She was woken by the sound of kindling crackling in the grate. There was Hugh, his back to her, building a fire. Strange, a fire, and not yet winter. Comforting though. It gets chilly when the sun goes down. He was wearing that favourite shirt of his. His back looked broad as he bent forward.
He must have heard her stir. He came across and squatted on the floor beside her. The kindling flamed up, lighting the side of his face, a mask of concern.
‘Hello,’ he said. He moved the fringing of the shawl away from her mouth. His hand smelled of wood smoke. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Like I was run over by a tractor.’
He smiled, that great big smile, bunching up the corners of his eyes.
‘You poor little thing.’
She began to push herself higher, winced as she took the weight on her elbow.
‘Where is everyone?’
‘All gone – for the time being.’ He gently moved her legs to one side and sat down at the other end of the sofa. ‘They’ve arrested Russell. Someone put him up to it: that constable who was asking questions in the summer has been spreading lies and rumours. They think his head’s gone. Battle fatigue. He was injured at Dunkirk, never properly recovered. Had some hare-brained theory about collaboration. He was told to leave you alone months ago. He’s being sent to Birmingham for treatment.’
‘Poor man,’ she said – another wrong she could never set right.
Hugh gave her a look of deep affection and said, ‘You are an extraordinarily wonderful person, Mills. There aren’t many women who would say that about a man who’d caused so much trouble.’
There aren’t many women who carry the burdens of guilt that I do, she thought.
Hugh gave her hand a squeeze and continued, ‘Anyway, the police will need a statement from you but the sergeant said I can bring you down to Shawstoke any time this week, as soon as you’re feeling strong enough.’
‘Where’s Ruby?’
‘Over at Steadham. She raised the alarm.’
‘Did she?’
Millie felt another wave of remorse but this one was short-lived. Ruby had still abandoned her. Hugh gave her ankle a squeeze. He gazed at her. Were his eyes a bit moist? Then he sniffed, shook his head and said, ‘Ruby was in quite a state, wild-eyed, her clothing torn, her legs bleeding. All I could think was that some ruddy Jerry had escaped; there’s a camp the other side of Shawstoke, you know. Then I got here and…’ he gave a great sigh, shaking his head. ‘Ghastly.’
He leant forward, worried the dog’s head and continued. ‘God, Millie, I was beside myself. Nothing but a door between us but it could have been a continent. I could hear Gyp barking. He was trapped.’
‘Where?’
‘In that old stable. He had a great boot mark on his flank…’
‘What?’
She sat up too quickly and clutched her side.
‘There’s nothing to see,’ Hugh said, gently lowering her back by her shoulders. ‘It was mostly mud. I brushed it out.’
‘I heard him yelp. I thought it was a vixen. I always thought he could protect me.’
‘He did in the end.’
‘I thought you couldn’t get in.’
‘So did I. Then I remembered the pantry window. The police wouldn’t have thought of it. With the shutter down, there was no way of telling. It’s a bit of a mess in there I’m afraid but I’ll secure it tonight and refix the metal grille in the morning. Can’t do anything about the jars we broke climbing through though.’
‘Not the poteen?’
‘No – chutney, I think… or it could have been jam. It’s hard to tell.’
She laughed softly then clutched at her ribs.
‘Stop it,’ she said, ‘Ruby tries her best. She’s never made anything like that before.’
‘I hope she never does again.’
‘Stop it, Hugh. It hurts.’
They sat in companionable silence, watching the fire. A log shifted in the grate, sending up a glitter of tiny sparks. Then Hugh cooked omelettes filled with pieces of boiled potato, left over from the evening before. He brought them through on a tray and they ate them in front of the fire.
‘And now it’s time you went to bed,’ he said.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to stay until Ruby comes back in the morning.’
‘Let me sleep down here – beside the fire,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be alone tonight, even if I know you’re downstairs.’
‘All right, but you need some proper pillows.’ He went and fetched them, bringing an eiderdown as well.
‘What are you going to do?’ she said.
‘Sit with you – read a bit, maybe snooze.’
‘That would be nice.’
She woke only once in the night when the fire was low. Hugh was asleep in the armchair, the book he’d been reading lying open on his lap. She thought how dear his face had become to her and as her eyes fell heavy once more, she knew he would still be there when she woke in the morning.
Chapter Seventy
The first snows triggered powerful emotions in Millie. The pepper scent of frost in the air and the low angle of the sun transported her back to that bitter winter’s evening when she found Lukas.
How she wished she could remember his face but time had drawn him deeper into the mist, leaving her with nothing more than feelings, like the aura of a dream. At night when the house cooled and she listened to the ticking in the old beams, she remembered the passion they shared with a surging intensity, waking in the dark of the morning, bereft and lonely. Lately she found the memory increasingly painful and indulged herself less and less.
She’d become so used to feeling like this in the winter months, she no longer dreaded Christmas at the Adamson’s. Her hope that peace would come to Europe and that Lukas would somehow return was shattered when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbour. The whole world was at war now and she found she was depending more on Hugh, her loyal companion, her champion, her friend.
As she stood at the kitchen window, waiting for him to collect her, she was looking forward to seeing him. Ruby had left a few days ago to spend Christmas with Nip’s family and Millie had filled her long evenings working on Hugh’s present, a patchwork cushion made from silk ties that once belonged to his father.
And there he was, his leonine head instantly recognisable in the front of the car; he’d stopped combing his hair flat for special occasions, ever since she said it didn’t suit him. She watched him climb out, stretch a little taller and gaze around the yard with a smile on his face. She drew deeper into the kitchen with the guilt of the secret watcher.
‘A very merry Christmas to you,’ he said, coming in and kissing her on each cheek.
‘You’re in good spirits this year.’
‘Aren’t I always? Gyp!’ He dropped onto his hunkers and worried the dog’s ears. ‘Have we got some treats for you, old chap?’
‘Have you?’
‘Just some offal that’s gone over. He’ll love it.’
He stood up again and looked at her, his dark eyes warm, crinkling at the corners as he smiled. Yes, Millie thought, he’s very dear to me. She came forward and put her arms around him, resting her head against his shirt. He had a comforting, mealy smell about him, mixed with the perfume of frost. She felt him shift, unsure of what to do, then his hand pressed against her back and he rubbed it up and down, gave her a pat. She released him.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘What was that for?’ but he looked pleased and a little pink in the face.
‘Happy Christmas,’ she said.
‘Oh, right.’ He gave her an excited smile that had the charm of a child and looked over to the packages on the kitchen table. ‘Shall I take these?’ he said.
He stowed them in the back seat and tucked a car blanket over them before letting Gyp jump in, then he opened the door for Millie with a comical bow and off they set.
As the road began to climb out of the combe, Millie gazed throug
h the car window at the great plains of snow. It wasn’t thick this year, she could still see the lines of earth along the ploughed ridges.
She wished she could feel a deeper connection with Hugh. It was pleasurable when they cuddled but something inside her still recoiled from the thought of intimacy; and yet she knew long-term happiness seldom sprang from early passion – she’d learned that with Jack. She’d tried to assuage her longing for Lukas by imagining their passion waning but it hadn’t worked. They’d fallen so swiftly into a kind of dizzying ease even before their bodies flowed into each other in a series of delicate, harmonious steps. It wasn’t passion that produced that ease: it was something far more profound. Perhaps she just had to accept she would never replicate it in her life and regard her friendship with Hugh as good enough.
The hallway of Steadham House smelt of mulled wine and Millie could hear cheerful chatter coming from the sitting room. Mrs Adamson popped her head out and gave a bark of pleasure, hurrying over and hugging Millie with unusual warmth, giving Hugh a broad wink which made him look away, smiling.
It was a wonderful meal. Spirits were high now that America was joining the war.
‘About ruddy time too,’ Dr Wilson said.
‘Gordie,’ his wife said. ‘Language.’
‘Did you all listen to the Prime Minister last night?’ Hugh’s mother said.
‘Even from Washington, that wonderful man had me in tears,’ Mrs Wilson said. ‘Especially when he said that despite war raging everywhere we can find a night of peace in each cottage home and every generous heart…’ she ended with a little squeak.
‘Very moving,’ Hugh agreed.
The pig had been slaughtered a week earlier and, as Mrs Adamson ran the pig club, she got the leg. Mrs Wilson brought along a jar of her potted pork as a starter.
‘Is that nutmeg I can taste?’ Mrs Farrow said.
‘I couldn’t possibly tell you,’ Mrs Wilson replied.
‘Only MI19 know what goes into Mrs Wilson’s potted pork,’ Hugh said.
The joint had been cooking slowly for hours and the crackling shattered like glass.
‘I know it’s not as festive as a turkey,’ Mrs Adamson said, passing along the plates.
‘It’s a lot prettier than your murkey,’ Hugh said.
There was a deal of handing around of vegetables, some talk of the progress of the war, predictions for the weather this winter before the table fell silent as the guests launched into their food. After the first few mouthfuls the conversation around the table picked up and Mrs Wilson, who had given Millie a couple of penetrating glances as she ate, laid her knife and fork down and said, ‘I’m very glad to see you looking so well, Millicent. It seems you’ve made a full recovery from that simply frightful business in the autumn.’
‘I have, thank you.’
‘They released him, you know.’
‘What?’ Hugh said.
‘That fellow, Russell,’ Mrs Wilson said, surveying the table to make sure she had everyone’s full attention. ‘Mrs Swithin at the Post Office keeps me right up to date, you know. He was handed over to his unit so they could deal with him but as it was a first offence, he was put on a charge and then released.’
‘First offence?’ Hugh said. ‘How can it be his first offence? He’d been knocking his wife around for years.’
‘Had he?’ Mrs Wilson said. ‘Well, she’s obviously never told anyone or he would have got a far stiffer sentence.’
‘I can’t understand why women stay with men like that,’ Mrs Adamson said.
‘It’s beyond me,’ Mrs Wilson said. ‘I had a cleaner once. What was her name, Gordie?’ Dr Wilson looked up from his plate and shrugged. ‘Mrs Fisher, that was it. Her husband beat her like a gong. She said if you’ve never been beaten, you’ve never been loved.’ Mr Farrow gave a bellow of laughter and his wife told him to shush. ‘But you mustn’t worry, Millicent,’ Mrs Wilson said, ‘He won’t be coming back here. He’s out in North Africa again apparently, fighting for his country.’
‘Best place for him,’ Hugh muttered. ‘I hope those Jerries give him a taste of his own medicine.’
‘I do miss that little boy, Danny,’ Mrs Adamson said. ‘Christmas isn’t quite the same without children.’
When the meal finished, Millie got to her feet to help Mrs Adamson with the plates but she said, ‘No, dear. There are plenty of hands to help me.’ Millie was sure she saw the three women exchange glances of conspiratorial glee. ‘Go on through and join the others in the drawing room.’
Millie opened the door. The only person in there was Hugh, standing by the Christmas tree, fiddling with one of the baubles. The blackout curtains were already drawn against the early dusk and the room looked merry, the picture frames decked with greenery, the bulbs winking on the tree. He beckoned her over with a nervous energy.
‘Shut the door,’ he said. ‘I wanted to give you my present first, just the two of us.’
‘I’ll fetch mine,’ she said, turning back towards the door.
‘No, don’t. I’ll open it later. Come over here.’ He knelt down on the floor and patted the carpet next to him. ‘Come on. Sit down.’ He seemed unusually excited, his eyes glowing in the firelight.
She knelt down beside him, a flicker of worry puckering her brow despite her smile. He leant forward and drew something out from among the other presents, cupping it in his hand.
‘Happy Christmas, darling,’ he said, handing her a tiny package.
In an instant Millie knew what it was. She tried to give him a look of expectant joy. She peeled back the paper. He had his hands pressed against his knees and his shoulders were braced as if he were hardly breathing. She unwrapped the paper and there was an old jewellery box. It could be a brooch, she thought, a pair of ear studs. The top sprang open. She looked down on a ring, a rose made of tiny diamonds, marcasite leaves twining along the band. It was a pretty thing.
‘It belonged to my grandmother,’ Hugh said, a little crack in his voice.
‘Oh, Hugh. It’s beautiful.’ She smiled at him and noticed that the light was shimmering along his lower eyelids.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you are the dearest, sweetest man,’ she said as she leant forward and kissed him. Clumsily he brought his hand up behind her head and she felt the smallest ripple in her abdomen, not of passion, but of retreat. He broke away from her and said, ‘But what do you think?’
‘It’s absolutely lovely.’
A frown passed across his forehead, his smile became a little more fixed and he said, ‘But you will marry me, won’t you?’
She could hear whispers in the corridor outside the room. Blast, she thought, everyone’s flipping well in on it. They’re all waiting to hear my answer. She was trapped, unable to negotiate around this moment without causing him the most terrible pain and embarrassment.
‘You know I will,’ she said, hoping that her answer would mask her lack of conviction. It did. He flung his arms around her shoulders and crushed her against him.
‘See if it fits… no, not that finger. Here, let me do it.’ He took the delicate thing off her with his workman’s hands and pressed it over her knuckle, working the skin of her finger through as if he were flaying a rabbit. It glinted delicately in the firelight, incongruous on a hand that had only worn a plain band, mocking her ragged nails and grimy cuticles. ‘There,’ he said, ‘at last, you’re well and truly mine.’
He was on his feet before she had time to recover. He flung the door open and she heard him say, ‘It’s a yes.’ A chorus of ‘hurrah’ and ‘how marvellous’ before people poured into the room, helped her to her feet, passed her hand around so that the ring could be admired. Mrs Adamson hugged her; even Mrs Wilson swooped down and planted a kiss on her cheek.
‘What wonderful news in the middle of this ghastly war,’ she said. ‘We must all start saving our coupons, right now. You can’t possibly have one of those tiny little cakes with a cardboard cover.
A spring wedding. It must be a spring wedding. And who knows? Perhaps the war will be over and we can ring the church bells again.’
1942
Chapter Seventy One
The increasing numbers of German prisoners coming into the listening house, eager to share their stories with one another, spared Lukas the unpleasantness of working as a stool pigeon again but, as he continued to transcribe their conversations, he gave up all hope that the horrors he listened to reflected the soldiers’ genuine belief that their acts of inhumanity were directed solely against Partisans.
‘We must all find some sort of justification for our actions,’ Joseph said during one of their after-dinner chats. ‘We have too many accounts from these execution tourists, for that is what many of them have become, to ignore the truth that the Führer’s intention is to rid Europe of every single Jew.’
‘I cannot believe that,’ Lukas said.
‘Even now? After everything you’ve heard?’
Lukas shook his head. Could not believe it or would not believe it?
‘Where were you in November 1938?’ Joseph said.
‘I was on leave in Heidelberg during Kristallnacht.’
‘Crystal night. Such a pretty word for such ugliness. Pogromnacht is a better word, for that’s what it was. You must have seen Jews dragged from their houses, homes and businesses plundered, synagogues burned to the ground.’
‘It was terrible,’ Lukas said, ‘and I felt deeply sorry for the misfortune of the people involved, but I never associated myself with that sort of state-sanctioned violence. That was down to Nazi Party officials and the Sturmabteilungen.’
‘If you witnessed first hand that frenzy of hatred and excitement, how can you continue to maintain that you didn’t know what was in store for the Jews? Even when you hear these men talking, bragging, laughing about their crimes, you won’t accept that all of Germany knew what was coming.’
On a few occasions Lukas heard a prisoner admit to being sickened by what he’d seen but more often than not the soldiers’ criticism concentrated on the way the executions were carried out. As fresh prisoners arrived with more recent accounts, it became clear to Lukas that the process was becoming more streamlined and the soldiers more tolerant of what they saw. One lad boasted of sleeping with a beautiful Jewess.
A Dangerous Act of Kindness Page 32