by Emma Fraser
‘My darling girl, how long have you being keeping this inside? You could have been killed. They might have shot you too.’ He scooped her into his arms and onto his lap, soothing her with words of love.
‘I could have saved their lives,’ she whispered.
‘I still think you’re the bravest, most adorable woman I’ve ever met. But you don’t have to be brave any more, my darling. I’ll never let anything happen to you.’
She buried her face in him and cried. For the child she hadn’t been able to save, for Piotr, for Magdalena and all the dead, for Poland.
She must have fallen asleep because she woke up on the sofa with her shoes off covered by a blanket. There was no sign of Richard.
The curtains were open and the moonlight flooded through an open window. After the smog of Edinburgh, the air, delicately scented with the smoke from the fires, smelled better than any perfume. The gentle swishing of the branches of trees as they swayed in the breeze filtered in from outside.
She heard a crunch of gravel and the rasp of a match striking. Moments later the smell of tobacco drifted into the room. She pushed the blanket aside and padded over to the window.
Richard was standing looking out over the garden. There was a full moon and she could see him clearly. Her heart banged against her ribs. He was a golden man. A good man. Possibly a man without a future. He’d be going back to active service when they left here and might never return.
And she loved him. God help her, she loved him. He hadn’t been repulsed by what she’d told him. He still loved her.
They had nine days left and for that time she was going to forget about Poland, forget about young men dying, forget about everything. She was going to pretend that she was safe and everything was all right with the world. She wouldn’t think about the past or the future. For the next nine days she’d be the Irena Kraszewska she was before the war – she would be a woman who could love without fear.
She opened the door and ran out into the night. He didn’t turn around at the sound of her footsteps. ‘Go back to bed, Irena,’ he said quietly.
Her heart still beating a tattoo she stepped towards him and wrapped her arms around him, resting her face on his back. ‘Only if you come too,’ she whispered.
The next morning she lay for a while staring down at him. She felt lighter, freer, than she had in years. Leaving Richard sleeping, she threw her robe over her shoulders and crept down to the kitchen. Mairi was already there, stirring something on the stove.
‘Good morning. I was just making the porridge before I brought you up some hot water. If you’re wanting a bath you’ll have to wait until the pans on the stove are boiling.’
‘A wash will be fine. I might have a bath later. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
Mairi’s eyebrows shot up. ‘It’s no trouble. It’s what I’m paid for.’ She lifted a kettle from the stove, poured some water into a teapot and placed it back on the hot plate. ‘I was about to bring you up a tray.’ She seemed a little put out to find Irena in her kitchen. ‘Did you eat in here last night?’
‘It was warmer.’
‘Lord Maxwell eating in the kitchen! Dearie me.’
‘Does it matter?’ Irena asked.
‘It does to the earl. I can’t imagine Lord Glendale eating in a kitchen.’
‘Times are changing.’
‘Aye, well. Perhaps where you come from. But not here.’ She finished setting the tray and placed the teapot on it along with a cup and saucer. ‘I’ll just take this up to his lordship.’
‘I’ll take it,’ Irena said quickly, reaching out.
When Mairi eyed her, Irena blushed. ‘So that’s the way it is,’ the older woman said. ‘Can’t say I approve, but who am I to say what’s right and what’s wrong? At least the boy’s happy. I’ll bring up some water – to your room – in a minute. Did you find the towels I left at the end of your bed?’
Irena took the tray back upstairs. Richard was still sleeping, his arms flung wide and a smile on his mouth, so she left the tray by his bed and returned to her room.
As she washed, she thought about the night before. Making love to Richard had been everything she’d imagined and more. She could still feel the touch of his hands on her skin, his mouth kissing places she’d never imagined could be kissed – the feel of his hard, strong body against hers – the feel of him inside her – the look on his face when she’d cried out with pleasure.
Her heart was singing as she dressed in slacks, a blouse and a cardigan. Downstairs she found Richard waiting for her in the dining room. As soon as he saw her, he stood and held out a chair for her to sit.
‘How did you sleep?’ he asked, smiling. ‘I was disappointed to find you gone when I woke.’
She blushed. ‘After we, er, I remember putting my head on the pillow and then nothing.’ No nightmares, no dreams. No more eyeless women and dead babies reaching out to her. Just deep, peaceful sleep. ‘What would you like to do today?’
A slow smile spread across his face. ‘I know what I’d like to do, but I doubt if Mairi would approve. She’s already ticked me off.’
‘Can’t we persuade her she’s not needed?’ Irena whispered.
‘I have an idea. Why don’t we stay at my mother’s house? We’d be alone. We could spend all day in bed if we wanted. We could cycle there or take the boat and Mairi could arrange to have our bags sent over.’
‘I would like that. Perhaps we could go out in the boat later?’
He hooked his arms behind his head and grinned. ‘I told you, you are my perfect woman.’
Later that morning they cycled to the house in Borreraig. As soon as she saw it, Irena knew why Isabel loved it. It was set at the end of a dirt road and hidden by trees but at the bottom of the track the vista opened up directly onto a loch. On the other side, lush green mountains echoed with the sound of sheep. Birds swirled overhead as waves shushed on the shore.
‘What a lovely place to have a house,’ she said.
Richard looked pleased. ‘I thought you’d like it. I have to admit I’ve only stayed here once – with friends.’
She took him by the hand. ‘Let’s explore.’
Inside it was as if the house was waiting for them; Irena went from window to window, opening the curtains and shutters to let in the light and pulling the dust sheets from the furniture.
‘When was the last time someone lived here?’ she asked.
‘My father’s factor stayed here before the war for a month or so while the gate house in Glendale was being prepared for him and his family and I came here with friends a few years ago, but otherwise it’s been empty.’
‘A house like this needs to be lived in,’ Irena said. ‘It should have a family and children.’
Richard grinned, pulling her towards him. ‘Is that a hint?’
She wriggled out of his arms. ‘I’m not talking about us…’ She bit her lip. No matter how much she wished for it, whoever lived here, it wouldn’t be her. ‘But you will marry one day.’
‘The only woman I want to marry is you.’
The world seemed to stop turning. Irena sucked in a breath. She turned to him and traced the line of his jaw with her fingertip. ‘You mustn’t wish for something that can never be.’
‘I love you, you must know that.’
‘You’re only saying that because you think it’s the only way you can have me,’ she said lightly.
The smile left his face. ‘Don’t pretend, Irena. It doesn’t suit you. I’ve never told a woman I loved her before, and I wouldn’t say it now if I didn’t mean it. And I certainly wouldn’t propose if I wasn’t sure you were the only woman I’ll ever love.’
He looked so much like a petulant little boy whose toy has been taken away from him, that for a moment she wanted to laugh.
‘I won’t give up, you know,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait for as long as it takes.’
His hand was on her shoulder and she could feel its heat through the thin material of her
blouse. Hadn’t she promised herself last night that she wouldn’t think of the past or of the future? Piotr was dead and this man made her feel more alive than she could remember. But it wasn’t fair to let him believe that they had a future when she knew she was going to leave him. And despite everything, she was still going to leave him.
‘Are you worried I won’t make it?’ he said softly, as if reading her mind.
She couldn’t tell him that it wasn’t him she was afraid wouldn’t make it, but her. ‘You’ll make it,’ she murmured. ‘Of course you will.’
‘Is it because of Piotr? Do you still love him?’
‘I did love him, very much. I won’t pretend that I didn’t. But he’s dead and nothing can bring him back. You’ll have realised I’m no virgin, Richard. I slept with him. Once. And I’ll never regret it. But I’m tired of feeling sad. I’m tired of feeling lonely.’ She stepped forward until she could feel the heat of his body and raised her face. ‘Let’s just pretend,’ she whispered. ‘For the next few days, let’s pretend we are married, that there is no war and that we have day after day to be together.’
He bent his head and kissed her. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’
Time passed too quickly. At night, after they’d made love, they lay in each other’s arms listening to the sound of the sea. During the day they fished or swam, sometimes cooking their catch over a fire outside the boathouse close to the shore. It had become their favourite spot. Down there, hidden from view, looking out over the changing waters of the loch, the war receded from their thoughts and they let themselves believe it wasn’t happening. Irena found rubber boots in the porch and they tramped across the moors for miles, keeping away from the road. Richard pointed out sea eagles and the dolphins who visited the shore nearby. Sometimes they startled a deer or a rabbit, but Richard never took a gun with them on their walks. He’d had, he said, his fill of death.
Most days they would call on a family living on the estate. Richard would ask about husbands, sons, brothers, and sisters who were with units far away, impressing Irena with the way he seemed to recall names and regiments with ease.
In the evenings she would cook pierogi for him from cabbage and rabbit meat and he’d stand behind her, snaking his arms around her waist and nuzzling her neck, until laughing she’d give up and let him take her to bed.
She began to dread the coming of the night, knowing that it signalled one less day they had to spend together. When they returned to Edinburgh she would be leaving him for good and she couldn’t even tell him. It seemed so cruel and sometimes, for the briefest moment, she wondered if she was doing the right thing. She also knew she had no choice. Often, in the heart of the night, she would slip out of bed and curl up in the armchair and watch him sleep in the shaft of moonlight from the window, trying to imprint every line of his face and body onto her mind. Then she’d ease back into bed and wrap her arms around him, letting the strong beat of his heart lull her back to sleep.
Every morning they’d open the back door to find a different gift on their doorstep: a salmon wrapped in newspaper, a few eggs, potatoes, carrots, some flat baked bread, a brace of rabbits, a haunch of venison or an urn of creamy milk, still warm from the cow.
One day, the warmest of the summer so far, they changed into bathing costumes and swam in the loch. Laughing, Irena clung to him, wrapping her legs around his waist. When he touched her it was as if every cell in her body came alive and she could never resist him. They made love in the loch, a golden eagle their only witness.
Out of the water it was cool. Richard gave her his shirt to put on and she sat on a rock drying her hair.
‘Stay exactly like that.’ He bent down and picked up a camera. ‘Do you know I’ve never seen you so happy.’
She smiled into the camera as he took her photograph. It was true; her happiness was dimmed only by the knowledge that she’d be leaving him soon.
On their last night, as the sun was sinking in the sky, they retreated to their favourite rock, outside the boathouse. Richard sat behind her, Irena between his legs, his chin resting on the top of her head.
‘I wish I could keep you with me,’ he murmured. ‘Always.’
She wriggled in his arms until she was facing him. She placed her hands on either side of his face. ‘Kocham Cię. I love you,’ she said. ‘I love you more than I thought it was possible to love anyone. You are the other half of my soul.’
‘Then if you love me, why won’t you marry me?’
‘Love isn’t everything, Richard. I can’t marry you – not yet – not until I feel right with myself.’
‘How can you not? What is it? What are you keeping from me?’ His face hardened. ‘If you won’t marry me, why are you with me?’
She searched for the words that would make him understand, that would make him realise there was no hope. ‘Being with you makes me happy. I could die a hundred times and I’d still love you. But this, being here, is not the real us. You have to go back to your world and, sooner or later, I’ll return to mine.’
‘Your world is here with me.’
‘I wish it could be.’ She shushed his protests with the tip of her finger. ‘Please, Richard, don’t spoil the little time we have left.’
Time both elongated and contracted. She wanted to stop the clock, spin out every second. Sometimes she allowed herself to dream that one day, when it was all over, they would come back here. Richard would look after the estate while she worked as the island doctor. They would live in the house in Borreraig and fill the empty rooms with children.
Of course she knew it was just a dream. Richard was going back to his squadron and she was going to Poland. This time might be all they ever had.
Chapter 41
Edinburgh and Skye, 1989
‘So you’re going to Skye,’ Gilly said. They had met at the Portrait Gallery for lunch. Sarah had made one of her increasingly infrequent trips into the office and was expected back. Her boss hadn’t been too pleased when she’d asked for more time off, and had warned her that unless she came back to work full time, he’d have to replace her. They were a small firm, he’d said, and as much as he sympathised with her situation, they had to have employees they could rely on.
She was crazy to be risking her job. If she lost it, she wouldn’t be able to make her mortgage payments, never mind employ someone to look after Mum when she came home. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to care. The need to find out what happened to her mother as a child consumed her to the point she could think of little else.
Sarah broke off a piece of bread and spread it with butter. ‘It seems the next logical step. I don’t know why I didn’t think of doing it before. There’s nothing else to learn here. I want to know what happened to Mum before I tell her what I’ve been up to. Sometimes the doubts creep in. What if Mum doesn’t want to remember and my dragging up her past means she has to confront things she’d rather stay forgotten?’
‘But she wants you to find Magdalena. And Magdalena is the key to her past. Besides, whatever happened to your mother, it’s your story too,’ Gilly said gently.
‘I know. I need to find Magdalena,’ Sarah swallowed, trying to relieve the pressure in her throat, ‘before it’s too late.’
‘I thought your mum was showing signs of improvement?’
‘Yes, but —’ Sarah’s voice hitched. ‘That doesn’t mean she won’t have another stroke. I can’t get over this feeling that knowing I’m trying to find Magdalena has given her hope. I know that sounds crazy, but,’ she lifted her shoulders, ‘it’s how I feel.’
Gilly covered Sarah’s hand with hers. ‘I don’t think it’s crazy at all. I know how much you love her.’ She waited until Sarah blew her nose and wiped her eyes. ‘Are you going to stay in the Glendale’s house in Skye?’
‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t. The solicitors gave me a set of keys and it’s not as if there is anyone who can object.’
‘What does Matthew say?’
‘Does it matter? He’s my boy
friend, not my keeper.’
Gilly leaned back in her chair, tapping her soup spoon against her lips. ‘So the worm is turning.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sarah, don’t you realise he’s not for you?’
‘He’s perfectly right for me. He’s good to me, he has a great job and most importantly he loves me.’
‘If he loved you it would never have crossed his mind to ask you to go to Geneva when your mum is ill. He would have turned down the job and kept shtum about it. God, you don’t even have the same interests. You like reading but I doubt he’s ever picked up a book in his life. You like country music, he’s an opera buff.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You’ve never even admitted to him that opera bores you to tears, have you?’
