Liam had good days and bad, bursts of energy which led him to believe he was quite well, often followed by several days in which he shivered with weakness and misery. His nights, too, were mixed, sometimes tense and wakeful, listening to rain pattering on the windows and trains chugging up the incline, as often full of nightmare and horror as they were of relaxed, health-giving sleep. The ward-sister who had been in charge when he first arrived, moved back to her regular night slot, which Liam had cause to be glad about. Often when he woke in fear, unable to sleep again, she would make him a hot drink and let him talk for a while until the anxiety passed. She did that with all of them. She was very kind.
He imagined Georgina doing the same, and he would think of her, years hence, wondering whether she would always be devoted to the suffering of others, living for them, never having a life of her own. Nursing was a demanding if noble vocation; no doubt it had its rewards, although as a mere patient suffused with gratitude, he could not imagine them.
Each of these women, he reflected, could marry and leave the profession, but that choice was not open to Georgina. Although she could leave, and no doubt live on the income from her mother’s inheritance, he could not imagine her doing so. No, she would carry on, probably for the rest of her life, never knowing a man’s love, which seemed a tragedy to him, a sin against the natural order of things. She was a woman who deserved to be loved and cherished, yet he could not deny the surge of relief when she declared that love and marriage were not for her. The reasons were tragic, although in a strange way they eased his conscience; he felt less wrong in loving her, less guilty in looking for her affection. With the surety that he was detracting from nothing and no one, it seemed to Liam that he might freely enjoy her company and give whatever degree of love she might accept.
Despite the insurmountable barriers, he felt there was no real reason why they should not share a tender friendship and the comfort of knowing that each cared about the other. It was not a love which could be consummated, but then he had never expected it to be, so experienced no particular sense of loss. With no demands, there was even a strange comfort in it, a sense of knowing, without being told, exactly where he stood. It was one of the few things in his life with any foundation.
What caused him some unease, was the image she had presented of Robert Duncannon as a loving father and tormented young husband. It sat awkwardly against his fixed impression of a middle-aged philanderer who cared everything for his own passions and little for his offspring. What age had he been then? Mid-to late twenties, probably, not much older than himself: no doubt hot-headed, and inexperienced in the ways of the world...
No, it would not do. If he stopped hating Robert Duncannon, everything else would fall apart. If he stopped hating the man who had brought all this about, then who was there left to blame? And it must be somebody’s fault, this crazy situation; it had to be somebody’s fault.
He stopped thinking about it altogether, wrote his mother and Edward a few bland missives, said he hoped they were well, and he would see them as soon as he was fit to travel. There was no point, he argued, in their coming to London; he would travel free on a rail pass as soon as he could obtain leave, which was bound to be quite soon.
As the September days shortened with fog and rain, he spent much time in the library, a place of endless fascination. The hospital had been a school, an orphanage the history of which he read one dark afternoon when the ward was crowded with visitors and Georgina unable to come. It had been built on a wave of patriotism after the Crimea, for the orphaned daughters of veterans of that campaign. Public subscription had raised more than a million pounds for its erection, and it was grand indeed, the great hall decorated with banners and arms of the great cities of Britain and the Empire. Like the whole building, it had something medieval about it, an air of masculine romanticism, upon which several hundred little girls had failed to leave an impression.
The present wards had been dormitories and schoolrooms, built around quadrangles which reminded him of cloisters. Often, hanging about the rear entrance on wet afternoons, smoking, he would look back across the brick-paved cloister and watch the passage of nurses up and down, up and down. He noted the men too, the men, hundreds of them, from whom the women were professionally separated.
There was an air of other-worldliness about it, romantic, medieval, monastic, which fitted the place exactly. With its high, gothic walls, quaint arched windows and communal living quarters, it seemed part of Chaucer and Malory and the romantic poets of old. That sense of celibacy, enforced and upheld, seemed natural rather than irksome. He was not, he was sure, the only one to feel that; it seemed to affect other men, too, even the ones on his ward, who were mostly less ill than the rest. Each new nurse had her followers, men who fell romantically in love at the first kind smile; but there was less coarseness than might have been expected. Worship, adoration and respect were the order of the day, and in that atmosphere Liam’s relationship with Georgina seemed not at all strange.
He was teased, of course. Georgina was referred to as his private nurse, and he was asked several times when he was going to do the decent thing by her and name the day. All the men were convinced she was in love with him and just waiting for Liam to pop the question. If it was flattering, it was also highly embarrassing.
He had become practised at fending them off, but two of the men had asked the same question. ‘Is she your sister, or what?’ To which he had said they were cousins, a point which had been agreed, early on, between himself and Georgina. But each response had been similar, words to the effect that his answer explained a certain resemblance. ‘Mind, she’s a bloody sight prettier than you!’
Liam took the teasing in good part, while finding much irony in those comments. Except in colouring, and possibly something about the eyes, they were not alike. He was heavy-boned, while she was as slender as a willow; and if he had inherited his fairness from the Elliott family, she had hers from her mother. Robert Duncannon had passed on nothing of his dark Irish looks to either of them. Robin was the one who had inherited the colouring and bone structure; and Tisha, who was not tall, bore her resemblance in hair and eyes. It was odd too, that when his sister did arrive on a brief visit, no one recognized her as such.
Liam was more pleased to see her than he had expected to be; but they had so little to say to each other that the visit was something of an embarrassment. The only matters they had in common were York, home and the past, and as each had private reasons for not wanting to discuss these things in depth, it left little to talk about.
Tisha did, however, manage to shock him. She revealed the fact of Edward’s illness in such a casual way that at first he thought he had misheard. When pressed for details, she said airily that he was quite well again, there was nothing to worry about, and their mother had everything well in hand.
More upset than he could say, Liam was aware of his own heart pounding painfully, that erratic, uneven beat which had become more pronounced since those last bombardments at Pozières; he was sweating too, although it was not a warm day.
‘Have you seen him?’ he demanded. ‘Did you go home?’
‘Well, no. I’ve been very busy since I got married. Edwin went off training and then he came back on embarkation leave, and I knew Mother couldn’t do with visiting when Dad was ill, so I thought it better to leave it for a while.’
‘But he might have died!’
She clicked her tongue. ‘Oh, Liam, you always did exaggerate! They were only mild attacks, and Mother particularly impressed upon me that I was not to worry.’
‘So you didn’t?’ he asked sardonically. ‘But do you think you might? Go home, I mean?’
‘Not just yet,’ Tisha replied, smoothing the seam of her stockings. ‘Mother’s got enough to do, without looking after guests.’
‘You’re hardly a guest – you’re her daughter, for heaven’s sake! Or doesn’t that mean anything to you?’
His sister looked up, fixing him with a cold stare. ‘Since you ask – not a great deal, no.’
He was stunned. Almost stammering, he said: ‘But Tisha, you should go home.’
‘And so should you,’ she retorted. ‘And perhaps when you’ve been and settled your differences, then I’ll go. Perhaps. Until then, dear brother, don’t try to tell me what to do. I’m a married woman, now, and I can please myself.’
With that, she swept out, as elegantly as she had come in, on a wave of French perfume and a swirl of silk.
Guilt washed over him, and a helpless feeling of frustration. Three years! What had happened to her in that time? She had been a child when he left, and now she was every inch a woman, smart, hard and sophisticated. On the surface at least. What was she beneath, though? A childish, vindictive little monster. Married woman, indeed! Liam pitied her husband.
When he had eventually calmed himself, he wrote to Edward, a letter less carefully phrased than usual, expressing his deep concern and need for assurance. He would come home, he said, just as soon as he was able to do so.
It was several days before he saw Georgina, and by that time his anger had abated; nevertheless, at the first opportunity he took her to task on the matter, demanding to know why, since she was aware of Edward’s illness, she had neglected to tell him.
‘You were in France,’ Georgina said stiffly, ‘facing rather more immediate dangers. Louisa knew – and I agreed with her – that a matter of a mild heart attack did not mean that Edward was at death’s door, although you and Robin might have jumped to that conclusion. And if you had, what good would it have done? Could you have obtained leave at that time? I doubt it. And when you arrived here, and the opportunity to tell you arose, it was my considered opinion that you were too ill to be faced with it.’
‘I don’t agree with you!’
‘Liam, I know how ill you were.’ She touched his arm gently. ‘And the worry of knowing would have held back your recovery. Please believe me.’
‘So when did you plan to tell me?’
‘I didn’t,’ she said honestly, ‘I was leaving it to your mother to do that. But I think it’s time you understood how much she and Edward care for you. It was a joint decision not to tell you, even when they knew you were here in London. They didn’t want any undue pressure put upon you – they were, and are, longing to see you, on your terms, and in your time. You see, in spite of everything, they love you very much.’
It was too much to bear; he turned away, aware of a hard lump in his throat. Because he did not want to accept that, he said brusquely: ‘But there they go again – you too – keeping things from me, as though I were still a child! When will you all start being honest? All this secrecy and deceit makes me so angry!’
She said nothing, and he knew she was waiting for him to calm down. Making a supreme effort, he stood up and walked away, leaving Georgina sitting in the shelter of the chapel wall. When he had half-smoked a cigarette, he came back and apologized.
‘I suppose Tisha should have kept her mouth shut.’
She smiled, wryly. ‘I think perhaps she should. But that’s Tisha.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ He sat down, feeling cold and shivery; it was a poor day. ‘Do you want to go inside?’
‘Not unless you do. It’s quieter out here.’
After a while, thinking about York, thinking about his sister, he said: ‘What’s happened to her, Georgina? We never had much in common, but I don’t remember her being quite like that.’
‘I don’t know, she was never easy to understand.’
But a sudden sigh made Liam look into her face.
‘Tell me,’ he said heavily, ‘whatever it is. I don’t like to think of you keeping things from me.’ It was hurtful, when he wanted so much to be part of her, when he wanted to understand the things that grieved her as well as those that made her happy. ‘Tell me.’
But there was little to tell. Small incidents, small cruelties that Georgina had witnessed during her less frequent visits to the cottage after his departure, a moment of revelation for Liam when she admitted feelings of guilt at that time, and the bleak atmosphere which had prevailed at the cottage with both boys gone.
Wanting to question her about the guilt, he let it pass, needing to know, initially, about Tisha. But Georgina’s assessment of what ailed the girl was not easy to listen to; most of it only served to increase his own sense of unease, to promote a growing suspicion that perhaps his own actions had much to answer for.
‘Something happened to Tisha about the time you left. Don’t ask me what, because I don’t know – honestly, I don’t. I can only assume that what she heard, what she discovered, was as great a shock to her as it was to you. Except she didn’t have your avenue of escape. And I think Edward and Louisa were so shattered by what you did, so absolutely devastated, they ignored her. They didn’t realize how much she needed them.
‘And Tisha,’ Georgina sighed, ‘was always the one who wanted to be important, who wanted an audience for every trick. Particularly a male audience. Edward doted on her – but suddenly, he wasn’t paying much attention any more. Louisa absorbed most of his time and affection. And she did need it, Liam – she was like…’ Breaking off, Georgina shook her head. ‘She’d lost you, her eldest son. She didn’t know where you were. You might have been dead. The not knowing almost killed her.’
He bowed his head against that. But he had asked, had demanded to know, could not now beg her to stop, unsay the words that spoke the truth.
‘Once Robin had heard from you – once you’d written to Edward – all that changed, of course. Louisa was much better, more able to take notice of what was going on around her. But it was too late. At least where Tisha was concerned. In a way, I think they were both quite relieved when she left to come to London. And since then, she’s been more or less as you describe her. I don’t think she cares for anyone very much. Edwin, perhaps, but he’s gone away too. I don’t think she expected that.’
Liam shook his head at the folly of it all, scarcely able to believe the extent of destruction caused by one man’s hasty words. He supposed he should have been feeling pity for his sister, but all he could think of was that afternoon when he returned from work, that moment when the truth assaulted him.
‘If you only knew...’ Fumbling for his cigarettes, lighting one, he was aware that his hands were trembling, but the pain, curiously enough, was less than it had ever been. In the face of his mother’s suffering it seemed somehow pathetic, even selfish to have nursed it so long. Three years! For God’s sake, in war that was a lifetime!
‘I never meant...’ he began again, then stopped, feeling guilty and inadequate. Georgina’s hand on his arm made him turn to look at her. She seemed so stricken by his anguish that he wanted to draw her close, enfold her in his arms and tell her nothing mattered. But it did matter, and he could not hold her, and there was very little comfort elsewhere.
‘What is it? Can’t you tell me?’
Her voice was gentle, persuasive, but in spite of his need to respond, the words were still locked behind a barrier of remembered pain. Pathetic though it was, he knew it would hurt even more to break that seal, to let the torrent of bitterness go. Amongst it lay the jewel of his love for her.
‘I can’t,’ he said miserably, ‘not now.’
‘That’s all right,’ she whispered, ‘I understand.’
‘Do you?’
Pressing her hand, he rose to his feet; with the ringing of the bell they went inside.
Throughout most of September he had spent mornings in bed, rising for the main meal of the day, staying up until six or seven in the evening, when he was glad to return. By the end of the month, feeling stronger, he was often up and about from breakfast till supper, filling his days in library or grounds, and occasionally performing small tasks in the ward kitchen. When six of the men left for one of the convalescent homes, Liam found himself helping on a fairly regular basis. He rather liked it, enjoying the informality of the kitchen, the young nurses’ company and the way they good-naturedly teased and bullied him. The work gave him something to do and stopped him brooding.
Nevertheless, Tisha’s visit and that conversation with Georgina had brought to mind an awareness that kept returning. During all the time he had been away from home, beyond the contentment of Australia and the blind intensity of the war, beyond the of seclusion hospital life, time had not stood still. Although in his mind it had been frozen at the point where he left, he was faced now with reports of change, truths it was difficult to avoid. Like having an uncorrected map of no-man’s-land, he thought, and with an order to go over the top, suddenly being told of fresh saps and gun-pits and an acre of barbed-wire.
Although he had wanted to hurt them, intended it and obviously succeeded, from this distance it seemed a childish, petty thing. Since that promise to Robin he had imagined going home, his mother begging his forgiveness and he, reluctantly, granting it, like some medieval pontiff; but it seemed to him now that he should be the supplicant, his mother the one dispensing grace.
It was not a comfortable awareness, and one he tried to ignore, pushing it to the back of his mind against the day when he would have to act on it. What he could not ignore were his feelings towards Georgina.
In the beginning it had not been a problem; his relief at being safe, having the joy of her company at regular intervals, amounted almost to euphoria. For long enough that sense of heightened well-being carried him along; and while ever they met within the rarefied atmosphere of hospital and grounds, it was sustained. But they had begun to go out; once or twice up to town for the afternoon, seeing the sights of London from the open-topped deck of a bus. Amidst the bustling, workaday world he was aware of wanting to behave like any other young man with his sweetheart, drawing her arm through his, kissing her cheek as they said goodbye. Or, like the soldier and his girl spied in a shadow of trees at twilight, indulging in a long, passionate embrace.
It was becoming a struggle to remember his obligations, a constant battle to quell the physical desire which seemed to be increasing in direct proportion to his good health.
His twenty-second birthday fell at the end of the first week in October. Georgina had endeavoured to organize her three days’ leave to coincide with it; and also to borrow her father’s motor car, a dark green, open-topped Ford. Despite his reservations about that, as the weather promised to be good, Liam knew it would have been churlish to refuse. Once he had recovered from the unease of sitting in Robert Duncannon’s car, he began to enjoy the sensation of speed and freedom; and to admire the way Georgina handled such a complicated piece of machinery.
Pink spots of colour enlivened her cheeks, the chiffon scarf which anchored her hat blowing back, gaily, in the breeze. A light dust-coat covered her clothes but her skirt beneath it was a shade of old rose, echoed and deepened in the colours of her swathed velvet hat. He thought she looked not just beautiful – she was always that – but extraordinarily pretty. The impression was reinforced when they reached their destination.
Removing the dustcoat and scarf, she left both in the car and turned, a little flirtatiously, he thought, to ask what he thought of her new outfit. The plum velvet jacket, with its deep revers and high waist, was flattering, while the skirt ended several inches above a pair of very pretty ankles. He thought she looked wonderful and said so, but he had to swallow hard first.
In the golden shades of early autumn, Hampton Court was a delight, old stone and brick lending a mellow grandeur to the day, a sense of timelessness, as though nothing in life could be too tragic, when something so lovely had withstood it all. They wandered through the grounds and talked about Cardinal Wolsey, the man who had built this great palace and been forced to give it up to a jealous king; and they took a boat on the river, and talked about Bishopthorpe, Wolsey’s other palace outside York. While Liam rowed, Georgina was full of reminiscences, asking did he remember this and that; and particularly the afternoon he had taken her across the river to the fair on St George’s Field. He did remember, he remembered everything exceedingly well; but even as he smiled and nodded, his heart was breaking for the loss of innocence. He had loved her then with a boy’s romantic adoration; he adored her still, but he wanted her too, and that was hard to bear.
At Bishopthorpe, looking up at that great palace from the river, he had discovered that Georgina was to be forever denied him; at Bishopthorpe, on that lovely late summer afternoon, he had come face to face with the truth.
Those memories coloured everything, lent the afternoon a sad, ironic air and spoiled his enjoyment. He was glad to leave, to get back in the car and be driven on. They went on to Richmond and walked in the park, and the sun was still shining through a faint autumn haze. Liam knew that he should have been happy, but everything that afternoon was tinged with a sense of loss.
Aware of his sadness, although not, he was sure, understanding it, Georgina strolled beside him, remarking softly on the sights and sounds and smells of autumn. He was conscious of her perfume, roses, overlaying the scent of dying leaves, and he listened to the sounds their feet made, rustling through golden carpets beneath the trees. She looked soft and warm in her velvet, in those dusky, muted colours that somehow blended with the falling afternoon. He wanted so much to touch that softness, to draw her close and taste the sweetness of her lips, that he dare not even brush her hand.
Back at the car he held the door for her but did not offer to help her in. Drawing the dustcoat round her knees, she glanced up, enquiring tentatively whether anything was wrong, whether she had said something to upset him. Liam shook his head, wretchedly unable to explain.
‘I’m just a bit tired,’ was all he could say.
The afternoon was deepening to dusk as they drove back, and there was no time to stop elsewhere. Outside the hospital gates, while he sat for a moment unspeaking, reluctant to leave her, she reached into her bag, drawing out a small slim package.
‘I intended to give you this over tea,’ she said in that soft, low voice of hers, ‘but we ran out of time. It’s nothing really – just a small gift to mark your birthday. I wish you could have had it last year, for your twenty-first.’
Mystified, saying with a little laugh that it was the first present he had been given in years, Liam opened the wrapping to find a beautifully chased silver cigarette case. Inside it was inscribed with his initials and the date. For a minute he could not even look at her. Turning it over and over in his hands, he felt crass for having spoiled a potentially perfect day; and with the date engraved he knew he would never forget it. And for what? All for the want of something he could not have. He felt selfish and ashamed.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he managed at last, ‘for the stupid mood I’ve been in today. You’ve given me so much, and I...’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘Can you forgive me?’
‘For what?’ she asked lightly, smiling into his eyes. ‘It’s been a lovely day.’
‘Yes,’ he said quietly, ‘it has. Thank you.’
She was half-turned towards him, her mouth slightly parted in expectancy or puzzlement, he was not sure which. Wanting to express his feelings, wanting to make up for all those silent, brooding moments, he searched for words and found none. With his heart pounding crazily, he leaned across and kissed her very gently on the lips. There was a soft, momentary response, one that made it hard to draw away; with his blood on fire, he forced himself not to kiss her again.
It seemed to take an eternity to move. He would have liked to step out of the car, to utter a casual farewell, but he was trembling quite badly and his breath seemed to be stuck somewhere deep in his chest. Watching her face, her eyes, he thought he saw surprise mingled with both pleasure and confusion before she turned away. With her hands on the steering wheel and colour heightening her cheeks, she murmured something, breathlessly, about it being rather late.
Taking his cue from her, Liam said yes, it was, and he really must go. A voice he hardly recognized as his own, added that he hoped to see her again soon, and that he would drop her a line tomorrow.
The next morning, still enthralled by an inner vision of lustrous eyes and lips, Liam began a letter to Georgina which was full of warm recollections. With gentle self-parody he described pausing on the drive before going in, and the fact that his hands were so unsteady it had taken three matches to light one cigarette.
Musing for a moment, picturing himself, Liam smiled, and as one of the young nurses passed by with a pile of linen, she grinned at him. It was the one who had scrubbed his back that first day, and she it was who had seen him come in last evening, hissing in an undertone that he should wipe the silly smile off his face before Sister wondered what he had been up to.
She knew, or had a good idea, what had taken place; but oh, God, he thought in the next second, if she really knew, she wouldn’t smile.
Sobered, he turned back to his letter, and all the silly, romantic, lover-like things he had said and still wanted to say, about the softness of her lips and not sleeping a wink, were suddenly inappropriate. Aware of his own foolishness, he tore the page into shreds and stared, moodily, from the window. That kiss must never be mentioned, not even in apology. If he wished it to remain the casual, friendly, brotherly gesture it might have seemed, then it must be allowed to pass unremarked. He knew full well, however, that brotherly or not, it could never be repeated.
In a fresh beginning after lunch, Liam confined himself to safer topics, to repeated thanks for a lovely day out, and most especially for a gift he would always treasure. His words were sincere but dreadfully bland. Her reply, when it came by return of post, was almost equally so.
Part of him – the sensible, practical part – was considerably relieved by that, but the lover in him was frustrated. Over the next few days, longing to be with her again, he was plagued by subtle torments. What did she think to that kiss? How did she feel? How would he feel when next he saw her, tantalized by closeness, by her perfume and the temptation of her smile? How could he look at her, yet refrain from touching the perfection of her cheek, the softness of her smooth blonde hair? Turbulent emotion gripped him whenever he recalled that parting kiss and the way that she had looked at him afterwards. His dreams were full of unsatisfied desire.
It was more than two weeks before he saw her again. One visit had to be postponed owing to pressure of work, and anyway he was laid low by a couple of anti-dysentery injections and would not have seen her even if he could. On her next afternoon off, the day that he was looking forward to taking her up to town, all passes were cancelled. The entire hospital seethed with resentment, and Liam was furious.
Meeting her at the gates, amongst an indignant, vociferous crowd, there was little opportunity for awkwardness. To clear a path it was necessary to keep her close to his side: but in holding her he also wanted to caress her, and that made him angrier still. Curtly, in answer to her query, Liam related the reason for the ban: two men had gone out for an afternoon and neglected to return for three days. To his further annoyance, the tale seemed to amuse her.
‘Where did they go?’
‘Oh, nowhere in particular – just on a bender in town. Got so roaring drunk they couldn’t remember where they were – or even who they were!’
With a mischievous smile, she said: ‘They’ll be for it!’
‘We all are,’ he responded grimly, ‘confined to barracks for the rest of the week. As if that will deter anybody! The ones that are ready to go convalescent can’t wait to get out of here.’ He paused to light a cigarette. ‘I’m starting to feel like that myself. In fact I asked about home leave the other day, but it doesn’t seem likely until I’m clear. It’s ridiculous, I feel fine.’
‘Don’t rush things,’ she said gently, ‘it’ll take its course.’
‘Yes, but when you start straining at the leash, you know you’re getting better.’
Because he was also thinking of other restraints, the words came out sharply, and Georgina’s smile froze.
He saw the pain he had caused before she glanced away, and could have bitten his tongue. Instantly contrite, he quickly changed the subject. But Liam knew as well as she did that once declared fit he would be moved away from London. Their time together would be over.
When she had gone Liam was left with a bitter taste of regret. With the matter of home leave still on his mind, he was torn between a desire to spend as long as possible within reach of Georgina, and an increasing anxiety about Edward. Although letters from York continued to be reassuring, he had the feeling that time was running out, that he should make every effort to get to York, if only for a couple of days.
The arrival of a new medical officer prompted him to ask again. There was sympathy when he explained why, but the doctor said that further tests would have to be taken before a decision could be made. Another specimen was sent down to the laboratory, and, two days later, on accosting the Sister, Liam was told dryly that the officer in charge of the lab wanted to know whether the patient was still in bed, as evidence of colitis was still present. Although she made no further comment, her expression said quite clearly that if he wanted to retain his current degree of freedom, he must press no further.
Downcast and frustrated, Liam kept the news to himself. Gloomy weather did nothing to lighten his spirits, and his letters to Georgina reflected this. She wrote to suggest a trip to the theatre on her next day off, but the idea was less appealing than it might have been.
Concert parties came to the hospital frequently, some good, most remarkable only for their enthusiasm; and sometimes organized trips went from Wandsworth to the Palladium at Stockwell, just up the road. Liam thought he had had enough of that brand of hearty cheer, but it seemed churlish to refuse. He arranged to meet Georgina in a teashop they had visited before just off Leicester Square.
It was a miserable afternoon, cold with the rawness of winter. There was a leaden, yellowy cast to the sky, and someone said it might be foggy, later, so be sure to get back early; but Liam had no desire to cut short his afternoon. Waiting with his hat pulled down and the collar of his newly issued sheepskin jacket turned up to meet it, he felt chilled to the bone. Seeing the queue for tables, it seemed more prudent to wait inside. Just as one was being allocated, Georgina arrived, in brimmed hat and belted mackintosh, shivering as she joined him.
He wanted to warm her against his heart; instead he ushered her to a chair and ordered some tea. The hot drink revived them both, and they stayed longer than they intended. The popular revue they meant to see was packed out when they arrived, people still waiting on the pavement. Dismayed, Georgina said she was too tired to walk, she wanted to sit down and relax. Liam glanced down at her then, and the pinched look he had attributed to the weather seemed more pronounced in that grey, unforgiving light.
‘Come on,’ he said, taking her arm, ‘we’ll go into the first empty theatre we find, and if you like, you can fall asleep on my shoulder!’
She responded with a smile, but he thought she seemed distracted. He wondered if she was worrying about work, or about her father who was presently in Dublin.
Within a few yards, he said: ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to go home? You look to me as though you should be tucked up before a nice warm fire, not trailing about town like this.’
‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘I’m fine, really I am. Just in need of a good night’s sleep.’
‘Let me call you a cab…’
‘No, Liam – really.’ She tucked her arm in his and he felt the intimacy of the gesture like a warm glow. On a corner, a few yards down the street, was another little theatre, advertising yet another amusing variety performance. Georgina suggested going in there.
The show had already started, but seats were available. Paying for two in the stalls, Liam sighed as they went in: the place was half-empty, which did not augur well for the quality of the performers.
In a quiet aside, Georgina said her patients were funnier than the comedian; laughing, Liam claimed there were more talented jugglers amongst the nurses. But the audience, comprising mainly soldiers, was becoming restive. After half an hour, disturbed by some of the coarser cat-calls, Liam was about to suggest leaving, when a soubrette came on, rather fetchingly dressed in male attire.
The British Tommy’s uniform, with its breast pockets and breeches and neatly-wound puttees, fitted her better, Liam thought, than any man. She was a neat, curvaceous girl with an angelic face, and as soon as she appeared the barracking died down, giving place to a series of whistles and hand-claps. When she started to sing, her voice silenced the house.
It was a sweet, rich soprano, eminently suited to the series of sentimental ballads she had chosen to sing. ‘Home, Sweet Home!’ was followed by, ‘Roses Are Blooming in Picardy,’ so currently popular that the choruses were taken up by the audience; then, when the applause had died down, she began to sing Liam’s favourite, sections of which were so well-known to him that he was almost tempted to sing the words with her.
‘Far ahead, where the blue shadows fall,
I shall come to contentment and rest,
And the toil of the day
Will be all charmed away,
In my little grey home in the west.
‘There are hands that will welcome me in,
There are lips I am burning to kiss;
There are two eyes that shine
Just because they are mine,
And a thousand things other men miss...’
It seemed to express everything he felt for the woman at his side: that longing for the war to be over, a comforting fantasy that one day she might make a home for him, be there every evening when he returned...
On a warm impulse, he reached for her hand, stealing a sidelong glance at her downcast eyes; she seemed as moved by those words as he was, her fingers clasping his in sudden emotion. His heart leapt in response, and he thought how long it had been, weeks in which he had tried, very hard, not to touch her at all. Except for that fleeting kiss and the warmth of her linked arm this afternoon, he had kept apart from her, and he wondered whether she knew how difficult it had been.
Georgina’s hand, imprisoned for a moment, opened to his, palm to his palm, the fingers slowly – oh, so slowly – entwining with his. Wanting to lock her to him and never let go, Liam was suddenly conscious of his own strength, the breadth of hands thickened by constant use, and a fear of hurting her. Very gently, he drew her fingers through his in the most intimate caress, while her light, responding touch sent waves of rapture coursing through him, catching the breath in his throat, fusing love and desire so totally he was only marginally surprised by the sudden heat in his loins. The contact between them was so restrained yet so sensual, it seemed there were but two points in the whole universe, linked by a line of acute and exquisite pleasure; it was almost like making love. Or how he imagined it should be.
Did she feel it too? For a moment he was convinced she must, convinced by the sensuality of her caress, by her closed, fluttering lashes, the soft, partly open mouth, the distinct rise and fall of her breasts. She seemed as deep in thrall as he was himself. And then as desire mounted overwhelmingly, as the fire in his loins became more pain than joy, he thought no, she can’t be aware of this, it’s impossible. If she did she would stop, withdraw this instant before we fall on each other without a care for who or what surrounds us...
But even as he moved to slip an arm around her shoulders and draw her close to him, on an indrawn breath Georgina pressed her fingers to her mouth and shook her head, like one bemused or waking from a dream.
Paralysed, he watched her rise abruptly and push her way out down an empty row of seats.
The encore came to an end. The soubrette bowed to a storm of applause and stamping of feet. Galvanized into action, Liam grabbed jacket and mackintosh and followed at a run for the side exit. Coming out into the dismal street, he saw her hurrying away, heading not for the main thoroughfare, but into the side-streets of Soho.
‘Georgina!’
He ran, his heart pounding, catching at her arm as he came up with her; but she would not stop. He pulled her round, quite roughly, to face him. Trembling still, she kept her eyes averted. At a loss for words, he knew, with heart-stopping certainty, that her emotions, her desires, echoed his. In the dark warmth of the theatre, that thought had been exciting; here, in the cold and foggy daylight, it seemed a huge, terrible knowledge, as though on discovering he could swim, he found himself faced with the sea from the top of a cliff.
Instantly sobered, murmuring inadequate apologies, he slipped the mackintosh around her shoulders. ‘Let me take you home.’