Chapter 29

Tuesday, 24 December 1940

Anthony always looked forward to breakfast. It was the one moment he could pause and think before the day got away from him. He didn’t particularly care what the breakfast was, as long as it was more than a mouthful. If he could, he would drag it out for as long as possible before having to resign himself to the working day. It wasn’t that he often had much to think about when it came to food and where it was coming from, not like some of his pupils, but rationing had made things difficult for everyone. It was absolutely the right thing to do, even if some complained that their usual lifestyles were disrupted. They all had to pull together to get through the war, and God knew Anthony was doing his bit.

However, today was Christmas Eve and he was going to enjoy the breakfast he had been saving for himself. He had put some aside for Ruth as well, but she hadn’t been sure whether she would be able to join him or not. The life of a journalist was unpredictable at best. All their lives were at the moment. Since her grandfather had died, she had taken to going for a walk every day. In her words it was to ‘get me out of the house’, but he couldn’t help but wonder whether she had just wanted to be alone or away from him. Since they had kissed he had felt a little bit awkward, and while he had thought it may bring them closer together, she had become more distant. But he was putting that down to grief.

He had another bowl of porridge, to push those thoughts away. It tasted earthy and not really like what he would describe as food. He longed for some sugar to add to it, to make it palatable. At least it made him glad that Ruth was not there, he would be embarrassed if she had to experience this poor excuse for a breakfast. He didn’t even want to eat it himself. He pushed it away and treated himself to another piece of bread with a thin layer of butter, the treat he had been saving, but that wasn’t particularly better. Even between the two of them they were struggling with rations. He knew it was designed to make the food go further, but what good was it if volunteers like them were perpetually hungry? More people would suffer.

His stomach rumbled and he stood up. It would be better to be out of the kitchen. In the living room he ran a finger along the spines of books, wondering what to do with himself. He had already tidied the house twice, putting all of Ruth’s disordered books into alphabetical order by author on the shelves, placing his two remaining amongst them. It was an act of consolidation, but he wasn’t sure Ruth noticed the symbolism.

Anthony carefully placed the copy of A Christmas Carol he had been flicking through back on the bookshelf. He was not particularly fond of most of Dickens’s work, there was an uneasiness to the man that came through his writing that Anthony couldn’t place, but there was something about that book that had come to mean something to him. The sentiment he attached to it had many layers and the book had become one of his most treasured possessions. It had been years since he had received a Christmas gift from anyone, and it meant a lot to him.

Marc was usually quite attentive at Christmas, making sure that his father was all right, but as a young man he didn’t think much about gifts, and even if he did they weren’t particularly well thought out. Anthony didn’t know where his son was, he hadn’t written in a month or so, but he hoped that wherever he was he was warm and sheltered, and perhaps thinking of his father. Although he never expected that of Marc, he was his own man and had his own life to lead, even if Anthony wished he was out there with him. Anthony wondered what Marc would make of Ruth. Knowing his son, he would probably have liked her too. He was a good judge of character, his son, a far better man than he was.

He had left a forwarding address with the post office and had hoped to receive something from his son, but so far the postman had not brought Anthony any letters. For months he had thought he would be alone this Christmas, with Marc being away and no other living relatives nearby. He had come to terms with it, in fact, months ago, as he often liked to think of Christmas in advance. After Julie had died they had been difficult, but there was something about the time of year that he always enjoyed. He was almost the opposite of Dickens’s Scrooge and he had annoyed Marc with his Christmas traditions many a time before. In fact, he suspected that Marc would not even come back for Christmas if he was able, anything to avoid the old man’s incessant joy. Anthony had already sent him two Christmas cards, just in case the first one didn’t arrive. Julie would have made them all go to church at midnight, but that was something Anthony didn’t go in for. Especially now that he was living with an unmarried woman. Maybe he should go to church after all and confess his sins, but they didn’t do that sort of thing in his church anyway, and was he really a sinner? He didn’t think so. He had always tried his best to help others, becoming a teacher, a warden.

He liked Christmas because everyone needed the celebration. When the winter was cold and dark and the typical Mersey winds came in to rock their windows in their frames, everyone needed the warmth of the ceremony, the love and joy. It was the only time of year he allowed himself to be that sentimental, again for those others around him. So when he thought that he might be alone, it had not sat easily with him. Now he would get to spend it with Ruth and George, and he hoped he could infect them with his enthusiastic traditions. He’d go easy on them first, it was their house after all, but who knew? Maybe Ruth enjoyed Christmas as much as he did?

He caught himself then. He was being stupid. Of course Ruth wouldn’t enjoy Christmas. It would be her first since her husband Peter and her grandfather had died, and with George out in the countryside. Anthony collapsed into a chair. It wasn’t that he was disappointed, in himself perhaps, but it was that he realised now he would have to be careful. He had no wish to upset Ruth and he would do everything he could to make sure that he respected the situation. He could ask her what she wanted to do, but he was worried that would bring up painful memories for her. Anthony would focus on George, make sure it was a wonderful Christmas for him, wherever he was.

A few minutes later he heard the front door click and Ruth walked into the hallway. She placed her hat and coat on the hook and came and sat down in the living room. She didn’t say anything but leant back and closed her eyes. She was exhausted, they all were.

‘I was wondering,’ he said, looking at her as her eyes opened and she smiled back at him. ‘Are you sending anything to George? Only, I have a present for him as well.’

Her eyes closed again, and he realised he had been insensitive.

‘Sorry. You must miss him. I’m the same with Marc.’

‘I miss him terribly,’ she replied, standing and walking over to the barely alive fire. They had all had enough of fires the past few months, and even though this one was meant to keep them warm, there was a part of him that wished he didn’t have to look at it. It was a relief and a curse that fuel was hard to come by.

Ruth lit another candle with the wick of the one she was holding and it flickered into life with a crackle. She placed the series of white candles on a candelabra on the mantelpiece and carried on lighting more.

‘Don’t you think we should save candles for the winter?’ Anthony asked. ‘We don’t know how long rationing will last.’

Ruth turned to look at him, her face thrown into shadow by the candle flickering in her hand, like some kind of pantomime villain. The grin she flashed at him didn’t make her look any less so.

‘I like candles,’ she said as if that was the final say on the matter. Then with a sigh she realised that he wanted her to say more. ‘This time of year, when it’s so dark we need light. Even if it’s artificial. I’ve always liked the calming flickering of the wicks, and the smell when they go out. It’s a pity they can’t manufacture a candle that smells like that all the time.’

Her eyes were full of sadness and he so desperately wanted her to talk to him, to tell him everything that was going on behind those eyes.

‘You know what happened with the chocolate scarcity last month. Next people might be having arguments about and hoarding candles. How will we find our way to shelters then?’

‘Then we’ll still have electric lamps and torches. They’re more common than you might think these days. Don’t be a stick in the mud. We’ve got to have some fun.’

She was right, and he would do anything to take her mind off Peter and George. He stood up from the seat and crossed the room before taking her hand holding the candle in his. His hand almost enveloped hers and he gently pushed it across to light another candle.

‘How’s this for fun?’ he asked. He closed his eyes, leant in and kissed her. She held the kiss for a long moment, the warmth of her strong against his lips, before wax dripped on her hand and she cursed. Far from damaging the mood, Anthony laughed with her. He had known since he met her there was something about her free and easy attitude that appealed to him and brought him out of himself.

‘That was quite fun, I suppose,’ she said. ‘But I think we can do better.’

She touched his arm gently with the pads of her fingers and looked up into his eyes. Her lips were pursed, almost curling into a smirk. Until then he hadn’t realised how heady, how soporific her scent was. He wanted to drown himself in her, smell every part of her body, taste her. He put his hands on her waist, enjoying the comforting curve in his palm and pulled her closer until they were pushed so close together there was almost no air between them. Her body was pressed tightly against his and he could feel the warmth of her, feel her heart beating in her chest. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. She pushed her hips against him as if they could get any closer and her lips pressed against his. They were wet and smooth and he revelled in the sensation of being that close to her, breathing her in between kisses.

He was gentle, but passionate. For some reason Ruth hadn’t expected that. She had thought that underneath that calm facade was a raging inferno of pent-up aggression, that he kept all of his frustrations at the world locked up inside. But he was controlled as he was in everything. He took a hold of her, making sure to grip her as firmly as possible, but never exerting enough pressure to cause pain. His lips pressed against hers, hot and wet. The smell of lavender was stronger than it had ever been, soporific and tantalising. She wanted all of him in that moment. At first, they had made the living room their nest, Anthony pressing himself against her on the sofa, the warmth of their bodies intertwining, becoming one. Then they had made it to the bed before once again wrapping themselves together. That time Ruth had pushed him down on her bed so that she could see the deep browns of his eyes as she straddled him. She had never experienced anything like it. Heat tickled her body, lighting up all of her nerve endings and she never wanted that feeling to stop.

Some time later they lay together on the bed, sweating as their hearts beat almost in rhythm. She had never had another man in her bed and she had a sudden moment of guilt before he rolled over and ran the tips of his fingers down the side of her waist. The smell of lavender was now mixed with something else, something more masculine and raw and she breathed in every breath, feeling that tingling sensation again. She realised then that she would never have enough of him.

Eventually he pulled himself away from her and she let her hands drop as she traced the lines of his stomach. He grinned at her, kissed her on the nose and then went to wash himself. Ever the fastidious one, but she could grow used to it, especially given the reason for his needing to clean up.

She rolled over and pulled a box from under the bed and sat up on the edge of the mattress. No one else knew that the box existed, but it held a collection of prized possessions: a cinema ticket stub, a box of matches and a sheaf of letters she had been looking for. She had collected all the letters that George had written to Father Christmas since he had been old enough to hold a pencil. The writing at the top of the pile was all lines and firm touch, indecipherable from a drawing, but as she flicked through she could see the letters start to form, his demands becoming clearer. It brought a smile to her lips as she thought of her son trying to find the right words to ask for what he wanted, but as soon as it came it was gone. Now all she could think of was George trapped and alone somewhere, with no one to listen to what he needed.

She dropped the letters back into the box, losing control of her hands, as there was a sound outside the room. Anthony poked his head through the threshold and his beaming smile dropped as soon as he read the expression on her face.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, a frown crossing his brow as he took a step further into the room. ‘What have you got there?’

He didn’t sit down on the bed, but stood over her, still too awkward to relax in her presence, let down his guard of formality. She wondered if he would ever let himself be vulnerable in front of her, but then she had not intended him to see her like this.

‘Just a box of memories,’ she replied. ‘I’m thinking of adding you to it.’

Smiling up at him, she realised she would have to tell him the truth one day, but today was not that day. Let them enjoy their time together before the war ripped out her heart again.