‘By you, Ben, not at all.’
‘Well – thanks—’
She showed him her left hand. ‘Very different kind of questioning was going on when they pulled those nails out.’
‘Christ! Oh, the bastards!’
Reaching over – to hold that hand for a moment. On the point – almost – of kissing it: complete impulse, and the thought of Rosie – as if it were her hand… ‘Heard of such things, but—’ He checked as another thought hit him: ‘They do anything like this to her?’
‘No. No, Ben, they didn’t. Nothing… But – I want to tell you – Alain was a sculptor – you maybe never heard of him, but in France he was well known. And I paint, that’s how we got together. Then we fell in love: they don’t realize it here – here in SOE, I don’t think they do, we were just pianist and chef de réseau, is all they know. But – Rosie said you paint too?’
‘Haven’t touched a brush in years. Dabbled, that’s all. You’re good, I dare say?’
‘I’d like to be. I will be one day – I hope.’
‘Your name, Krilov. Are your parents Russian?’
‘My father, yes. Mama is French. Papa came out of Russia at the time of the revolution.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t have to ask you so many questions, Ben, I know quite a lot. Your parents in Australia in the timber business, and before that your father was a sailor?’
‘Rosie telling tales…’
‘But you don’t feel sure you’ll go into the business with your father as he wants?’
‘Do have mixed feelings on that. But the war’s got a long way to go yet, hasn’t it… One idea, mind you – pipe-dream maybe – look, I don’t want to bore you—’
‘Don’t worry, you won’t.’
‘Want to bet?’
‘Please…’
‘Well – mate of mine at Australia House here tells me they’re hatching a scheme to get more land into productive use. Idea is they’ll give you a grant of land – bush – long as you clear it and fence it inside a certain time-limit. Big tracts of land – he was saying maybe two and a half thousand acres to kick off with, then if you do it in the time you’re allowed you can go for another slice. It’s all in the air, they’re still chewing it over, but – hell, be room to bloody breathe, you know?’
‘Very hard work?’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘With your knee?’
‘Knee’s better every day. In fact I’m trying to get back to sea. Wasn’t trying all that hard until now. You know, to be here, if – well, what won’t happen, now—’
Marilyn came in, looking flustered… ‘Finished? Impressed, Ben?’
‘He should be.’ Lise told her, ‘I made myself out a real heroine – didn’t I, Ben?’
‘Reminds me.’ Marilyn wasn’t rejoining them, by the looks of it; anyway she wasn’t sitting down. ‘Ben – speaking of heroines – Colonel Buck’s putting Rosie up for a posthumous George Cross. He thinks there’s a good chance she’ll get it.’
He was silent: looking down at his hands on the table, thinking about it. Rosie, GC. And why the hell not… Nodding at Marilyn: ‘Good. Good. In fact – stupendous…’
He was suppressing emotion now, all right. Helped slightly by his own next thought of how much more stupendous it would have been to have had her here now, totally undecorated, unadorned, just neat, live Rosie… Marilyn saying to Lise, meanwhile – he suddenly woke up to this – that she was sorry, she’d had to change some lunch arrangement: it was a thing she couldn’t argue with, Colonel Buck and some Air Chief Marshal…
‘Listen,’ Ben cut in. ‘I was going to ask you both to have a snack with me. But if Lise’s on her own now—’
‘Ben, that’s an excellent idea!’
He met Lise’s calm, thoughtful gaze.
‘Will you?’
‘It’s very kind of you—’
‘Not kind at all. Except to myself.’
‘Oh, but – Lise…’ Marilyn, having started to leave them, turned back, her fingertips on the back of the chair she’d sat in earlier. ‘Did you mention – you know, the straw we – well, tried to clutch at?’
‘No.’ Lise looked troubled. ‘Because I don’t believe in it, and it could be hurtful, only – prolong the hurt.’ A shake of the head. ‘I think.’
‘But it is possible.’ Looking at Ben now. ‘I don’t think we can totally ignore it, Ben. Probably isn’t any more than – wishing for the moon, but—’
‘What isn’t? If Lise doesn’t mind, what—’
‘When she made her run for it – under the train and down that slope – embankment, whatever – she heard shots and screams – and one final shot, that’s the worst, perhaps: but the point is, Ben, we don’t know, not for certain—’
‘Because I didn’t see her killed. It’s true – I did not, but—’
‘You heard it.’
‘Yes, Ben. I heard it. I truly did. When I think back to what I heard, I see it.’
* * *
Downstairs, then, passing through the narrow hallway in which he’d first met Rosie: literally bumped into her…
He pulled the door open: ‘Where I first set eyes on her. Right here.’
‘She told me. Your first date.’
‘Wasn’t a date, exactly. We both needed a few stiff ones, that’s all. She was drowning sorrows, I had reason to celebrate, so—’
‘So there you were. Yes. She told me the whole story.’ They were outside, on the pavement, now. ‘I’m so sorry, Ben. So very, very sorry.’
‘It’s the finality of it, isn’t it? Doesn’t go away, won’t ever. Same with your – Noally, I’m sure. I’m sorry… Listen, I thought we’d go to a club called the Gay Nineties. D’you know it?’
‘I don’t know London at all well.’
‘Used to take Rosie there quite often. She liked it.’ He went to the kerb, stood looking up and down the street. Rosie in his mind: and that merciless irrevocability… Muttering a curse – looking back at the French girl, shrugging: ‘Going to get a bit damp—’
‘Oh, how terrible!’ Smiling, and turning up her collar. It had begun to rain, and naturally there weren’t any bloody taxis.
First published in the United Kingdom in 1997 by Little, Brown
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
57 Shepherds Lane
Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU
United Kingdom
Copyright © Alexander Fullerton, 1997
The moral right of Alexander Fullerton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788630368
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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