Peter hurried as fast as his exhausted body would allow through the main entrance to King’s Cross Station.
He was late, but at least he had made it.
He hated to think what it might have done to Rosie, having been told he was alive, for her to have arrived in London expecting to meet him, only to be told once again that he was dead – and that this time it really was true.
And he would have been dead had it not been for the skill of the pilots. The plane had lost all power, yet they had somehow managed to glide the aircraft down to the ground, avoiding a village and a forest, before crash-landing in a field. Peter could only surmise that the long stems of wheat had acted as a cushion of sorts and had helped to break the speed of the plane as it skidded to a halt. Clambering out of the little hatch door on the side of the aircraft and looking around, he’d shaken his head in disbelief that the nose of the plane was just inches from touching the fence bordering the field. The two pilots were unbuckling their belts and hauling themselves out of the shattered windows of their cockpit. After they’d jumped down, they had both looked at Peter and smiled.
‘Sorry about the rough landing, old chap,’ one of the pilots said, deadpan.
‘We managed to radio in our position, so you should still be able to get to your very important meeting,’ the other said with a smile. They knew the reason for Peter’s trip back to Blighty.
Laughing, Peter had walked over and slapped them both on the back.
It took him a little while before he’d realised he was thanking them in French.
‘Long time overseas,’ the pilot said. His understanding of French was basic, but he had caught the gist of Peter’s gratitude.
‘Too long,’ Peter said.
They had landed in a field in Kent, luckily near an RAF base that had immediately dispatched an army ambulance and truck. After being checked over and given a clean bill of health, Peter had managed to persuade the truck driver to transport him, at speed, to King’s Cross Station, where he was now hurrying towards platform number five.
When Rosie saw Peter, she almost didn’t recognise him. He looked as thin as a rake, and his once salt-and-pepper hair was now completely grey. As he hurried towards her, she saw the life in his eyes and the smile on his face and knew he was all right.
She didn’t run towards him, instead she simply stood there and devoured every second of seeing that he was really alive. The man she had grieved for and had believed was dead was here in the flesh. It was only now, watching him striding towards her, his eyes sparkling with love, that she was sure it was true.
Peter was alive.
When he reached her, neither spoke. No words were needed. Instead, Peter took Rosie in his arms and kissed her. And kissed her again. And Rosie kissed him back with the same fervour, enjoying the feel of his lips on hers as her lover, her husband, her friend, her soulmate kissed her over and over again.
Wrapping his arms around her, he nuzzled her neck and breathed in her scent.
‘Rosie … Rosie … Rosie,’ he mumbled, kissing her neck before once again finding her lips.
He broke off and looked at her, put his hand on her face, touched her cheeks, her blonde hair, her gorgeous face – a face he would never tire of looking at and which he hoped now to be seeing for the rest of his life. He gazed into her blue eyes – eyes he had pictured while he had been buried alive and that he had seen again when the plane had gone into a nosedive and he had thought the gods had reversed their decision and decided to lay claim to his soul. He had clearly been given a last-minute reprieve. And by God was he going to make the most of every moment he had left on this earth. Starting with this one.
He looked down at Rosie and kissed her once more before forcing himself to pull away.
‘We’re not staying in London,’ he said. He didn’t say that he felt it wasn’t safe. The pilotless bombs that Hitler was dropping on the capital made it too dangerous. He took her hand, grabbed her overnight bag and started walking.
‘Where are we going?’ Rosie asked, not that she cared. Not one jot. As long as she was with Peter.
Peter didn’t answer.
‘Is Charlie all right?’ he asked as they walked down the platform. ‘You’re OK leaving her for a little while?’
Rosie laughed. ‘Oh yes, she’s more than OK. Overjoyed that you’re alive, and happy as Larry about where she will be staying while I’m away.’
Peter gave her a quizzical look as they reached the end of the platform and turned left.
‘I’ll tell you all about it later,’ she said. ‘It’s a long story. Very long.’
‘But with a happy ending by the sounds of it?’ Peter asked as they reached the adjourning platform. There was a train waiting.
‘A happy and rather unconventional ending,’ Rosie said, looking at the train, steam streaming out of the engine. Passengers had started to board.
Peter walked towards the top of the train, to the first-class carriages, and pulled open the door.
‘All aboard, Mrs Miller,’ he smiled.
She stepped from the platform into the carriage.
‘So, where are you taking me?’ Rosie asked.
‘Guildford,’ said Peter, hauling their baggage in and stepping on board himself.
Rosie’s face lit up.
‘Guildford!’
Peter took Rosie into his arms and kissed her.
‘I’ve booked us into a lovely little hotel just a short walk from the registry office.’
Rosie’s eyes were glistening. Their hotel. She had never felt so happy in her whole life.
They heard the stationmaster’s whistle screech and the door to the carriage slam shut.
‘We’re going to have a second honeymoon,’ Peter said. ‘Only this time, I’ll be coming home with you.’