Jack’s absence enabled Eleanor to stay focused on her work. Time they’d spent painting, visiting parks, dining out, dancing and cycling was now spent solely on work for her two exacting bosses, Mr Steadman and Sir Robert. And in the wake of the afternoon’s events, she was looking forward to the distraction of the Women’s Voluntary Services meeting that night, the first in a long time.
Collecting Sir Robert’s order of cigarettes and his prescription hadn’t been a problem, but carrying the dry-cleaning through the rain back to the gallery had certainly been difficult. Luckily, Sir Robert wasn’t there when she returned, so she wouldn’t have to see him or Aubrey again until the opening in a few days’ time. Hopefully she would have calmed down by then—or they might have seen sense.
Although the raids on London were over for the time being, everyone’s days were still bookended with new domestic and military routines, and then after work it was supper and a quick change of clothes, before they were off again to WVS or Ambulance Duty or the mobile canteens. Eleanor was trying to remember what on earth everyone had done with their spare time before the war, when a figure emerged from the shadows of her building.
Harry Roberts, she assumed: their local warden. He lived in Leinster Terrace and had looked after the local streets and their residents since the war broke out—rarely a day went by when he wasn’t visible. Everyone knew he would have signed up if he had been young enough, but for now the First World War veteran contented himself with being a scrupulous member of the home guard.
‘I do believe this is the worst day’s rain we have had in weeks, Harry,’ she announced as she drew close. ‘Can you really believe that it’s August?’
It was very dark without the streetlamps and the moon was on its new axis, pulling light in the opposite direction.
As she drew closer, the man replied, ‘You definitely shouldn’t be out on a night like this, Miss Roy.’
It was a voice that she hadn’t heard for a long time, and it made her stop.
She had seen Jack everywhere in the first few weeks after he’d left: travelling on buses, in the streets, half-turned faces in cafes that, once revealed, belonged to someone else. Could it really be him now or was it the rain playing tricks? She knew how when you wanted something badly enough, you could conjure up the image of it. But here he was, standing barely a few yards from her.
His clothes were worn and he had grown a moustache, and his face was altered with patches of rough or sunburnt skin. Even his hair was a shade fairer than before.
They took another few steps towards each other, until they were standing only inches apart, rain streaking their faces. She didn’t want to blink in case the image disappeared, but then his face broke into an enormous smile and she knew it was really Jack.
He took her in his arms, kissing her forehead and down across her cheeks. And, finding her mouth, he kissed her passionately.
When at last they separated, he cradled her face between his hands, eyes looking into hers. Her fingers explored his face, feeling over the ridges of his ears, through his hair; he didn’t look quite the same, but he was definitely Jack. She turned over his hands, exploring the plateaus of his palms and the patterns of his fingerprints, finding the calluses and the cuts, and kissing them through her tears.
‘I’m alright,’ he said, wiping them away.
‘Are you…are you really?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did you get back?’
‘About thirty minutes ago,’ he said with a smile.
‘I want to know everything,’ she said as she kept hold of his hand and started walking towards her flat. ‘I want to know where you have been…’ He suddenly stopped, and so she turned. ‘What is it, are you hurt?’
‘No, and you will know everything—all in good time.’
‘Aren’t you going to come up?’ she asked as they approached her front door.
‘No, I have to go, but I wanted to see you first.’
She was confused. ‘But when will you be back?’
‘Soon.’
‘Do you really have to go straight away?’
‘So a chap isn’t even allowed to have a bath and something to eat when he gets home?’
Her eyes widened. ‘What, you’ve come straight here?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about your mother and Beth? Haven’t you seen them yet?’
‘No.’
‘Well, of course you must go then. Immediately!’ She gently poked his chest. ‘But I want you to report back to me at twenty hundred hours, freshly shaven with a bottle of something to celebrate, and a ravenous appetite.’
He laughed.
‘God, I can’t believe you’re back.’ She pulled him towards her again and kissed him for a few moments longer. Then she let him go and, without even thinking, saluted him and blew a kiss.
With a lazy salute, he spun theatrically on his heels and marched the way he had come. Only when he was a few yards away did he fall into his normal stride and glance round to see if she was still watching.
‘Hurry back,’ she shouted, and then motioned him away with a flick of her hand.
At the corner of the square he turned to look once more before finally disappearing from view.
Eleanor lingered, watching the space where he had just been, the buildings’ shadows now filling in where he had stood. There was so much she wanted to ask him: where he had been, if he was home for good, what it had been like.
But as she turned to her door, she realised her questions would have to wait. All thoughts of him vanished as she considered what she had to do.
Missing the WVS meeting was unfortunate but couldn’t be helped; creating something palatable from the remnants of their larder was more of a problem. Eleanor neither enjoyed cooking nor was very good at it—but being able to sort out their flat before Jack’s return would be nothing short of a miracle. As it happened, Cecily was glad to help tidy the piles of laundry and then give Eleanor a hand preparing a cod casserole from one of the War Cookery leaflets.
‘I think he’ll like this,’ Cecily said with an air of authority.
‘I am sure it’s better than whatever else he’s been living on,’ Eleanor agreed, sprinkling the last of the parsley over the top and placing it in the oven. ‘Right, what’s next?’ She was on a mission now and intended to have everything ready by the time Jack arrived—she didn’t want to waste a second.
‘Table,’ Cecily said, as she riffled through the drawer and thrust cutlery into Eleanor’s hands. Then she reached up to open the cupboard doors, which hung at such awkward angles that she had to manoeuvre into a corner to reach the wineglasses. ‘Here you are,’ she said breathlessly, passing them down to Eleanor.
‘Thank you.’
The flat was taking shape. Piles of clothing had been put away, their usual daily mess bundled into cupboards, and the table was set with a linen cloth, real silverware, and candles they had been saving for a special occasion.
‘So you don’t even know where he’s been?’ Cecily asked.
‘No, I haven’t a clue,’ Eleanor said, eyes wide. ‘And I don’t even know if he’s going to show up, either. His mother might refuse to let him go!’
‘You still haven’t met her?’
‘No, I was supposed to before he went away but she wasn’t well enough, and then he left so abruptly there wasn’t time.’
‘He’s quite a mystery, your Jack.’
‘Is he?’
Eleanor wasn’t certain if she would call him a mystery: she had found him to be rather uncomplicated, as a matter of fact. She wasn’t even sure she could call him ‘her Jack’—but she liked the sound of it.
‘Thank you so much for the help, Cecily. You really are a marvel when you turn your mind to it.’
Her sister dropped onto the sofa, picked up a copy of The Lady and began flicking through. Without looking up, she said, ‘I did notice the table is only set for two.’
‘Do you really want to stay?’ It sounded more like a plea than a question.
‘Well, I don’t want to get in the way, but—’
‘Precisely, so I’ve got the perfect solution: you can stay and say hello to Jack, and then you can go to the cinema.’
‘The cinema…Couldn’t I just stay in my room? I’m not really in the mood for going out.’
‘Cecily, how long has Jack been gone for?’
‘I know, I know, but I don’t even know what’s on—and what about my dinner?’
‘It’s the new Deborah Kerr film, The Day Will Dawn. It’s supposed to be wonderful, and very stirring stuff, by all accounts. I’m sure you will enjoy it. My treat.’
Eleanor knew that Cecily didn’t like to be alone, but it couldn’t be helped. And besides, her sister would thank her for this trip to the cinema—Cecily couldn’t resist a man in uniform and there were plenty of them in the film.
In any event, Cecily didn’t get the chance to answer because the bell rang.
‘Oh no, he’s early,’ Eleanor said. ‘Can you go and let him in?’
‘Fine. I’ll go to the cinema then,’ Cecily said, as she slipped out the front door.
‘No need to sound so excited about it!’ Eleanor shouted before going into the bathroom.
She looked at her reflection in the cabinet, then glimpsed a back view in the mirrored door, thinking how altogether different she looked from this new angle. It was the same with painting, when she could spend hours trying to settle on an aspect. She supposed that was why they showed mug shots both ways in the newspaper.
It was then that she realised how nervous she was, her mind catapulting from one idea to the next when she really needed to stay calm and get ready. She quickly changed into a cobalt-blue dress and picked up a lipstick, carefully drawing a thin line around her mouth and filling in the Cupid’s bow.
She was still fiddling with her curls when she heard the front door close, and Jack’s and Cecily’s voices as they walked past the bathroom into the living room. Hearing his voice again triggered a memory of him saying how he preferred her without make-up, so she grabbed a tissue and wiped the lipstick off.
‘Eleanor, did you get flushed away?’ Cecily’s voice from the other room sounded high-pitched.
‘Coming!’
Her sister had poured drinks and was sitting on the edge of the sofa, talking with Jack as if it happened every day.
His moustache had gone and he now resembled the old Jack, the one with floppy dark hair and smooth skin, who always wore a scarf loosely around his neck like an RAF pilot; the one who told her how marvellous everything was, even when it wasn’t, and always held her hand when they were out.
He stood up as she approached and kissed her on both cheeks.
‘Is that something you picked up on the continent?’ she asked with a smile. ‘At least some good might come of this war, Cecily, if our men’s manners are to be improved.’
Cecily rolled her eyes at him. ‘Jack was just telling me about their journey across the Channel—’
‘And I can see you two made a start on the cocktails.’
‘Yes, would you like one?’ Cecily asked.
‘I wouldn’t drink that for all the tea in China, or all the whisky in Churchill’s bunker,’ she said, coming to stand beside Jack. ‘There’s gin in that cupboard—be a dear and fix me a G & T.’ She couldn’t care less if she drank water all night, she was so happy, but she had better join them for one.
‘So, now the adventurer returns,’ she said, turning to Jack and watching Cecily from the corner of her eye. ‘And you have been telling Cecily all about your exploits.’
‘As much of it as I thought would interest her—I left out the boring bits,’ he replied, taking a drink.
‘Oh, I never thought of war as boring,’ Eleanor said.
‘It isn’t. There are just some boring bits. Lots of waiting. I hadn’t imagined it beforehand.’
‘But aren’t those boring bits when you have time to paint?’
‘They’re when you think about what to paint…I kept a journal—it helps to record ideas while you wait.’
‘Well, it’s a pity that Cecily will have to wait to hear about them. You don’t want to be late for your film, do you, Cecily?’
‘Of course not,’ her sister said, handing her the glass. ‘I would hate to end up in the back row by myself where all the creeps are.’
‘Oh,’ Jack said, surprised, ‘you’re not going on your own, are you?’
Cecily nodded.
‘We could come with you, if you like…?’
‘I do it all the time,’ she lied. ‘I will be absolutely fine.’
‘Cecily won’t be going on her own,’ Eleanor said affectionately, handing Cecily her coat and kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Harry is taking her. In fact, dear, you had better hurry—he’s waiting outside the cinema for you.’
She couldn’t be sure whether her sister’s expression was that of shock or surprise as she closed the door behind her.
Once she had gone, the flat fell quiet and Eleanor didn’t know what to say. Jack must have felt the same because he picked up his glass and walked over to the double doors to the balcony. The rain had stopped and a gentle evening breeze ushered in the sounds from the street. They listened for a moment, happy to be in each other’s company again. There were so many things she wanted to ask him but she didn’t know where to begin, so she contented herself with watching him, his back turned to her as he looked out. After a short while, he swung round to place his glass on the table, and she noticed him wince.
‘Are you hurt?’ she asked, alarmed.
‘No, I’m fine,’ he said, straightening—but his movements were slower, his body stiffer than she remembered.
Was he injured and covering it up? Was he really the same Jack who had left nearly three months ago, or was he altered beyond the physical changes? She had expected things to be different when she saw him again, but now she was panicked; she knew it was selfish of her, but she wanted the old Jack back.
‘I’m afraid I don’t have much in the way of new records,’ she said, feeling awkward. ‘Cecily has been borrowing them to play to the patients.’
‘That’s good of her.’ He smiled. ‘She seems happy.’
‘Yes, she’s much better. Still has the odd bad day, but there seem to be fewer and fewer of them.’ In fact, since the night at the pub when she’d told Eleanor that she wanted to be left alone, things had improved for Cecily. It had also helped that Harry asked her out at last; that was why Eleanor had called him to ask for his help tonight.
Jack’s smile widened. ‘That’s good to hear.’
‘Thanks for being so understanding,’ Eleanor said, thinking of the times when Cecily had joined them on their outings.
‘That’s quite alright. I’d do the same if it was Beth. I was so happy to see her today.’
Eleanor had always guessed it was because of his sister that he felt so relaxed around Cecily—and, in turn, Cecily was comfortable around him. ‘And how was your mother?’ Eleanor asked.
‘Not so good. She’s definitely deteriorated since I’ve been away. I’m going to take her to the specialist as soon as we can get an appointment. It’s hard to get one, and it’s even harder paying for it. That doesn’t matter, though,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know why I said it. Come on, let’s have some music.’
‘So what’s it to be then, Glenn Miller or Harry James?’ She held up the two remaining records in her collection.
‘How about Glenn? I haven’t heard him in a while.’ Then Jack took out his packet of cigarettes and asked, ‘Do you mind?’
‘As long as you stand out there,’ she said and pointed to the balcony.
She steadily lifted the needle onto the record and then joined him outside, glimpsing the yellow rim of sky before it faded to pink, the music drifting out to them.
‘Eighty-five sunsets,’ she said.
Jack frowned.
‘That’s how many you’ve missed.’
He contemplated the changing sky and then looked back at her. ‘I saw as many of them as I could—you make them count when they could be your last.’
There hadn’t been any intimacy between them, aside from a few kisses, before he went away, but she felt the need for it now. She wanted him to hold her, to tell her that he wouldn’t leave again, but more than that she wanted the reassuring touch of his skin.
She moved closer, leaning her head on his shoulder, and he put his arm around her waist, pulling her gently into him. Their reunion wasn’t how she had imagined it to be, but it felt right. They would have plenty of time to talk over dinner, time to find out about the intervening months. For now they stood together and watched the sky rapidly darkening.
‘Eighty-five sunsets,’ he repeated. ‘Don’t most artists have a short commission the first time?’
‘Yes, your next one is likely to be longer.’ She was certain that it would be six months at least, but she didn’t want to think about it now. ‘Hungry?’ she inquired.
‘Famished.’
They went inside and she led him to the table.
‘Well, I don’t want you to get your hopes up,’ she said, pulling the chair out for him, ‘but I do think it could be better than my usual efforts. It’s fish.’
‘Smells good.’
She brought two plates over to the table, the casserole crusts a crisp golden brown, green vegetables steaming by their side.
Jack opened a bottle of wine and poured it into the crystal glasses. ‘I can’t promise how good this will be either,’ he said. ‘I found it in the kitchen cupboard. Anyway, a toast…’ He handed her a glass and picked up his own.
‘What are we drinking to?’ she asked.
‘To my darling girl—to us.’
‘To us,’ she said, clinking glasses. ‘And your safe return.’
‘Yes, I’ll drink to that,’ he said and fixed her with his eyes.
They each took a sip, eyes staying locked together.
‘I’m looking forward to hearing all your news,’ he said, scooping up his first mouthful.
‘Don’t hold your breath. There’s really not anything terrific to report.’
‘Why, what’s happened?’
‘Oh, don’t take any notice of me,’ she said after hurrying her mouthful so that she could answer. ‘It’s just been a bad few days.’
‘With the committee?’
‘Yes, that’s what I spend most of my time on now. Maura is delighted to be taking things over at Portman Square, as you can imagine.’
‘Still, it must be more interesting for you?’
Eleanor nodded. ‘It has been. And there’s a new exhibition coming up that you must come to. But anyway, stop trying to change the subject. I’m sure you’ve got far more interesting things to talk about.’
‘It’s hard to know where to begin,’ he said thoughtfully.
He suddenly seemed uneasy, and she thought there might be things that he couldn’t or wouldn’t explain—but she wanted to know everything so she could be there for him.
‘I could always read your journal if you don’t want to tell me,’ she said, half-joking.
He smiled and shook his head, staring down at his plate.
‘Tell me about the people…’
‘The chaps were how you would imagine, I suppose: some too young to know what to expect, others ferocious in their bravery.’
He started at the beginning, telling her about their journey to the coast, and how the bravado and jokes masked the men’s anxieties. He told her about the four sickening days at sea when all there was to do was wait and watch and learn from and about the men. He spoke of their suspicions of him because he carried a pen and not a gun, of his initiation and their tough training practices. He talked of the fear of waiting for the enemy, the anxiety of knowing he was there, and the quiet before the first round was fired. And then of the way that everyone would react afterwards, the resoluteness of the men and their reactions; and of the injuries and casualties. He talked of the dry, dusty heat and the rats that destroyed their supplies, but how there was far worse for local villagers, whose homes were decimated and families killed. And then he wept openly as he talked with difficulty about the day that Peters and DeWitt were killed.
As soon as Jack had finished, she took him by the hand and led him up the staircase, navigating the old twisted and damp boards, the gradient becoming steeper with each step and each step smaller than the one before, the creaks making it seem as if they were about to splinter and give way, until Jack and Eleanor were at the entrance to the attic.
She had commandeered the space ever since she and Cecily had moved in, and her sister knew better than to disturb her while she was up here, but now she wanted to share it with Jack.
‘Where are you taking me?’ he asked as he balanced on the narrow stair.
‘Surprise…’ She unlocked the door and felt along the inside wall for the light switch, and then ushered him in.
The attic had been used for storing old roof tiles and pots of paint, and it had been cluttered with unwanted or broken furniture from the flats below, until Eleanor had transformed it into her painting studio. It was still rather dismal by day, with its low ceilings and blacked-out skylights, but at night the string of light bulbs that crisscrossed the room, the chaise longue beside the far wall, and the textiles draped across chairs lent the space an old-world glamour. Together with the half-finished canvases stacked against the walls and the well-used easel and wooden stool, the décor created the effect she had aimed for: that of an artist’s bohemian studio.
Once inside, they were greeted by the potent scents of musty furniture and fresh paint, which signalled the blending of the old with the new.
‘This is wonderful,’ Jack said admiringly. ‘Your very own pied-à-terre.’
‘I’m glad you like it.’
He grinned and glanced around. ‘I do, I really do.’
Eleanor leaned against the doorframe and watched him explore, examining the pictures, poking into dusty corners, and pulling forward canvases that were piled two or three deep to see what lay behind.
Then the painting table and easel caught his eye and he approached them, running his fingers gently over the brushes, opening the battered palettes to look inside.
She sensed his longing. ‘You look as if you have missed them more than me.’
‘It’s been quite some time since I had the luxury of an easel, let alone any paints. Mine ran out after the first month, and what didn’t, got left behind.’
‘You received the pencils and equipment I sent, though?’
‘Yes, I did, thank you,’ he said, glancing back at her. ‘They came at just the right time.’
He stood back to inspect the half-formed portrait on the easel: one of the orphans she’d met at the garage, Isaac. Traces of his young face were just visible in the charcoal outline; to Eleanor he was a dear child and a symbol of hope—to Jack he was just a boy.
‘So you still want to paint me then?’ Jack asked.
‘Yes, but first I want to show you something.’
The skylight hatch was stiff, so it took several goes before the lock came loose and she was able to push it open and climb out onto the flat roof. Jack climbed out behind her and they stood gazing out at the inky skies.
There was barely any breeze and London lay dozing. It was as if a spell had been cast to silence the city, draining it of colour; it wasn’t stark black, and the outlines of cars and buildings were muted versions of themselves. Eleanor thought it mysterious and very nearly beautiful—but, above all, perfectly fitting as the night to welcome Jack home.
She looked at him and smiled. ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
They could see all the way down to Hyde Park in the south, with vast patches of dense black where the parkland and lake would be, and the great dome of the Royal Albert Hall in the west. Dim lights twinkled along the main streets and avenues, the steady hum of traffic filtering up to them. Apart from the occasional shout on a street somewhere, it was surprisingly peaceful.
‘Have you missed it?’ she asked after a while.
‘Not as much as I’ve missed you.’
Her face grew warm. ‘Come on, we had better go down. I can see that you won’t be satisfied until you’ve been allowed to stare at me all night.’
Back in the attic she steered him towards the chaise lounge but changed her mind, deciding he would be too low down. Instead she settled him on a high-backed chair that had been quarantined for having a few loose upholstery pins.
‘Don’t lean back too far in case you get a nail in your back. That’s fine…Don’t fidget now.’
‘But what if I want a drink?’ he said, glancing at the unfinished bottle of wine she had brought up and placed on the mantel over the small fireplace.
‘You’re not allowed to do anything unless I say so, at least not until I’ve decided which position I’d like you in,’ she said, and her eyes glinted with newfound mischief.
‘I thought you wanted to be the subject.’ He took off his jacket and hung it loosely over the chair.
‘Of course not, and since I am not expecting payment for the portrait, I can paint you how I like.’
‘Oh, so that’s what you’re up to. You’re not going to flatter me at all then…But couldn’t you broaden my shoulders a little or add some extra thickness to my hair?’
‘No, sir,’ she continued playfully, ‘you mistake me for a medieval painter who relies on the good humour of his subject. Your portrait will not be an illusion—I am a realist, if you don’t mind.’
He pulled a funny face and then grew serious again, leaning forward out of the seat. ‘If you really were a medieval painter,’ he said, pausing for effect, ‘then you would have known that a misbelief of painters is to create beauty where there is none. Are you suggesting that there is nothing here that you find pleasing?’ He sat back and crossed one leg over the other, eyeing her coolly to see if she had a ready reply.
Eleanor could tell that he was playing with her now, and it threw her. She was used to having the upper hand, she had even been vain enough to think that her intellect was sharper than his, but she’d been wrong. Now things felt different; something between them had shifted. Perhaps being in combat had honed his mind and his skills, or was it the influence of the men he’d been stationed with?
She distracted herself by lighting candles that she had saved: a trio of them along the small mantelpiece and half a dozen more in an assortment of jars in the empty fireplace beneath—the effect was of brilliant flames dancing on glass.
‘There is much that I find pleasing,’ she said, placing a new canvas on the easel, ‘but I’m not in the business of flattering my subjects with insincere representations. You will get an authentic picture.’
He smiled, seemingly appeased. ‘There’s very little that you don’t know about the history of painting, isn’t there?’ he said.
‘Yes, and very little that would surprise me. Now, will you be quiet so that I can sketch you?’
It was a warm night and, with little space for the air to circulate, the studio was quickly heady with the smell of paint and aroma of candles. Eleanor had grown tired of talking and wanted to get on and paint, although she was uncertain why she had such an overwhelming desire to do so: perhaps in case he left again, or perhaps she just wanted to commit his face to canvas. Either way, she was ready now and glanced over at him, narrowing her eyes, making a painter’s estimation of her subject.
‘Well…perhaps a touch of pink to lighten those dark pouches under your eyes,’ she said after a few moments.
‘These are hard-earned bags, I’ll not have a word said against them.’
‘Rightly so,’ she said and smiled.
They fell into an easy silence as she mixed paints and changed brushes, and all the time he sat watching her ritual. Once she had laid out her brushes and was ready, she surveyed him again, trying to remain detached and work on the composition of the picture. But the sight of him watching her made her self-conscious—and also filled her with desire.
He followed her every move and she held his gaze for as long as she could—his eyes like dazzling stars in a familiar sky—before she had to glance away. She felt her blood rise and quickly turned back to the painting, counting silently as she took deep breaths, waiting for the blush to fade.
And then she began to paint. First long sweeps of charcoal, a framework to build up the picture, and then the detailed brushstrokes of colour to fill it in.
After a while he glanced over at the bottle of wine. ‘May I?’
‘Of course.’
He poured two glasses and brought one over, standing it on the table beside her. She expected him to sit back down, but instead he came behind her, examining the sketch.
‘Hmm…’
‘Give me a chance,’ she said.
She twisted round to see his expression but it was unreadable, so she turned her attention back to the picture, trying to view it through his eyes. There was no resemblance to him yet, only a meeting of lines and a chorus of light and dark, but she knew what she wanted to achieve.
She steadied her brush over the canvas, its faint black line finishing the curve of his mouth—until she became aware of the warmth of his breath behind her, and then the softness of his lips as they pressed into her neck. First, just one tender kiss, then another and another, tracing their way down the nape of her neck—and then his fingers were pulling at the edge of her blouse, his lips searching for more skin.
She had craved him for so long that she only flirted for an instant with the thought of stopping before she was lost in the scent of him, the pressure of his body against hers, and the exhilaration of what might happen next.