal. A door slammed and people spilled onto the street, where they talked and laughed and shouted goodbyes, then all was quiet.

  Eventually, Guy said, ‘Oh, not again. Listen.’

  Somewhere far away, the sirens were howling. Soon came the dull thud of bombs. This lasted for a tense few minutes, then there was silence.

  ‘It’s after two. I ought to get Judy home,’ Beatrice said, looking at her watch.

  ‘I’ll tell them.’ Guy went to holler up the staircase, and eventually Judy and Dougie reappeared, dishevelled and sheepish-looking.

  ‘We’ll walk you home, won’t we, Doug?’ Guy said, reaching for his coat.

  Outside, the temperature had dropped several degrees further and the girls, tired and hungover, were soon shuddering with cold. Fortunately, when they reached the main road, it was to see a taxi drawing up. Two women fell out, and one began arguing with the driver until the other said, ‘Let’s give him what he wants, Kath, I’m beat.’ She slapped some coins into the man’s hand and hauled her friend away.

  Dougie stalled the driver and snatched open the rear door. ‘Hop in, girls,’ he said.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Beatrice said to Guy. ‘I enjoyed this evening.’

  ‘So did I,’ Guy said, taking her hand.

  As the taxi bore her and Judy away, and the men were lost to the darkness, she was visited by the fear that she’d never see him again.

  ‘You liked him, didn’t you?’ Judy said, yawning. ‘I thought he’d be your sort.’

  ‘Whatever sort that is,’ Beatrice replied. ‘But I don’t know that I’ll see him again.’

  ‘I think you might,’ Judy said. ‘In fact, I’d bet on it.’

  ‘Dougie’s very keen on you,’ Beatrice said.

  ‘Yes. It’s no good though,’ said Judy, in a small voice. ‘Dougie’s married already. And his wife won’t give him a divorce.’

  Christmas slipped by and 1941 crept in. Apart from the night of 29 December, when the whole city was set aflame, the raids had become more sporadic. Although Londoners continued their established nightly routines, some settling into their garden shelters, others crowding into the Underground stations, others merely staying in bed and hoping for the best, that relentless terror, which visited with every twilight, felt easier to bear, and a patched-up version of normal life resumed.

  Guy telephoned Beatrice at the hostel a few days after their first meeting and they had dinner together a week later in a busy restaurant above Regent Street. She found they talked easily to one another. Beatrice was impressed by his quiet strength of character and simple decency. He spoke sympathetically about the men he led, and she sensed his devotion. Endearingly, he possessed a dogged belief that right would win over might, that they would prevail in this war. Beatrice wanted badly to believe him.

  In turn she spoke of her work, the long nights at the shelters, the days when she could drop with tiredness. How sometimes she helped the rescuers, though she could hardly bring herself to describe some of the things she’d seen. The worst was when a family’s garden shelter had sustained a direct hit. She and Mary had driven past immediately afterwards and stopped to help. The sight of the mutilated bodies of the three young children, laid alongside that of their mother on the pavement, was something she would never forget.

  ‘The father came home from work when we were bringing out the little girl . . .’ She shook her head, unable to continue. Still, from his intent expression and the tender way he touched her hand, she knew Guy was trying to understand and that was all she required.

  They met whenever they could after this, though it wasn’t easy. Once he didn’t turn up at their trysting place at all, and Beatrice returned to the hostel after two hours of waiting, and spent a night of worry, only to learn the next morning that he’d been stuck for hours on a train, unable to contact her. She was disconcerted to realize how much she was coming to look forward to their times together. It wasn’t as though she’d forgotten Rafe. Quite the opposite. She carried her love of him deep inside, along with a continuous prayer for his safety – and always she had to remind herself that Rafe belonged to Angie.

  Guy calmed her, held her steady. It was a gentle love, this one, built for her on friendship rather than passion, but she knew from the hungry looks he gave her that Guy wanted her, and from his tender solicitousness that his feelings ran deep. Gradually she found herself responding and would long for their meetings.

  Late in February 1941, he began to hint that his company would soon be on the move. ‘I can’t predict when,’ he told her, ‘just that it’s the rumour.’ Their meetings from then on felt snatched and intense. Every moment together might be their last for a long time.

  Once or twice, she went with him to Perry’s house, where he and Dougie usually stayed when they came up to London. Once, she met Perry – a harassed, thin-faced young man who worked nights on air defence, which explained why he was rarely at home. Although she and Guy shared passionate embraces on Perry’s sofa, he would never go what her friend Mary called ‘too far’. Having heard tales from some of the ATS girls, this puzzled her, but she was too inexperienced in such matters to discuss it with him, unsure of the protocols. Later though, when she was snug in her narrow bunk with its prickly blankets, she would lie burning with longing for him, and it would be some time before she settled to sleep.

  Soon after the second of these occasions, he asked her nervously if she would come away with him and she said she would. One Saturday morning in the middle of February, she took a train down to Hastings, through countryside sparkling with frost. He was there on the platform to meet her, and though she took his arm calmly enough she felt sick with nerves.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.

  ‘A little,’ she lied, but she was happy enough to pick at a fish pie in a restaurant on the high street, watching him dine more heartily on a steak pudding that was more suet than meat.

  In the afternoon, they wandered along the seafront until they reached a small hotel where the receptionist met Beatrice’s eye with a discreet smile as she checked their booking. The room had a sea view but was shabby, with ill-fitting windows that rattled in the wind. A fire burned in the grate, but the heat went straight up the flue rather than warming the room, so they undressed quickly and got directly into bed. She kept her eyes closed at first, enjoying his caressing fingers and the surprising feelings of her awakening body. ‘Wait a moment,’ he said, turning from her briefly to take something from the bedside cabinet. Whilst he fumbled with himself she put out her hand and stroked his chest, wondering at the strange hardness of the muscle, leaning to kiss the soft skin above his collarbone. When he was ready he took her in his arms once more and rolled gently on top of her so he was looking down into her eyes.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispered, ‘you know that, don’t you?’ and it seemed right and natural when he slipped inside her and soon they were moving together, slowly at first, then more urgently. ‘Oh, Beatrice,’ he whispered finally and she clung to him tightly until the delightful waves of warmth subsided. Afterwards they lay entwined without speaking and she felt tender and happy and loved. They dozed as the windows rattled and the wind roared in the chimney. Later, giggling and half-dressed, they took turns to creep along the corridor and use the bathroom.

  Next morning, as the train bore her away from him, she was overwhelmed, as at their first meeting, by an awful sense of loss. Her body, raw from the closeness of his, already needed to feel him again.

  After this short weekend, they snatched hungry moments alone together whenever and wherever they could, and the knowledge that at any time his orders might come gave their meetings a sweet urgency.

  It was one Thursday evening early in March that she was summoned to
the telephone in the draughty hall of the hostel. It was Guy.

  ‘Bea, they’ve put us on embarkation leave. Forty-eight hours. I’m afraid this is it. Listen. I must go home to my folks. It wouldn’t be fair not to. I wondered if you would come with me? Could you? I’d like you to meet them.’

  ‘Go to Wales? Guy, no – I mean I’d love to meet your parents, but I don’t imagine it’s possible. Not at this short notice.’

  ‘Will you ask?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  As she feared, her request for leave was turned down. She didn’t tell Guy what her Commanding Officer said. ‘If he were your fiancé, of course, that would be a different matter. But I feel a line must be drawn here. You’re so very young. And we simply can’t spare you at present. We’re so stretched with the other girls away.’

  It seemed a long time before he came to the telephone.

  ‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ she told him.

  ‘Damn.’ She heard him breathe down the crackling line. ‘Did you tell them it was important?’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘Judy hasn’t had any luck either. Our C.O. will only give me Saturday afternoon off . Can’t we meet on your way back through London?’

  He was late, a whole hour late, and she waited alone at a table in the gallery of the nightclub, peering through the railings, in case there was anyone she recognized amongst the dancing couples below. Twice she had coldly to tell some chancer that she was waiting for someone. Lateness, missed meetings, these were something everyone was used to now, but tonight it worried her more than usual. She was struggling to tamp down the fear that perhaps she’d never see him again when her attention was caught by a man in uniform walking round the edge of the dance-floor. There was something familiar about that bright fair hair that made her think of Rafe.

  ‘Bea. Thank heavens, I thought you might have given up waiting.’

  She swung round. ‘Oh, Guy.’ The fair-haired man vanished from her mind. Guy was at her side, warm, very much alive and out of breath. As he bent to kiss her cheek she smelt rain and cigarettes.