“If it’s not one thing, it’s another,” he said, unbuckling the leather strap of his old watch and laying it across his palm.
He studied the watch for a moment, shook it, and held it to his ear.
“What’s wrong with Grandpa’s watch?” Lorna asked. Even though her father had worn the watch ever since his father had died, she still thought of it as her grandpa’s.
“After forty-odd years or more of keeping this farm on time, the damn thing has finally given up.”
Dad carefully hung the gold buckle on a cup hook hammered into the wood of the kitchen dresser, leaving it dangling.
“I’ll have to send it up to Christie’s in Edinburgh to see if they can get it going again. In the meantime, I’ll make do with my farmer’s instinct, and my grumbling belly, to know when it’s dinnertime.”
He winked at Lorna.
“You mean the same farmer’s instinct that can hear the sound of the pub opening at two o’clock every Saturday afternoon?” teased Lorna. “You and John Jo can hear the Gowff doors being unlocked all the way up here, can’t you, Dad?”
Lorna’s father laughed too, but then looked at the circlet of white skin contrasting with the deep tan of his wrist as if his watch was still there.
“And it’s the father’s instinct that knows that someone is going to be late for school again if she doesn’t get a move on.”
“I’m going, I’m going!”
After kissing her dad on the cheek, Lorna left the house, clicking the door shut behind her.
Across the yard, Paul was fully dressed now, but was still rubbing his hair with the towel as he walked back toward the barn. Suddenly, he changed course and walked over toward the drystane dyke that ran up to the gate, where he picked up two or three small items from the scrubby grass. He squinted at them and then, instead of tossing them down again, he put them into the pocket of his pants and headed into the barn.
Lorna was puzzled. What could he have found over there? Not nuts or berries at this time of year, and too small for sticks. Small stones, perhaps?
She imagined herself asking him about it. She found herself wanting to know more about him. And it was strange, the more they’d talked the evening before—and his English had improved in the month since he’d arrived—the less German he became. Or not less German, exactly, but more like any of the normal boys, the Scottish boys, she knew at school. Lorna didn’t know what to make of that. He was not like she had expected the enemy to be at all. In fact, she was beginning to realize that he might not be so very different from her.
Eight
“Lorna, you are so unreliable,” preached Mrs. Urquhart, the minister’s wife, as she tied the ribbons of her starched white apron and proudly brushed some imagined fluff from the Red Cross insignia on the front.
Lorna could feel the other girls and the older village women watching her as they paused in their work filling the care packages in the church hall. It was Wednesday afternoon, and all the women in the village were at the weekly Red Cross meeting.
“I can’t believe you left your scarves at home. And now there’s no time to run back and get them,” Mrs. Urquhart said. “So how many of our fine boys at the front will be left freezing cold because their care parcels are short of knitwear, I wonder?”
Lorna assumed the question was rhetorical, simply part of the telling off, so she didn’t reply.
“Answer my question, please. How many scarves did you leave at home, Lorna?” Apparently not rhetorical. “You certainly were given enough wool last week for three or four.”
“Em . . . just the one this week,” replied Lorna.
“One?” Mrs. Urquhart sounded scandalized.
“Well, with the lambing, and school . . .”
Lorna wished she could stand up straight under the older woman’s scrutiny, but really she wanted the ground to swallow her up. Why did Mrs. Urquhart have to do this in front of everyone?
“Please don’t worry, Mrs. Urquhart,” Iris interrupted, stepping forward with a pile of scarves. “I knitted six this week, so Lorna can share mine.”
Lorna knew Iris was trying to help, in her own way, but did she not understand that by showing off for Mrs. Urquhart, she was just making things worse?
Mrs. Urquhart gave another dramatic sigh and laid a bony hand on Iris’s arm.
“At least you won’t be letting down those poor frozen soldiers, Iris dear.”
Mrs. Urquhart seemed cheered enough to stop lecturing Lorna as she began inspecting Iris’s scarves appreciatively. They were lovely, each one intricately patterned and tassled, as beautiful as every piece of knitting or sewing Iris produced.
“Oh, how clever you are,” Mrs. Urquhart gushed, “and how thoughtful and caring. Thank you. You’ll make someone a lovely wife one of these days.”
Mrs. Urquhart gave a tight nasal laugh, and to Lorna’s annoyance, Iris joined in.
“Now, everyone”—Mrs. Urquhart clapped her hands as she addressed the whole group—“Mr. John will be here any moment in his van, so can we get these boxes packed up and sealed? Immediately, please, so we still have time to practice our elbow bandages and slings.”
“I hate that woman so much,” whispered Lorna. “You’d think she was the bloody Queen of Aberlady, not just the minister’s wife.”
“I think you are being rather unfair,” said Iris, without bothering to whisper.
“Shhhhh!” hissed Lorna. “She’ll hear you.”
Iris laid down the scarves and faced Lorna.
“Mrs. Urquhart has a lot of responsibility in the village as the wife of the minister, what with the church flowers, the Sunday school, and leading the Red Cross and the Girl Guides. She needs our support, Lorna, not your sniping.”
Lorna rolled her eyes but said nothing more.
Iris put one scarf into each cardboard box on their table, tucking it carefully on top of the paperback novel, the packets of tea, the soap, and the Capstan cigarettes they had already packed inside.
“Anyway,” Iris said after a moment, “you knew we were packing parcels today, so why didn’t you bring your scarf? Did you even finish it?”
“Yes, I did finish it actually.” Lorna was indignant. “But I was in a rush to get out the door this morning and left it in my knitting bag, that was all.”
“Why were you late, anyway? You looked like you’d run all the way to school.”
“Oh, you know, just chores and whatnot.”
Lorna hoped Iris was busy enough not to notice the flush starting up her neck, because she could not possibly explain that morning’s distraction of watching Paul from the kitchen window.
To move Iris’s mind away from any further questions, Lorna asked one of her own.
“So do you and Prince Charming have more plans to go dancing with the delightful double act of Esther Bell and Craig Buchanan?” Lorna sniggered. “After all, the last outing was such a success.”
Iris had moaned for days about how awful the evening in Tranent had been, with Esther being bitchy about everyone at school, including Lorna, and expecting Iris to join in, and Craig being . . . well, being Craig, so full of himself, he was chatting up other girls, even though he was there with Esther. Lorna was still so relieved she hadn’t buckled under Iris’s pressure to go with them.
“Stop it, Lorna.” But Iris was giggling too. “You know I’d rather run through Aberlady naked on Easter Sunday than repeat that foursome. And it’s all I can do to stop William suggesting we do it again this weekend. He didn’t even notice there was anything wrong.”
Lorna tucked her hands together in front of her chest and did her best impression of their teacher, Mrs. Murray.
“And what can one learn from this experience, young Iris?” Lorna paused as if considering. “Perhaps that Craig Buchanan is an unbearable cad, Esther Bell is a complete cow, and William Urquhart really isn’t worthy of your attention?”
Iris laughed as she slapped at Lorna’s arm.
“I told you to stop it!
Seriously, you can say all you like about Esther and Craig, but you know you must be nice about my William.”
“That’s right, I’d forgotten that Saint William is off-limits now.”
“Lorna, stop it, please, I know you’re just jealous!”
Though Iris was still laughing, a tightness in her voice told Lorna that she wasn’t joking anymore, so Lorna backed off.
“That’s it exactly, dear friend,” Lorna said, allowing only a hint of sarcasm to creep in. “I’m jealous. Perhaps I need to find me a handsome, upright, and highly intelligent chap of my very own right now.”
Iris jabbed Lorna harder, with her fist this time.
“Enough! Grab the string, would you? We need to get these tied up.”
Lorna tossed Iris the ball of string, but before she closed the flaps on the nearest box, she let her fingers play in the soft wool of the scarf Iris had knitted so expertly. It would certainly keep some Allied soldier warm, whether he was at the front or in a prison camp. Perhaps it might bring him some comfort too, knowing it might have been knitted by a pretty girl back at home.
By the time the boxes were packed and sealed, and Lorna and Iris had practiced bandaging each other’s elbows several times, it was well after six. Lorna had to hurry home to get the tea served up.
She was late getting Paul his evening meal, but he didn’t seem to notice. When she opened the lambing shed door, he was sitting in his usual place against the wall. This time it was not a lamb in his hands, but a newspaper. He’d folded it in half and then in half again so it was more the size of a book, and he appeared to be studying it very closely, running a finger under each line as he read the tiny print. After a second or two, he cupped his hands in front of his mouth and blew warm air onto his fingers, then returned to his reading.
He was so engrossed that he didn’t appear to have heard her come in. He opened the newspaper and tore out the page he had been reading. Then he tossed the paper back onto the stack of old Scotsmans that her father kept in that corner for fire lighters, leaving the torn page flat on his lap. Paul ran his finger along the lines again.
Lorna coughed and stepped forward.
Paul started at the sound but did not look up. Instead, he crumpled the page under his hand, as if he wanted to hide it.
“I brought your tea,” Lorna said, puzzled, and trying not to be suspicious. “Sorry it’s a bit late.”
Without answering, Paul got to his feet and hurried toward the back of the shed, stuffing the paper into the pocket of his coveralls. As he went, head down, he swiped the sleeve of his sweater across his eyes and nose.
Was he crying?
Lorna hesitated. If he was crying, she doubted he would want her to stay, so she set the tray down on top of the barrel and walked back to the kitchen. What in the paper could have upset him so much? There were lots of stories these days about how far the Allies were pushing into countries that had been under German occupation, and even into Germany itself. Not easy reading for a German soldier, a German boy, so far from home.
By the time Lorna left the kitchen an hour or so later to get Paul’s dishes, the evening air had grown colder again. As she buttoned her coat, she remembered the way that Paul had blown on his fingers to warm them while he read. She also remembered, with shame, how satisfied she had felt that first week to see him with no gloves at all, pleased to see this German suffering. Her stomach twisted at the memory.
She went back inside to where the single Red Cross scarf sat on her knitting bag. Lorna wound it round her hands, feeling again the warm comfort of the dark red wool. Did anyone deserve to be cold when there was an alternative sitting right here?
On an impulse, she tucked the scarf inside her coat and hurried up the stairs to John Jo’s bedroom. But as she riffled through the drawers, she couldn’t find a single pair of gloves. With a sigh, she gave up and went back downstairs and across the yard.
She didn’t expect to see Paul, but he appeared from the storeroom at the back with a sack of feed when she entered the shed. He stopped, looking wary, perhaps wondering if she would mention what had happened earlier.
But she didn’t want to embarrass him, so Lorna busied herself with tidying the empty dishes into the basket, and after a moment, Paul continued toward her.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Glad you enjoyed it,” she replied.
Lorna didn’t pick the basket up, however. Instead, she took the maroon scarf from inside her coat where she had tucked it and held it out to him.
“I thought you might need this,” she said. “I knitted it, so it’s not very good, but it’s warm.”
“You knitted that for me?” Paul said quietly.
“No, no, for the Red Cross,” said Lorna, “to be sent in the parcels for our prisoners of war. But then I saw you blowing on your hands, and I thought, well, you’re a prisoner of war, so perhaps you need it as much as they do.”
Paul laid the sack down beside the wall and took the scarf from her, losing his long fingers in it as she had done. Then he raised it to his face and pressed its soft wool against his undamaged cheek.
“Yes,” he murmured, “it is very warm.”
“I tried to get you some gloves, but I couldn’t find any.” Lorna was starting to feel a little warm herself. “But I could try to knit you some, if I asked Iris to show me . . .”
Paul glanced to the windowsill as she spoke, and there lay the green woolen gloves she had been looking for.
“Oh! You have them. John Jo’s gloves.”
“Mrs. Mack gave them to me.” He sounded apologetic. “I do not always remember to wear them. I hope you do not think it is wrong for me to have them.”
Lorna felt flustered. “No, no, not at all. That’s fine. Really.”
Paul suddenly stepped forward with his hand outstretched. It took Lorna a moment to realize he wanted to shake her hand. Tentatively, she reached out to him, and as his fingers closed around hers, she looked up and their eyes met.
“Thank you for thinking of me, Fräulein Anderson”—Paul’s voice was low—“and thank you for this gift.”
At that moment, the kitchen door slammed and her father’s footsteps sounded on the cobbled yard, so she withdrew her hand from Paul’s and grabbed the basket.
At the door, she hesitated.
“My name is Lorna,” she said over her shoulder.
For a heartbeat, she thought he hadn’t heard her, but then he spoke.
“Good night, Lorna. I hope you sleep well.”
Nine
“Will you come back to my house for tea?” Iris asked as they left the school the next day. “William has a Scout meeting this afternoon, and Mum is at my grannie’s, so I have nothing better to do.”
Lorna studied Iris’s sweet smile and knew that her friend hadn’t meant to sound rude.
“I’m flattered,” she answered drily even so.
“Oh, you know what I mean.” Iris nudged her arm. “So will you come?”
Lorna shook her head.
“Maybe another day? I’ve got things to get done while it’s still light, but thanks.”
In fact, Lorna couldn’t face spending another hour or so with Iris as she prattled on about William, about school and Red Cross, and oh, about William some more. Lorna wanted to clear her head. The night before, she had lain awake for a long time thinking about how upset Paul had looked over that piece of the newspaper. She shouldn’t care if she saw him cry—she didn’t really know him, after all, and it wasn’t like he was her friend—but it had bothered her all the same.
Saying good-bye to Iris, Lorna decided to take the long way home through the woods. Though it would be a few weeks until the bluebells came into flower, she did love walking between the tranquil old trees. If she kept up a good pace, she wouldn’t be back too late to get the tea on the table at the normal time.
The wind had got up during school, and it whipped Lorna’s hair around her face as she walked. She pulled her scarf up over her head, tied
it under her chin, and tucked the ends down inside her coat. Despite the wind, though, the sun felt warm on her face for the first time in months, and there was a mildness within the blustery air.
As she gave herself up to the rhythm of her feet on the path, Lorna allowed her mind to flit from Paul to Iris and William, to John Jo and Sandy, to Nellie and back to Paul again, and before she knew it, she was at the farthest end of Craigielaw’s land, beside the beach beyond the woods.
She barely noticed when a large droplet of water hit the ground right in front of her. However, when the next four or five cold drops hit her face, and one sneaked into the narrow gap between her scarf and her neck, she paid more attention. Above the far shore of the Firth of Forth, a quilt of thick black rain clouds had darkened the bright sky, and its shadow was steadily creeping toward her over the water. And from the way the waves were dancing and bursting with white horses on their crests, Lorna could tell that the storm was coming fast.
Suddenly the clouds were illuminated from behind by a burst of lightning. Before she could count the seconds—one alligator, two alligator—a boom shook the air. Lorna almost lost her balance, as if the thunder itself had tried to push her over, so she ran, bent low, toward the edge of the woods.
With the rain’s arrival, the last wash of daylight vanished and Lorna found herself in a soaking twilight. Sheets of water, woven stiff as canvas, swept her toward the trees as waves would wash a dinghy against a seawall. The lightning flashed and flashed again across the darkness, not waiting for the thundering fanfare to sound before crackling again.
By the time she reached the woods, she was drenched. The cold moisture seeped through her sodden coat, her tights were sopping inside her shoes. But the rain barely made it through the dense canopy of the old oaks, wych elms, and sycamores. Even though the thick branches were still mostly winter bare, with just the first pink buds coloring the brown bark, they still acted as soundproofing, deadening the earsplitting noise of the storm.
Wet and miserable, Lorna threaded her way through the familiar woods in the direction of the farm, skirting the nettle beds until she found the well-worn path. She stuffed her scarf into her pocket, then shrugged out of her coat, the fabric soaked through so that even her sweater and shirt were already wet. Trying to keep her coat tucked under one arm, she wriggled her damp sweater off over her head, then squeezed the single braid that lay down her back until water trickled through her fingers.
Wait for Me Page 6
