Philip noticed only that he had her at last. ‘Haven’t gone yet,’ he said, his hug lifting her clear of the ground. ‘I’ve got three hours… Can we go somewhere?’ He looked past her, into the house and up the stairs, the question plain in his eyes. Roger’s voice answered it.
‘Rosie? There’s a hell of a draught…’
Philip felt for her hand, wanting to get her away as fast as possible, his mind scrambling for alternative places to go, but she skipped back inside the hallway.
‘Give me a minute,’ she said, closing the door against him. She ran upstairs and stood for a moment breathless in her room. Then she pinned her hair up under one of Dottie’s lovely scarves, slipped on the jacket and came down, the carpet oddly treacherous beneath her feet.
‘Rosie? Are you going out?’ Roger’s voice came again, and Philip longed to crash into the house and shoot him dead, but here she was at last, her blue eyes looking up at him, curls of black hair escaping from a bright silk topknot. ‘Howay then bonnie lad. You can take me for a walk.’
‘A walk?’
‘I’ve never walked with you in my life, have I?’ They turned into the street. ‘Put your arm around me. I want to show ye off.’
He did as he was told, sliding his hand under her jacket and up to the curve of her breast. She pushed it down.
‘Around me waist,’ she said. ‘Respectable. Like we were taking a Sunday stroll.’ She was teasing him. It was unbearable. There was so little time.
At the harbour they met a photographer. Rosie insisted they pose for a snap, afterwards lingering to take details of when and where she could collect the picture. The photographer was plump and hairless. He answered Rosie’s questions while sending pansy smiles over her head to Philip.
Another candidate for the firing squad. ‘We haven’t got long,’ Philip pleaded into Rosie’s ear as they posed on the sea wall. But she was deaf. She wanted to play couples, to parade him down the high street, point out the tea shop that sold lovely cakes, see the eyes of other women flick in his direction and send out a message, ‘Good looking isn’t he? He’s mine.’ They passed a shop with a notice in the window announcing Spam had just come in. Rosie stopped. ‘I’ll have to get some. I’ve got enough points on my ration card and they hardly ever have it.’
So he queued with her, jostled by fat, chatty women with baskets, terribly hurt, pierced by the conviction that the passion he felt was a one-sided thing. She didn’t feel as he did. He’d made a mistake. He wished himself back on the bloody boat.
She paid and glanced back at him, a teasing smile ready, but the pain in his face stopped her dead and she was swept with a desire for him so powerful she had to hold his arm to stop from falling on the sawdust-covered floor. What do you think you’re doing, you daft cow, playing games like this when he’s going, when you want him so much? Outside, she put her hand up to his cheek and around their kiss the sound of the street was muffled, the world beyond a blur, as though sight and sound had been sacrificed in order to intensify the feel, and taste, and smell of him.
‘Take me somewhere,’ she murmured. Magically, a bus appeared, and he knew where to go. It was full of staring women, bags of shopping on their laps, and gawping pink children. Philip hooked his arm through a leather strap hanging from the ceiling and held Rosie tight against him. She felt the push of his thigh, the rough serge of his jacket against her cheek. The bus groaned past the pastel-coloured cottages and on up, into bright green woods. She heard Philip buy tickets from the fat conductress, jealously following the movement of his lips as he asked, ‘Let us off a bit further up would you please?’
The conductress shifted a mint humbug from one cheek to the other. ‘Can’t stop and start up this ’ill.’ But she swung up the aisle to tap on the glass behind the driver’s head, the eyes of the bus following her progress there and back. ‘Best thing, Bert’ll slow down as much as he can and you hop off.’
The bus slowed. Philip and Rosie jumped on to the grass verge. With a roar and a cloud of exhaust and small stones, their audience was borne away. ‘Come on.’ Under the trees at last there was privacy. Philip could wait no longer. ‘Here.’
She had a moment of consciousness. ‘What if somebody comes?’
He slid his hands under her skirt, ‘We can keep our clothes on.’ He was desperate. Christ, would there never be time to savour it, only this burning need to have her?
‘It’s all you want me for.’ But her hands were in his hair, pulling his mouth down to hers. He found the buttons on her knickers, no corset, struggled with his own clothing, freed himself.
‘Against the tree,’ he said, lifting her easily against the smooth bark of the beech. ‘Like this. Lift your legs.’
Her scarf fell off. She felt the tree against her back, smelt the sharp sweat of him, his hands under her breasts, lifting her, his thing nudging blindly for the spot, finding it. There. Oh God. Oh please. Oh please.
He cried out and slumped against her. Confused and squashed she waited, realising only slowly that it was over. The world gradually came back into focus. She blinked. It was blue all around, except for the dark soil of the path winding through the woods towards them. What a lovely sight for a rambler, she thought, and a little shiver of amusement ran through her.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Couldn’t wait. Sorry.’ He kissed her head, looked away while she smoothed down her clothes. So there was something not quite as it should be. But never mind. She watched as he kneeled to unload a mackintosh from his pack and spread it out on the bluebells.
‘It seems a shame to squash them,’ she said, sitting down.
He took her hand, kissed it. ‘Can I lie on you? I mean, put my head on your lap?’
‘Course you can.’
Looking down at him, she thought, it doesn’t matter about the other thing. This is good enough. Her fingers wandered through the bluebell stems. ‘That time in your room,’ she said, ‘it was the first time for me.’
He put a hand up to her face. ‘Was it? I wondered.’
‘What about you? Bet you’ve had loads of girls.’
‘No. Only three or four.’ Actually, Philip thought, it was five. The green light was on rather a lot when you said the word ‘commando’, though it was with the landladies, rather than the landladies’ daughters. ‘Nobody like you,’ he said, smiling and closing his eyes. ‘Don’t let me fall asleep, Rosie. I want to have every minute with you. Talk to me.’
‘About what?’
‘Start with your family.’
‘Oldest of six. Me mam’s dead. Me father sells cars.’
‘Mmmm.’
‘She leaned over him. ‘Not good enough for the likes of you.’
‘Mmmm?’
‘Don’t want a gyppo, do you?’
He was asleep, she thought, but his eyes opened, brown eyes with flecks of black and yellow in the pupil. ‘Do you have Romany blood, then?’
Her hand gripped bluebell stems and she felt their gluey coldness. ‘Through me father, yes.’ And she thought, ‘I’ve said it.’
‘How romantic. Not going to whistle up a beautiful horse and disappear, are you?’
It didn’t matter to him. Her heart sang. She said, ‘Scruffy pony, more like.’ He smiled again, sleepily, showing the tips of his teeth. She stroked his crisp, dark brown hair and thought, how beautiful he is. She said, ‘There was a special horse, once.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Once upon a time, in the long ago of the world, round about five year ago…’
‘Silly girl.’ He butted his head into her belly.
‘We had a beautiful horse stop the night at our place.’
‘In the house?’
‘In the yard, stupid. It was one of me Da’s cousins brought it.’
‘Go on.’
I love you so much. ‘He was on his way to Appleby fair to sell it.’ She homed in on the memory, pictured the arrival, Da coming in first to smooth things over. Mam standing out in the street in her apron, watc
hing the horse come towards her. Saying nothing, for once. ‘It was so beautiful it seemed to put a spell on everyone.’
Philip looked up at Rosie’s dreamy face, at the kaleidoscopic shadows passing over it from the leaves moving above her head.
‘A milk white horse?’
‘No. Palomino; that means pale gold, with a white mane and tail.’ She was completely absorbed in her memory. ‘It was the most beautiful horse I ever saw. Stallion, but gentle as a lamb. I remember Da and his cousin spent the afternoon in the backyard grooming it, sending balls of blonde fluff all over; then sitting on the steps, smoking, just gazing at it. Wonder of it was no one complained about not being able to hang out their washing. The spell, you see.’
Philip ran a finger along her dark eyebrow. ‘Tell me some more.’ She closed her eyes, lifted and turned her head a little, drawing the finger along her lips.
‘In the evening, they trotted it up and down the street, practising for the fair, because that’s what they do when they sell them, run them, make them pick up their legs, curve their necks, lift their tails. For once, it was my family that had something beautiful everyone wanted. All the kids came out to see. Even Annie Wallis gave me a look that said “You’re dead lucky, you,” and I felt it. It was the only time I ever felt proud of being Da’s daughter.’
‘Did you feel ashamed, then, of your family?’
She paused, a little crack in the voice. ‘A lot.’
‘Why?’
Rosie kept her eyes shut as she struggled to explain something she had never spoken of before. ‘It was like other people always seemed to expect me to know we weren’t as good as them. Mam could scrub her step whiter than white and it didn’t make any difference to what they thought.’
The injustice of it sat him up. Annie Wallis was added to the list of those to be shot. ‘Look at me, Rosie. You shouldn’t feel inferior to anyone. You’re wonderful! I love you! I want us to be together. You know that, don’t you?’
‘You hardly know me.’
‘What does that matter?’ He kissed her. ‘When I get back, we’ll get married and you can have the dirtiest step in the town and I’ll never think the less of you for it… Come here.’
You’re tickling,’
‘Where does this undo?’
‘I thought you were knackered.’
‘Tell me more about the horse…’
‘What are you doing…’
‘Shut your eyes again. Relax. Darling, my darling Rosie. The horse. I want to know about the horse.’
She trembled as she felt him slide the straps of her slip and bra down, clenched her elbows to her sides, wanting to cover herself.
‘My beautiful gypsy princess. Don’t hide. Let me see. Please.’
She forced herself to look at him, forced her arms down, said, after a moment, ‘I want to see you, too.’
Was it possible a man could get out of his clothes so fast? They lay side by side and he stroked her face, kissed her. Deep, long kisses sliding slowly from her mouth, down her neck to her breast. She felt him take a nipple between his teeth, looked down and loved his nuzzling head, loved the feeling, loved him suckling her. But it was too awful to watch when his mouth carried on down across her belly, his hands pulled away her skirt and underclothes and gently pushed her legs apart. She could only close her eyes and feel his fingers lightly tracing, his breath on her, his tongue.
She felt him lift his head, heard him say, ‘Like a flower, petals like a rose,’ and although it was so strange and embarrassing, she almost shouted, ‘Don’t stop to talk,’ because his flicking tongue was so delicious, causing such stirrings that she found herself shamelessly lifting her body to meet his mouth, and then tugging at his shoulders, demanding he come back up and stick that thing where it belonged. The rhythm interrupted, she wondered if this time, too, would be a disappointment. Would it be her fault? Then she was with him, travelling towards some mysterious place she had never visited before, going faster and faster…until, with the most startling interior hiccups, she realised she’d arrived. She watched while he plunged on alone for a moment, face agonised, teeth biting on to his lip, until he caught up with a long, shuddering groan.
‘My God,’ he gasped, as he flopped away from her and lay on his back. ‘I’m shattered! I don’t want to see you for at least a week.’
So that was what it was all about! She felt laughter bubbling out of her mouth. ‘Just as well you’re off then,’ she said, sitting up and hugging her knees, feeling just right, so lucky, so proud, loving the air on her naked body, loving him naked. I do. I bloody love him, she thought, as she turned over and kissed his salty chest.
He sighed and threaded his hand in her hair.
‘Did he sell it, then?’
‘What?’ She shivered.
‘Here. Put my jacket over you. The horse.’
‘I don’t know. We didn’t see him again. I just remember waking up, looking in the yard and seeing the grai chewing on the washing line.’
‘Grai?’
‘Sorry. Horse.’
‘A whole new language you can teach me.’
‘Only know a few words. It was early. Just the sound of the hooves on the flags. He was going to walk all the way to Appleby. I remember Da’s cousin turning at the end of the street to wave, and the horse prancing, wanting to be away.’
‘It’s a lovely story.’ He lay with his hands behind his head. ‘I’d like to see where you come from.’
‘Can’t think why.’
‘But don’t you see? We’ve had such different lives. You can teach me so much!’
‘If you say so,’ she laughed.
He lifted his head and looked at her, now so beautiful and relaxed, the pinks and browns and pales of her body suffusing her skin.
‘O My America, My new found land.’
‘Come again?’
‘It’s from a poem.’
‘Oh. I found out about Tantalus, you know.’ She started to get dressed. He helped her find her stockings, offered a shoe.
‘Thank you Prince Charming,’ she laughed. ‘Will you take me to meet your Mam and Dad when you get back?’
‘Of course I will.’ But it was a chilling idea. He imagined his mother in the parlour of the vicarage, serving tea from the trolley. He saw Rosie, sunk in the springless sofa, feeling herself displaced and then angry as she sensed herself ranked with the ‘little people’ in his mother’s life: the little woman who polished the brass; the little man – ‘such a polite little man’ – who did the garden; all the stunted lower beings who did their bit to ease the passing of his mother’s days.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ He produced a straggly bunch of bluebells from behind his back and presented them with a bow.
‘More romantic than a lobster, I suppose.’
She buttoned her skirt and pinned up her hair. ‘Come on.’ She picked up her hat and took his hand. ‘Let’s get back. I want to show you something.’
11
Falmouth, 22 March 1942
It wasn’t until he saw the notice outside listing the times of services, that Philip realised the low, modern building was a church. He followed Rosie into its bright, alien interior. She turned to smile at him and squeezed his hand. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ she whispered.
He nodded, but felt dishonest and out of place among the gaudy statues, the crucifix hanging threateningly above the altar, the smell of incense and the candles. Vulgar, his mother would have called it, and didn’t he think so too? And there was no history, no ancient stone, no crumbling memorials or steps worn down by hundreds of years of feet. He also felt horribly conspicuous, as though one of the plaster saints was about to sense his Protestant presence, point an accusing finger and order him out.
Apart from two figures hunched in prayer on the other side of the nave, they were alone. Rosie slipped from under Philip’s arm and, pausing to bob in front of the altar, crossed the church and stopped in front of a metal stand
where a few candles burned. The Virgin Mary, dressed in white and wearing a blue sash, gazed down on her head.
An old woman carrying a bag of shopping shuffled past Philip on her way to another statue of the Virgin, this one standing in a grotto with a bright turquoise river flowing around her feet. She lowered herself to her knees with a groan, and quite audibly began to tell Mary her troubles. A sympathetic Saint Francis, a blue tit and a robin perched on his shoulders, looked on.
Philip began to like the scene. The church looked gaudy, yes, but didn’t it offer more human comfort than the austerity and rules, the ‘polish your shoes, sit up straight and don’t fidget’ of his Anglican background? And though it was housed in a modern building, the scene was more ancient – medieval – than anything he’d encountered in much older Protestant churches, where Mary, the saints, and colour in general had been banished to the stained glass windows.
He moved across the church and stood beside Rosie as she dropped a coin in a box, lit a candle and stood it in a slot. They watched the flame gutter, turn blue and then gather strength, burning strong and white. Rosie closed her eyes. What if mother could see me now? thought Philip. Lighting a candle in a Catholic church, my Papist lover at my side. He smiled at the thought. The bowed heads of the two people praying could now be seen more clearly, and he realised one belonged to Jimmy Burns.
Rosie opened her eyes. Philip nodded over to Jimmy and whispered, ‘My CO. I didn’t know he was a Catholic.’
She knelt down, patting the place beside her. ‘I’ll feel better knowing he is.’
It was a long time since Philip had prayed. He felt almost panicky. What could he say? He looked sideways at Rosie’s head; saw her lips move. She’d brought him here for some kind of religious sanction of their love. Wanted God to approve. If there was a God. Well, there either was or there wasn’t – an even bet. Worth a prayer in the present situation. He looked at the dying Jesus, hanging from the cross above the altar. You knew all about the fear, didn’t you? You asked to be let off the suffering. Philip shut his eyes. Either let me off or let me come back. Let me come back to her, please.
The War Before Mine Page 8