When she kissed him again he kissed her back and held her close for several minutes. ‘Thank you, Stella,’ he said, and you’ve no idea how your affection for me is helping the war effort.
He forced himself to limit their physical contact to kissing, hugging and a little groping, sensing her frustration, regretting his self-control that night as he lay in bed remembering the imprint of her warm, curvy body against his, the weight of her breast against his hand.
Two weeks later he was sent to London again, the same frantic rush, the same routine except this time no reply to collect, so a chance go for Plan B. Steeling himself to carry on past the Red Lion and, racing to his father’s nearest shop, he found him closing for the night.
‘Just in time,’ he panted. ‘Dad, may I use the telephone?’
At the other end a gruff, deep Yorkshire accented voice answered and assured him he would be heartily welcome to stay the following night and that it would cheer the lass up no end to see him, in fact he would go round straight away to let her know. Jon obtained directions to the house from the station, insisting that he would appreciate the walk after the journey. ‘Please tell Pat not to trouble to meet me. I don’t know what time I’ll arrive. I’ll come straight to your house,’ he added.
Arriving at Doncaster shortly before midday he saw that a train from Sheffield had just arrived beforehand and was still puffing and snorting away from one platform as he alighted from his train on another. Sauntering over the footbridge, recalling Mr Morley’s directions, on descending the steps he was captured by a distant vision in dark green and soft golds, her face anxiously searching the disgorged passengers streaming towards her. She always dresses so elegantly despite the utility garments, her clothes are always beautifully co-ordinated, she has a timeless beauty and she’s mine, he thought. Her eyes passed over him and beyond and shot back and she was hurrying towards him, tentatively holding out a hand, timorous, uncertain, vulnerable. The contrast with Stella’s greeting two weeks earlier could not have been greater and he felt an almost overwhelming wave of love and lust and affection towards her and relief that he still felt the same in her presence as he remembered.
I want to cherish her, provide for her, protect her, fuck her. Christ, she’s such an innocent she probably doesn’t even know what the word means.
Relief spreading, tears glistening, she gabbled, ‘It’s so lovely to see you. I thought I saw everyone off the Sheffield train but I couldn’t see you, I was so worried.’
‘I stopped for a call of nature,’ Jon lied and she flushed, embarrassed, he thought, at evincing a confession of such a personal matter, ‘and I got caught up with passengers coming off the train from London.’
He bent and kissed her chastely on the cheek, and, hitching his rucksack over one shoulder, took her arm and together they turned and she led him out of the smart modern station into the Victorian centre of Doncaster.
‘You must see St George’s Church where we do fire-watching duties,’ she said. ‘It’s quite magnificent.’
And it was. A mini-cathedral astonishingly recreated by the Victorians looking as authentic as its thirteenth century original. She showed him the tiny side door that led directly to the tower’s spiral staircase and he looked up in horror at the height of the roof and the tiny low balustrade with a sheer drop beside which she passed in the course of her duties.
‘The church burnt down in the 1850s,’ said his tour guide. ‘You’ll never guess the architect who rebuilt it.’ Jon didn’t. ‘Sir George Gilbert Scott,’ she said as if that explained everything, and, thinking hard, Jon came up with, ‘The Albert Memorial?’ and, slipping her hand from his arm, she clapped excitedly like a small child.
‘Doncaster has some real gems,’ she said. ‘I’m so thrilled I can show them to you.’ Jon’s travel weariness fell away as he caught her infectious mood. Turning down St George’s Gate, Pat led him to the market area where he admired the magnificent late nineteenth century Corn Exchange, then back to the High Street where, towards the end on the right, she indicted a nondescript building at ground floor level.
‘This is St Gabriel’s headquarters. Although we use a number of venues, we do have a few lectures here squeezed into rooms at the back. But cross over,’ which they did, ‘and look up,’ which Jon also did, ‘isn’t that exquisite?’ Jon thought the bold blue and gold tiled first and second floor frontage interspersed with six imperialistic ionic columns and topped by a classical, flattened, inverted V somewhat gaudy, but her enthusiasm, eyes shining, head tilted up expectantly, again, thought Jon, childlike, tempered his honesty, and he assented.
‘We could get a bus from here,’ said Pat, ‘but there’s a road I really want to show you on foot. It’s on our way.’ She led him to Hall Gate and stopped, looking up the gentle slope of Hall Cross Hill towards the cross itself.
‘Close your eyes and I’ll turn you round a couple of times, then open them and imagine you’re here two hundred years ago in the heart of Georgian Doncaster,’ said Pat and he did so, and because she loved the jumble of tall, elegant eighteenth century buildings rising ahead of them, Jon found that he did too.
Mr Morley senior was out when they arrived and Elaine was helping with the preparation of the evening meal. Mrs Morley senior packed them off towards her front room with a ‘Eh up, my dears, make yourselves at home. I’ll get you some tea and a quick bite to eat. I expect you’re hungry now. How was your journey, lad?’ To Jon’s non-committal reply Mrs Morley added, ‘I know, there’s only so much the likes of you can tell the likes of us.’ Pat smiled at Jon apologetically, following Mrs Morley into the kitchen and on bringing the tea tray found Jon coming back downstairs. She blushed, he thought, at the realisation of the small room he had just visited, and she ushered him into the front room and shut the door firmly, placing the tray on a small table.
Alone for a moment, Pat hesitated, seeming suddenly shy again, and, drawing her to him, wrapping his arms around her, he kissed her gently on her lips. She’s so sweet, so tasty, so delicious. He wanted to thrust his tongue between her lips mimicking the act he really wanted to exercise upon her, but he was afraid of alienating her when she was at last alone and in his arms again. Time enough for that, he thought. She’s like a startled doe, trembling, ever ready to flee at the slightest danger. After several moments of dislocation from his surroundings he forced himself back to the reality of the ticking mantelpiece clock and the distant kitchen clatter, but he kept his hips pressed against her, noting a slight widening of her eyes as he looked down at her. Placing a hand behind her head he drew it into his shoulder and she seemed to melt into him, and they stood silent for a while, unmoving, content.
Later, handing him a cup, seated on the settee beside him, Pat said, ‘Elaine says we’re eating supper together with her parents and a visitor, though in my rush to meet you I didn’t catch who, probably one of Mr Morley’s contacts in the building trade or some army bigwig staying in the area. Even though Elaine lives next door we often eat like this and Mr Morley likes to combine business with pleasure. It’s a difficult time for them all with Harold Morley away fighting in Italy.’
Jon looked out of the window. ‘We seem to be at the modern outskirts of Doncaster. Is there much countryside around here not taken over by the army where we could take a stroll before supper?’
Pat thought. ‘The racecourse nearby’s been requisitioned, but I’m not sure about the hinterland the other way. I’ll ask Mrs Morley.’
After finishing their snack they set off eastwards, Pat pointing out the extent of the large, new estate, saying proudly, ‘Mr Morley built all the houses around here just before the outbreak of war. Did you notice that his and his son’s houses are a cut above the rest? He’s had to put the house building business in abeyance, of course, and is busy instead with government and army contracts of various sorts.’
‘I’m pleased to see you’re settled into what seems a nice family. I recall you telling me about your hit and miss experience in Leath
erhead.’
‘That seems such a long time ago now. London seems such a long way away too. It must be difficult for you, like me, stuck in the north and not able to get back to see parents.’ Pat looked up at him, eyes innocently wide, but he sensed a probing and replied, a little uneasily, ‘Well, you can’t have everything when there’s a war on.’
Turning along the edge of the estate southwards, Pat led him to a farm track opposite, running up an incline. ‘Mrs Morley says if we stick to this track and go through the farm and up towards those trees we should get a good view of Doncaster. She sometimes comes to the farm to get a few extras. But please don’t tell anyone I said that,’ she added hastily.
The lowering clouds threatened rain as they stopped at the treeline on the ridge above the farm buildings, picking out the top of the tall crenellated church tower in the far distance riding like a ship’s funnel above the sea of roofs and treetops. Drawing Pat against himself, as much for mutual warmth as for affection, shivering, embracing and laughing aloud at the sheer pleasure of togetherness, Jon thought, this has to be the very best moment of 1943 so far. If only I could bottle it and take it back with me.
Although the table was laid for six, five sat down for supper and Jon wondered if the guest was not coming. However, just as Mrs Morley was carrying a bowl of steaming potatoes, Elaine following with a steaming bowl of mashed swede, the front door knocker rapped and Mr Morley bustled off to greet his guest.
Moments later he returned ushering in a tall, sandy-haired army officer carrying a peaked cap who was saying, ‘It’s swell of you to put me up at short notice. I hope I won’t put you guys to too much trouble.’
Seated next to him, Jon felt Pat stiffen and heard her gasp. Turning his head, he saw a fleeting expression on her face of shock and horror, and something else he could not define. Grief? As he said softly, urgently, ‘Pat?’ her expression transformed, a huge emotional effort, into a tentative smile, a rictus, of welcome.
The newcomer, picking out with his deep blue eyes the oldest lady at the table and inclining his head towards Mrs Morley, said, ‘Major Joshua Bowman at your service, ma’am,’ and he held out his hand and shook hers firmly. Mrs Morley simpered and welcomed him, introducing Elaine, Pat and Jon in turn.
Mr Morley, disappearing for a moment and returning with three bottles of beers in one arm and a bottle opener in the other, asked the major,
‘Beer, lad?’ and, turning, offered the same to Jon, who thanked him and took one, the other being passed to the major who was settling himself at the remaining place at the table end beyond Pat.
Jon said, smiling, ‘I understand you chaps like your beer ice cold. We may not have refrigeration over here but it gives you a chance to enjoy the flavour more.’ To Mr Morley, ‘Is this a Doncaster brew?’
‘Payment in kind for work I did for Darley’s at Thorne,’ said Mr Morley. He turned to the major. ‘That’s oop north east o’ here, past racecourse and keep going.’ Settling himself down and diving into the laden plate appearing in front of him, he waved his fork in the direction of the major, similarly victualled, urging, ‘Eat oop now, don’t let it get cold, lad.’ As the major duly obliged, Mr Morley added, ‘Talking of t’racecourse, how’re your lads settling in?’
Major Bowman gave a non-committal reply and for a few moments conversation was desultory as hunger pangs were assuaged.
Mr Morley persevered. ‘Long journey, eh, lad? I’m told you’re on your way to Scotland.’
The major hesitated. Jon offered, ‘We understand you may be unable to tell us about military matters, sir. Have you ever been to London on leave at all?’
The major, relaxing a little, said, ‘Why yes, my last billet was near a cute town called Guildford near London. D’you know that part of England?’
Jon explained Pat’s Leatherhead connection and that although neither of them had been as far as Guildford, they understood it had a castle and a steep cobbled High Street.
‘Sure has,’ said the major. ‘A month ago we marched up that High Street celebrating three years since you British won the Battle of Britain.’
Pat was picking up her glass of water as he spoke; she jerked and water spilled, and while Mrs Morley fussed with mopping it up, Mr Morley exclaimed, ‘Eh, you two lads should’ve been in Doncaster here for our own Battle of Britain celebration last month. Quite a parade it were. It were grand.’
‘So you’re visiting, yourself?’ asked the major of Jon.
‘Yes, I’m with a REME unit in Lancashire. Nothing special,’ he added self-effacingly. ‘Just searchlight maintenance and learning how to teach it. First chance to pop across the Pennines to say hello.’ He felt Pat stiffen again, but she said nothing, her expression schooled, her fork chasing the food around her plate.
Elaine said, ‘My husband was in Sicily and he’s now with the eighth army in Italy.’
The conversation moved on to the Italian campaign, the major’s home city of Toronto, what he liked about England and, after some prompting, what he didn’t like, the major protesting that he was sure he’d come round to warm beer and cricket before the war was over.
‘I guess anyone from abroad’ll get homesick from time to time, but I discovered the best antidote in London. A swell place, the only one in England to serve authentic Canadian pancakes with maple syrup. Quite a griddle room they’ve got there.’
‘The Beaver Club,’ Jon said triumphantly.
‘Why, yes, d’you know it?’
‘Not been there myself but Pat’s mother works there.’
‘You don’t say!’ Turning and seeming to look at Pat properly for the first time.
Pat smiled wanly, ‘Yes,’ leaping up with alacrity to help as Mrs Morley gathered the dishes, busying herself with fetching and carrying. Jon was alarmed at Pat’s pallor and detachment from the social interaction of the evening. She seems out of sorts. She used to be such a sociable creature. This Canadian chap really seems to have spooked her. Perhaps she’s sickening for something.
After supper Elaine offered Pat and Jon the sitting room of her house. ‘I’ll stop with Mum and Dad for a while. Give you and your young man a little time together.’ Pat accepted with alacrity and led Jon away, visibly relaxing as they left the major to the mercy of Mr Morley and his Great War service.
‘Pat, what is it?’ Jon asked as they entered the house. ‘You seemed upset by the major. I would’ve thought having the Beaver Club in common would give you something to talk to him about.’
Drawing a shaky breath, Pat stepped up to him and he pulled her into a gentle embrace.
‘It’s nothing really. I just wanted to be alone with you and found it a bit of a strain, that’s all.’
The rest of the weekend passed too quickly for both of them. Pat saw him off at the station the following lunchtime, eyes bright with unshed tears, cheek muscles trembling from forced smiling. She’s so fragile, he thought. I want to wrap her up and cocoon her from the rest of the world.
‘I’ll come and see you again,’ he said.
Another month passed until the next trip to London, with a reply to collect. He went to the cinema with Stella who let slip casually on meeting, ‘Dierdre and Bridget are away for the weekend,’ and later, reaching her digs, she invited him in for a drink. Thank God I didn’t get rid of the condoms, he thought, to a familiar hardening. But my vest, Christ, what if she spots the pouch? She saw his hesitation and, misreading it, sighed. ‘Don’t worry, your loyalty does you credit.’ Reaching up she kissed him briefly, just brushing his lips. ‘See you around, soldier.’
Jon staggered home, aroused, regretting the lost moment, horrified at how close he had been to accepting, trying to recapture the wonder and awe of his love for Pat and hating the army, the war, the deception, the whole thing. If it wasn’t for the war he’d be with Pat in his spare time, working his way up from office junior, eighteen months into night classes for Sanitary Inspector training, they might be engaged and he might have got further with Pat than a few
chaste kisses. Instead I might go out in a bombing raid tonight or there could be an attack on northern towns, and I might never… I’m not stupid, Stella was handing it to me on a plate. What would the chaps think if they only knew I’m not dipping my wick in either. Fucking vest. Not daring to leave it behind in his rucksack in case his mother took it into her head to check for any loose items to add to her laundering of his uniform today, it had saved him, yet condemned him to another night of torment.
‘You’re seeing a lot of this Stella,’ observed his mother over breakfast the next morning. Jon grunted non-committedly. ‘What does your Pat make of it?’
‘It’s nothing to do with Pat. A chap can spend an evening with a girl without anything untoward. Pat’s best friend was Bill, that’s how I met her if you remember. Stella’s a friend of Margery’s. There’s nothing in it.’
‘It’ll get round the family through Margery,’ said his mother, ignoring his protests. ‘Next I know, Rose’ll be round to find out more.’
A bevy of aunts in south London’s not such a bonus after all, thought Jon. Christ, what if Mum decides to tell Pat? I wouldn’t put it past her.
He tried a different tack, widening his eyes, drooping the edges of his mouth, trying to put on a little-boy-lost look.
‘Mum, I’ll confess I’m going through a bit of a rough patch and I need your help here. I’m fond of Pat but I’ve only seen her the once since last Christmas, and she seemed remote and detached. I’m not sure how that’s going to work out and meanwhile,’ turning to include his father, ‘I’ll admit only to you and Dad that I enjoy Stella’s company and I look forward to coming home on leave as much because of her as to see you. But I feel a sense of duty to Pat and I don’t want her hurt, or at least any more than is necessary. So it’s really important to me to sort my priorities out first and if there’s anyone to tell Pat it has to be me and no one else. Please promise you won’t write to Pat and tell her anything about Stella or of me coming home on leave instead of going to see her. She thinks I’ve only had the one leave weekend since the summer and I want to keep it that way. Please.’
The Keeping of Secrets Page 25