The Russians were out; the Americans – fresh, vigorous, eager to show their mettle – were in; and with them came a new wave of optimism. Through a gruelling winter and into the spring of 1918, which had seen the launch of a desperate and costly German offensive designed to break the backs of the Allied armies before the incoming American troops could make a significant difference to the balance of arms, the fighting had continued sporadically and viciously along the length of the Western Front. Now, with summer approaching and more and more units arriving from the United States, the German offensive had failed and it was becoming obvious that the race against time was lost. The American troops – irresistibly friendly, keen as mustard to get into the fight and above all well fed, well equipped and well paid – were regarded with a mixture of mostly good-natured resentment, equally good-natured amusement and rarely expressed heartfelt thankfulness by the war-weary troops who watched them march into the shattered villages of France and Flanders, swinging, fresh and confident, down the patched, unevenly cobbled streets, bringing new blood and new hope to the battle.
Eddie, sitting with Sally in the window of their favourite estaminet, lifted an ironic glass to the column of troops that marched, singing, towards the station. ‘Here’s to the Yanks, God bless ’em. With a bit of luck we’ll all be home by Christmas.’
Sally smiled, acknowledged his words with a lift of her own glass.
‘Poor young sods. They’ve no more idea what they’ve got coming than babies.’
‘They’ll learn, I guess.’ Sally was watching with pensive eyes a young girl who was serving at the tables, plump and pretty, her long brown hair hanging almost to her waist, eyes bright with laughter as she parried the advances of the hopeful young soldiers she was serving, obviously revelling in the attention she was being paid.
Eddie’s eyes followed hers, then quizzically he looked back at her.
Sally laughed wryly at the unspoken question. ‘I was just thinking’, she said not altogether lightly, ‘how very ancient I feel sometimes.’ She lifted a hand, absently rubbed at a grease-stained finger.
He chuckled, but his eyes were sharp. ‘Don’t be daft, lass. You don’t look a day over forty.’
She pulled a face, stuck her tongue out at him, sipped her drink. The marching boots crashed rhythmically outside the window.
Eddie rested a chin on his knuckle, watching her. ‘What’ll you do? After the war, I mean, when you go home?’
She studied the dirty finger as if it had suddenly become the most absorbing thing in the world. Then, shrugging a little and without looking at him she said, ‘I don’t know. I don’t actually have what you might call a home. I could go back to Bruges – but I don’t know what’s happened to Philippe’s parents – and anyway, without Philippe—’ She trailed off, a faint flinch of pain in her eyes. Nothing that had happened since had erased the agony of that loss. ‘There’s Philippa, of course – I must make some kind of home for her.’
‘You won’t go back to your friends at the Bear?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
He waited for a moment, watching her closed face, waiting for her to elaborate. When it became obvious that she would not, he reached for his packet of cigarettes, offered her one. ‘Why not?’
She shook her head. A flicker of irritation at his persistence brought her eyes to his. ‘I just won’t. It isn’t what I want to do. That’s all.’
‘Fair enough.’ He lit his cigarette, watched the drifting smoke. ‘Anyway – things have changed, haven’t they? Happen folk like your Pattens have had their day.’
She frowned a little. ‘What do you mean?’
He shrugged. ‘Seems to me we’ve had our bellyful of do-gooders. Time we took a hand ourselves. Take them on at their own game. We need a Socialist Government, working folk in Parliament. That’s the way to get welfare for our people, education for our children, decent homes, a living wage. That’s the way to get rid of the parasites, to ensure the working people of the country – the poor buggers who’ve been fighting this war – get a fair crack of the whip.’
The narrow, green-flecked eyes watched him affectionately. ‘The way to build Jerusalem?’ Sally prompted softly.
‘Happen so. Why not? The first thing that’ll happen after this little lot is an election; and if I don’t miss my guess it’ll be an election that at least some women’ll vote in – have you thought of that?’
She nodded. ‘Hannah was talking about it the other day. If the Government keeps its promises – it certainly looks as if the war’s done for us what none of our own efforts could. Crazy, isn’t it?’
He lifted a shoulder. ‘It’s a bloody good job it’s done something. Anyway—’ he leaned forward on his elbows, his dark face lit with enthusiasm, ‘think about it.’ He grinned his quick, abrasive grin. ‘Remember what they used to say about women voters? That they’d vote the way their husbands or their priests told them? That a woman voter would be a Conservative voter?’
‘I certainly do.’
‘Right – so what we’re going to need is women active in Labour politics to persuade them to use their own judgement. Want a job?’
She stared at him, then laughed a little. ‘Are you joking?’
‘Never been more serious in my life. You’d probably have to work for nothing – be a bloody uphill struggle too at first; the most we can hope for is to form an Opposition this time—’
‘You’re serious?’ She was looking at him incredulously, ‘You really believe that the Labour Party will get enough seats to form an Opposition?’
‘Never believed anything more. It’s got to happen, Sal. The world’s changed. They can’t keep us down any longer. You fought for the vote; you’ve as good as got it. You aren’t going to give up now, are you?’
‘I – hadn’t thought about it.’
‘Well—’ he leaned back in his chair, pushed his cap to a jaunty angle upon his dark head, ‘think about it now. The prospective candidate for Barnsley North can do with all the help he can get.’
She shook her head, gently. ‘I don’t know, Eddie. If you’re serious—’
‘I’m serious.’
‘I don’t know. There’s Philippa to think about—’
His eyes had narrowed a little. With a sudden movement he straightened in the chair, leaned towards her, his voice very quiet. ‘And not just Philippa, eh?’
It was impossible, under the acute, dark gaze, to prevent the rise of blood to her face. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean, lass. I mean the fella, whoever he is, that’s been leading you such a dance over these past months.’ He did not stop as she opened her mouth to deny it. ‘Time and again I’ve meant to offer to push his face in for you – still will, if you like. Just tell me his name – I’ll straighten him out. Happen someone should—’
‘Eddie!’
‘Don’t deny it, lass. I’ve known you too long.’ He laid a brotherly hand upon hers, his smile dying. ‘Is he worth it, Sal? Seems a right shame to me, a girl like you – mooning over a lad you can’t have – I assume that’s the trouble?’
She nodded wordlessly.
He offered a cigarette, and this time she took it, as much to give herself space to recover her composure as for any other reason. As he lit it for her, she looked at him through the smoke. ‘How did you know?’
‘Don’t be daft – sticks out a mile, doesn’t it, when a mate gets moody? And when your blue-blooded friend came snooping around with her clever questions – I put two and two together and came up with a nifty four. She thought it was me; I knew it wasn’t. So – it was someone else. You quite sure you don’t want me to duff him up for you?’ His smile was heinously cheerful.
She could not resist laughter. ‘Oh, Eddie! – You surely don’t want to lose all your stripes in one fell swoop at this stage of the game?’
‘Ah.’ He blew a stream of smoke into the air. ‘Like that, eh? A gentleman of some influence?’
‘You could say so. And that’s all I’m going to say.’ Her voice was firm. ‘It isn’t your business, Eddie, any more than it’s Fiona’s. I’m a grown-up girl and I’m perfectly capable of sorting out my own troubles.’
He grinned brief acknowledgement of that. Then he sobered. ‘It’s a mug’s game Sal, take it from me. The war won’t go on for ever. Then he’ll go back to his wife. They always do.’
‘I know.’
He watched her for a long, quiet moment, then shrugged. ‘You’re right. It’s none of my business. Just remember; it’s a big world out there, and there’s a fair bit on offer.’
She grinned slyly, ‘Including an unpaid job with you?’
He shrugged, gracelessly returning her smile. ‘It was worth a try. Hey – I don’t suppose your Fiona what’s-her-name’d be interested? There’s a cat to put among the pigeons if ever I saw one!’
Sally drained her glass, stood up, bent to drop an affectionate kiss on his cheek. ‘Why not try her? I wouldn’t put anything past Fee. Now – I have to go – see you soon.’
She left him sitting at the table, an expression of deep thought on his face.
Hannah’s decision to accept Ralph’s proposal had not been an impulsive one. She had carried the letter around with her for a week, confiding in no one, before she had penned her answer. But once taken, she had had no doubt that the decision was right. In a way it had been surprisingly easy; they knew each other so very well – and if it promised to be a union based more upon friendship than on passion, then who knew but the bond might be stronger for that? Only one condition she had attached to her acceptance; she would not marry until the war was over. ‘I want no uniforms at my wedding, my dear, and no sound of guns,’ she had written, ‘I want us to marry as I want us to live; in peace.’
A simple ambition, she thought sometimes, wryly, as she held the hand of a boy who cried for his mother as he died or responded to the cheerful greeting of a man whose eyes were burned out and deadened by gas, but still painfully difficult to achieve.
‘When will they give up at last?’ she asked Sally tiredly, her skirts kilted about her knees, her aching feet in a bowl of soothingly cool water. ‘They say the Germans have lost a million men – a million! – since the spring. And it’s only August! They surely can’t keep sustaining such losses? They’re falling back everywhere – we pushed their line back eight miles here on the Somme just a couple of days ago –why won’t they stop it? Men are still being killed by the thousand – for what? They can’t win.’
‘Hard for them to accept that, I suppose.’ Sally tossed her a towel. ‘Whoever loses this war is going to have to face the charge of squandering millions of men’s lives for nothing. Not easy to face, that.’
‘And meanwhile men are still dying.’ Hannah dried her feet, pulled on her stockings. Her billet – a small bell tent that she shared with another Sister – was chaotic, the belongings which had followed her through four years of warfare packed up once again in boxes and bags, ready for yet another move.
Sally glanced around. ‘Where are you off to, do you know?’
‘No. We’re following the advance. They’ve moved so far forward that we’re doing no good back here.’
Sally grinned. ‘Reminds me of the latest story – some Americans were sent up the line a week ago to relieve an Aussie unit—’
‘And?’ Hannah cocked a slightly wary brow.
‘They haven’t caught up with them yet.’
Hannah laughed. Sally perched herself on the edge of the narrow bed. ‘It really is finishing, isn’t it? At last?’
‘It certainly looks like it. The only question seems to be how long?’
‘And then – peace. Funny thought. I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like.’
‘So have a lot of other people.’ Hannah folded the towel, looked vaguely about her for somewhere to put it.
‘And you and Ralph will marry and live happily ever after.’
‘I hope so.’
Impulsively Sally stood and put an arm about her friend’s shoulders. ‘Of course you will. And you both deserve it. I’m so glad for you.’
Hannah smiled into the strong-boned face. ‘And you? What will you do?’
The arm dropped from her shoulders, Sally turned away, half-shrugging. ‘I don’t know. I’ll find something. I have Flippy to think about.’
‘Will you come back to the Bear?’
Sally hesitated for a moment before gently shaking her head. ‘No. No, Hannah, I don’t think so.’
Hannah did not argue. ‘You’ll always have a home there, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I know.’ Suddenly Sally ached to tell her, ached to have done with the pretence, the lies. I love your brother. He loves me. He’s locked in a marriage that’s been a misery from the start. I can’t come back to the Bear because I can’t stand to see him every day – to be so close, and not to touch him, not to share with him the everyday things that people take so much for granted. She smiled brightly. ‘Did you hear about Toby? He’s a full lieutenant. Quite the young gentleman.’
Hannah nodded. ‘Ralph told me in his last letter. Apparently Toby’s thinking of studying law after the war? Ralph’s sure he stands a good chance of getting in – especially with his war record.’
‘Nineteen – if that—’ Sally said very quietly, ‘and a war hero. Funny thought, isn’t it? I wonder how they’ll cope, these lads, when they get home?’
‘Don’t worry about Toby,’ Hannah said drily. ‘He’ll cope.’
Sally’s sudden laughter was sharp. ‘That’s true.’
‘Well—’ Hannah had emptied the bowl and tucked it into a box, ‘that looks about it. Coming over to Mess? Lunch is billed as something as a celebration before we leave. And I don’t know when I’ll get to see you again.’
Sally tucked an arm in hers. ‘Don’t worry – you won’t lose me as easily as that. Let me know where you are – I’m sure someone will want something taken there!’
The August sun was hot, beating down from a clear sky, turning the trodden earth of the compound to dust. Hannah tilted her face, savouring the warmth. ‘I just hope that whatever is going to happen happens before the winter comes again,’ she said soberly. ‘Just give me a roof over my head when it rains and a fire to sit by and I swear I’ll never complain again.’
Hannah’s wish was not entirely granted; it was November before pen was put to paper in the forest of Compiègne and the guns fell to silence. In the three preceding months the fight was as fierce as ever; young men died still, wastefully and terribly, with the prospect of peace hovering tantalizingly close. And, as if the suffering had not been enough, a new scourge appeared, killing friend and foe, decimating armies and civilian populations alike. Influenza. Throughout a debilitated Europe the disease raged, felling the old and the young with an indifferent and indiscriminate hand.
But, at least, the war was over.
And, just a month before it had been ended, the Representation of the People Act had enfranchised eight and a half million British women.
‘So – you’re off home to get started on making a country fit for heroes?’ Sally cocked a not too derisive brow at Eddie, who slouched grinning opposite her.
‘Something like that.’ He reached for the wine bottle, refilled both their glasses. ‘You see before you the official Labour candidate for Barnsley North. So – early release and off I go. God – isn’t it bloody quiet?’
Sally nodded. The almost unearthly silence that had fallen two days before as the guns all along the line had ceased their thunder was strangely unnerving. She knew herself not to be the only one who had found difficulty in sleeping in the quiet night.
‘You decided what you’re going to do yet?’
She shook her head, turning the glass in her hand, watching the light that glinted jewel-like in the blood red depths of the liquid. Watching her he was suddenly aware of a brighter gleam in her eyes, a slight trembling of the firm mouth.
‘Sal? Something up?’
It was a long time before she lifted her head. When she did the tears stood clearly in her eyes. ‘I heard from Philippe’s sister. She’s been back to Bruges.’
‘And?’ he asked, very gently.
‘They’re dead. Both of them. Anselm at the start of the war. And Alice—’ she swallowed, ‘Alice a month ago. Flu. Oh, Eddie – it’s so unfair! – To suffer it all and then to die like that.’
He nodded, the dark eyes sympathetic.
‘I had thought – that perhaps—’ she trailed off, ducked her head again. ‘Alice was the closest thing I had to a mother – it would have been somewhere to go.’ She had been surprised herself at how badly Annette’s sad news had hit her. She dashed her hand across her eyes and took a quick mouthful of wine.
‘You’ve no family?’
She looked at him in something close to surprise. So well had they come to know each other that she forgot that he knew nothing of her true background. ‘No.’ She hesitated a moment before adding, ‘Not that I know of, anyway.’
They drank their wine in a silence that held nothing of awkwardness, everything of warmth and friendship. Eddie refilled the glasses, clicked his fingers at the waiter to bring another bottle.
‘Are you trying to get us both drunk?’
He grinned. ‘I could think of worse ways to spend our last evening together.’
‘Our last—?’ she stopped, surprised at the small twist of pain the words had startled in her. ‘Why yes – I suppose it will be.’
‘You’ll miss the rissoles even if you don’t miss me.’
She laughed at that. Always he could make her laugh. The bleak wave of sadness had receded a little; they had all lived with death for too long now not to be able to face loss when it came.
‘Once upon a time,’ Eddie said, leaning back in characteristic pose, holding his glass to the light and studying it with apparent absorption, ‘—a very very long time ago – I came across this girl. Leaning against a posh car, she was, in a street in London—’
Sally smiled; wrinkled her nose.
‘“Aha!” I thought – “One of them snooty upper-class London pieces as fancy themselves in trousers, eh?”’ He had, obviously deliberately, broadened his accent.
Sally giggled. The wine sang in her tired head.
‘So – not being backward in coming forward, like – I accosted her—’
‘What happened?’
He leaned forward conspiratorially, pointing a finger. ‘I got my come uppance, that’s what. Sharp as a needle she was – and about as upper crust as I am meself. Funny thing—’ He twirled his glass idly in his fingers, his eyes upon it.
‘What?’
His glance flicked to her face and away. She saw curiosity in the bright depths. ‘D’you know I don’t know a damn’ thing more about the lass now than I did then?’
Sally flushed a little. ‘Oh – I don’t know—’
‘I know she’s a gaol bird. I know she’s got a temper on her when she’s roused that’d do well in a wildcat. I know she’s got political leanings, and a tongue in her head. I know she’s a widow who’s been—’ he caught the glimpse of danger in Sally’s eyes quickly enough to prevent the next words, acknowledged it with his most graceless grin, ’well – you know. I know she worked in an orphanage before the war.’ His suddenly sharp glance caught her. ‘What I don’t know is how she got there.’
She leaned her chin on her hands, looking at him. ‘You know what curiosity did to the cat, don’t you?’
‘I’m a lot tougher than that.’ He tilted the bottle, refilled her glass.
‘You really want to know? It’s no great story.’
‘You tell me yours,’ Eddie filled his own glass and toasted her, ‘and I’ll tell you mine. How’s that? We shouldn’t part knowing nothing about each other: Now should we?’
‘All right then. If you really want to know—’
She was amazed at how easily it came, how the memories flooded back as she talked. Josie. Toby. The soup kitchen. The tenement block with its squalor, its dangers, its easy camaraderie. Those first days at the Bear; her debt to the Pattens. She did not tell him the full reason why they had first taken her in – that after all was someone else’s secret, not her own – and she did not tell him of Ben and the complex, difficult, impassioned relationship that had developed between them, for that too was a secret not hers to tell; but all else she spoke of, and found herself smiling often. The exploits with Hannah – meeting Philippe – the magic of their love, the horror that war had made of it—
Eddie sat and listened, dark face intent, watching her face with brilliant eyes.
‘So that was how I came to be leaning on Colonel Foster’s Talbot in a London street when this cheeky lad accosted me—’
‘And bought you a cup of tea.’
She laughed.
‘Which has led on to many a bottle of wine—’
‘And many a rissole,’ she added.
‘Great oaks from little acorns grow,’ he intoned solemnly.
The wine bottle was all but empty.
‘You said you’d tell me yours,’ she pointed out.
‘So I did.’ He lifted a finger. A waiter appeared at his side. Eddie lifted the bottle. ‘Encore, s’il vous plaît.’
‘Eddie – neither of us will walk a straight line out of here!’
‘So who cares? Straight lines are for tomorrow. Now – where to begin?’
He saw her to her billet at three o’clock in the morning, in rain that teemed into the darkened streets, poured from roofs and from gutters, ran in the cobbled roads. Oddly, despite the wine she had drunk, Sally felt absolutely clear-headed; very aware of the friendship that had engendered this evening of confidences and laughter, aware too that, as Eddie had pointed out, this would be the last such evening they were likely to share. Such farewells were taking place, she supposed, up and down the long line of the Front – people who had shared danger, privation, the desperate intimacy of fear, parting to go back to a life that had been the subject of so many dreams, so many longings that now, attainable, seemed all but unreal. They walked in companionable silence, arms linked. She had liked the story he had told – of an able and enterprising lad born into an able and enterprising working-class family that stood none of his nonsense but knew his worth and encouraged him to make the most of himself. Self educated, self reliant, self confident – Eddie Browne would take the world by the scruff of its neck and shake it until success fell from it to his feet, she had no doubt of that. Neither had she any doubt of his ability to achieve his ambition of becoming, sooner or later, one of the first of a generation of Socialist MPs. In that connection she had, gently but firmly, once more refused the offer of a job; a suggestion that had been promptly and shamelessly offered when she had admitted that, upon the death of Philippe’s parents, she found herself in the – for her – quite extraordinary position of being financially independent.
‘Well. Here we are.’ They had stopped walking. She turned to look at him. Water dripped from the peak of his cap, darkened the shoulders of his greatcoat. A single light from a near-by window slanted across the wet cobblestones. A child cried plaintively.
They looked at each other for an odd, sad moment in silence. ‘I can’t believe it’s over,’ she said very quietly.
‘Oh, it’s over all right.’
She nodded. ‘When are you off?’
‘Tomorrow – next day – some time soon, anyway.’
‘So – I won’t see you again?’
‘No.’ He made a fist of his hand and grazed her chin gently with the knuckles. ‘Good luck, pal. Keep in touch?’
‘I will.’ How many such promises were being made? How many would be kept?
He grinned, turned to leave.
‘Eddie!’ She took two quick steps after him, lifted her face, kissed him very hard. ‘There.’ There was the slightest wobble in her voice. ‘Something to remember me by.’
‘Oh, I won’t forget you, lass,’ he said very quietly. ‘And what’s more I don’t think you’ll forget me.’
The moment held them very still, very close, the rain running from his hat, teeming down her lifted face. Then he turned and strode away. And though she stood to watch him until he turned the corner, he did not look back.
Hannah and Ralph were married early in the new year of 1919, a month after the General Election, which had seen a Conservative-dominated Government returned firmly to power; but, with fifty-nine seats, the Labour Party were, as Eddie had predicted, the largest single group in opposition. By the time of the wedding both Sally and Hannah had been back in England for nearly a month. Ben too, thanks to string-pulling by the influential Sir Brian, was home in time for the celebrations, but only just.
Sally, firmly resisting all blandishments, had refused to return to the Bear, but had taken rooms in a respectable street not too far away. With her had gone Philippa, Marie-Clare and little Louise. Toby was still in France.
The wedding, at Hannah’s insistence, was a small one, held in the chapel around the corner from the Bear, the only guests family, Sally, who served her as Matron of Honour, and – to Sally’s delight – Fiona MacAdam, elegant and sardonic as ever, down from her family’s country home in the north where, she assured Sally, ‘I’m leading the most gruesome life possible, my dear – just nothing to do from morn till night but talk to the butler and arrange a few flowers. I never thought I’d actually miss bandages and hypodermics!’
Hannah wore a suit of heavy cream lace over satin, the folds of the skirt falling to between calf and ankle length, her short thick hair shining beneath a wide-brimmed rose-trimmed hat.
‘You look absolutely lovely.’ Sally, herself resplendent in glowing green that complemented her pale skin and green-flecked eyes and showed a very neat turn of ankle, fussed about Hannah in the chapel porch like a mother hen, handing her at last the prayer book with its flowerdecked ribbon that she was to carry with her to the altar.
The ceremony was short and very simple; the look on Ralph’s face as he kissed his bride, for whom he had waited so long and patiently, brought an unexpected lump to Sally’s throat.
The reception was held – the Bear still being full to overflowing with unplaced refugees – in a large upstairs room at the Queen Victoria public house in the Commercial Road. Charlotte, delicate as an angel in sugar pink and white, supervised with competent authority the conveying of her crippled brother-in-law up the steep stairs and his settling into a comfortable chair. Champagne was served; and Sally, relieved at last of her matronly duties, found herself in company with Philippa and Rachel, the latter having been allowed home from school for the weekend especially for the occasion.
‘So – school isn’t so bad after all?’ Sally asked smiling, breaking into the child’s monologue about netball and hockey and school plays and a friend called Patricia. ‘You weren’t keen to go in the first place, as I remember it?’
Rachel grinned engagingly, the brilliant eyes shining. ‘Oh it’s topping! Patricia says it’s probably the very nicest school in England and I think she’s right. The two Miss Beatties are super and we’ve got this absolute love of a PT mistress – she’s quite stunningly pretty.’ She giggled a little. ‘Patricia says that at least half the girls are in love with her!’
Sally allowed her gaze to drift around the gathering. Ben stood with Ralph, glass in hand, deep in conversation. Charlotte, on the other side of the room, gestured for a waiter to refill Peter’s champagne glass. Fiona, talking to Doctor Will, caught her eye and winked. Sally grinned back.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ her daughter said, suddenly and very ill-manneredly to her cousin, ‘Can’t you talk about anything but this silly Patricia?’
‘Philippa!’ Sally, her wandering attention brought sharply back, stared at her usually easy-going offspring in amazement. ‘Don’t talk to Rachel like that – it’s very rude!’
Rachel laughed. ‘It’s all right. She’s still a baby. She doesn’t understand.’
‘I am not! And I jolly well do!’ Poor Philippa was pink with anger. ‘You’ve talked about that horrible old school and your horrible old Patricia ever since you came home!’
‘There’s not a lot else to talk about, is there?’ Rachel’s tone was disparaging.
‘Flip! Rachel! Now stop it, the pair of you.’
‘Why don’t you be a very sensible pair of girls,’ a coolly amused voice said from behind her, ‘and sneak yourselves a glass of champagne each? And don’t speak a single word to each other until you’ve drunk it. I think you’ll find it will improve relationships no end.’
‘Fiona!’ Sally could not help but laugh. ‘You’re outrageous! Girls – you’re to do no such—’
But Rachel, eyes gleaming with mischief, had already caught Philippa’s hand. ‘Come on, Flip.’ She flashed a brilliant smile at Fiona, ‘Let’s be good girls for a change and do as we’re told—’
Sally watched them go, turned to Fiona grinning. ‘Honestly, Fiona!’
Fiona shrugged elegantly. ‘I thought it a very good idea. And quite obviously so did they. Anyway – I wanted two minutes to talk to you – when are you coming to see me?’
‘Soon.’
‘How soon?’
‘I – don’t know. But I will come. I promise. I’m only just getting settled into my new home.’
A small waitress replenished their glasses. Fiona sipped hers appreciatively. ‘I saw a friend of yours the other day.’
‘Oh?’
‘One Edward Browne, ex-sergeant. He came to ask me for a donation to Labour Party funds.’
Sally choked on a mouthful of wine. Fiona thumped her back helpfully. ‘He didn’t!’
‘Oh yes he did.’
‘How is he?’ Sally had not admitted even to herself just how disappointed she had been that Eddie had not answered the two letters she had sent to the address he had given her when he left France. She had not tried again.
‘He’s fine. He didn’t win the seat, but he did well enough to augur well for next time. Meanwhile he’s secretary or some such thing of the Yorkshire Labour Party – and my home, as you know, is in Yorkshire—’
‘And – he came—’ Sally was still coughing a little, ‘to ask you – You! – for a donation?’
‘That’s right. And to offer me a job.’
‘Unpaid, of course.’
Fiona grinned. ‘Of course.’
‘He’s got the cheek of the devil, that one.’
‘He’s got more than that.’ Fiona lifted immaculately plucked brows. ‘Actually I was quite tempted.’
Something in her tone made Sally look at her very sharply. ‘By the opportunity to donate to Labour Party funds? By the job? Or—’ she paused, growing, disbelieving laughter in her eyes, ’by Eddie?’
Fiona shrugged.
‘Ladies and gentlemen – if you would take your seats at the table?’
‘Fiona?’
Fiona turned away, the flash of a provocative smile gleaming over her shoulder, ‘Duty calls. I do believe that I’m sitting with that lovely old man – Doctor Will, everyone seems to call him. What a charmer—’
It was ten in the evening before the last of the revelry was through. The bride and groom had been seen on their way to the station and a honeymoon trip to Devon after the reception, and family and friends alike had repaired to the Bear for light refreshments and more champagne. Both Sally and Fiona had left early – Sally on the excuse of little Philippa’s bedtime, Fiona talking vaguely of another engagement that evening, though Ben suspected that their evening would be spent together, and that Sally’s eagerness to be away had had more to do with him than with her lively daughter’s supposed fatigue. He had been home for three days, and they had had no time together. Their last meeting had been in France, the night before Sally had left, a long night during which neither had wanted to sleep for fear of wasting precious moments, a night during which neither of them could bring themselves to speak the words that both knew would have to be spoken. So she had left without saying goodbye; and now they met, unbearably, in public, smiling and exchanging casual greetings, avoiding each other’s eyes. He stretched his long legs to the fire, sighing. In the chair opposite his father’s head nodded.
‘Pa? Time for bed, I think?’
Doctor Will’s head jerked up. ‘What? What’s that? Oh. Yes. Been a long day.’
Ben stood and stretched, helped his father to his feet. ‘Do you need any help upstairs?’
A little touchily the older man grunted. ‘Help? Why should I need help?’
‘Just wondered.’ Ben hid a small smile. Frail the old man might look – frail, indeed, he might be – but his spirit was unchanged.
‘Where’s Charlotte?’
‘She’s helping Bron to settle Peter in.’ The faintest shadow of a frown flickered across Ben’s face. In the three days he had been home he had hardly seen Charlotte, nor had an opportunity to speak to her. Her devotion to his crippled brother was, it seemed, absolute. She had taken on the role of nurse – almost of mother. And how could he, Ben, object to that? ‘I’ll turn in, I think.’ He laid a hand upon his father’s shoulder. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
He trod quietly through the sleeping house. At the door next to the one that led into the room he shared with Charlotte he stopped for a moment, listening.
‘Papa?’ The little girl’s voice was a whisper, ‘Is that you?’
Smiling he slipped through the door. By the glimmering light of the nightlight that stood on the side table he saw Rachel’s eyes, wide and still gleaming with excitement. ‘I can’t sleep.’ She wriggled over to give him room to sit beside her, ‘I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but I just can’t.’
He ruffled her hair gently. ‘Stop trying. Then it’ll happen.’
She nodded very unsleepily, the tangle of her hair night-dark upon the pillow. He looked at her, at the heartbreaking beauty of her, at the trust in her eyes. ‘You’re happy, poppet? At the school?’
‘Oh, yes, Papa! I truly am! It was so funny – I was so frightened – I didn’t want to go at all – and then—’ her smile shone in the dim candle flame. ‘Well, then it was all right. Patricia says she thinks I’ll be form captain next year – she’s junior house captain, you know – she’ll probably be head girl in a couple of years.’
‘So – you wouldn’t want to come back home? To leave?’
‘Oh, no!’ The child sat bolt upright. ‘Oh, please, Papa – no! I won’t have to, will I?’
He shook his head, pressed her gently back on to the pillow. ‘No, no. I just wanted to make certain. I’ve got a new job.’
‘Yes, I know. Mama told me. You’re helping Sir Brian Bix-Arnold, aren’t you? Patricia was frightfully impressed!’
He laughed a little. ‘She was? Well – I just wanted to make sure that you were absolutely happy – that, now the war’s over, you wouldn’t rather come back home?’
She shook her head on the pillow. ‘No, thank you,’ she said very firmly.
‘Fine.’ He bent to kiss her. ‘Now – close your eyes and count to two hundred and fifty. I bet you’ll be asleep before two shakes of a lamb’s tail! Good night, my little love.’
‘Good night, Papa.’
Charlotte’s pink and white room was empty, the fire flickering in the grate, a lamp lit by the bed, the covers turned down. As always as he entered he felt an intruder; too big, too clumsy – too male – for the exquisitely feminine room. He stood for a moment in the middle of the floor, quite still, his big head thown back, broad shoulders flexing. Seeing Sally had unsettled him; in the months they had been apart he had almost persuaded himself to believe that their parting was for the best. The sight of her today, the sound of the husky voice, the ready laughter, had twisted in his soul like a knife. But – for her own good as well as his own – he must leave her alone. The new post with Sir Brian was God sent; a chance to do something truly worthwhile. It would, too, give Charlotte the life style that she had for so long hankered after; perhaps it wasn’t too late for them? She had looked perfectly lovely today—
He loosened his cravat, shook the heavy coat from his shoulders; turned as the door opened quietly.
‘Ben?’ Charlotte stood silhouetted in the doorway, looking as fresh and as pretty as she had twelve hours earlier. Her fair hair was swept up, revealing the delicate line of neck and throat, the small, well-shaped ears, emphasizing the striking bones of her face, rather more prominent than in her extreme youth, but no less lovely for that. ‘I’m glad you’re still up.’
She came into the room, closed the door with a small, sharp click behind her. ‘I want to talk to you.’
Ben started to undo the buttons of his dress shirt. ‘Is it important? It’s getting late – won’t it wait till morning?’ The bed lay between them, the sheets turned down, crisp and inviting. Her small, firm breasts swelled visibly beneath the fine material of her gown.
‘Yes, it’s important. And no, it won’t wait.’ She brushed past him, her perfume drifting into the room with her. On the far side of the room, as far from him as she could get, she turned, her chin up, her hands folded composedly before her.
For the first time Ben sensed the well-disguised, finely strung tension that held her. His hands dropped to his side and the smile left his face. ‘Charlotte? What is it? What’s wrong?’
There was a long moment of silence. He saw the breath she took to steady herself, saw the fingers that had been loosely laced before her tangle and clench, though the composed and almost expressionless face did not change, and when she spoke her voice too was cool and steady. ‘I think you’ll agree, Ben, that our marriage – if it can be called so – has been something of a miserable failure?’
He stood as if struck, watching her.
She waited for a moment, and as he did not reply spoke smoothly on, a speech she had rehearsed over and over.
‘That being the case I’m sure that you’ll have no great objections to what I am about to suggest.’ Her glance flicked across his face. ‘I no longer wish to live with you as man and wife. I’m willing to do the minimum to keep up appearances, if you should wish it, but I want you to know and to understand that as far as I am concerned for all practical and—’ a tremor of distaste twitched at the corners of her mouth, ‘—physical purposes – this marriage, which has always been a sham, is over.’ She stopped again and waited, her eyes sharp and wary upon his face.
Ben had drunk a fair amount of champagne in the course of the day; suddenly he was aware of it. His brain seemed incapable of thought. He spoke very carefully. ‘What – exactly – do you mean?’
Impatience sharpened her voice. ‘I mean precisely what I say. Our marriage is no marriage – I’m simply being honest about it and saying I no longer care to support the fiction. You have your new post with Sir Brian – you’ll be moving between London and Oxford, it will be a perfectly acceptable and reasonable thing for you to have an establishment of your own somewhere. I intend to move into the country she hesitated for one last moment before adding, very clearly, ’with Peter.’
The words shook him from his shocked stillness. He took a quick, almost involuntary step towards her. ‘You – what?’
Still absolutely composed she stood her ground. ‘I’m going to live with Peter in the country. Surrey, I thought, or Kent perhaps. It’s perfectly obvious that he shouldn’t stay here – the country will be much better for him in every way. I’ll find a bungalow – it will have to be a bungalow, of course – somewhere where no one knows us.’
‘Are you trying to tell me’, Ben’s voice was very quiet, threaded thinly with anger and with disbelief, ‘that you’re leaving me – for Peter?’
‘Yes.’ The word was simple, sharp and absolutely firm.
‘You can’t do that.’
‘Oh, but I can. I’m going to.’
‘You can’t!’ His head was clearing a little, though astonished anger seethed. He stabbed a finger at her. ‘You can’t!’ he repeated. ‘You of all people? You’d never survive the scandal!’
‘There won’t be any scandal.’ She was completely self possessed. ‘I’ve already told you – I’ll do whatever is required to keep up the minimum of appearances. But I won’t live with you—’
‘And you expect me – simply – to agree to this?’ His voice was rising despite himself.
‘I wouldn’t expect you to do anything simply.’ Her voice was caustic. ‘But yes, I hope you’ll agree. When you’ve thought about it.’ This time it was she who stepped forward, face lifted to him fiercely. ‘Think about it now, Ben – who would be most harmed by a scandal? You’re thinking of divorce? You won’t divorce me! Think of it! Think of the publicity – “wife leaves war hero doctor for crippled brother”! – How would Sir Brian like that?’
He caught her arm, held her, his face very close to hers. ‘Oh no.’ His voice was harsh ‘You’ve miscalculated, Charlotte. You think I’d let that stop me from divorcing you if you go through with this?’
She neither flinched nor moved in his grip. She had in the past months lived this interview a dozen times, had countered in her head his every move. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. So – I have something else for you to think of. What of Rachel? Take me into the divorce court and I swear I’ll make sure that every last miserable fact about our marriage will come out – including the reason why you married me.’
‘No!’
‘Yes!’ Her voice was rising to match his. ‘This whole damned mess started with that child – you should have let me get rid of her when I wanted to! God above, she isn’t even yours!’ She wrenched her arm free, stood glaring at him. ‘And I wish to Christ she weren’t mine! Don’t you realize that I can never look at her without seeing him? The gipsy pig that beat me and raped me and sired her? Oh, no, Ben – don’t think I wouldn’t tell – she means nothing to me. When we part she goes with you. Keep her at school – do what you like – but keep her from me.’
He stared at her in appalled silence.
Her voice went on inexorably, ‘If you want her – and everyone else – all those important new friends of hers at that school she thinks is so fine – to know she’s a gipsy bastard conceived in rape – fight me. And—’ she lifted her head, watched him for a moment before adding softly, ‘if you want your precious Sally Smith to lose the good name she’s somehow acquired even if she’s never been entitled to it – then drag me through the courts, Ben. Try it. I’ll see her pilloried. A lot of good that’ll do her and that daughter of hers—’
He froze. ‘Sally? What has Sally to do with it?’
She threw a hand up in an impatient gesture. ‘Oh, Ben! Don’t play the innocent with me! I know! I know about you and Sally Smith. I can give you dates and times—’
He was shaking, fighting off an anger so deep that he feared only violence could ease it. He stepped back from her, hands clenched by his sides.
‘I had you watched. A very reliable and rather dirty little man with a penchant for posing as a war correspondent. It was an offchance – but it came up with pure gold, didn’t it Ben?’ Apparently unafraid, she stepped to him, forcing him to look at her, ‘How dare you?’ she asked softly. ‘How dare you condemn my love for Peter – that’s clean, and pure – when you’ve been wallowing in filth with that woman? And then – you’d come to me—’ A spasm of disgust crossed her lovely, even features. She shuddered. There was a moment’s stark silence. Then ‘I wish you luck of her,’ she said. ‘What you do or who you do it with is nothing to do with me any more. I’m going away with Peter. We’re going to the country – somewhere where no one knows us. We’re going to be a respected and respectable couple; a war hero and his devoted wife. I intend to be a pillar of the community. I’ll take tea with the vicar and sell home-made cakes at the village fête. I’m going to get Peter away from this squalid place if it’s the last thing I do. He – we – are going to live somewhere that’s clean. Somewhere where people stop to pass the time of day. Somewhere where he can see the sky, and the trees, where he has a garden to take an interest in, where I can look after him – make him happy – and you’re going to let us. You’re going to do nothing to stop us.’
‘He won’t do it.’ Ben’s voice was suddenly certain. ‘Peter won’t do it. You’re my wife.’
‘Peter will do it. I can assure you he will. Ask him yourself. He needs me, Ben. More than he’s ever needed anyone in his whole life. I love him. I can make him happy. When he wanted to die I showed him the reasons for living. Oh, yes. He’ll do it.’
‘The family—’
‘I don’t care about the family. What have they ever done for me? It’s Peter I want. And I’ll have him. Nothing will stop me.’
‘Including your own daughter’s good name?’
‘Including that.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘I’ve never been saner.’
He turned from her then, crashing a huge fist into the bedpost, not feeling the pain of the blow.
‘I’ve worked it out very, very carefully, Ben,’ she said quietly from behind him. ‘There’s nothing you can do. Nothing that won’t bring your own world crashing about your head. And about Rachel’s. It’s up to you. I don’t want a divorce. I don’t want the broadsheets with my name and face all over them; I don’t want the expense, and I don’t want the notoriety. But – if you insist – I’ll do everything I’ve said. I’ll ruin you, and Rachel, and Sally Smith. And at the end of it I’ll still have Peter. What will you have, Ben?’
‘Peter won’t do it,’ Ben said. ‘He won’t do it.’
‘Ask him,’she said.
‘I will.’ He turned his head to her, looking for a sign of weakness, of uncertainty, and finding none. ‘I bloody will!’ Blindly he turned to the door, threw it open; in time to see a face white as paper within its ebony frame of hair, the shining sapphire eyes blank with shock as the child backed away from him, turned, fled into the room next door.
‘Rachel! Oh, Christ! Rachel!’
He followed her into the room. She had flung herself upon the bed, her head buried in the pillows, her shoulders shaking. ‘Go away!’
‘Rachel – please, darling – listen to me—’
‘Go away! Go away!’
He did not know how much she had heard, could only guess from her reaction that she had heard it all. He gathered her into his arms, held the tense, resistant, shaking frame, cursing Charlotte, cursing his own self-absorption that had forgotten that he had left the child, wide awake in this room with only an ancient, thin wall between her and her mother’s raised voice. ‘Rachel, my love—’
She pulled away from him with a violence that appalled him. ‘Go away! I won’t listen! I won’t!’ She crouched amongst, the tumbled bedclothes like a small animal brought to bay.
He straightened the bed, soothing her, trying to control the shaking of his hands, to calm his voice to gentleness.
She turned from him, in her clenched arms a battered bear she had dredged from the rumpled depths of the bed. ‘Go away.’
‘Rachel!’ He reached a hand to her shoulder, drew it back sharply as she shrank from him. ‘Rachel, listen to me – please, darling – it’ll be all right. I promise it will. No one will hurt you. I won’t let anyone hurt you. You know how I love you-how I’ve always loved you?’
The child did not respond.
He stood up. Much as he hated to leave her, she was in no condition to listen to him now. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Please, darling, try to sleep.’
She neither moved nor answered.
He turned and walked to the door. As he turned to close it she shot upright in the bed, the bear clutched to her breast. ‘It’s true, isn’t it? The horrible things she said about me – they’re all true, aren’t they?’
He stood in helpless silence.
‘Don’t let her do it,’ she said. ‘Please! Please! Don’t let her tell people! I couldn’t bear it!’
For a moment he could not speak. Then, ‘Don’t worry, my poor little love. Rest. Try to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.’
He shut the door with infinite care.
Peter’s door stood a little ajar, as if awaiting a visit. Lamplight fell softly across the hall. Ben did not knock. He pushed the door, stepped across the threshold, confronted his crippled brother.
Peter sat in bed, a magazine haphazardly open on his lap. Smoke from his cigarette coiled about the room; not the first, from the haze that hung in the lamplight. As he lifted his thin face to the opened door he meticulously stubbed out the cigarette, closed the magazine. Looked at Ben with eyes that were wretched in a face that was set and blank with determination.
Ben closed the door behind him without turning, his eyes never leaving his younger brother’s face.
‘You’ve spoken to Charlotte,’ Peter said, his voice very low.
‘I’d say rather’, Ben said drily, and wondered at his own composure, ‘that she’d spoken to me.’
The blue eyes, avoiding his, drifted down to the counterpane. Long, thin, almost effeminate fingers picked at the loose threads. Beneath the bedclothes the outline of the useless legs was clear.
‘She tells me you’ve made some—’ Ben hesitated. In face of his brother’s helplessness it was maddeningly difficult to hold to his fury, ‘—rather unorthodox plans?’
For a very long time Peter sat, head bowed, hands picking at the fabric of the counterpane. Then he lifted his head. The wrenching pain was still in his face, but his voice was firm. ‘I need her, Ben. You don’t know how much. I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry. If I had thought that you loved her – that she loved you—’ He stopped. The silence was heavy with tension. ‘I’d have done anything – anything – I’d have died before I’d have taken her from you. But—’ In the quiet the unspoken words hung between them – you have so much. I have nothing. Nothing, now, but Charlotte.
The lamp gleamed upon the tense, unhappy face that was so used to laughter. Shockingly it shone upon the tears that glimmered upon cheekbones planed sharp with suffering.
‘Jesus Christ.’ The words were very low, all but toneless. Ben turned and left the room. Walked the few steps to the parlour, where the fire still glowed in the hearth, and the glasses of celebration stood empty about the room. On a table near the hearth, lit by the last light of the coals, a bottle stood, half empty. He picked it up, tilted it. The neck clattered unsteadily against his teeth. The champagne was warm, too sweet. He put the bottle back upon the table, sank to the floor in front of the embers of the fire, his back propped against the armchair in which his father usually sat, his legs drawn up in front of him, arms wrapped about them, his head bowed to his knees.
Loud in the quiet, the mantel clock struck eleven.
In the long silence that followed the unimpassioned telling of the difficult tale Sally, very carefully, poured the tea.
‘So.’ Settled neatly upon a chair she displayed a fair imitation of composure. ‘What are you going to do?’
Ben accepted his tea with a minimum of interest and set it on the table beside him. He looked as if he had not slept in days. ‘There’s nothing I can do.’
‘You aren’t going to fight her?’
‘I can’t. She’s right in what she said. She has Rachel, and you as hostage—’
‘Forget me. I can take care of myself if anyone can. But Rachel? You really think Charlotte would carry out that threat?’
‘Yes. I do.’
‘And—?’
‘The child’s life would be ruined. You know it. There’d be no way to keep it quiet.’
Sally sipped her tea. The pleasant rooms – a sitting room, dining room, three bedrooms and a kitchen – that she had rented were very peaceful. Maire-Clare, with one look at their visitor’s face, had taken the children, with commendable lack of fuss, to the park. ‘And you?’
‘Me?’
‘What would happen if you divorced her – if it all came out?’
He shrugged.
‘You don’t care?’
He lifted a drawn face. ‘You know I care.’
Having forced it from him she could hardly complain. ‘And us?’ she asked very quietly.
‘She tells me—’ he could not, Sally noticed, in his bitterness bring himself to speak his wife’s name, ‘that providing we are circumspect she has no objection to our – liaison – continuing
‘That’s very good of her.’ Sally was waspish.
‘But—’
‘But only – very – circumspectly?’
‘Yes.’
‘No,’ Sally said.
‘Sally—’
She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said again. ‘Ben – listen to me. Are you going to let her do this? Are you really going to let her use the fear of scandal against you? I don’t blame her for leaving you—’ even in her pent-up state she almost laughed at the flicker of shock in his eyes. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, man – just because I love you isn’t to say that I don’t see why she doesn’t! She’s right! It was always a disaster! Surely you know that? Surely you can see why she wants Peter?’
He turned from her, his face grim.
She looked at him, amazed. ‘Ben. You don’t understand, do you? She’s leaving you for – for a cripple. And that hurts? You don’t see that that’s why she wants him?’
The eyes he turned to her were narrowed.
‘Ben – in Peter she has everything she needs in a man. Can’t you see that? And I don’t begrudge her it. Good luck to her. What I do begrudge her is her hold over us. Over you.’
‘Rachel—’
‘Yes. Rachel. That’s the sticking point. But – Ben – she already knows. Sooner or later she’s going to have to face it. Why bring her up to live a lie? A scandal now will hurt her; but it won’t kill her. With your support – and mine—’ the last words held the trace of defiance, ‘—we could see her through it – it isn’t right – it isn’t bloody right! – for her to think that the world would despise her for something that isn’t her fault!’
‘She asked me – begged me—’
‘Well of course she did! The poor little devil’s twelve years old! She’s found herself a bolt hole in a world that’s not been kind up till now; of course she’s frightened to lose it! But it isn’t the only one! We could show her that. God Almighty, Ben, if I can live with it—’ She stopped, biting her lip.
‘That isn’t the same.’
The sudden gulf that yawned between them was terrifying.
‘It isn’t right,’ Sally said obstinately, edging round the precipice. ‘If Charlotte wants to do what she wants to do – well and good. Let her take the consequences.’
‘It isn’t only Charlotte who would take the consequences.’
Sally set down her teacup, stood up, walked to the window, stood for a long time looking into the tiny walled garden, which was shadowed by a leafless walnut tree. ‘How well she knows you,’ she said.
The quality of the silence very subtly changed. Hostility sang in the air between them.
Sally turned. ‘Be honest, Ben. Is it Rachel? Is it me? Or is it Sir Brian Bix-Arnold? Will you go along with this – charade – to keep your precious research post?’
He did not reply.
‘Do you even know?’ she asked softly.
The face he turned to her was all but expressionless.
She walked back to the chair opposite him, sat down, leaned to him. ‘I won’t do it, Ben. I’ve been through three years of deception, of squalid, hole and corner love. For nothing. Over and again I swore to myself that I’d stop. But I was never strong enough. Now it’s up to you. Let Charlotte go. She can hurt nothing but your pride. If you divorce her I’ll marry you – or if you don’t I’ll live with you. But openly, Ben. I won’t – I can’t – spend my life and my love skulking in corners. If you give in now she’ll hold us to ransom for ever! Stand up to her. Stand up to the world. If you’re good enough for the job, make your Sir Brian take you, willy-nilly. If Rachel, bless her, has to face up to the fact that you aren’t her father, help her to do it now – don’t let her think that it has to be swept under the carpet in order for the world to accept her!’ Passion blazed in the slanted eyes, the always husky voice was hoarse with feeling.
Ben leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the worn carpet at his feet.
‘You won’t, will you?’ Sally’s voice was suddenly very quiet. ‘You’ll let her do it to us.’
He lifted an anguished face. ‘Sally – you’re right. About Rachel. About you. If it were just that—’
‘But it isn’t. Is it?’
‘No.’
‘This job. The research post—’
‘I can’t turn it down. I can’t lose it. We’re so close to a breakthrough. It means so much—’
Sally’s face had changed. The anger was gone, an odd, tired sympathy had taken its place. ‘You’ve worked so very hard—’ she said, suddenly, almost reluctantly.
He leaned forward, his eyes intense, ‘Sally – everyone thinks they’ve fought the war to end wars. They haven’t. It will go on. One way or another, it will go on. The killing will start again; the wounding, the disease that follows it. I’ve had to watch so many die – your own friend Josie, remember? – helpless to save them once the poison had taken them. Now I have the chance – money, equipment, the chance to use the experience I gained in that filthy war! I can’t let it go. I can’t!’
She slipped to her knees in front of him, laid her hand upon his. ‘I know. I know.’
‘I can’t let anything jeopardize that. I may not be able to do anything – but supposing I can? How can I give up the chance?’
‘You can’t. I know you can’t.’ She released his hand, sat back on her heels. ‘It’s no good, is it?’
He shook his head.
‘It’s bad enough what Charlotte’s doing to you, without me hiding around every corner waiting to be caught by a prying eye—’
‘Yes.’
‘And that’s what you came to tell me?’
‘I suppose so. Yes. Though I hadn’t realized it.’ His voice was very tired.
She turned to sit against his legs, gazing into the dying fire. ‘Perhaps it’s as well. We’ve known since France, haven’t we?’
‘Yes.’ His hand rested gently upon the mass of her hair. She leaned to him. It was a very long time before either of them spoke.
‘I ought to go,’ he said.
She lifted her face. Very very gently he bent and kissed her. From outside the door came the sound of light, happy voices. ‘Flippy, do wait – you’ll break your neck dashing about like that.’
Sally scrambled to her feet, dashing a hand across her face. He stood, caught her to him, crushing her, then let her go as the door in the hall opened. ‘Shoes off, now – you’re so very muddy—’ Marie-Clare’s voice sang out.
‘Goodbye, Sally.’
She said nothing. She heard his voice in the hall, bidding goodbye to Marie-Clare and the children. Then, as they erupted into the room, exclaiming at the darkness, she heard her own voice, bright and cheerful as if it belonged to someone else. ‘Well, where on earth have you three been? We thought we’d lost you. Doctor Ben couldn’t stay – but never mind – there’s muffins in the kitchen for tea—’