Wait for Me

by Caroline Leech

  “You must get back to the camp,” she whispered. “If they catch you out here, they’ll lock you up. Properly, this time. Please, Paul, go now! I need you safe, not in jail.”

  Paul laid his forehead against hers.

  “I am sorry to have to go, Lorna.”

  “But you must,” she said again. “Now!”

  “But what about you?”

  “I’ll be fine, I promise. I’ll go home. Now go!”

  Paul stood up straight and Lorna wished she had time to tell him everything she couldn’t find the words to say.

  “But we’ll have tomorrow,” Paul said.

  Lorna laid her hand over his damaged cheek, not covering it up, but caressing it.

  “Yes, we will have tomorrow.”

  Paul leaned forward and kissed her once more on the mouth, gently, lovingly, longingly. Then he sprinted away, round by the beach, away from the village itself. If he ran all the way, he’d be back at the camp within ten minutes or so.

  It was only once Paul had disappeared from view that Lorna realized that he hadn’t given her his gift, the one in the little linen roll, the one he had wanted her to have before it was too late. She wished now that she hadn’t stopped him, wished she could have seen it. But that was all right. Paul would give it to her tomorrow. They would see each other tomorrow.

  Thirty-Three

  Lorna gazed miserably out of the classroom window on Friday afternoon.

  Nine sailors had been killed in the torpedo attack on two merchant navy ships by a German submarine on VE Day. The paper had said there was no official explanation about why the German U-boat commander had ignored orders from Berlin to surrender his submarine. Instead he had fired torpedoes at two ships in the Forth, one Canadian and one Norwegian.

  The youngest sailor to die, according to today’s Scotsman, had only been seventeen years old. Younger even than Lorna. The pointless death of this young sailor, a boy she had never even met, had lain heavily on Lorna as she walked to school that morning. She was so angry for him and for his family who must have thought—as she had about John Jo and Sandy—he’d be safe once peace was declared. But instead, he’d be buried today, far from home.

  Most of all, she wanted to talk to Paul, but she had not seen him since Tuesday, the night of the bonfire. The POW camp at Gosford House had been off-limits for the last three days. No prisoners had been allowed out, not even those working as farmhands, and no visitors had been allowed in.

  Nobody in the village seemed sure as to why the camp had been put on alert. Whatever the reason, the farmers needed the prisoners back at work, particularly the local fruit nurseries, which could not afford to lose their labor just as the summer berry crop was almost ready for harvesting.

  Lorna had even waited around for Paul that morning until she was likely to be late again. When she eventually gave up, she’d left Caddy by the gates, staring down the road, ears pricked, clearly straining to hear anything coming from the village. She was probably still there, Lorna thought.

  She had been late, and when she’d walked into the classroom, Esther Bell had applauded. But Lorna didn’t care. What was the point?

  Listening to the prime minister’s announcement on Monday afternoon, everyone had been so excited, so expectant that life would now change for the better. But young sailors were still dying, prisoners of war—including her prisoner—were still locked up, and Esther Bell was still a miserable cow. So really, what the hell had even changed?

  Well, one thing had changed: Mrs. Murray had returned to her classroom at the end of the two-day Victory holiday. Still dressed all in black, she was no less strict than before.

  They would be taking their Higher Leaving Certificate examinations in June, she said—as if they needed reminding—so it would be a crucial few weeks ahead, especially for those going to the university or to other training institutions, such as secretarial colleges. At this, Mrs. Murray looked pointedly at Lorna, who had looked away, embarrassed.

  Lorna hadn’t forgotten the suggestion that she’d made about secretarial college, but until her chat with Iris the other day, she had given no more thought to the letter and brochure from Dugdale’s. She doubted she would even get her Leaving Certificate, because she was finding it so hard to concentrate, or even care about schoolwork. But perhaps they could talk about it, or about Iris’s suggestion of nursing, when Mrs. Murray came to the farm for dinner on Sunday.

  That had been an unexpected invitation from her father, but he was clearly excited about it, because he’d mentioned it to Lorna two or three times since. So had Mrs. Murray, checking the time and asking what she should bring. Lorna had always liked her teacher, strict though she was, and worried that she was looking so much smaller than she had done before Gregor was killed, paler and more fragile. So perhaps having some company over Sunday dinner might do her some good.

  Lorna was ripped from her daydream suddenly when she heard the truck—no, more than one truck. Even through the thick glass of the school windows, Lorna could hear the parade of trucks making their way through the village. They were loud enough to make all the other students look up too. After six years of troops movements between the military bases and camps nearby, they all recognized the sound. But this week it meant something else. Were the trucks taking soldiers away from Aberlady? Or were they bringing soldiers—fathers, brothers, uncles, cousins—home from the war?

  Chairs clattered and screeched as most of the class ran to the window to see, standing on tiptoes to peer over the high windowsills. Johnny Milne, Derek’s younger brother, was the tallest in the class, and he said he could see an army convoy was heading up the High Street, but when Ross Miller stood up on his chair for a better look, Mrs. Murray shouted at him and he quickly got down again.

  At that moment the door flew open, and Mrs. Mack burst in. Her face was bright red and she was struggling to catch a breath.

  Why was Mrs. Mack there? What was wrong?

  Mrs. Mack scanned the class of students until she found Lorna.

  “Lorna, you must come,” she panted. “It’s them.”

  Mrs. Murray strode forward, clearly rattled by the sudden interruption.

  “Mrs. McMurdough, can I help you?”

  Mrs. Mack glanced at her.

  “Sorry, Peggy, but Lorna has to come quick. It’s an emergency.” Mrs. Mack gasped as she tried to make Lorna understand. “It’s the camp . . . the trucks, Lorna . . . come and look!” She pointed toward the window, the other hand pressed against her chest. “They’re taking them away.”

  Lorna couldn’t move. She couldn’t understand, wouldn’t understand. How could the Germans be leaving? Paul promised her they would have tomorrow.

  Mrs. Mack grabbed Lorna’s hand and pulled her toward the classroom door.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake! Paul is leaving,” Mrs. Mack hissed. “On one of yon trucks right now.”

  Lorna finally understood. She could not let him leave.

  Her legs were moving without direction from her brain. She bolted from the classroom and was out of the main door, across the yard, and onto the sidewalk before she realized what she was doing. The green trucks rumbled across the junction in front of the church, and she pushed herself to run harder.

  From behind her, Lorna could hear voices shouting after her, but she didn’t listen. She wouldn’t stop. By the time she got to the corner, in the cacophony of the huge engines, she could hear nothing else but the blood pounding in her ears.

  The noise on the main road was bone-shaking. The trucks were enormous, much bigger than the one that brought Paul to Craigielaw, and they towered over Lorna. Looking down the High Street, she could see that perhaps a half dozen of them had already passed, with perhaps the same number still to come.

  The last few trucks in the convoy were just entering the village, and they squealed as each driver applied the brakes. The acrid stench of burning rubber caught in Lorna’s throat, making her choke and cough, and she put her hand up to cover her mouth
and nose.

  What should she do? The convoy stretched all the way toward the far end of the village. Men were peering out of the trucks in front of her, and she strained to see if Paul was among them, but the farthest faces were blurred in a haze of exhaust fumes. Had he already gone by? And then the final truck passed her, with a young man perched on the end of the bench at the back. He was blond and dressed in the familiar uniform, but even as Lorna lifted her hand from her mouth to reach out to him, to wave, she saw it wasn’t Paul. This man’s face was pale and handsome, but undamaged.

  But he must have thought she was waving to him, because he waved back.

  “Auf Wiedersehen, Fräulein!” he shouted as the truck rolled on away from Lorna. “Good-bye, pretty Scottish girl!”

  No, he wasn’t Paul. But perhaps he might know which truck Paul was in.

  “Is Paul Vogel in there?” Lorna cried, and ran after him. “Paul Vogel! Is Paul Vogel in there with you?”

  The truck was pulling away from her. The man cupped his hand to his ear to show he hadn’t heard her properly.

  “Paul Vogel!” she shouted at the top of her voice, and he nodded and called back into the interior of the covered truck. Several other prisoners appeared beside him, a mix of faces and waving hands, but they weren’t Paul either.

  But, she realized, they weren’t waving, they were signaling. All of the hands were pointing farther up the convoy. By this time Lorna had run as far as the Gowff and could barely breathe. The dense fumes from the engines were stifling, and her heart was thumping, but the momentum of her panic kept her legs moving.

  The trucks at the front had all slowed down before they turned right onto the Haddington Road. Sure enough, the truck at the back was slowing. She was gaining ground on it at last. She could hear the men calling to her, still pointing.

  “Run faster, Fräulein”—she could hear them clearly—“run three trucks more.”

  Lorna counted the trucks in front of this one. One, two, three. But it was so far away, she would never catch it. But still she must try.

  As that truck took the tight bend, Lorna caught sight of several men hanging out of the back. They were holding on to the metal frame, swinging precariously as the truck turned the corner. One of them waved, his wide mouth open in a shout, his whole body leaning forward as if to reach her. For a moment Lorna thought she could hear her name shouted over the thundering engines, but then he disappeared round the corner, the men waving from the next truck taking his place, then the next.

  Lorna staggered to a stop beside the post office, lungs heaving as the last truck reached the corner. The young blond man who hadn’t been Paul put his hand to his mouth and blew across his flat palm, sending her a kiss. Then he smiled and waved and was away.

  The roaring in her ears was no more than a dull reverberation. Footsteps approached from behind, but she didn’t look to see who had caught up to her. She didn’t care.

  Lorna pressed her hands to her face and let the tears flow over her fingers. Her knees buckled, but she had neither the energy nor the desire to stop herself from crumpling to the ground. She had nothing left.

  She felt someone crouch beside her and lifted her face to look into concerned eyes of her best friend as warm arms closed around her.

  “He’s gone, Iris,” Lorna choked out. “Paul’s gone without saying good-bye.”

  Thirty-Four

  Lorna trudged home alone.

  Iris had picked her up off the sidewalk and had held her tight until the sobbing subsided. She’d wanted to walk Lorna back to Craigielaw, but Lorna had said no. She’d rather go by herself.

  Back in the yard, there was no little dog waiting sadly at the gate as Lorna had expected there would be. Instead, Caddy was sprawled on the warm cobblestones outside the lambing shed. Fickle creature! But her ears pricked as Lorna approached, and she was immediately on her feet, dashing toward Lorna, tail thrashing, nails skidding.

  Lorna put her hand down to rub Caddy’s head, but before she could touch her, the dog had run back to the door of the shed, where she gave a soft wuff.

  “Silly dog!” Lorna muttered, and turned toward the kitchen door.

  She hadn’t gone more than a couple of paces when a wet nose nudged across her palm, and Caddy’s soft head filled her hand as she sat at Lorna’s feet.

  “So you want a pat after all, do you?”

  Caddy’s deep-brown gaze seemed to understand Lorna was hurting as she crouched down and rubbed her hands through the rich black and bright white fur on the dog’s head and back. Lorna’s eyes were scratchy and dry after all her tears, so she let her face rest on the comfortingly soft and silky ruff around Caddy’s neck. Her fingers rubbed the grubby, more-brown-than-white fluff under Caddy’s belly, but when they were caught by the mass of tangles, burrs, and mud knots, she grimaced and withdrew them.

  “You need a bath, Caddy-girl.”

  Caddy’s tail thumped on the cobblestones.

  “And I suppose I’ll have to give it to you, since Paul’s not here to do it.”

  Caddy jumped to her feet, wagging her tail madly at Paul’s name, and Lorna felt a surge of annoyance at the dog’s futile loyalty.

  “He’s gone, you know that, don’t you? Paul’s gone, and chances are, he’s never coming back.”

  Lorna sighed and stood up. Caddy bounded away again to the other side of the yard and looked back at Lorna expectantly. But Lorna had had enough puppy play, so she went into the kitchen. God, she needed a cup of tea!

  In the kitchen, Lorna filled the kettle and put it on to boil.

  “You’re home early. I thought you were Mrs. Mack when you came in,” Nellie said from where she was sitting by the open window overlooking the garden. “She said she’d be a bit late this morning. Ooh, are you making a cuppa? Count me in.”

  She had a basket of pea pods on the windowsill beside her and was shelling the bright green peas into a bowl in her lap. Popping a couple into her mouth, she chewed them with obvious relish. “Mmmm, I love peas, don’t you?”

  So Nellie hadn’t heard then, about the convoy taking all the prisoners away, about Paul. If she had, surely she wouldn’t be sitting there smiling as if everything was wonderful.

  Lorna worked the start of several sentences round her head, but could not find the words to tell Nellie that Paul had gone.

  “And while I think about it, duckie”—Nellie waved a fat pea pod toward the table—“that there’s for you.”

  The pea pod pointed at a small roll of linen, off-white and creased at the ends, bound with fine brown twine tied in a cross, its ends frayed and feathery.

  Paul’s gift.

  But how . . . ?

  “Paul was in with it earlier. Said that if he left it right there, you might actually get it this time. Said he’d tried a dozen times already, but something had always gotten in the way.”

  Lorna stared at the little parcel.

  “Paul’s been here? Today?”

  “Yeah, he stuck his head round the door a couple of hours ago, just for a minute or two, but then he said he had to go.”

  Lorna could have cried all over again. Paul had been here, at Craigielaw, long enough to deliver this parcel, and she had been at school. Why hadn’t she stayed home? Why hadn’t she been here, even just for those two minutes?

  Nellie put the bowl of peas onto the windowsill and walked to where Lorna was still staring at the gift.

  “Well, get on with it then!” Nellie picked up the linen package and held it out to Lorna. “He left it for you to open. He said you shouldn’t wait for him.”

  She shouldn’t wait for him?

  Lorna slowly took the parcel in trembling fingers.

  “Aw, come on, Lorna, you’re killing me!” Nellie tugged at the corner. “He told me what it is. Said he bought it off someone in the camp, but then he did some work on it to make it extra special, just for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Ha! Not telling. You’ll have to open it.”
r />   Lorna fiddled with the twine. When the knot released, she unfolded the linen. Inside was a layer of finer fabric, a cotton handkerchief, and Lorna could feel something hard inside it.

  Her fingers shook as she pulled aside the cotton.

  “Ooh,” cooed Nellie, “have you ever seen anything . . . ?”

  On the white cotton lay a watch. A beautiful watch, glimmering with silver and copper highlights, its soft brown strap buffed to a silken sheen.

  “Oh, Nellie, it’s . . .”

  But what words were there?

  It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Under the flat dome of glass, framed within a ring of silver, lay an exquisitely carved watch face. Rippling silver across the lower half, and above it an undulating line, lifted in relief and somehow edged with copper. The wavy line formed a shape that Lorna recognized only a second or two ahead of Nellie.

  “Is that . . . ?” said Nellie, pointing gingerly at the watch face, clearly trying not to touch the spotless glass.

  “Yes,” Lorna could only whisper. “It’s the shoreline of Aberlady Bay.”

  And there they were, the rolling hills of Fife on the left-hand side, cut across toward the center by the distinctive rise and fall of Gullane Point, sitting beyond the rippling sand of the bay as it would be at low tide. And hugging the nearest edge of the circle was the curving line of the Peffer Burn.

  “And look, the birds . . . ,” said Nellie. On the end of each hand hovered a tiny copper bird, its wings outlined against the silver of the sky and the hills. “It’s like they’re flying. But how . . . ?”

  Nellie was obviously as stunned as Lorna.

  “He made it for my birthday.” Shameful tears pricked Lorna’s eyes as she remembered. “And I wouldn’t let him give it to me. I threw it back in his face. How could I have done that, Nellie? How could I?”

  Nellie squeezed Lorna’s arm.

  “That was an awful day, and not one any of us want to remember. But Paul understood why you did that, you know he did.”