Nellie would have loved this.
“If you can’t be good, be careful!” Nellie had called as Lorna and her dad had left the house. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
“Well, that leaves us plenty of room for maneuver,” Lorna’s dad had said, and chuckled at his joke most of the way to the village.
And he was certainly having fun. Looking at him in the yellow lamplight, Lorna could see that years had dropped from her father’s face. He threw his head back as he laughed with his friends, draining his pint glass and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He looked relaxed and happy.
On the stage near the tea-and-beer tent sat the members of the old Aberlady ceilidh band, their heels beating out an echoing rhythm on the wooden boards as they played. The footsteps of the dancers hurling and burling in front of them, in contrast, were strangely muted by the grass on which they danced.
Paul would have loved this too.
As the band played the opening chords of the next dance, Sheena’s eldest daughter, Agnes, sidled up to Lorna, clearly yearning to join in, but not brave enough to ask any of the boys her own age.
Lorna held out her hand to Agnes.
“Do you want to lead or will I?”
Agnes giggled. She was at least a foot shorter than Lorna, and clearly found the question silly. But she gratefully grabbed Lorna’s arm and yanked her into the military two-step.
When the dance came to an end with one long chord, Lorna and Agnes bowed and curtsied to each other, and Lorna wiped her forehead on the sleeve of her dress. It had been fun to dance the whirling energy of the Scottish country dancing with Agnes, but Lorna ached to feel Paul’s arms around her, for the intimacy of a waltz in a ballroom, or even in a barn. She just wanted to feel again his hand on her back, his cheek against hers, and the whisper of his breath in her ear.
Agnes grasped Lorna’s hand again, but the musicians laid their instruments down and raised their empty glasses to the clapping crowd to signal a break.
Agnes muttered a quick “Never mind” and dashed off toward the refreshment tent. Realizing how thirsty she was, Lorna followed her.
Lorna picked up a paper cup of orange squash from a table and gulped it down. She picked up another, as crackling ballroom music burst from a shiny old wooden gramophone that sat on the corner of the stage, a black record rotating under its needle. It was playing “Bye Bye Blackbird,” and immediately couples were spinning around the flattened grass with less finesse than the dancers she’d seen at the air base, but with just as much energy.
Where was Paul when she wanted him most? At Gosford, tucked up in bed. But perhaps he would be dreaming about dancing with Lorna too.
She flushed at the idea that Paul might be thinking of her as he lay in bed, and fanned her face with her hand.
In an attempt to distract herself, she looked around for Iris. She wanted to tell her how proud she was of her for standing up to William that afternoon, and how happy she was that Iris had finally seen the light about him.
Iris wasn’t among the dancers, so perhaps she was sitting down having a drink.
The beer tent was packed, and Lorna had to squeeze past the group of older men clustered around her father. He was regaling them with some long, and probably tall, story from when they were all young, or were all in the Home Guard together, a story they had probably all heard countless times before.
Beyond the men, the chairs were filled with loudly chattering women, the tables littered with a variety of purses, glasses, and teacups.
But where was Iris?
Suddenly, the needle on the gramophone screeched as it was knocked from its groove, and the music was silenced. Somebody tapped something metal on a glass to call the crowd to attention. Everyone stood up or turned to see what was happening.
A roar of laughter and clapping rose outside the tent, but Lorna couldn’t see past her father and his friends, so she grabbed a nearby chair to stand on.
When she was up high enough to look over their heads, Lorna finally found Iris, standing in the pool of yellow lamplight on the dance floor. Her head was lowered, and she was staring down at the boy who was on one knee in front of her.
William took Iris’s hands in his. He kissed the back of each hand in turn and raised his eyes to look into hers. If Lorna hadn’t known William so well, she might have believed the adoration was real.
“Iris”—William’s voice was strong, making sure everyone could hear—“would you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”
Another cheer went up, and Lorna almost burst out laughing. Did William not realize he was too late, that his placid little girlfriend had become a strong and independent young woman?
In spite of herself, Lorna could almost pity William. Having your marriage proposal turned down in front of all these people would be a spectacular humiliation. But then, it couldn’t happen to a nicer bloke.
The cheers quickly died down to a low buzz as everyone watched Iris expectantly. But as the seconds stretched out, and Iris continued to stare at William without giving him a response, soon even the buzz fell silent.
Iris looked up, searching the faces of the crowd. When she found Lorna, she seemed to be telling her something. But Lorna didn’t understand what it was. Was Iris asking her for a sign of support before she dumped William in front of everyone? Did she need Lorna to intervene? Or was it . . . was she . . . ? Was that expression on Iris’s face one of apology?
Iris looked back down at William, who was clearly feeling foolish for still being down on one knee after all this time.
“Iris?” he said, sounding desperate. “I asked if you would marry me.”
And then, to Lorna’s horror, Iris nodded her head.
“Yes,” she said. “William, I would love to marry you.”
Lorna’s heart dropped like a brick as everyone cheered again. This could not be happening. Why would Iris throw her life away like this after all she’d said to him?
Then William glanced behind him, to where his mother stood, her face a portrait of dismay. She pressed a lace handkerchief to her mouth as if she was struggling not to scream at her son for his folly and his treachery.
And Lorna realized that this proposal wasn’t about William showing Iris he loved her. This was William having his revenge on his mother. What sort of man had Iris said yes to?
William looked back to Iris and smiled with satisfaction. But before he could get to his feet, Iris held up one hand, signaling for more quiet.
“But . . . BUT.” Iris had to raise her voice to get people to listen. “But not quite yet.”
William staggered to his feet.
“Not yet?” he stammered. “Well, when then?”
Iris glanced around, as if she now wished everyone were looking in the other direction. They weren’t.
“I mean, we should wait a bit. You’ll be called up for National Service soon, and then there’s university. And I have plans too.”
“What plans?” William looked like he wanted to vomit.
“Well . . .” Iris was growing pinker, even in the yellow light, “I want to go to the Edinburgh College of Art to study fashion design. They’ve offered me a place for September. And I’ve already said I’ll take it.”
“But . . .” William looked confused. “Well, good, that’s great, but . . . even so . . . you did say you’d marry me, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” cried Iris, now looking excited, “of course, I said yes!”
That was all William needed. He wrapped an arm around Iris’s shoulders, holding the other aloft as if he were a Roman gladiator accepting the approbation of Caesar’s mob.
Everyone followed his lead and cheered again, though there were a few puzzled frowns and shaking heads. William paraded Iris around, lapping up the calls of good wishes and congratulations. After a while, he looked up and saw Lorna. His smile didn’t falter for one moment; it seemed to dare her to cry out an objection.
Not only revenge on his mother. This was
also William Urquhart’s revenge on Lorna.
“Dance!” someone shouted.
“Dance! Dance! Dance!” chanted the crowd, and the gramophone crackled as the needle was placed back into its groove. Everyone stepped back to form a wide circle around the happy couple, and Lorna jumped down from her chair to avoid being pushed off.
As the music began, William swept Iris into his arms, and she beamed as he spun her around and around the dance floor.
Someone nudged Lorna.
“Don’t look so glum, lassie,” said a gravelly voice. “It’ll be your turn soon enough.”
Lorna looked to see who had spoken, to put them right, but everyone near her was concentrating on William and Iris.
Suddenly, she felt very, very tired. All her joy on the first day of peace across Europe had vanished, leaving her hollow and strangely untethered. She had to escape.
As she walked across the grass and on to the Sea Wynd, she wondered what would happen now.
Germany might have surrendered, but Britain was still at war with Japan. And her brothers might be coming home, but Lorna knew they would not be the same as before. She’d seen how much John Jo had changed, and who knew what injuries he’d suffered? And Sandy might not even come home. Having Nellie at Craigielaw was wonderful, but would she stay once her baby was born? And then there was Paul.
Lorna couldn’t bear the idea that he might be sent back to Germany. What would he go back to? The newspaper had been full of pictures of the wreckage of Europe, historic cities razed by fire and bombs, crater-pocked roads, and railway bridges tossed into rivers like broken matchsticks. And there were new reports that Allied soldiers had liberated prison camps in Poland and Germany in which, the reports said, hundreds of thousands of men and women, and children, had been killed. Hundreds of thousands? The scale of the death and destruction was unimaginable.
And there had been photographs of the survivors too. Streams of refugees, carrying all they owned in pockets or potato sacks, following whatever road would lead them west. So many displaced people, friendless and homeless. Were Paul’s mother and sister among them? Or did they survive the inferno, only to find themselves trapped in Dresden by the advancing Russians? Paul would have no way of knowing.
Yes, Lorna was relieved that the war was over, but happiness and stability were still a long way off.
She was so wrapped up in the maelstrom of her thoughts, she didn’t see the man in the shadows until he grabbed her by the arm, pulling her out of the torchlight and into the darkness.
Thirty-Two
“No!” Lorna gasped.
She tried to wrench back her arm, but his grip on her elbow held fast, and suddenly her mind was filled with sweat and tobacco, tearing satin and a stabbing light switch, sweet American lemonade and bitter yellow vomit.
“Let me go!” she croaked, unable to release enough air to find any volume. “Don’t hurt me, please.”
And the man did let her go.
He let go of her arm so suddenly that Lorna sprawled onto the road.
But quickly he was there again, lifting her to her feet.
“Lorna. I am so sorry.”
He wrapped his arms around her, and Lorna was clinging to him, pulling him closer, and burying her face into the soft cloth of his shirt.
“Paul!”
“I did not mean to frighten you,” he said.
Paul had come after all.
Lorna lifted her lips to his and kissed him, softly and gratefully. Then she laid her head back against his chest.
“You came,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
Paul kissed the top of her head, her temple, her cheek.
“I could not lose any more time with you,” Paul whispered. “I had to see you.”
Lorna didn’t want to hear Paul talk of lost time, she didn’t want to talk at all, so she lifted her mouth to his once more.
After a while, Lorna realized that someone from the Sea Green might see them, so she took Paul’s hand and pulled him down the shadowed pathway behind a hedge.
“But how did you get away?” she asked, gazing up at his handsome face.
“I had a quiet word with one of the guards and—”
“A quiet word?”
“Well, a quiet word and a shilling or two.” Paul’s eyes glinted in the faint light. “The guard did not want to be in the camp tonight either, so he was happy to take my money and look the other way so I could come to find you.”
Lorna smiled. “I am so glad you did.”
“Because there is something I need to give you.” Paul put his hand in his pocket and drew out the little gift from her birthday, still wrapped in white linen, the twine cross binding it now a little more ragged and off center than it had once been.
Lorna let her fingers reach out to touch it, though she didn’t take it. In her heart, she knew what this gift might mean if he were to give it to her here, now. It could mean good-bye.
“I want you to have it tonight,” Paul continued, “so that if they send us away from—”
“No!” Lorna snatched her fingers back as if the gift had burned her. “Don’t talk like that! Not tonight.”
“Lorna, you know that at some time—”
“I don’t want to hear that. Not tonight!”
“Lorna, I want you to have this so that—”
But Paul could say no more because Lorna had pressed her lips hard onto his, to silence him, to stop him from talking about—from even thinking about—ever leaving her.
With only a moment’s hesitation, Paul responded. And then he was kissing her with an urgency she hadn’t felt before, searching and hungry, and Lorna forgot about the gift. Paul’s mouth opened on hers, compelling her lips to follow, and she could taste him then, salty and sweet. And his tongue touched hers, lightly, then with more purpose, and Lorna’s whole body responded in kind. The taste, the feel, the smell of him sent sparking shocks through her.
Paul’s hand found the small of her back, and its warmth on her skin through the fine cotton fabric of her dress made Lorna shiver. Without letting her lips leave his for even one second, she pushed him against the stone wall. Or did he pull her against him? Lorna didn’t know, she didn’t care, she didn’t think, she just pressed herself against him, flattening her body to his.
And then it was her back against the wall and the weight of his body was pinning her to the cold stone. She shivered again, relishing the heat of his neck and his chest under her hands in contrast to the chill on her back. Every nerve ending fizzed. She heard a low groan and realized that it had come from her own throat.
One of Paul’s hands was in her hair then, one round her waist, his long fingers cupping around her rib cage, as if he couldn’t get enough of her, ravenous and desperate.
And then she heard the waltz. At first, she couldn’t be sure if the music was real or in her head, but Paul began to move in time to the music too, gently swaying against her in three-four time. His lips left hers, and he kissed Lorna’s fingers.
“This is not ‘The Blue Danube Waltz,’ but . . .” Paul drew her toward him. “Möchtest du tanzen, Lorna?” Paul laid her hand upon his shoulder, and they began to dance as the fiddle’s haunting melody sailed over the rhythm of the other instruments. It was a tune Lorna knew well.
“This is a Robert Burns song,” she whispered. “A Scottish waltz. It’s called ‘Ae Fond Kiss,’ a song of love and farewell.”
Lorna kissed Paul’s neck, just below his ear, where the scar tissue melted into the perfect undamaged skin, and Paul shivered against her lips. She let the nail of one finger trace the line of Paul’s chin and throat.
“‘Had we never loved sae kindly,’” Lorna sang, “‘Had we never loved sae blindly . . .’”
Lorna let her fingers slip into the front of Paul’s shirt, between two buttons, until she could feel the soft hair on his chest.
“‘Never met—or never parted, We had ne’er been brokenhearted.’”
BOOM!
The explosion came on the final beat of the song as if the devil himself were playing the drum.
While Lorna’s rational brain knew she had heard the noise, she still struggled to process it. It was too far away to worry about; she wanted to dance, to sing, and to feel Paul’s skin under her fingers. It had only been fireworks going off in her own head.
Paul whispered something she couldn’t quite hear, perhaps in German, she couldn’t tell.
BOOM!
This time they both heard it, and Paul pulled away from her.
“What was that?” she asked.
“I do not know. I will look.”
Paul peered around the corner of the wall just as the police whistles sounded, so Lorna grabbed at his shirt and pulled him back into the shadow.
“No, they mustn’t see you. Let me.”
People were running from the Sea Green in every direction, casting anxious glances behind them, clearly expecting another explosion even nearer. The lamps in the beer tent were being extinguished, and all the torches around the field were being dowsed.
It was hypnotic to watch the little fires die one by one, but then she realized that they weren’t the only fires she could see. The headland beyond the bay was silhouetted against an orange-and-red sky, even though it was hours until sunrise.
Then the whine of the air-raid siren sounded, a dreadful sound they had all thought, had all hoped, they would never hear again.
Lorna ran back to Paul, and they crouched down, listening for the drone of incoming bombers.
It didn’t come.
Lorna pointed in the direction of the false sunrise.
“There’s fire out at sea,” she said. “Maybe on a ship, because it’s not far north enough to be on land, but what caused it? I thought this was all over.”
Paul shrugged, and even in the poor light, Lorna could see he was anxious.
“I heard no plane, did you?” he asked. “It might have been torpedoes from a U-boat, but why? Now there is no reason to attack ships anymore.”
Another shrill whistle sounded, and there were sharp smacks on the cobbles as a man in boots ran toward them. Lorna pulled Paul close to her, but the man ran straight past.
Wait for Me Page 25
