She knew as soon as she saw that Iris wasn’t waiting for her at their usual meeting place under the budding boughs of the sycamore at the corner where the kirkyard met Coffin Lane.
Iris was instead standing near William and his mother, who were both offering haughty welcomes to the arriving congregation. She was twisting her white gloves in her hands and alternately staring down at her shoes and glancing up toward their usual meeting place.
When Iris spotted Lorna, she jumped. She actually jumped in shock, like Charlie Chaplin or Harold Lloyd. It was so comical that Lorna might have laughed, had the sick knot of dread not squeezed tight within her at the exact same time.
William, perhaps hearing Iris gasp, also looked toward Lorna, his expression changing in an instant from sanctimonious and smug to contemptuous. Without taking his eyes from her, William said something to his mother, and Lorna could imagine the sneer in his voice simply by the way his upper lip lifted at one side.
But of course, William looking contemptuous was not a sure signal of Iris’s betrayal, nor was Mrs. Urquhart scowling down her nose at Lorna. The confirmation that Iris had blabbed came from the way that all the women talking to or standing near Mrs. Urquhart—Mrs. Harris, Mrs. McCready, Mrs. Patterson, and both Old Mrs. Guy and Young Mrs. Guy—turned and stared at Lorna. And then the group standing next to them stared, and the couple beyond them stared too, and so on until time itself froze. Even the children running past in a last-ditch game of tag before their incarceration in Sunday school sensed that something was up and stopped to see whatever it was that the grown-ups were looking at.
Suddenly Lorna was viewing the Aberlady Parish Church congregation as a medieval fresco painted across the stone wall of the church. Every pair of eyes was on Lorna. Except one.
Iris was studying her shoes.
Then, on some silent signal, everyone moved, and the nudging and muttering, head shaking and tutting began, building into a cacophony of judgment rolling across the kirkyard at Lorna. Still Iris did not look up, even when she was nudged hard by Esther Bell, who had moved to stand beside her. Only when Esther nudged Iris a third time, and gestured toward Lorna, did Iris look up.
Iris’s mouth pursed. It was a familiar expression for Iris, but what did it mean? Guilt, regret, or judgment?
Before Lorna could decide, William blocked her view, taking Iris by the arm and stewarding her and his mother into the church. The other women followed, each one casting a furious scowl at Lorna as they went.
Would everyone react like this to her from now on? Had she really done something so wrong? What if she had drunkenly kissed the American, if she’d allowed Ed to do whatever he wanted? Would that have been more palatable for Mrs. Urquhart than a sober and chaste—almost chaste—kiss with a kind and caring German? Perhaps it would.
It was so unfair that Iris should be encouraged—well, perhaps not encouraged exactly, but at least allowed—to kiss William, yet Lorna was being cast out by the village like a stranger for doing the exact same thing.
As the organ music rose into the opening Call to Worship, Lorna walked back down Coffin Lane toward Craigielaw.
And how would Mrs. Mack and Nellie react when word reached them, as it undoubtedly would? Or had it already? And what about her father? He would never allow Paul back on the farm again. In fact, she hadn’t seen Paul this morning, she hadn’t even heard the truck arrive to drop him off. So what if . . . ? What if . . . ?
Oh God! Dad wouldn’t have, he couldn’t have . . .
Lorna ran. She had to find Paul. She had to make sure. . . .
But there he was, just outside the barn, crouched beside the old Fordson tractor, with a large screwdriver in his hand and a collection of other tools at his feet. Lorna slowed, letting relief funnel new air into her tight lungs. Paul scratched the back of his head with the screwdriver and stood up, stretching his back and shaking his head.
As she approached, Paul glanced up. Though the bruise across his eye was still purple, the swelling had gone down.
“The engine of a watch is not like the engine of a tractor,” he said. “So I think I must ask Fräulein Nellie to look at this old lady. She will not start for me.”
He patted the hood almost as if it were the neck of a plow horse and then frowned at Lorna.
“But you are back early. In Germany, am Ostersonntag,” he said, “on Easter Sunday, we must stay in church a long time before we may eat the eggs of the Osterhase—does the Easter Rabbit visit Scotland too?”
“They know about us,” Lorna blurted. “That little cow, Iris, told everyone in the village.”
Paul’s smile faltered just for a moment, before he seemed to force it wide again.
“Told them what?”
“Told them about us,” said Lorna, “told them that we’ve been . . . you know.”
“Oh, I see,” said Paul, his smile fading, “and how did Iris know that we have been . . .”
“Because I told her.”
“Ah.”
“But I only told her because I was so happy, and she promised not to tell anyone that we’d kissed, not even that oaf William, but she’s never been any good at keeping secrets, and I shouldn’t have trusted her, and I’m so, so—”
“You were happy that I kissed you?” Paul said.
“Of course I was happy, it was . . . it was . . .” She couldn’t find the right words. “It was very nice.”
“Very nice?” Paul looked serious and concerned, but his eyes were sparkling. “Only ‘very nice’?”
“I mean . . . oh, stop, you know what I mean.” Lorna allowed herself to smile and took another step toward him. “I liked kissing you. In fact, it turns out that it might be one of my favorite things to do in all the world.”
Paul was smiling again, and he took her hand in his.
“Well, that is a lucky chance, because kissing you is—”
He lifted her hand toward his mouth, but as he went to kiss it, Lorna pulled away. Paul froze.
“Paul, no, you mustn’t. Someone will see. You’d get into so much trouble, and so would I, and then they’d stop letting you come here, or they’d send you away, and I’d never see you again.”
“You are right, Lorna, and I’m sorry,” Paul said, seriousness darkening his expression. “I should not have tried to kiss you. And I will not try again.”
“But that’s not what—”
“Lorna, I understand the problem. It would not be good for other people to see us together.”
Lorna swallowed hard.
Paul bent down and picked up the tools at his feet, then he walked into the barn.
At the bottom of the ladder up to the hayloft, he hesitated before turning back to her, a crooked smile playing on his lips.
“Of course,” he said, “if we were somewhere other people could not see us . . .”
Paul set off up the ladder and soon disappeared through the floor of the loft.
Lorna watched him go. What would Mrs. Urquhart say? Or John Jo?
But they weren’t here, were they? No one was here, except her and Paul. And anyway, what business was it of anyone else’s?
The first rung creaked under Lorna’s shiny black shoe, then the second.
“Happy Easter, Aberlady!” Lorna muttered as she climbed. “And to hell with you all!”
Twenty-One
“And then she spat at me. It was awful.”
A week or so later, Lorna was standing wiping furiously at the remains of the mess on her skirt with a damp cloth as Mrs. Mack bustled around the kitchen. “And in front of everyone. It was so humiliating.”
“Och, I’m sure it was nothing.”
“But she spat at me in front of the whole school.”
“The whole school?”
“Well, quite a few people, anyway. And who the hell is Nancy Bell anyway? If it had been her sister, I might have understood, because Esther’s just plain nasty, but Nancy is only about twelve.”
“But other than that, have you had a happy birthday so far
?” called Mrs. Mack from the pantry.
“Oh simply super!” Lorna knew she sounded mean, even though Mrs. Mack was trying to be nice.
“And did Iris wish you a happy birthday?”
“Why would I even listen to Iris? She should have kept her mouth shut in the first place. I can’t believe she told William I had . . . well, that she told him anything at all. She knew he would just go and tell the whole damn village.”
Lorna saw Mrs. Mack frown. “Sorry, I mean, the whole village.”
Mrs. Mack handed Lorna the bread basket and a jar of mustard, and Lorna tossed both onto the table, slumping down into the nearest chair.
“God! Iris is no better than Esther bloody Bell.”
“Lorna!”
“Sorry.”
“As I’ve been telling you all week”—Mrs. Mack’s patience was clearly wearing thin—“you’ve only yourself to blame. I’ve nothing against the lad, in fact, I like him, but really, could you not both see you were asking for trouble?”
“But—”
“But nothing! You’ve no choice but to let the gossips do their worst. I don’t know who I’m more annoyed with, you or them. As if people haven’t enough to blather about right now, you have to hand them your silly head on a silver platter.”
Lorna humphed but didn’t reply. No point, because Mrs. Mack was right.
Lorna picked up the scrap of paper from the table on which Nellie had scrawled Happy Birthday, Lorna!!! She screwed it up and tossed it into the fire.
Some birthday! That note had been the only birthday greeting she’d had all day. Her dad had been away before she’d got up, and her classmates were either ignoring her or had forgotten. And Mrs. Murray had been too annoyed with Lorna for being late again to mention it.
And why had Lorna been late? Because her search for Paul had been fruitless, and therefore Lorna had spent her eighteenth birthday being tortured at school without even the hint of a sweet birthday kiss to see her through.
And now, she had to smile through this blasted birthday tea party.
Mrs. Mack had promised Lorna a birthday feast. In spite of the rationing restrictions, the housekeeper hinted that she’d been saving something special. Certainly, the smells that filled the house were mouthwatering. Even so, Lorna clung on to her filthy mood.
With no Iris, no John Jo, and no Sandy, and with an exhausted Dad and a still-sickly Nellie, what kind of party was it going to be, cake or no cake?
“Stick the kettle on, Lorna,” said Mrs. Mack, picking up the egg basket, “while I pop down to see if the girls have left me any nice eggs to boil.”
Almost as soon as she went out through the scullery door, Nellie appeared through the door from the yard. For someone who had always been a shimmering light around the farm, chattering and laughing and singing, Nellie now looked like death warmed up.
Her poorly stomach was still hanging around, Lorna knew, for she had found Nellie most mornings doing the milking with two pails in front of her, one for the milk and one in case she vomited. Lorna had nagged at Nellie to go to the nurse in the village, or even to the doctor’s office in Gullane, to get some tonic to stop the sickness, but Nellie had only finally agreed to go that afternoon.
Nellie’s face was ashen, her cheeks gaunt, and she walked like a woman fifty years older, trudging and reluctant. She sat down heavily and dropped her head onto the one corner of the table that wasn’t covered with plates and bowls, protected under a muslin cloth. She looked totally drained.
Lorna put a glass of water in front of her.
“Did you see the nurse? Did she give you something to make you feel better?”
Suddenly an enormous sob shook Nellie, and she began to bawl. Instinctively, Lorna glanced at the door, desperately hoping that her father wouldn’t come in. Nellie was a hard worker, if a bit silly sometimes, but her repeated sickness was pushing him to the limit.
Knowing he and Mrs. Mack would be coming in soon, Lorna laid her hand on Nellie’s arm.
“Come upstairs and tell me all about it. Maybe I can help.”
Nellie let Lorna lead her upstairs, but Lorna didn’t want to go into Nellie’s bedroom. It was still decorated with reminders of Sandy from when it had been his room, so she led Nellie to her own room and sat her down on the bed.
Nellie continued to cry, so Lorna gently rubbed her back as Mrs. Mack had so often done for her as a child. After a few minutes, Lorna fetched a fresh white handkerchief from her top drawer and Nellie blew her nose into it, loud and wet.
“It’s over. He’s dumped me.” Nellie gulped and croaked. “My Charlie. Chuck. My American.”
“When?” Lorna didn’t understand. “I thought you went to the doctor’s this afternoon, not to see Chuck.”
“Well, you see, he’s been a bit funny lately, a bit sulky, not like he was at first, all fun and flirting. And we had an argy-bargy last week before I got sick, you know, an argument. He said I was being clingy and demanding. ‘It’s not like we’re in love or anything,’ he said.”
She turned her red puffy eyes toward Lorna.
“But you see, I thought that we were,” Nellie sniffed. “At least, I was head over heels for him, and I thought I could tell that he loved me too.”
Lorna nodded. What could she say?
Nellie scrunched up the wet hankie in her fist.
“We’d not seen each other since the argument, and then I got sick,” Nellie said, hiccuping. “And today, I did go to see the nurse, but then I went up to the air base to talk to him. The guard wasn’t happy about it, but I moaned at him so long, he sent someone to get Chuck.
“Oh, Lorna, the way he looked at me! It was like I was nobody to him. But I told him straight that I was sorry we’d had that fight, and that I loved him, and once the war’s over, him and me should be together.
“‘In fact,’ I told him, ‘you and me are going to have to get together even before the war is over, because . . .’”
Nellie fell silent, and Lorna knew what she was about to say. All the pieces of the jigsaw fell into place—the sickness, the exhaustion, the weeping.
“Nellie, you’re pregnant,” Lorna whispered, and Nellie nodded.
“‘Chuck,’ I said to him, ‘I’m carrying your baby and we should get married as soon as we can find a vicar to do it.’ And do you know what he says to me?”
Lorna shook her head, not wanting to hear what was coming.
“He says, ‘How can I marry you when I’ve already got a wife back in Tennessee?’”
Nellie buried her face in her hands. “Oh, I’ve been so foolish.”
Lorna put her hand again on her friend’s back. “Nellie, I am so sorry. But surely he can’t just leave you like that. He must do something to help.”
She realized that she sounded like her dad, which gave her an idea.
“Maybe I could ask Dad to talk to Chuck’s commanding officer—”
Nellie leaped off the bed.
“No, no! Your dad mustn’t know I’m expecting. He would be so angry, and he would throw me off the farm, and the Land Army would sack me. I don’t want to leave Craigielaw. I love it here, and anyway if I went back to London, my old man—my dad, that is—would do worse than throw me right back out on my ear again.”
“Worse?” said Lorna.
“Oh, he’d beat me senseless. Always one to lecture with his fists, my dad. My mum put up with it only so long and then turned her face to the wall and died, just to escape him. And I couldn’t blame her. I got out of there the very day I was old enough for the Land Army so I wouldn’t have to count my bruises every morning.”
Nellie laughed, though entirely without humor.
“You have no idea how lucky you are. Your dad is such a lovely, lovely man. A bit grumpy perhaps, but deep down, a lovely man.” Nellie chewed on a fingernail. “But promise me you won’t tell him about my . . . problem. Just give me a little while more to think what would be best.”
“But it won’t stay a secret for long.�
� Lorna pointed at Nellie’s belly. “How far along are you? Was it, em, the night of the dance?”
Nellie looked even more miserable.
“I think it was a bit before that.”
“So it’ll start showing soon. And you shouldn’t be doing any heavy lifting from now on.”
“I know, I know. But just give me a couple of weeks, please. I need to think carefully.”
Lorna wasn’t sure what to say.
“Promise me, Lorna, please.”
Reluctantly, she nodded. “Fine, I promise, but in return, you must promise to tell Dad soon.” Lorna hugged Nellie. “And you know I’ll be there for you, don’t you?”
“I know, duckie. You’re like the perfect little sister I never had.”
At that moment, Mrs. Mack called from downstairs. Nellie stood up and patted Lorna’s arm.
“Let me wash my face so I don’t look such a fright, and then I’ll be down, all right?”
“Are you sure you can face it? I’m not even sure that I can, and it’s my birthday.”
“We’ll both be fine, and Mrs. Mack always talks enough for both of us.”
Nellie went through to her own room, leaving Lorna to paste a deliberate smile onto her face.
“Coming!” she shouted.
Mrs. Mack had indeed kept something special up her sleeve. Ham sandwiches, boiled eggs, sausages, homemade chutney, slices of fresh bread with actual butter, and oatcakes lying next to a small block of cheese. On the dresser stood a crystal bowl of red jelly, scones oozing strawberry jam, and a small yellow sponge cake with four candles on top, as well as a clear bottle marked Elderflower Cordial—Summer 1944 in Mrs. Mack’s handwriting, a green bottle of ginger ale, and four brown bottles of beer.
Lorna stood, her mouth agape. In spite of herself, she let this wonderful sight break through her doldrums.
“Mrs. Mack, how did you do it? Did you steal the whole village’s ration books?”
“You know me, Lorna, I have my ways and means.” The housekeeper winked. “I thought we could all do with a wee party to cheer us up.”
“Wee party? You could feed the Fifty-First Highland Division with that lot,” said Lorna’s father as he rose from his chair by the fire and laid a friendly arm around Mrs. Mack’s shoulders. “A rare spread indeed, Edna, given that there’s only the four of us.”
Wait for Me Page 17
