by Erica James
Alone in the dark as they walked to Winter Cottage, where they were to spend their first night together, he scarcely spoke, and when he did, it was to utter just a few short words before lapsing into brooding silence. With sadness Florence remembered how Billy had always joked around and chatted nineteen to the dozen.
He’s exhausted, she chided herself, just as the ugly screech of a barn owl filled the night stillness, followed by the swoosh of its wings as the bird swooped across the lane in front of them. The next thing Florence knew, she was being thrown to the ground. The air knocked out of her, it was some moments before she realised that she was lying in the ditch with Billy on top of her. He was breathing hard, the weight of his body crushing her painfully.
‘Billy,’ she said, trying to wriggle free, ‘what is it? Are you all right?’
When he didn’t answer, just began to shake, she recalled the sobbing young soldier on the bus on the way to Sudbury and the state he’d been in. In a degree of shock herself, she held Billy in her arms. Minutes passed as she did her best to comfort him, and when eventually his body stilled, he rolled off her and struggled to his feet. He held his hand out to her and helped her up.
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, avoiding her gaze. ‘You must think I’ve lost my mind, turned into one of those pathetic ninnies who jumps at the slightest noise.’
‘I don’t think anything of the sort,’ she said softly. ‘I know what a terrible time you must have had.’
He shook his head and at last levelled his gaze with hers. ‘No you don’t. Unless you were there, you can’t possibly understand what it feels like to see men all about you blown to bits. To wonder if it’s your own head about to be blasted off your body and left to roll around on the sand.’
‘You’re right,’ she said, doing her best not to flinch at the unfamiliar harshness of his tone. ‘But I just want you to know that I love you no matter what.’
They walked the rest of the way to Winter Cottage in a silence punctuated by their footsteps, the heavier sound of Billy’s boots and Florence’s lighter step.
‘I’m not sure I can do this,’ he mumbled when they reached the cottage and Florence produced the key from her handbag.
‘What can’t you do?’ she asked him.
‘Be here with you tonight.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Perhaps it’d be better if I went home, to my parents. I should see them before I return to barracks.’
‘I thought you said you’d see them in the morning?’
He turned his head to one side, then the other, looking anywhere but at her. ‘I’m tired,’ he said flatly.
‘Even more reason to stay the night here.’
‘But … but it’ll be our first night together and I don’t think I … and you’re probably hoping …’ His voice trailed off.
She put a hand on his forearm, suddenly understanding what was worrying him. ‘It’s okay, Billy. We’re just going to sleep. That’s all.’ Before he could say anything else, she put the key in the lock and pushed open the door. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you to bed so you can sleep.’
But they didn’t sleep. Trying to put him at ease, Florence gently encouraged Billy to talk, to share with her what he had gone through in the last few days, days that he could never have imagined he’d ever experience. In the darkness, lying side by side in bed, their bodies only just touching, he told her how he and Elijah had become separated from the rest of the men; how after sleeping rough they’d managed to steal a German motorcycle. Their commanding officer had told them to head to the coast, to Dunkirk, where the rescue operation would take place. They thought they were doing well, even joking that they were escaping to Dunkirk with the aid of enemy fuel, but when they reached the coast and hid in the sand dunes along with all the other soldiers waiting to be rescued, that was when they encountered the full might of the Luftwaffe strafing the skies above them. With bombs raining down on them, they were convinced they wouldn’t make it. Even after they had waded out up to their chests in seawater and finally made it onto a rescue boat heading for England, Billy had been certain he would die.
‘What about Tommy?’ asked Florence when at last he fell quiet. ‘Did he make it home?’
Billy slowly shook his head. Then he turned and burrowed his head into her neck and cried silently, his body shaking violently within her arms.
Florence cried with him, for the boy he’d once been and for the man he now was.
Chapter Seventy-One
July 1940
On a warm and sunny morning in July, a little over a month since the night Billy and Elijah had arrived home safely, Romily was up early with Isabella. After changing and feeding the baby, she carried her outside to the garden.
At a slow, unhurried pace she walked across the dewy grass, leaving behind her a trail of footsteps. She paused to drink in the heavenly smell of the stocks and the sweet peas that were climbing rampantly up the canes she had placed in the flower bed with Bob Manners’ guidance. It was such a simple pleasure, breathing in the sweet perfume of the flowers, but one that seemed almost symbolic of everything the country was fighting to protect and preserve. The sheer loveliness of the garden on this perfectly glorious morning confirmed what Sarah had said, and what Romily had always known to be true – she could not remain here while a ruthless regime that was hell-bent on destroying all that was just and beautiful in the name of fascism marched ever nearer.
With Italy now at war with Britain and the Nazi swastika flying from the Eiffel Tower in Paris, the fight to defend themselves had escalated dramatically in the last month, and there was genuine fear amongst many in the village that a German invasion could actually now happen. No longer did anyone speak of a phoney war. Two days ago, Norwich had been bombed and one of Bob Manners’ nieces who worked at the Colman’s factory had been lucky to escape with her life.
There had been losses closer to home. Wally Bryson who used to work in the butcher’s shop hadn’t made it back from France, and Billy and Elijah had seen with their own eyes their old friend Tommy mown down by enemy gunfire. They had tried to carry him to safety, but he’d died in Billy’s arms.
Elijah had told Romily how he and Billy had been rescued on the beach at Dunkirk, and she could only wonder at the matter-of-fact way he spoke of what must have been a hellish ordeal. His stoicism had touched Romily and left her thinking how proud Allegra would have been of him.
She had tentatively asked Elijah, that night he had arrived back, if he wanted to go upstairs and see Isabella asleep in her cot. His expression had changed instantly to one of pained emotion, and she had regretted her question. Mrs Partridge had stepped in and said perhaps he might prefer to see the child in the morning after a good night’s sleep. He’d agreed quickly that that might be better, then said it was time he set off for Clover End Cottage.
He’d returned the next morning and, with what Romily could only describe as a look of heartbreak on his face, had made Isabella’s acquaintance in the garden as she lay in her pram watching the leaves in the apple tree dancing above her.
‘She looks like Allegra,’ he’d whispered. It was the first utterance he’d made of Allegra’s name.
‘That’s what we all think,’ Romily had said. ‘She’s beautiful, isn’t she?’
He’d nodded. ‘I’ve never seen a baby so small before. Is she … you know … quite well?’
‘Oh yes, quite well, and with the sweetest temperament. She sleeps like a charm and rarely cries.’
‘Allegra was so sure she would have a girl,’ he’d said wistfully.
Romily had suggested he might like to hold the baby, and he’d looked shocked.
‘Me?’ he’d said.
‘Why not?’ she’d asked.
‘Because … because I might drop her.’ He’d held up his large rough hands as though this was evidence enough to prove
his case.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Romily had encouraged him. And without giving him a chance to back out, she had reached into the pram and carefully placed Isabella in his arms. ‘See,’ she’d said, ‘nothing to it.’
But there was everything to it, and when Isabella’s soft hazel gaze had met his and her lips curved into what had become her trademark lopsided smile, Elijah’s eyes had misted over and Romily could see he was struggling to keep his composure. Expecting him to want to give the child back, she had put her hands out, but he’d shaken his head and turned away, slowly walking the length of the garden, his head lowered as if deep in conversation with Isabella.
Since then Elijah and Billy, as members of the 1st Battalion of the Suffolk Regiment, had been sent to Frome in Somerset to begin what they had been told would be a lengthy period of intensive training. Elijah wrote every week, always asking after Isabella and often sending her a small present. In return Romily also wrote every week, and occasionally she would include a sketch that Hope would draw of Isabella as a keepsake for him.
Now, as Romily picked a handful of fragrant sweet pea flowers to take inside, holding the bunch so Isabella could look at them, she thought of Elijah’s willing involvement in the child’s life and felt sure that before too long, providing he survived this bloody awful war, Isabella would come to know him as her loving father, just as Allegra had wanted.
Deep in thought and retracing her steps across the dewy lawn, Romily looked up to see Hope standing at the French doors of the drawing room. She was dressed in a sombre dress of dark green, a colour that drained her of what little colour she possessed, and it reminded Romily that she had better get a move on. Today they were holding a memorial service at the church for Kit. Hope had put off organising it, perhaps refusing to let go entirely of her younger brother.
If ever there was a man who enjoyed the sound of his own voice, it was the Reverend Tate.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if he’d actually known Kit properly, but as it was, he was merely gushing one insincere platitude after another. It was one of the reasons Hope had not rushed to hold this service; she had not trusted herself to sit through an hour of her brother being wholly misrepresented. At times like this, she thought with caustic irreverence, it seemed to be the prerogative of the living to canonise the dead.
Positioned in the pew at the front of the church, with Arthur to her left and Romily and Roddy to her right, she longed for Reverend Tate to bring a halt to his monotonous drivel. But there seemed to be no end to his verbosity. Kit was now being held up as a shining example of bravery, an example the young boys in the village should live up to.
No! Hope wanted to scream. It wasn’t bravery that had led Kit to his death; it was a desire to prove to their father – even if he was dead – that he was as much a man as Jack Devereux had ever been. Poor Kit, so desperate for approval all his short life, he had made the ultimate sacrifice.
Tears filled Hope’s eyes as she recalled the last letter her brother had written to her, and she dashed them away angrily. From nowhere she was suddenly consumed with a white-hot anger. Anger that Kit had felt the need to prove himself. Anger that their father could not have shown that he loved Kit for the boy he was. Anger that a madman in Germany had plunged Europe into a war that was going to claim many more lives yet. She was angry too that loving another person could make one feel so vulnerable to the pain of loss. First Dieter, then her father and Allegra, now her brother. How many more would she lose? Otto and Sabine? Edmund? Oh please not Edmund!
Not for the first time that day, Hope wished Edmund had managed to find the time to get away, but he was still frantically busy in London treating all those poor horrifically injured soldiers who had returned from France and Belgium.
She leant forward just a couple of inches and turned discreetly to look at Evelyn, who was sitting in the pew across the aisle from her. Hope had never known Evelyn to show an excess of emotion, and she wasn’t showing any now. Staring ahead, her gaze fixed on the stained-glass window behind the altar, she gave the impression of being oblivious to Reverend Tate droning on. The only sign that she was upset was the handkerchief that was poking out from her hands on her lap.
Thank God that fiasco was finally over, thought Arthur as he followed his sister out of the church and into the bright summer sunshine. Another minute and they’d all have fallen asleep, or died of sheer boredom.
With no grave to stand around, people were gathering in small groups on the gravel pathway, unsure what to do next other than avoid the peril of getting stuck talking to Reverend Tate; in that purpose they seemed entirely of one mind.
‘I can’t think for a moment that Kit would have approved of that,’ said Evelyn Flowerday as she approached Hope and Romily.
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ replied Hope. ‘It was truly ghastly. I hardly recognised the person Tate was talking about. What did you think, Arthur?’
Surprised at the question, that his opinion mattered to his sister, he said, ‘I couldn’t agree more. The whole show was deplorable and plumbed depths of sentimentality that even Kit would have baulked at. Please swear on all you cherish that you won’t allow my send-off to be so soppy.’
Hope gave a half smile. ‘The same goes for me. Just have a choir to sing “How Great Thou Art” and then get on with having a drink.’
The exchange surprised Arthur. He had thought his sister might have lapped it all up, a ready convert to Kit’s new status as courageous hero who could do no wrong.
‘Talking of which,’ said Romily, ‘do you suppose we ought to put everyone out of their misery and tell them it’s time to move on to Island House for refreshments?’
‘Why not?’ said Hope. ‘Having survived the awfulness of that toe-curling service, I certainly think we all deserve a drink.’
‘A very large one at that,’ said Roddy. ‘Shall I do the honours and round everybody up? Not that I think they’ll need much encouraging.’
Roddy was right; it didn’t take long for people to get the message and begin the short walk to Island House, the sombreness of the last hour evaporating in the warm sunshine as they strolled along the footpath. By the time they reached the house, the mourners had adopted an air of cheerful revelry, as if on a pleasant day out. A flash of irritation had Arthur wanting to tell them to show some bloody respect, but his annoyance was so insignificant that frankly he didn’t have it in him to criticise, not when he himself had been feeling in such good spirits lately.
Ever since he’d discovered Pamela was alive, that he hadn’t actually murdered her, he had felt different, almost as if he had had a close shave with death itself and survived. In many ways he had, for if he really had killed the woman and had somehow been found guilty of doing so, he would have very likely been hanged for it. Until that day when he’d encountered Pamela and David Webster together, he hadn’t understood just how heavily that threat of discovery had weighed upon him. Yes, the news that he was going to be a father had cheered him considerably, but as the weeks had gone by he had realised just what he might lose if the police did come knocking on his door to arrest him. The thought of never knowing his child had made him sick to his stomach.
Yet for all that, his threat to Pamela, should she not do as he’d demanded in handing over all evidence of their association, had not been an empty one. It was now not only his own skin he was out to protect, but that of his unborn child.
Thanks to Mrs Partridge and Lotte, everything was ready for them when they arrived back at Island House. Florence had accompanied Stanley to the funeral, the boy having surprised them by wanting to attend. His interest in the war had grown since Billy and Elijah had returned from Dunkirk, and she worried that he saw life as a soldier or a pilot as one big adventure, a bit of a lark. He’d taken to quoting Churchill’s speeches at the kitchen table while they were eating, mimicking the prime minister’s gruff voice, which confused Bobby no end.
Miss Romily had said that maybe attending Kit’s memorial service might temper the lad’s enthusiasm. After Reverend Tate’s eulogy, Florence doubted that.
With Isabella fast asleep in her pram and Stanley amusing Annelise with Bobby, Florence was free to help Lotte serve drinks. The guests were gathered on the terrace, making the most of the lovely day, and she went outside with a tray of sherry glasses and moved amongst the villagers, most of whom she knew. There had been a good turnout, larger than they had expected, but then people here had known Kit when he was a young boy. Billy’s parents had closed the shop to be in church, as had several others. Florence was glad for Hope that so many had wanted to show their respects. She went over to her in-laws and offered them a drink. Ruby declined, but George took a glass of sherry, his large hand wrapped clumsily around the small, delicate glass.
‘Seems hard to believe that this time last year none of this had started,’ he said with a shake of his head.
‘I know,’ said Florence, thinking how she hadn’t really got to know Billy properly until last August Bank Holiday at the village fete.
As if reading her mind, George smiled. ‘We only knew you as a customer back then, and now you’re our daughter-in-law.’
Florence glanced anxiously at Ruby, waiting for one of her cutting remarks, but the woman remained tight-lipped. Things had very slowly improved between them, but Florence was always on her guard. ‘Just another fortnight and Billy will be home for two days’ leave,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait to see him. I was wondering if you’d like to come to Winter Cottage for Sunday lunch when he’s home.’
‘That’d be very kind of you,’ said George, ‘but we wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble at all. It’ll be nice to use the cottage properly, as a real home, now it’s all official like and Elijah’s letting us rent it from him, and so cheaply too, since I spend most of my time at Island House.’