Hannah faced him in disbelief and shock, ‘You don’t mean that. Ralph – you can’t mean it.’
‘I do.’ He turned from her back to the window, his narrow shoulders hunched. ‘I do.’
In the silence the rain blew against the window, a bleak and lonely sound. ‘They’ll shoot you,’ she said.
He said nothing.
A sudden savage stab of fear for him brought a surge of anger that took her across the room in a couple of strides, and with surprising strength she swung him to face her. ‘Ralph! They’ll shoot you! It’s desertion.’
‘I know. But before they shoot me they’ll have to try me, won’t they? And at least I’ll get to have my say.’
‘No! No! You won’t! Oh, Ralph – have you taken leave of your senses? You know how these things are done! No one will listen to you – they’ll brand you a coward and they’ll shoot you! Listen? No one will listen! They can’t afford to listen!’
He stood in stubborn silence.
With an effort she calmed her rising voice. ‘Ralph. Please. You can’t do this. You can’t. If you won’t think of yourself, think of us – of Ben, of Peter, of me, of Pa. Think of your sister. Think of the Bear and the children – it’s all there, Ralph, all waiting for you. It’s what we’re fighting for.’
‘Hannah, you don’t understand—’
‘I understand very well. Believe me, I do. You’ve been under terrible pressure.’ She stepped back from him, shaking her head despairingly, ‘What I don’t understand – what I’ll never understand – is what on earth possessed you to join up in the first place. You didn’t have to – your eyes—’ She gestured helplessly, fell to silence.
He lifted his head, his eyes intent upon her face. ‘You don’t know why I did it?’ He stopped.
Hannah rubbed her forehead with her fingertips, shook her head again. ‘I suppose it doesn’t really matter, does it? The question is what to do now.’
In the silence the door downstairs slammed and hurrying footsteps sounded upon the stairs.
‘How long since you left your unit?’ Hannah asked.
He shrugged. ‘Four – perhaps five hours. I hitched a lift in an ambulance.’
Her practical, nurse’s mind had taken over. ‘Will they have missed you?’
‘Sister Patten!’ A sharp knock on the door came only just before the precipitate entrance of a young nurse, rosy cheeked and dripping wet, ‘Sister Patten, the train’s in.’ The girl stopped in awkward mid-sentence as she caught sight of Ralph. ‘Oh – I’m sorry—’
It took a moment for the significance of the girl’s news to break through Hannah’s preoccupation. ‘The train? The evacuation train?’
‘Yes.’
Hannah stared at her blankly. ‘I’m off duty. Has Matron sent you to—?’
‘No. Oh, no.‘The young nurse, a pretty thing whose hero-worship of Hannah had at times raised caustic comment from Fiona, was plainly discomfited. She glanced at Ralph again, clearly uncertain as to who he might be, clearly afraid of embarrassing Hannah. ‘It’s just – someone – well, that is – someone was asking for you. I think – I think he wanted to say goodbye.’ The last words were mumbled, red-faced.
Giles.
The girl, still standing irresolutely by the door, looked pleadingly at Hannah. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were – busy. Shall I say you couldn’t come?’
Hannah glanced at Ralph’s taut back. ‘Yes – that is no—’ An agony of indecision sounded in her voice. She couldn’t let Giles leave without saying goodbye, she simply could not. The world was too perilous a place in these uncertain days. But – if she left Ralph—
He turned from the window. With what light there was behind him his expression was indecipherable in the shadowed room. ‘Someone – special?’ he asked quietly.
She hesitated, lifted her head in an oddly defiant gesture. ‘Yes.’ She had never overtly admitted so much even to herself before.
‘Then of course you must go. I won’t—’ he hesitated, she saw the glimmer of his bleak smile, ‘I won’t run away. Off you go. I’ll wait.’
‘You’re – you’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
The girl by the door shifted uncomfortably, ‘If that’s all, ma’am?’
Hannah nodded abstractedly. ‘Oh, yes, Nurse Wilson. Thank you. You run along. I’ll be there in a minute.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ The girl threw one curious and vaguely apologetic glance at Ralph and fled.
Hannah turned back to Ralph. ‘You don’t mind? You promise you’ll wait?’
‘Of course.’
She did not notice that he had not answered the first part of her question. She fiddled with her hair, still torn, ‘We weren’t expecting the train until tomorrow, you see.’
‘Go, Hannah. Don’t let him leave without saying goodbye.’ His voice was calm, the tension apparently gone. ‘I’ll stay here and wait for you. It’ll give me a chance to think.’
‘You won’t—?’ Hannah was already reaching for a heavy army greatcoat that hung behind the door.
‘—run away?’ He smiled a little, shook his head. ‘No. I’ll be here.’
He stepped to help her as she struggled into the blanket-like coat that reached almost to her ankles. Aware of the picture she made she smiled a little, ruefully. ‘It’s the only thing that keeps me warm.’ Turning to go, she gripped his hand in hers. ‘Ralph – promise me you won’t do anything silly. It isn’t too late. Promise you’ll wait till I come back and we can talk.’
‘Don’t worry, my dear. Go and say goodbye to your – friend.’ The pause was infinitesimal, Hannah did not notice it. ‘I’ll be here when you get back.’
She watched him for a moment, her eyes fraught with worry. Then she flung her arms about his neck and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I won’t let you do it, Ralph. I believe that you knew that when you came here.’ Her voice was quiet, very intense, ‘I simply won’t let you do it. You must have known that. If nothing else – just think about us. Think how we all love you. Think what it would do to us to lose you – and in such a way. Is it worth it? Is anything worth that?’
He stood for a long time watching the closed door after she had gone. He had so nearly told her – so nearly explained what she had never understood; that his only reason for coming to France, for volunteering for duty in a war that he had abominated from the start had been because France was where Hannah Patten was, because he could not bear to stand back and see her serve whilst he did nothing.
He turned and walked back to the window. The shock of the realization that Hannah’s heart was engaged elsewhere – and remembering the look in her eyes he had no doubt that it was – was still with him. With sudden clarity he realized that through all the years of his devotion, hopeless though he had assured himself it was, he had never really in his soul believed that in the end she would not be his. Through all her enthusiasms, her campaigns, he had supported her, and waited. But now – he stared sightlessly into the dreary little cobbled street, slick with rain – now it seemed he had truly lost her. For – if not this one, then there would be another. Of course there would. How absurd of him ever to have believed she would in the end turn to him – to the man she so clearly still regarded as a brother – almost as a child. And, as Hannah had unerringly divined, even in this final foolish action, this childish gesture of desertion, he had failed. She was absolutely right, and he supposed he had known it from the start; he was not the man to defy the world and take the consequences knowing that those consequences would be as bad, if not worse, for his loved ones as for himself. He would go back. Probably he had not even been missed.
Sighing he turned, and his eye was caught by a piece of paper, a pencil sketch, that lay upon the chest-of-drawers. He picked it up.
Giles’s picture of Hannah smiled up at him.
He stood looking at it for a long time before the lines blurred. Still holding it, he walked to the table and laid the picture carefully upon it, smoothing the creases gently before sitting down and settling to wait for Hannah’s return.
The station was bedlam. The walking wounded, bandaged, on crutches, supported by their comrades, shuffled in untidy lines the length of the wet platform, shepherded, organized and occasionally bullied by harassed orderlies. Stretcher cases were loaded like so many carcasses. ‘Mind yer backs, there!’ The train, already packed, was being packed further. Cigarette smoke drifted on the chill, wet air.
She could not find him.
The officers’ bunks were full. Several familiar faces smiled at her and, a little distractedly, she smiled back.
‘Back to Blighty, eh, Sister?’
‘Thanks, Sister – if it hadn’t been for you—’
‘Good luck, Sister. Keep up the good work.’
She picked her way through stretchers packed upon the truck floor like sardines. Pale faces. Bandaged heads. Blinded eyes.
‘Sister Partridge—’ she caught at a nurse’s arm as she passed, ‘Captain Redfern – he’s on the train?’
‘Sorry – haven’t seen him.’ The girl made to move on, then stopped. ‘Oh – there were an extra couple of carriages added – other end of the train – p’raps he’s there?’
She scrambled from the train, cursing the greatcoat that might keep her warm but which, together with her uniform, made any kind of swift movement all but impossible. She ran along the crowded platform, glancing in windows, acknowledging greetings. In doing so she all but fell over a little, cheerful orderly who stood with a list waving the diminishing queue of hobbling wounded into the benched carriages. ‘Ah, Corporal Denton,’ her voice was relieved; at last a familiar face, ‘Captain Redfern. He’s on the train?’
‘Sure is.’ The little man grinned broadly, waved his pencil. ‘Last carriage. You’ve got about four minutes.’
She picked up her skirts and ran. The door of the last carriage stood open. She hesitated. In the gloom several pairs of eyes looked at her.
‘Hannah!’
She almost fell into the carriage. Then stopped, absurdly abashed. He lay strapped into a bunk, the inevitable leather case clutched to his breast. Trying to control her thumping heart and disordered breathing, she moved to him. The man in the upper bunk grinned at her, ostentatiously started a conversation with the man opposite.
He reached a hand. ‘I – thought you weren’t going to make it.’
‘I very nearly didn’t. I couldn’t find you.’
The engine shrieked, the train jerked, clattered metallically, stilled.
Their linked hands were cold. ‘Take care,’ she said. ‘Do everything they tell you. Get well.’
‘I shall.’
‘Perhaps—’
‘May I write?’ They spoke together.
She nodded. ‘Please. I’d like that.’
‘And you – you’ll write to me?’
Again she nodded.
On the platform voices were raised. Doors slammed. A whistle shrilled. She dropped to one knee beside him, her face on a level with his. Very gently he lifted her hand to his lips. For a long, still moment they stayed so, silent, eyes locked.
Another whistle. An orderly came to the carriage door, swung it, stopped. ‘You with the train, Sister?’
She stood up. ‘No.’
He grinned. ‘Well, you will be if you aren’t careful.’
‘I’m coming.’
Still their hands clung.
Then she let go, gently withdrawing her hand from his clasp. She turned. At the door his voice stopped her. ‘Hannah?’
‘Yes?’
‘Be careful. Be very careful.’
‘I will.’
She stepped from the carriage, swung the heavy door closed. All along the train people were stepping back, turning, walking away. She lifted a hand in farewell, saw him smile, his own hand lifted in answer.
Then she turned and hurried through the rain, back along the platform. The train chuffed asthmatically then, puffing small, determined explosions of steam it began to move, slowly at first, but picking up speed, wheels humming smoothly on the rails. Men leaned from the windows waving. She felt the wind of its passing.
As the carriage in which Giles lay sped past her she was at the gate and hurrying, back to Ralph.
To her surprise he was calm, reasonable; even apologetic. All the arguments she had marshalled so frantically as she hurried back from the station remained unuttered. As she stepped through the door he stood up, facing her, and said, ‘You’re right, of course. I’ll go back.’
The wind taken from her sails entirely she stared at him, the wet greatcoat dripping on to the worn carpet. Outside the sky was darkening and the evening barrage had started, its fire flickering like lightning.
She slipped the heavy coat from her shoulders, hung it dripping on the back of the door. Her hair, she suddenly realized, was drenched. It clung to her head in sodden rats’ tails. He smiled a little at sight of her, walked to the wash stand, tossed her a small towel. She rubbed her hair vigorously. Stopped. Looked at him. Rubbed it again. The room was darkening by the moment, the flash of the gunfire threw dancing shadows on the walls. The sound was like distant thunder, disregarded.
She ran her fingers through still damp hair. ‘You’re going back?’
‘Yes.’
She looked at him in helpless puzzlement.
He shrugged. ‘You’re right. I don’t suppose I ever actually intended to go through with it. Everything—’ he hesitated, ‘—everything just got on top of me, that’s all. But of course you’re right. I can’t get myself shot as a deserter.’ He smiled very faintly, ‘Apart from anything else Charlotte would definitely never speak to me again.’
Her attempt at a smile was as weak as his attempt at humour, but it brought an answering glimmer to his face. ‘Will you get away with it, do you think? I mean – will you have been missed?’
‘Possibly. I don’t know. Depends how fast I can get back.’
‘You’ll be in trouble?’
‘No more than usual.’
The words fell flatly into the dusk. She flinched a little from them and from the inference of his expressionless voice.
‘You saw your – friend – off?’
She turned to the fire, rubbing her cold hands. ‘Yes.’
He waited, inviting her to say more. When she did not he moved to her side. She saw the flash of white in the gloom as he held up the picture. ‘He did this?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s very good.’ His voice was quiet.
Giles was gone. She was glad – so very glad – that he was out of danger, at least for a while, that he would be with his loved ones, mending, regaining his strength – and she was unhappy, with a depth of unhappiness that chilled her soul as the rain and wind had chilled her body. How long before she saw him again? She said nothing. She could not speak of him. Not, she realized in sudden surprise, without tears.
‘Well—’ Very carefully Ralph laid the picture upon the table, came back to her side, put an arm lightly about her shoulder. ‘If I’m to have half a chance of getting back unnoticed I’d better be off.’
‘You should have something to eat – a cup of tea—’ She glanced vaguely about her, as if such things could be conjured from thin air.
‘No. Don’t worry. I’ll find something on the way. There’ll be ambulances going up the line. I’ll hitch a lift. It’ll be all right.’
She lifted her face to his. ‘You’re doing the right thing, Ralph.’
He smiled. Said nothing.
‘I’m sorry – I haven’t been much help.’
‘I’m going back. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
‘Of course. But—’
He shook his head. ‘It’s I who should apologize. I shouldn’t have come.’ He leant to her, dropped the lightest of kisses on her damp hair. ‘But – I’m glad I did.’
She took his hand. ‘Let me know what happens. If you need any help—’
‘I will.’ Gently he disengaged himself, quietly walked to the door, raised his hand, and with no goodbye left her, pulling the door softly to behind him.
She stood for a very long time, silent and cold, watching the flames of the small fire, listening to the rumbling concussion of the guns.
When the tired and miserable tears began to drip from her chin on to her crumpled apron she made no move to stop them or to wipe them away.
It was a long, long time before she dashed her hand across her face, moved to the window, drew the heavy blinds and with a hand that shook a little lit the small lamp. That done she stood for a moment, aimlessly, sniffing a little. God damn this vile war. And damn too the accident that had placed her in a different billet from Fiona MacAdam and her whisky bottle.
Major Peter Patten’s first leave in eighteen months fell in May 1916. His battalion had been in and out of the line around Ypres for four months, though for the moment that part of the Front, with the pressure still being mercilessly exerted on the French forces at Verdun further south, was relatively quiet. For a while there had been rumours that they would all be shipped down in support but, somewhat to his disappointment, nothing had come of it. Then, stronger and more reliable, word filtered through the grapevine; an offensive, and soon, by the British to draw the enemy’s attention away from the savagely mauled French armies and give them time to recover from the terrible hammering they had received in the last months. There would be no leave once that started, he knew; so when an unexpected opportunity arose, he took it. On his way to the coast he stopped near Amiens to see his brother Ben. He found him in a comfortable billet in the servants’ quarters of the château that had been converted into a base hospital, sitting in the sunlight that streamed through the open window, his feet on the windowsill, his nose in a book. The room was like a library – stacks of books overflowed the shelves on to tables, chairs and the floor. Reams of written notes were scattered about the room. Peter pushed his peaked hat to the back of his head and surveyed the disarray with mocking astonishment. ‘Good Lord! When did the bomb drop?’
Ben glanced up, his first expression irritation, his second, as he recognized his unexpected visitor, pure pleasure. He unfolded his vast frame from the solid wooden chair in which he had been lounging and knocked over a pile of books in his good-natured lunge towards his brother. ‘Peter! Good to see you! When did you get in?’ They gripped hands, grinning broadly.
Peter, releasing his hand gingerly from the iron grip, slapped his brother on the back and then with the air of a magician producing a rabbit from a hat held up an unopened bottle of whisky. ‘Voila, as they tend to say in this area. Oú est the glasses?’
Laughing, Ben rummaged amongst books and papers, produced a couple of wine glasses. ‘All I’ve got, I’m afraid.’
‘That’ll do. Beats drinking out of the bottle.’
Ben watched as he splashed out two generous measures. ‘I’ve been meaning to look you up. We were not far from you the other day – at the CCS at Poperinghe – unfortunately Fritz had other ideas. Cheers.’ He took the glass, sipped it. They grinned at each other again over the rims of the inappropriate glasses. ‘Oh, and I forgot to say – congratulations, Major Patten.’
‘Thanks. And to you, Major – hear you’ve been put on Bix-Arnold’s team?’
Ben nodded.
Peter laughed. ‘Even I’ve heard of him.’ He threw himself down in a chair, not bothering to move the papers that were scattered on its seat. Ben opened his mouth, shut it again, sat down himself. They looked at each other for a second of smiling silence, caught in a warm moment of pleasure.
Ben sipped from his glass. ‘How come you’re here? How long do you have?’
‘Me – I’m off to Blighty. Ten days. Thought I’d drop by on the way.’ He grinned again. ‘You can take me out to dinner tonight if you’d like?’
‘A pleasure.’
They sipped their drinks again, in the silence of those who had so much to tell that a starting point was hard to find. Peter leaned forward, elbows on knees. ‘Seen anything of Hannah?’
‘Once or twice, yes. She’s not far from here – near Albert – and we get out there once or twice a month. Sir Brian’s an old mate of her Matron’s.’
Peter laughed. ‘What a character that is! Have you been invited to one of her At Homes?’
Ben nodded, smiling.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it! Sunday afternoon tea with all the trimmings – cucumber sandwiches, cakes from Harrods, a choice of Indian or China – The Mikado churning out on the gramophone – no wonder the poor bloody Boches can’t win the war! She’d probably hold her tea parties in No Man’s Land if she had to!’
‘She very nearly did. She used to run a dressing station up hear you – and come hell, high water or high explosive, Matron’s At Homes were held regular as clockwork. She thinks it’s good for the “dear boys” to get out of the trenches and into some sort of civilized company every now and again – by which, of course, she means the company of the gentler, and in her opinion the superior sex. She’s probably right. Dinner jacket in the jungle and all that –you can’t scoff at it entirely.’
‘Am I scoffing? I should say not. I had a ripping time. That friend of Hannah’s – Fiona something – now there’s someone really special.’ Peter leaned forward and replenished the glasses. ‘She had a Jock captain almost down on his kilted knees and proposing within five minutes of meeting her!’
Ben leaned back, turning the glass in his hand. ‘They’re doing a wonderful job, all of them. But both Hannah and her Matron – she’s Lady Bennet, by the way, did you know? – are agitating to get the Station moved up closer to the line.’
‘Well if Matron Lady Bennet is as good at agitating as our Hannah you might as well tell whoever needs to be told to give in now and save themselves a lot of trouble.’ Peter grinned, and then, more seriously, ‘How much closer?’
‘Close.’ Ben was not smiling.
‘Dangerously close?’
‘Yes. And for a very good reason. They aren’t being foolish, in fact it’s hard to fault their arguments. We’re losing a lot of men we shouldn’t be losing simply because it takes so long to get them to the Clearing Stations. Chest and abdominal wounds – heads – they all need quick if not instant surgery. They lie out for hours, sometimes days, before they’re picked up – and then the journey kills them. Or gas gangrene gets them. There’d be nowhere near the incidence if we could get to them quicker than we do – and, Hannah and Lady Bennet are absolutely right – the closer the CCS is to the line the more chance the casualties have of recovery. But—’
‘But you can’t put women in the front line. It’s utterly unacceptable.’ Peter drained his glass.
Ben surveyed his a little quizzically, tilting it, watching the sunlight reflected in the amber liquid. ‘Tell Hannah that,’ he said. ‘Or Lady Bennet. Or Fiona MacAdam. But duck when you say it—’
They dined in a small restaurant in the town, the room full of English uniforms, the food good, the wine better. They exchanged news and rumour, compared notes, tried to make some sense of the progress of the war.
‘Stalemate,’ Peter said, pensively gathering crumbs with his thumb. ‘Something’s got to break – or someone. Though God knows what – or who. The French are taking a hell of a hammering in the south – Fritz must have expected to break through by now – but still they hang on, and still they throw him back. Word is it’s our turn next.’
Ben nodded.
Peter leaned back, nursing his brandy glass. ‘Roll on, I say. Sooner the better. By the way – did you know our Sally’s out here?’
Ben’s head lifted sharply. ‘Sally? Out here? What do you mean?’
‘She’s driving for some colonel or other according to Hannah. They’ve seen quite a bit of each other over the past few weeks. Hannah and Sally, that is. Apparently Sal’s based at HQ here at Amiens – or her colonel is – I’m surprised you haven’t run across each other?’
‘What about the child?’
‘Philippa?’ Peter shrugged. ‘Sal’s left her back at the Bear with the faithful Marie-Clare. Seems Sally couldn’t bring herself to sit twiddling her thumbs and playing with the children for the duration. Come on, Ben,’ he added, eyeing Ben’s forbidding face a little curiously, ‘knowing our Sal – and knowing the circumstances – you can hardly blame her?’
Ben shrugged. ‘It’s none of my business what the girl does. You’re going home tomorrow?’
‘That’s right. Got passage from Le Havre. Ought to be back at the dear old Bear by Wednesday. Any messages?’
‘Of course.’ He smiled, a little selfconsciously. ‘Lots of love and kisses to Rachel. Tell her I’ve got her the present she wanted – she’ll know what I mean. Pass on, if you will, to Pa the things I’ve been telling you – I don’t get enough time to write as often as I should, and I know he’s interested in what we’re doing out here – and Charlotte—’ he paused, ‘well, just give her my love. These Zeppelin raids – she doesn’t say too much in her letters, but what little she does – they frighten her a lot. She’s not—’ he stopped.
Peter drained his glass. ‘Sodding things,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Who’s to blame her for being a bit funky? I’m not sure I’d be too keen myself. There doesn’t seem to be a way of bringing the buggers down. But we’ll find it. No doubt about that. Filthy thing to do, this bombing civilians. Women and kids. I mean – it’s one thing to get Fritz in your sights and pull the trigger – or for him to do it to you, if he’s quicker – or to lob the odd grenade into a bunker – but bombing civilians? Bloody bad show I call it.’ His fair, handsome face was shadowed for a moment by indignation, then the quick grin returned. ‘I say – I don’t suppose you’d have any idea of the whereabouts of the tiniest game of chance this evening, do you? I feel the beginnings of a lucky streak coming on.’
Ben, smiling, surveyed his younger brother. There could be no doubt about it – Peter was one of those who were having a good war. A regular soldier for more than eight years now, the army was his life, his natural environment – and war, logically, the activity for which he was trained and best fitted. He was neither insensitive nor stupid; he knew the horrors, perhaps better than anyone, recognized the risks and the brutal dangers of a modern warfare that had somehow overtaken man’s puny attempts to control it. But he was at his best in the trenches with his men; first over the top, last back, there with them in the sodden, mud-filled shell holes and amongst the clawing wire, brewing tea in a mined farmhouse, swilling rum in a foetid, rat-infested blockhouse. And they loved him for it. If you were going to get gassed, shot at, blasted or burned then the major was more than likely going to be right there with you, yelling his lungs out and swearing like a trooper. All but worshipped by his men, popular with his peers, highly regarded by his commanding officer, he was the very model of a professional soldier. And how often, Ben wondered with a small, strange stirring of tenderness, watching the fair, restless face, the bright, unshadowed eyes, was he ever afraid? How often – if ever? – did he want to scream in terror, throw himself down, run from the death, the disfigurement, the threat of crippling that howled in the air about him as he breasted the sandbags, crawled through the wire, led his exhausted men into retaking another square yard of useless, skeleton-strewn land? He could not ask. ‘Behind the barn,’ he said. ‘Pontoon. But watch your back teeth. They’re Aussies – they gamble the way they fight – no holds barred.’
Peter arrived at the Bear in the late afternoon of a warm May day. The courtyard was deserted. From an open window young voices chanted in obedient unison. ‘Once three is three, two threes are six, three threes are nine—’ He pushed open the door into the house. The long, shadowed corridor was empty, a beam of sunlight gleaming at its end.
He walked towards the light. ‘Hello? Hello!’
There was a flicker of movement in the shadows. ‘Hello, yes, who’s that?’ Bron’s unmistakable, sing-song voice. Then, ‘Why – Mr Peter! It’s Mr Peter!’ Bron’s brown eyes widened to saucers at sight of the familiar, dapper figure in the shabby uniform. ‘Oh, sir! How lovely to see you – we weren’t expecting – oh, my goodness!’
‘Bron, my darling!’ He had deposited his battered case upon the floor and thrown his arms about her, sweeping her from her feet before she could move, ‘And how’s my best girl, eh? Pretty as ever I see.’
‘Oh, Mr Peter!’ Blushing to the roots of her hair the girl struggled free, patting her hair and straightening her cap, ‘Really now!’ And then her smile broke free again, and the Welsh lilted in her excited voice, ‘But oh, a pleasure to see you it is, home safe and sound. And us not expecting you, mind. Doctor Will’s at the hospital – spends too much time he does there, mind, not taking care of himself – but Miss Charlotte’s somewhere around—’
‘Uncle Peter! Uncle Peter’.’ A small form hurtled from the shadows, launching herself upon him, clinging like a limpet, ‘When did you get here? Why didn’t anyone tell me you were coming? How long can you stay? Look, Flippy, it’s Uncle Peter! Uncle Peter!’
He hitched the light, lanky figure up so that her face was level with his. She clung with long, twining legs and skinny arms. ‘As I live and breathe it’s Rachel!’ he said solemnly. ‘Your Daddy sent a message – he has the present you asked for. And I have a question of my own – when did you grow so beautiful?’
She laughed a little, pleased.
He swung so that she faced the light, seeing in some surprise that his light-hearted comment had been no less than the truth. The child was beautiful. Her lit eyes gleamed, blue as sapphires, her mass of black hair, curling and glossy, set off a skin pale as pearl. ‘A little princess!’ he said. ‘A gipsy princess!’
Oddly, she stiffened, and the laughter faded. With a quick wriggle she had slipped from his grasp, landing like a long-legged cat upon the floor. ‘This is Flippy,’ she said, extending a hand, without taking her suddenly unsmiling eyes from Peter’s face, to the child that hovered behind her. ‘Come on, Flip, don’t be daft. He won’t hurt you. It’s Uncle Peter.’
The other child moved shyly forward. She was solemn, a little chubby, her dark, straight hair flopping forward into eyes that stared in level question up at the stranger. Hazel eyes beneath dark, well-marked eyebrows. Sally’s eyes. Peter dropped to his haunches beside her, extending his hand. ‘Hello, Flippy. Remember me?’
The child shook her head.
Rachel moved impatiently. ‘I told you. It’s Uncle Peter. Come on,’ she grabbed the smaller child by the hand, ‘let’s tell Toby.’
‘You be careful, Miss Rachel,’ Bron scolded, ‘tearin’ around like a wild thing.’
But Rachel and her small acolyte had gone, clattering up the stairs, calling excitedly, ‘Toby! Toby! – Guess what!’
‘Bron – what on earth are those children up to?’ Charlotte had appeared at the door of the parlour, poised and slender in pale green silk, the sun a halo in her fine, spun-gold hair. She stopped, narrowing her eyes against the light. ‘Who’s that?’ And then, ‘—Peter! Oh, it’s Peter!’
He turned to her, holding out both hands. She took them, her wide, pale, laughing eyes searching his face, running over the worn and shabby uniform. ‘Oh, Peter, look at you! Handsomer than ever and looking as if you’ve been pulled through a bush backwards! Why ever didn’t you tell us you were coming?’
He followed her into the parlour. ‘I didn’t know myself until the last minute. Then I just grabbed the chance and ran so to speak. I’m not in the way?’
‘In the way?’ She turned to face him, vivacious and pretty, eyes shining with excitement, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! You’re the best thing that’s happened in absolute ages! – In the way indeed!’
‘Shall I bring some tea, ma’am?’ Bron hovered in the doorway, torn between wanting to stay to feast her eyes on the returned hero – for there was no doubt whatsoever in her mind that that was what he was – and wanting to be the first into the kitchen with the news.
‘Oh, yes please, Bron. For what it’s worth.’ She pulled a face for Peter’s benefit, ‘It will be very weak tea, I’m afraid. It’s rather hard to come by these days.’
Peter patted his pocket. ‘Weak tea will be fine. I’ve something here that will beef it up.’ He grinned a little and winked. ‘Trench milk.’
Charlotte nodded to Bron, who scurried on her errand. As she left they heard a clatter, and Bron’s voice, indulgently scolding, ‘Come on, Toby lad – slow down – no fire is there, that I can see? Nearly had me off my feet you did.’
‘Sorry, Bron.’ The voice was deep, a young man’s, with an attractive timbre, a hint of laughter. A moment later the door was darkened by a tall, slim figure in blazer and slacks, shirt open at the throat. He hesitated at the doorway.
‘Toby?’ Peter could not believe his eyes, and his voice betrayed the fact. Eighteen months ago this had been a boy, fair and pretty, smooth faced and immature. The young man who stood with eager shyness in the doorway might, despite the same fair curly hair and blue eyes have been a different person altogether. He stood easily and elegantly with no trace of the stoop that so many tall boys of his age tended to develop. He was well muscled and athletically built, his chin was firm and square and had very obviously felt the razor that morning. This was no child, but an attractive and composed young man. Peter held out his hand. ‘Toby.’
The boy came to him with long, easy strides, laid a bony hand in his with a smile. ‘Hello.’ There was a warmth in his eyes that Peter, with an affectionate amusement, could not help but recognize. One or two youngsters, in and out of uniform, had looked like that at him before; it was easy, in wartime, to make an idol of a soldier.
‘Are you home for long?’ Toby asked.
‘A week or so.’
‘You’ve come – straight from the front?’
He nodded.
‘What’s happening out there? I mean – the papers are always saying the end’s in sight?’
Peter shook his head. ‘Not that I can see.’
‘So—’ Charlotte’s voice was waspish, ‘you can rest easily tonight, Toby.’ She turned to Peter, ignoring the unfriendly look the boy shot at her, ‘He’s crazy keen to get into the army. I do believe he prays each night that it won’t all be over before he can join in the fun and games.’
Toby ignored the interruption. ‘I’m a captain in the corps at school. They say I’ll get a commission – when I leave next year.’
Peter threw himself into a chair, stretched his legs in front of him, tilted his head to look into the eager young face. ‘Yes. I should think there’s every chance you will.’ If for no other reason than that the gaping gaps in the ranks of the young officers who were mown down each time the attack whistle was blown were becoming almost impossible to fill. He did not say it.
‘Haven’t you homework to do, Toby?’ Charlotte asked coolly. ‘I’m sure Peter’s tired. There’ll be plenty of time to talk to him later.’
The boy held her eyes for a moment, his own devoid of any expression, then he nodded, threw a brief smile towards Peter and left the room.
Charlotte watched him go with eyes that could not be called friendly. ‘That was remarkably restrained,’ she said, an acid edge to her voice. ‘He’s a cocky little monkey usually – Ah, Bron – tea – thank you. Put it there, would you?’
Bron placed the tray carefully upon the table, stood smoothing her apron.
‘That will do, Bron. Thank you.’ Charlotte waited until the door had closed, then very gracefully she moved to the table and poured the tea, knowing his eyes were upon her. The excitement that had started to sing inside her at her first thrillingly unexpected sight of him whispered still in her veins, heightening her colour, brightening her eyes; making her, she knew, more beautiful. She had thought of him so often since that moment of strange, still communion, eighteen months ago in the chill Christmas streets. Had imagined him suffering hardship, danger, the terrors of battle – so much more romantic than Ben, stuck in that blessed hospital with his horrible, decaying stumps. She remembered every moment of that day – his valiant gaiety, the blithe way he had lifted and dominated the men in the club; the light in his eyes as he had looked at her – and now, here he was, his face a little harder, his smile just a little less ready, the air of danger that had both fascinated and repelled her rather more obvious—
‘Do you mind?’ He was holding up the same battered flask she remembered, his face charmingly rueful, ‘Gets to be a bit of a habit, I’m afraid – but if you’d rather I didn’t?’
‘Of course not.’ She held the delicate cup and saucer as he splashed whisky into it. Then, studiedly poised, she picked up her own cup and drifted gracefully to a chair by the window where she sat, straight-backed, the light gilding her hair.
Peter could not take his eyes from her. He had known her all his life, from shy, too intense child to his brother’s pretty if unexpected bride. He had never until that last Christmas leave, ever really looked at her. And even that glimpse had faded very quickly. He took a gulp of whisky-laced tea that all but choked him.
She watched him in a capricious, self-contained silence.
He lifted his head. In the distance traffic rumbled, and children’s voices called. His ears sang in the quiet.
‘What is it?’ She was studying him so minutely she had sensed rather than seen his change of expression.
He laughed a little. ‘The quiet. No guns, you see. It’s – strange. You get used to them.’
Her face changed infinitesimally; no affectation here. She shivered a little. ‘I wouldn’t. I never would. Not if they’re like the bombs those beastly airships drop.’ Her face, he noticed with quick concern, had actually paled at the thought.
‘Ben said you didn’t like them.’
She lifted her head sharply. ‘You’ve seen him?’
‘Yesterday—’ He stopped. ‘No – day before yesterday. I called in on him on the way home.’
‘He’s well?’ If her voice did not betray quite the depth of interest that the question merited, he did not appear to notice.
‘Oh, yes. Tip-top, actually. He’s done awfully well to get on the hyphenated Sir Brian’s staff, hasn’t he?’
‘I suppose so, yes.’
‘I gather it was a special request – the old man recognized his name from some work he did before the war. Quite an honour.’
She nodded.
‘He sends his love, of course.’ He grinned. ‘And suggested that I might do him a favour by taking his lovely wife out for an evening or two, to cheer her up and take her mind off the war.’ He eyed her a little warily. ‘How does the lovely wife feel about the suggestion?’
She smiled, folding her hands composedly in her lap. ‘Oh, she thinks it’s a very nice idea. Very nice indeed.’
‘I’m not altogether sure,’ Charlotte said, chuckling delightedly two evenings later, her fingers curled about the fragile stem of a champagne glass, ‘that my not very extravagant husband would altogether approve.’
‘You aren’t enjoying yourself?’ Peter asked innocently.
On the small stage a ragtime band, not one of the players a day under forty, swung and stomped with enthusiasm; on the dance floor squealing girls and their dashing escorts, mostly but not all in uniform, danced as if their only aim in life were to wear out their shoes. A young man – not above twenty, Charlotte thought – shimmied and twirled, perfectly and gracefully balanced, his empty sleeve tucked into the pocket of his dinner suit; another, still in uniform, held his partner’s hand, bouncing as frenetically as anyone, his milky eyes blank.
‘Enjoying myself?’ Charlotte picked up her glass, twirling it in her fingers, studying it provocatively as if thinking. ‘I suppose—’ she let the words trail into mid-air, glancing at him mischievously out of the corner of her eye.
He leaned forward, tapping her arm smartly. ‘Careful. They throw you out of the Savoy if you aren’t enjoying yourself. Didn’t you know that? And there are spies everywhere.’
She giggled. ‘All right then. I’d better say yes.’
‘Well done. Stiff upper lip at all times. Playing fields of Eton and all that. That’s what wins wars.’
Rather to her disappointment he had refused point blank to wear the mudstained uniform that Bron had not, for all her loving and meticulous efforts, succeeded in cleaning completely. He was dressed in his pre-war evening clothes, which hung a little loosely on his war-tempered frame but otherwise, she had to admit, looked very well indeed on him. She herself had spent a frantic two days remodelling a shimmering pale blue silk dress, intricately beading the neckline, taking out the sleeves, shortening it once, and then again, contriving from the offcuts an elegant turban-like hat trimmed with a matching ostrich feather. Her strapped shoes, hastily dyed, were still damp upon her feet but looked, she knew, the very height of style, matching the dress exactly. The ivory pins in her hair matched the daringly wicked foot-long cigarette holder. Her mother’s diamanté glimmered at throat and ears – hardly diamonds, but surely at this time of austerity more patriotic? She had drawn more than one appreciative glance as she had followed the elderly waiter through the dancing throng to the table, and the knowledge had put colour into her cheeks and lifted her chin an attractive fraction higher.
‘What did you think of the show?’
‘It wasn’t at all bad.’ Not for a moment would she admit to the total, almost childlike delight the performance had given her. She had not been to a theatre since her marriage. Mr Tower of London, the show that had taken the capital by storm, had seemed to her a glimpse of magic; oh, to be on that stage, to glitter and gleam beneath those lights, to carry the watchers on the magic carpet of song – to be wooed and won so romantically and publicly – and then, next night, to do it all again—
‘What did you think of Gracie?’
‘She has a very pretty voice. But—’ she pouted a little, ‘not so very beautiful, I thought?’
Peter tilted his head pensively. ‘Perhaps not. But what a personality. We’ll hear more about Miss Gracie Fields. Bet your boots on it.’
She made a small, faintly dismissive gesture with her shoulders. She had noticed with some pleasure that a girl on a neighbouring table, ignoring her own middle-aged escort, was eyeing Peter with an undisguised degree of interest. She picked up her glass, very carefully sipped her champagne – nice it might be but she had no intention whatsoever of allowing herself to be anything less than in complete control of the situation. Peter, she knew, from the excellent claret at lunch through the habitual whisky with his tea that afternoon and on to the disguised rissoles but excellent wine that the Savoy had served with such aplomb at dinner, was very relaxed indeed. To her lightly probing comment on his drinking habits earlier in the evening he had replied, with a casual enough air, but it seemed to her fairly seriously, that there were no teetotal VCs. She had filed that away for further thought. She leaned to him now, smiling. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me to dance?’
He drained his glass, stood with fluent grace, extended a hand that after five days’ leave was still tough as leather and ingrained with dirt, though she knew the effort that had gone into cleaning it. ‘Will you do me the honour, my lady?’
And, happily aware of the pensive regard of the girl on the next table, she stood. ‘I’d be delighted.’
‘Mr Peter’s enjoying his leave, then?’ Kate leaned against the mantelpiece of the schoolroom, cigarette in hand, watching Bron as she dragged the narrow beds that had been stacked against the wall for the day into lines, turning the room into a makeshift dormitory for the night. ‘And not just Mr Peter, either.’ Kate’s eyes were sly. ‘Seems Miss Charlotte’s enjoying it too?’
Bron straightened, hands on hips in exasperation. ‘Enough of that, Kate! If you must know Doctor Ben asked Mister Peter to take Miss Charlotte out.’
Kate blew smoke in a derisive stream at the ceiling. ‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes! And you can put that nasty thing out in here, if you please – the children have to sleep in here, mind! Come on – don’t just stand there – give us a hand!’
Taking her time Kate stubbed out the cigarette, sauntered to where Bron was struggling with another bed. Her hair was cut short as was her skirt – indecently so in Bron’s opinion. And she was wearing lipstick. She made no attempt to help but stood watching, her head on one side. ‘Saw them, I did,’ she said.
Bron, struggling with the bed, did not look up.
‘In the Strand. Holding hands.’ Kate saw the other girl’s momentary stillness and grinned. ‘Asked him to do that too, did he?’
‘Now look, you—!’ Bron was furious. She straightened, pointed a grimy finger, ‘You’ve got a wicked tongue, Kate Buckley! A wicked tongue and a dirty mind!’
Kate spread wide, innocent hands. ‘I was only saying—’
‘Well you can stop saying, d’you hear? There’s no one here wants to listen! Now – if you’re not going to help then get out of the road, will you? I’ve more to do than to stand here listening to your gossip – it’s Mrs Briggs’s night off and I’m to get Doctor Will’s supper – surgery’s packed mind, and him single handed – working himself into the ground, he is.’
Kate stepped back, but made no move to go. ‘And Mr Peter and Miss Charlotte?’ she asked, smiling knowingly. ‘Are they going to be here for supper? Or are they off gallivanting again? Making hay while the sun shines, eh?’
‘Will you stop that talk! You should be ashamed of yourself, that’s what! Gossiping like an old woman – coming round here trying to make trouble!’
Kate’s face tightened; she lifted a shoulder. ‘Please yourself.’ She moved towards the door. ‘But I know what I saw, so there! Holding hands they were! An’ not like brother and sister, either – oh, no – not by a long chalk.’
‘Out!’ said Bron.
‘I’m going. Keep your hair on.’ Kate flounced to the door and left with no further word, leaving the door open behind her.
Bron stood for a long moment, looking after her, sucking her lower lip thoughtfully, her brows drawn together in a faint, worried frown.
‘So. Six down, one to go – where shall we go tonight?’
Charlotte looked up. ‘Oh, Peter – I can’t – I’m on duty at the Club tonight.’
‘Then I shall come with you and persuade the charming Polly to cover for you. You can’t leave me on my own on my last evening. There’s no knowing what mischief I might get into!’
She laughed a little. ‘We-ell—’
‘Vanity Fair’s on at the Palace – fancy it? Or we could go to the Ritz—’
‘Peter! You really mustn’t be so extravagant!’
‘Why ever not? Eat drink and be merry and all that – oh, come on – I’m joking—’ he said gently, seeing the sudden shock of fear in her face, ‘joking!’
She looked down at her clasped hands. ‘Not a very funny joke.’ The past week had been one of the happiest of her life. She could not remember when last she had laughed so much, enjoyed herself so well, felt so young, so utterly carefree. As the week had passed, she had pushed to the back of her mind the knowledge that he would have to go back – to danger, to the possibility of death. As the days had passed she had spent them like golden guineas, recklessly and with no thought of the future. They had dined and danced, been to the theatre; he had come to the Club on the two occasions she had been on duty. It had been a week of frivolity and laughter, of silly jokes and chattered nonsense; they had hardly said a serious word to each other. ‘You’re like a couple of children,’ Doctor Will had said of them indulgently at breakfast that morning as they had dissolved into helpless giggles over Bron’s lumpy porridge. And so they had been – children, playing, with no thought for tomorrow.
Or had they?
She lifted her head, to find his eyes upon her. There was a moment’s oddly tense silence. Then the familiar grin gleamed upon his face. ‘Well? What’s it to be? The Palace or the Ritzy Ritz?’
She could not somehow bring herself to smile back. ‘Whichever you prefer.’
‘The Ritz it is, then. We’ll dine and dance and drink damnation to the enemy. Meanwhile,’ he flung his jacket about his shoulders, ‘I promised to go and see young Toby’s corps on parade. See you later.’
She sat for a long time after he had gone, hands folded in her lap, staring pensively into space. Her husband’s brother. She couldn’t love him. No – more than that – she mustn’t love him.
But she did. She knew it with a certainty that left no room for doubt. She did.
And he?
She had no idea. He was affectionate, certainly – but then Peter was affectionate to everyone. He had spent a lot of time with her – but then, who else was there, with almost everyone away? He had held her hand – but then, after champagne, it had seemed a perfectly natural thing to do. And he was Ben’s brother. She knew the bond between them, knew he would never break trust with his brother. If he felt anything for her he would surely never acknowledge it, for that in his mind would be to betray Ben, and that she was sure he would never do.
But yet – she loved him. For the first time in the twenty-eight years of her life, suddenly she understood the meaning of the word. She loved him. And tomorrow she would kiss him lightly and send him back to the Front. And, if they all survived and this poisonous war ever ended, Ben would come home and they would settle again to a marriage that was no marriage—
With a quick movement she stood up and strode to the window, stood looking bleakly out into the dirty street that was lit with May sunshine. ‘Damn it!’ she muttered ferociously under her breath, ‘damn and blast it!’
They were in Piccadilly when the bomb dropped. They had, as Peter had promised, wined and dined at the Ritz. They had danced their feet off, and come out into a night of rising wind and scudding cloud. As they stepped through the doors into the darkened street the guns were sounding. Charlotte stiffened, lifted her head to the sky. A searchlight beam swept the swift-moving clouds. Somewhere close a whistle blasted. ‘Zepp raid!’ someone shouted. ‘Get off the street!’
Charlotte’s stomach churned in cold terror. ‘Peter!’ She clutched at Peter’s arm. She was trembling.
‘It’s all right, love—’ Soothingly he had put an arm about her. ‘They won’t—’ He stopped. In the silence they heard it; the droning sound of an engine, high above them. The guns boomed again. Charlotte turned her face into Peter’s chest, her hands over her ears, all but paralysed with fear. She was truly terrified of these monsters and their bombs; they haunted her dreams.
‘Come on. The station—’ Peter caught her hand, trying to make her move.
‘I can’t,’ her teeth were chattering. ‘I can’t!’
‘Come on, sweetheart – you’ll be safe in the station—’
She began to move jerkily, her legs trembling so badly she could barely stand upright. Peter held her, talking, coaxing, drawing her towards the station and safety. The explosion nearly deafened them. Dirt and debris flew around them. ‘Down!’ Peter threw her to the ground, his body on top of her, shielding her. She was sobbing uncontrollably. The guns roared. The street was lit with a livid flicker of flame. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right, my little love. I’m here. I’ll take care of you – don’t be frightened.’ Peter’s voice in her ear was gentle, his hands held her, firm and strong. ‘There – you see? It’s over. All over. And you’re all right – come on, my love. Sit up. Show me that pretty face.’
She struggled to a sitting position. The building that had been hit further down the street blazed, blossoms of flame curling around the upstairs windows. A bell jangled. Men shouted. She was sitting on the kerb, Peter beside her, his arm firm about her shoulders. Her stockings and her frock were torn and dirty. One of her shoes had come off. Tears still ran down her face. ‘I’m s-sorry. I’m s-such a coward!’
She saw the shine of his smile in the firelight. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course you aren’t.’ She looked like a fragile, terrified child huddled beside him, her hair full of dirt, her face smeared with tears.
‘It’s just – I c-can’t s-stand them – the airships – and the bombs – they frighten me so – I try to be brave but—’ Pathetically the tears began to roll again. She was still trembling.
The fire had taken hold. People stood watching. She shuddered and turned away. With no words he gathered her into his arms and held her, held her as she wept, her head upon his shoulder, her slender body shaking as if with a fever. ‘They frighten me so!’ she said again between the sobs.
He laid his cheek against her dirty hair, letting her cry, waiting for the terror to subside. After a few minutes the sobbing eased, and though she still shuddered every now and again the awful trembling had stopped. She sighed a little, like a child, snuggled closer to him, her breath still catching in her throat. He tightened his arms about her.
She sniffed. Smiling a little he reached for his handkerchief, tucked it into her hand. Still sheltered by his arm she wiped her eyes, blew her nose. Lifted her head. His face, lit by the flicker of the flames, was inches from hers. ‘I’m – sorry,’ she whispered. ‘You must think me such a coward. I just—’ she stopped. For a long moment neither of them moved, a small island of silence in the chaos around them. Then he bent his head. Their lips touched, very gently. She pulled away a little, watching him, her eyes enormous. Then with a small gasp she leaned to him, lifting her lips to his, clinging, murmuring, her hand behind his head, drawing him to her.
He had wanted to kiss her ever since that moment a week ago when she had appeared at the parlour door, slender and womanly in her pale silk. Had wanted to and had resisted it. She was Ben’s wife. She was not – could not be – for him. He had teased her and laughed with her, he had watched her, taken pleasure in her pretty ways, her lovely face, her graceful body. But he had known, oh yes, all along he had known that the fruit was forbidden; and perhaps the more tantalizingly desirable for that. He had not touched her, had resisted the tasting; until now. And now, as they kissed and clung, as his hands slipped from her supple waist to her small breasts, thumbs rubbing gently at the nipples, as he felt her mouth open in a gasp beneath his, a small grim voice somewhere in his mind spoke of betrayal and disaster. But louder, much louder, spoke the urgent need of his body, the joy of touching her, the wonder of her desire that so obviously matched his. She broke away from him, buried her head in his chest, would not look at him. He was whispering – whispering – small endearments, loving words – in God’s name what was he doing? ‘Darling Charlotte – darling, darling Charlotte – I love you—’
And then she pulled away from him, sharply; sat hunched upon the kerb, watching him with enormous eyes that were full of fear, her hands to her cheeks. ‘No,’ she said, her voice very low. ‘No – Peter – we can’t – he’d – he’d kill us—’
She saw him flinch from that, saw the pain flicker in his eyes at mention of Ben. Stiffly he scrambled to his feet, extended a hand to help her up. Her lower lip was trembling. She looked like a lovely, dirty little girl, terrified that the grown ups would discover she had been naughty. He wanted to grab her, crush her, hold her; protect her. Jesus! He was out of his mind.
‘Well—’ He bent, picked up his cap from the pavement and fixed it at a jaunty angle on his head. ‘Good old Fritz, eh? You can always trust him to whip up a bit of excitement when things get dull. Come on, old bean – time for home, I think?’
She did not, as they had originally planned, go with him to the station the next day. They said their goodbyes in full view of the gathered inmates of the Bear, Doctor Will gruff, Bron sniffing into her handkerchief. The lips that brushed his cheek were cool; the hands that held his trembled very slightly.
Sitting on the train, staring moodily from the window at the peaceful countryside that sped past, he decided that it was no bad thing after all to be going back to France; the war might be bloody, but at least you knew where you were with Fritz, and the basic business of staying alive was comparatively uncomplicated – he leaned his head to the back of the seat and closed his eyes, trying with more determination than success to erase from his mind the blue eyes and delicately pretty face, the sweetly curving body of his brother’s wife.