Tomorrow, Jerusalem

by Tomorrow, Jerusalem (retail) (epub)

  ‘I shall come at least twice a week. More if I can manage it.’ With already practised hands she tucked the blanket about his legs and adjusted the back of the wheelchair. ‘I hate the thought of your being farther away, but it isn’t so very far – and when I come I can stay longer. You’ll be more comfortable there – Sister was telling me it’s a perfectly lovely place – an old manor house with splendid grounds. We can go for walks—’ she would not respond to the sudden, bleak quirk of a fair eyebrow, ‘and it certainly couldn’t be a better time of year. The woods will be full of bluebells, you lucky thing. Thank heaven that dreadful winter’s over at last – I really thought I might die of cold once or twice – and you’ll be out of the way of these beastly air raids – honestly, I thought once we’d got the best of the zepps they’d give up, but these awful little aeroplanes are worse if you ask me—’

  He made one last effort to hold to his anger, his bitterness, his independence. ‘Charlotte – it’s no good! There’s nothing for me – you know it! I’m chained to this bloody contraption for life—’ he took a breath, holding her eyes with his, brilliant, long-lashed, intense, ‘a half-man. No man at all.’ His knuckles whitened upon the arm of the chair as if he would rip it from beneath him and fling it to a corner. ‘Useless!’

  She smiled calmly and with a conviction that simply would not be swayed. No torture would have wrung from her the truth that over the past months had settled quietly and secretly into her soul. ‘Nonsense. I won’t listen to you. Go to Surrey. Eat your eggs and drink your milk. Do everything you’re told. Build up your strength—’

  ‘For what?’ he interrupted her, his low voice blazing, ‘For what?’

  She bent to him, took both his hands in hers. ‘For the future.’ And then, with a small, unfathomable smile, before she turned and left him, ‘For me,’ she said.

  II

  ‘I must say,’ Fiona remarked casually, her long legs draped in the elegant falling folds of her dark riding habit, propped upon Sally’s windowsill, ’your friend Eddie Browne is quite a dashing thing, isn’t he?’

  ‘What?’ Sally lifted her head from her dour contemplation of the fire. Even at this time of year the vast, high-ceilinged room with its graceful, tall windows, once the drawing room of a stylish town house, then the much-abused headquarters of a Highland regiment and now the chill billet of Lady Marston’s corps of drivers was ice cold. ‘How the devil would you know? You’ve never met him.’

  ‘Wrong. We – bumped into each other the other day.’ The fractional hesitation was obvious and deliberate. Fiona slanted a narrow, pale glance across her shoulder and smiled beatifically.

  As she had intended the words brought her Sally’s sudden attention – which had been for at least the past half hour notably in other more private quarters. ‘You – what?’

  ‘Bumped into him. Well. Found him, I suppose is more accurate—’

  Sally sat up, her expression an almost comical mixture of affront, indignation and laughter. ‘Fiona MacAdam! If you think that just because—’ She stopped.

  ‘—you dragged me out from under a burning building—’ Fiona continued in equably agreeable tones ‘—it gives me any right to interfere in your private life—’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I’m nosy,’ Fiona explained with a devastating smile.

  ‘You’re impossible.’

  ‘Yes. That too, probably. Anyway – having heard the odd snippet from you and from Hannah about this young man I decided it was high time to make his acquaintance.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘You said that once, Sal. Honestly – it can’t be denied – breeding does out—’

  ‘Oh, shut up.’

  ‘You see what I mean? Hardly devastating repartee? Anyway—’

  ‘You said that once,’ Sally said.

  ‘Anyway,’ Fiona ignored her, ‘knowing the young sergeant’s name, rank and regiment – oh, and if you haven’t seen him for the last ten minutes, he is still a sergeant—’ she grinned at the involuntary answering twinkle in Sally’s eye, ‘I took it upon myself to have a word.’

  Sally turned and looked at her, this time the brewing storm clouds of temper overpowering the easy give and take of friendship, ‘you – what?’

  Unimpressed, Fiona could not repress her laughter. ‘Sally! I’ll have to take you in hand! Are they the only two words you know?’

  Sally was not to be so easily deflected. She stood up, walked to where Fiona lounged in the only comfortable chair in the room, perched herself on the windowsill directly in front of her. ‘You – went to find – Eddie Browne?’ she asked, her husky voice very emphatic. ‘Might I ask why? Might I ask – how dare you?’

  Fiona did not answer immediately. She studied with an odd, tender amusement the fierce face before her. ‘Sally, my sweetheart,’ she said, apparently irrelevantly, but suddenly with no affectation, no amusement in her voice, ‘you haven’t been yourself lately, have you?’

  Sally held the pale eyes for a moment, then looked away. ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘So are we all.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ The words were truculent, the expression on the sharp-boned face perilous.

  Fiona affected a sigh. Her eyes were very alert. ‘What you’re suffering, dear heart, is so obviously over and above the demands of duty, so very obviously—’ she hesitated, half laughed, ‘female – if I might use the words to a fighter for equality?’ Her tone was light, the expression in her narrowed eyes attentive, ‘I have to admit that I jumped to a conclusion. Two conclusions. One of which turned out to be wrong. The other I’m still certain is not. What I want to know is – if it isn’t Sergeant Browne – and having spoken to him, much to my disappointment,’ she grinned unrepentantly, ‘and perhaps to his – I suspect it isn’t – who is it?’

  Sally’s face closed like a shut door.

  Fiona leaned forward, true, warm sympathy in her face. ‘Sally – what is it? You seem—’ hesitated, ‘so very unhappy?’

  There was a brief moment’s fraught silence. The unexpected, open question – the unexpected sympathy – had caught Sally so off guard that the composure which, with practice, had become second nature, had deserted her. Tears stood in her eyes. She sat for a moment, rigid, upon the windowsill, and then with a loss of control that was as shocking as it was sudden she bowed her head into her hands and gave way to painful, all but silent weeping.

  Fiona surveyed the shaking shoulders for a moment. Then quietly, knowing instinctively that the weeping girl was for the moment beyond banal words of comfort, she got up and went to the corner of the room where she knew from many previous visits the kettle and the gas ring were kept. A few minutes later, with the quiet, miserable tears abated and a sniffing, red-eyed Sally, abashed but in control once more, watching her with wary eyes, she deposited upon the small table a tray containing a pot of tea, a jug of milk and two dubiously clean cups.

  Sally said nothing as, still in silence, Fiona poured a splash of milk into the cups and then the tea. ‘This war’s having a most devastating effect on me. It’s making me positively middle class,’ she said conversationally.

  Sally accepted her tea with muttered thanks.

  Fiona took hers back to the chair, sniffed it, tasted it, lifted her eyes to her friend.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ Sally said.

  ‘Try starting from the beginning.’

  Sally ducked her head, sipped her tea, blinking.

  ‘I’m a good listener,’ Fiona offered.

  ‘I can’t.’

  Fiona shrugged, lifted her cup again.

  ‘It – it isn’t just me.’

  ‘It rarely is.’

  In the ensuing silence they drank their tea. Sally, the tears having started after so long, was having trouble in staunching them.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Sal,’ Fiona said at last intently, ‘cross my heart, wish to die, spit in any bugger’s eye – I won’t tell, whatever the deadly secret is. B
ut what in God’s name’s wrong?’

  ‘Ben Patten,’ Sally said abruptly.

  Fiona stared at her. ‘Ben Patten? Doctor Ben Patten? Hannah’s brother?’

  Sally nodded, already regretting the impulse that had made her speak. But yet there was relief too. His name lay on her tongue for almost every waking hour, and so rarely could she speak it.

  Fiona sat for a very long moment in silence. Then she let out a long, sighing breath. Her expression was very concerned indeed. ‘Well. You’ve certainly kept that quiet,’ she said at last quietly. ‘How long?’

  Sally’s sudden laughter was almost a sob. ‘How long? How do I know? A year? From the moment I saw him? Ask me how badly.’

  ‘How badly?’

  Sally pulled a wry face. ‘Bad.’

  Fiona heaved a long, slow breath. ‘Why don’t you tell me – right from the beginning? – I’m no one’s favourite nanny, God knows, but you know what they say about a troubled shared?’

  Sally grinned, half-heartedly. ‘Right from the beginning, you say? You’ve got all night?’

  Fiona considered. ‘Well – there’s a baby captain of the Scots who thinks he might be on to a good thing this evening, but it never hurts to keep them on their toes. Yes. And all tomorrow if you want it.’ She set her teacup aside.

  Sally sat for a very long time, hunched against the light of the window. Behind her the setting sun dipped, scarlet in a forget-me-not sky. The light upon her face, Fiona slouched in the armchair, the pale eyes alert and affectionate. ‘Tell you what—’ she moved lazily, picked up the bag that lay beside her chair, ‘forget my lousy tea. It so happens that I’d filched a little something as a sundowner.’ She reached into her bag, brought out a bottle. ‘Genuine Latour. Not easy to come by, old thing. Got a couple of glasses? Not that it matters, but it does make things a little more civilized.’

  Sally fetched glasses and a battered corkscrew. Fiona, with some ceremony, broached the bottle and poured the rich wine. Then she sat on the floor, gestured Sally to the chair. ‘Right,’ she said, with an iron smile, ‘get on with it.’

  * * *

  The bottle was emptied within the hour. Sally surveyed her half-empty glass. ‘And then – last night – we had this row. My fault, really. I get so tired of—’ She stopped.

  ‘Of his tender conscience?’ Fiona asked shrewdly.

  ‘Yes. And – more than that—’ Sally made a small, sharp gesture with her free hand, ‘—with his absolute conviction that he’s right all the time – that he knows what’s best for everyone – he’s so damned certain about what’s right and what’s wrong.’

  Fiona laughed a little softly. ‘Adam was probably the same. It’s what drove Eve to try the apple.’

  ‘Charlotte didn’t want to marry him in the first place. It’s been a total disaster from the first moment. He knows it. But he won’t admit it. He’d never hurt her. He thinks of everyone but himself.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Fiona’s voice held the faintest, caustic edge of sarcasm. ‘And have you told him about this – rumour? The interesting gossip you picked up about the distant, reluctant wife and the interesting brother?’

  ‘Oh, of course not! How could I? Especially now—’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart, how truly and despairingly working class of you.’

  ‘Fee, it isn’t funny!’

  Fiona drained the last of her wine. ‘I know it isn’t.’

  ‘And you’ve got entirely the wrong impression. You don’t know him as I do, Fiona – I love him. Stupid it may be, but I can’t help it! I don’t care where it’s leading. I don’t care if he’s tied to someone else. I just wish that sometimes – sometimes—’ Her voice trailed off. Fiona watched her. ‘That sometimes he’d be a little more—’

  ‘Human?’ Fiona offered cheerfully.

  Sally made a very rude noise.

  Fiona gracefully came up on her knees, leaned one elbow upon the arm of Sally’s chair, looking up at her intently. ‘Thank you for telling me,’ she said very soberly, ‘for telling me it all.’

  Sally grinned lopsidedly. ‘You mean you’re still talking to me? Hardly fit company for an “Honourable” am I?’

  ‘Better than you know.’ Fiona, never serious for two moments strung together, made a bony fist with her hand, bounced it on Sally’s knee, ‘Half the blue-blood bores I know don’t have any better background.’

  ‘You do know that I’d rather you didn’t – spread it about?’ It was only barely a question.

  Fiona spread exaggerated, laughing hands. ‘Who would I tell? Who do I speak to? The question is – what are you going to do?’

  Sally looked through the window at the dying sun. The night before, after an argument that had started from nothing and had finished in tears and exhaustion, they had made love as violently as that first time, with the guns of the evening barrage booming about them like the knell of doom. ‘I don’t know. It’s all so odd, isn’t it? The war, I mean – everything’s changing – nothing’s permanent – it’s so hard to see anything clearly.’ She dropped her face into her hands for a moment, rubbing her eyes. ‘It’s as if we’re all different people than we were.’

  ‘I suppose we are.’

  Sally shook her head. ‘Not Ben. Ben’s the same. He’ll always be the same. Oh God – I truly can’t see where it’s going to end. Sometimes I get so tired of it – the secrecy, the hole-in-the-corner nastiness of it all – I just want to stand up and shout it out: I love another woman’s husband. He loves me. So what? Other times – I just want to run away.’

  ‘I heard a rumour’, Fiona said carefully, ‘that Sir Brian was thinking of offering him a research post after the war.’

  Sally’s head jerked up, her brows drawn together.

  ‘He hasn’t told you?’

  ‘No.’ The word was brusque. ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘Hannah mentioned it the other day. Sally – if it’s true – and I wouldn’t be surprised – then any breath of scandal—’ She stopped.

  Sally was sitting very still, her eyes distant.

  ‘He won’t leave his wife, Sally.’ Fiona laid a sympathetic hand upon her arm. ‘You know it. Sir Brian Bix-Arnold is a stuffed shirt of the oldest and direst order. The slightest sign of anything so devastatingly improper as a love affair—’ She made a movement of a finger across her throat. ‘And as for divorce! You might as well talk of murder! Ben would be out before his feet had touched the floor. You know it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This appointment could be the beginning of a truly brilliant career. Sir Brian has taken Doctor Ben Patten under his wing – his influence is enormous – and he’s the best man in a field that Ben, I gather, feels quite passionate about – that he’s already spent a lot of time on. His work on gas gangrene, with Sir Brian has made him quite a name—’

  ‘I know. I know!’

  ‘He won’t give it up, Sally,’ Fiona went on inexorably. ‘Whatever he says, he won’t give it up.’

  Sally leaned back in the chair. The sun had gone, the shadows gathered in the corners of the lofty room. The fire had died, and the air was chill. ‘I know,’ she said again.

  Fiona sat back on her heels, picked up the empty wine bottle, surveyed it a little ruefully then stood it on the windowsill. Then she turned back to the still figure in the chair, her head cocked a little to one side, her small, tentative smile encouraging, faintly teasing. ‘Are you sure you couldn’t manage to fall for the entertaining Sergeant Browne, bless his subversive little soul? So far as I can make out there’s no fragile Mrs Browne to complicate matters.’

  Despite herself, and as Fiona had intended, Sally had to laugh. ‘Yes, I’m quite sure. And honestly, Fee, you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick entirely. If I did fall for him he’d almost certainly run a mile!’

  Fiona laughed at that. ‘You may be right.’

  ‘I most certainly am. So you can stop matchmaking. God almighty – another emotional involvement’s all I need just no
w!’

  ‘Ah well,’ Fiona stood up, brushed her long skirts, ‘it was worth a try.’ The mischief died as she looked down at the shadowed face, ‘You aren’t sorry you told me?’

  ‘No. You were right. It does help a bit – to have someone to talk to.’

  ‘Even if she can’t come up with an answer?’

  Sally’s smile was bleak. ‘There is no answer, Fiona.’ She shook her head, a quick, almost exasperated movement, ‘There is – no – bloody – answer.’