by Tim Jeal
Obliged to give all her attention to the tricky toccata-like passages in the Buxtehude, Andrea glanced up at her mirror once only, just as the choir entered the nave, leading in the coffin. As the final notes died away, the vicar’s voice boomed out, ‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live …’
When she was not playing, Andrea’s eye was caught by isolated details: a shaft of magenta light shining through a stained-glass saint; the glowing sanctuary lamp. The hymns moved Andrea more than anything, especially when James’s comrades-in-arms carried out his coffin to Bunyan’s ‘He Who Would Valiant Be’.
She did not leave the church until almost everyone had gone. In the graveyard, she paused behind an eighteenth-century box tomb and was sad to see Sally standing well away from the graveside, presumably out of deference to her husband’s feelings. Sally’s face wore its usual emotionless mask of make-up. Mike and Tony Cassilis stood by an ancient yew. One day, they too might be buried here, if their bodies were ever recovered from the sea.
Soon after the coffin had been lowered, and the last prayers spoken, someone tapped Andrea on the shoulder.
‘Thank you for your lovely playing,’ murmured Mrs Jefferies through her veil. ‘One can only hope the Almighty will look down kindly on the poor young man.’
‘You surely can’t think He won’t.’
‘I don’t consider adultery a peccadillo, my dear.’
Andrea walked away, repelled. Without meaning to, she caught up with Sally and her husband at the lych gate. Having promised she wouldn’t speak to her, Andrea took her arm instead.
‘At least he was happy on the day he died,’ sniffed Sally. ‘He knew he was loved.’ She clamped a handkerchief over her mouth to stop any sound emerging. Dr Lowther stared intently at the path.
‘Let’s talk tomorrow,’ murmured Andrea, not trying to follow them. Instead, breathing abnormally fast, she retraced her steps across the graveyard, past the Great War cross. Soon she was passing the bakery and the butcher’s on the corner.
Mike was not in the lane, but his motorbike was, propped under some flowering lilac. She thought how strange it was to be embarking on an affair wearing a dark coat and skirt. Stranger still to have little idea what his expectations were. Looking at his motorbike, she felt confused. Would she ride away on this, in a long skirt?
He came round the corner with his hat in his hand, looking formal and out of place in this rural lane.
‘Not a lot of fun,’ Mike declared, adding with a grin, ‘except for your contribution, and the little fellow’s next to you.’
‘I’ll tell him.’
‘He’ll be thrilled.’ Mike walked to his machine. ‘Ever been on one of these?’
‘So often they bore me dreadfully,’ she drawled, like an English debutante. Then, in her normal voice, ‘Never in my life.’
‘Don’t do that! For a moment you sounded like my wife.’ He touched the handles under the pillion. ‘Grab hold of these.’
‘I’ll have to pull my skirt up.’
‘Go on then. The road’ll be empty.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘A little place I know.’
‘Is it fearfully squalid?’ she simpered, as if a character from Mrs Miniver.
‘Fearfully,’ he simpered back.
‘I’ll close my eyes.’
‘And think of England?’
‘To my last breath.’
They were laughing quite spontaneously as Andrea struggled to get a leg over the pillion seat without pulling her skirt up round her waist. Since Mike’s back was to her, she didn’t feel embarrassed when the wind blew around her stocking tops and step-ins. The engine roared beneath them as trees and hedges blurred by. They plunged down a hill, and through a shallow ford at its foot. Andrea was intoxicated to lean, as he did, into each bend and to feel no fear.
Views of the estuary glimpsed through gates told her they were descending to the water long before they reached a secluded cottage in a cove. The house looked empty but not derelict, since the pittosporum hedge had been cut back.
The silence after Mike cut the engine echoed in her head until she heard the soft thud of waves on the beach. He led her to the door and she was fleetingly aware of diamond-paned windows and lead drainpipes.
‘We bring our agents here before embarking them,’ he said, ushering her inside.
‘How many return?’
‘Some. I don’t know how many.’
Suddenly the house seemed melancholy – a last sight of England for a doomed group of men and women. The sitting room smelled musty and the walls were spotted with damp. On a round table some magazines were scattered, as if tossed aside by departing agents. She picked up a novel – The Remembered Kiss by Ruby M. Ayres. Would anyone want to read such stuff when facing a terrifying future? But would they want to read The Brothers Karamazov or extracts from the great philosophers? On a sideboard were packs of cards and various board games.
‘How long do they stay here?’ she asked, looking around at worn sofas and hideous floral curtains.
‘A couple of days; sometimes only hours.’
‘Then what happens to them?’
‘Since you know the main story, I can’t see that a few minor details will hurt. We whizz them from the beach to a gunboat which puts to sea. A couple of miles out, they’re transferred to one of Justin’s painted trawlers.’ He looked at her with concern. ‘Please don’t feel too sad about them. The risks they take are no worse than fighter pilots face.’
She smiled back at him. ‘And that’s comforting on a day like this?’
‘For us sailors it is.’ He moved to the door. ‘I thought we’d have lunch here.’
‘You’ve brought a man to cook?’ She was horrified.
‘Christ no. Wait here till I fetch a few things.’
After he’d left the room, Andrea felt confused. Why was he fussing about food? He ought to be in here still, talking, if not yet kissing her. Perhaps he was nervous. They’d only had the one kiss. Remembering it made her feel shaky. To stop herself feeling worse, she tried leafing through a copy of Woman’s World. There were articles on make-up (‘Beauty is your Duty’) and keeping up morale (‘Beating those Black-out Blues’), and one called ‘Rebuilding Marriages’, with a sub-heading in a panel:
‘The woman who lets her husband down. This problem is frankly discussed by Leonora Eyles, who comes across her far too often.’
Andrea read: ‘What untold harm a foolish, unthinking woman can do with a scrap of paper, a pen and ink. So don’t tell him about your affair. Tear up your selfish confession and wait till the war’s over, when his mind will be at his disposal, not taken up by the business of fighting for life.’
When Mike returned, he was carrying a tray loaded with Brie and Camembert, presumably fresh from France, and also with bread and fruit and wine. He put down their lunch on the table and stood gazing at her.
‘How shall we do this, Andrea?’ The directness of the question surprised her. He noticed this, and said softly, ‘I meant do you want lunch now or later?’
‘I’d like a glass of water and then I’d like you to sit right here.’
He brought some water for her and watched as she drank. Then he took the glass away and sat beside her. She said quietly, ‘You haven’t kissed me.’
‘It’s nice to have everything still ahead of one.’
‘Not forever,’ she whispered, lifting his hand and drawing his fingers lightly across her lips.
‘My darling, God knows how I’ve left you alone till now.’ Slipping an arm round her shoulders, he kissed her neck. As his lips touched her skin, a marvellous feeling of warmth and wellbeing flowed through her. He was stroking her knee through her funereal skirt which was slipping back and forth over her silk stockings. How beautiful his hands were.
She inclined her neck so he would kiss her there again and murmured, ‘Oh Mike, I want you so very much.’
>
‘I want you, too,’ he said, tilting his head so that their mouths met easily.
‘When did it start for you?’ she asked after a long kiss.
‘When you and Justin came that day.’
‘You didn’t show it.’
‘I couldn’t. It was a nightmare for me. And you were so shamingly dignified. I felt a monster.’
‘Darling, you weren’t at all. Well, maybe a little.’
He grinned ruefully. ‘A little monster.’
‘That’s right,’ she said, refusing to smile and break her mood. Instead she began to kiss him with slow sideways movements, longing all the time to press her body against his. As he touched her breasts, all her senses seemed to be waiting there. ‘Does this house run to a bed?’ she sighed.
‘To ten at least.’
‘Choose for the both of us.’
‘I’m afraid they’re all single. Like I wish you were.’
They clung together on the stairs, breathless, bumping against one another, stopping to kiss on the landing. She could feel him trembling as his cheek touched hers. There were dead flies on the window ledges and the wallpaper was peeling with the damp, but everything felt right for her, except that she was crying.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, kissing away her tears.
‘Can’t you tell I’m happy?’
‘I’ll know in future,’ he said, smiling.
After they had made love, she lay with her head on his chest, breathing hard, her skin looking very pale against his. He had come too soon, and had tried to go on for her sake, until she had helped him out by pretending. Another few seconds and she would have reached her own climax. Unlike the calculated physicality of her sexual relations with Peter, Mike had hardly needed to touch her.
After a while, he said softly, ‘let’s hope I do better next time.’
‘You did fine.’
And later he really did; and they slept in one another’s arms in their narrow bed.
Andrea woke with a start and looked at her watch. Almost two hours had passed. Soon the boys would be wondering where she was. She lay back and closed her eyes against the world.
He said sleepily, ‘Isn’t it marvellous to laze afterwards?’
‘It’s heaven,’ she agreed, knowing she would have to get up soon but not wanting to end his peace and happiness.
He propped his head on a hand and gazed at her. ‘I could look at you for ever and still keep saying soft things like that.’
Feeling the same way herself, she stared back, thinking him perfect, from the slight scar above his right eye to the soles of his feet. She hugged him to her, loving his body’s firmness. ‘I have to go soon,’ she sighed.
They both got up. As he dressed, even his slight self-consciousness at being watched delighted her. Every damned thing he did seemed beautiful: running a hand through his hair, turning his head, stepping into his pants. As Mike put on his jacket she pointed to a medal ribbon. ‘I thought you couldn’t wear those.’
‘That one’s different.’
‘How come?’
‘I got it before I came here.’
‘What did you do?’
‘We killed some Germans who weren’t expecting us. I promise you don’t want to know more.’ He buttoned his shirt in silence.
Andrea stepped into her skirt. ‘You’re not mad at me for asking?’
‘Not at all. If anyone had tipped off the Krauts ahead of our visit, we’d have been dead meat, not them.’ He put on his jacket, leaving it undone. ‘Luckily, my present orders are to avoid the Boche like the plague.’
She felt her eyes smarting. ‘Please be very, very obedient.’
‘I will. Don’t worry.’
He walked across to the window and looked down at the beach and the estuary beyond. It was still sunny, with high clouds casting ragged shadows on the sea. ‘This may surprise you,’ he said, turning to her, ‘but I really don’t expect to be killed. Whenever we’ve been attacked by aircraft, it’s always been down to some decision I took earlier.’
‘Like what?’
‘Not to delay our return till after dark. Or to go back twice to the same rendezvous. I only take risks in exceptional circumstances.’
It touched her that he should be trying to give her peace of mind by pretending to control his destiny. ‘When do you go over there again?’ she murmured.
‘Too soon.’ He took her by the arm. ‘Let’s eat something.’
As he cut bread and cheese for her and pulled the cork from the wine bottle, she was surprised to think that they had made love only an hour ago. Mike looked so elegantly composed, she could hardly credit he had just been in her body, though the evidence was still wet between her thighs. Time was gliding along in such a pleasant, almost somnambulistic way, that its true speed was impossible to judge. Feeling so close to Mike, it was odd to think how little she knew of his past – not even how he’d become interested in the subject he taught. So how had his interest in Classics started?
‘The usual sort of thing … homosexual master takes a few boys to Greece, and though they don’t play ball with him his passion for Socrates and company seduces them anyway.’
‘How come you like talking to my philistine husband?’ She looked at him through sceptically narrowed eyes.
‘Admiration. You forget my dad wanted me to be an engineer.’
She smiled knowingly. ‘Guilt plays no part?’
‘A small one.’ She kept smiling. ‘All right, quite a big one. Another drink?’
She let him pour more wine into her glass. ‘Maybe I’m naïve, but I feel kind of rotten when I see you being all friendly to him.’
Mike had just taken a mouthful of cheese, so his words came out indistinctly, ‘But darling, you can’t want to rouse the poor chap’s suspicions. Why upset him? Nicer for everyone if he’s happy to see me around.’
‘I guess.’
After they had eaten, Mike told Andrea that they would not be able to use the house in future. A full-time caretaker would be taking up residence over the weekend. Andrea mentioned her possession of a key to the village school.
He laughed delightedly. ‘I’m still eager to learn.’
Because it would be hard to explain daytime absences to her boys, they agreed to meet at the school after midnight two days hence. Mike suggested arriving on bicycles, since they would be quieter and easier to hide than cars or motorbikes when left outside.
‘Have you done all this before?’ she asked neutrally, feeling anxious inside.
‘I had a couple of brief walk-outs after Venetia shoved off. Neither lasted long.’
‘Why did Venetia leave you? Oh Mike, I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘It’s all right. She found Cambridge too provincial, and me too poor. I was paid more in London but it wasn’t enough. Luckily, my successor’s loaded. He’s also on the fringes of national politics; just what she wanted.’
‘Is he in the services, her new guy?’
‘He’s something nice and safe in Beaverbrook’s ministry. Venetia would never fall for anyone who might be killed. I don’t blame her really.’
‘I do.’
Mike considered for a moment. ‘You’ve persuaded me.’
Because Andrea could see how moved he was by her loyalty, her eyes began to fill. Disapproving of adultery in principle, in practice she found her feelings extraordinarily pure and righteous. Because Mike might die at any time, how could she be blamed for wanting to repair the injury inflicted by his wife?
When he kissed her again, it was different from earlier kisses – intimate, possessive, grateful – a kiss between acknowledged lovers. She thought of the bombs hurtling down on the freighter and could hardly bear to look at Mike. This must be what living with danger did to people – allowed them fragments of forgetfulness before returning them to terror. What use could wit or courage be when bombs rained down? Mike’s mind, his elegance, his smile would not even be ashes after such an inferno. Oh God, let nothing happen
to him. His thoughts had also darkened. Without her noticing, his expression had become sad and self-absorbed.
‘Darling,’ she cried, folding him in her arms. ‘You make me so happy.’ And as she said this, the haunted look left his face, and, for that moment, he seemed carefree again.
CHAPTER 11
Having feared a grilling, Andrea was thankful when Leo showed little interest in where she had been. Predictably, he asked why she had not come back for lunch but then he accepted, without question, her banal explanation: that she had needed to be alone after the funeral. Andrea had never before lied to him about anything of consequence.
On her return, the two friends had been playing L’Attaque with the grim hostility that enslaved them whenever they embarked on this archaic game. In his head, Leo was probably commanding a real army, not several rows of crinkled cardboard. Wanting so much to understand her son better, it consoled Andrea to believe that the failure wasn’t hers alone. Leo could never tell when he hurt her, failing, as most children did, to appreciate the reality of a parent’s private thoughts and feelings.
She herself had been no better as a girl, thinking her father a model of maturity – the hospital chief, devoted to family and patients. Yet within months of his wife’s death, Andrea’s faultless daddy had married a much younger woman, one who wore Indian bangles and thought herself an artist. For years her father had been bored to death by his bridge-playing wife with her three-cornered hats and love of Republican meetings. And for years Andrea had failed to notice.
Before coming to Cornwall, Andrea’s fondest hope had been to win back Leo’s trust, in the relaxed atmosphere of the countryside. Now, her need to conceal her most important thoughts had made success unlikely. Ironically, the boy she was starting to understand was the one she’d blamed for alienating Leo. But Justin, unlike her own son, had revealed his need to be loved.