Wait for Me
Page 27
Nellie held the watch to her ear.
“It even ticks beautifully. Sounds like a lullaby.”
Nellie took the watch and, with deft fingers, did up the silver buckle so that the watch fitted snugly around Lorna’s wrist.
Lorna studied the watch and then looked at Nellie, who was smiling.
How could Nellie be smiling now?
“Nellie,” Lorna croaked through the tightness in her throat, “what am I going to do?”
“Well, you might want to say thank you as a start.” Nellie winked.
How could Lorna say thank you if Paul was right now in an army truck being driven away from Aberlady, away from her?
“No, Nellie, I mean what am I going to do without Paul?”
“Without Paul?” Nellie sounded puzzled.
Of course, Nellie still didn’t yet know about the convoy.
“He’s gone, Nellie, Paul’s gone. They’ve cleared all the prisoners out of Gosford. They’ve taken them all away.”
Lorna sat down hard and pressed the watch tight against the desperate ache across her chest.
On the range, the kettle whistled to announce that it had boiled.
“Wait, Lorna—” began Nellie, but at that moment, heavy boots came stamping up the stone steps, and the door to the yard banged open.
“Perfect timing as always,” said Lorna’s dad as he came in. “So who’s making the tea then?”
Apparently oblivious to Lorna’s tearstained face, he went into the scullery to wash his hands, whistling a random tune in competition with the kettle.
“I will in a minute,” said Nellie. “But first, I need to tell Lorna—”
“Get on with it then,” he said, coming back into the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel. “We’re parched. And get that tin from the pantry. I promised the lad that we’d have some flapjack with our cuppa.”
“In a second,” said Nellie tersely. “I just need to explain—”
It had taken a moment for Lorna to process what her father had just said.
“‘The lad’?” she asked, cutting across Nellie. “What lad?”
Her dad looked at her as if she’d suddenly started talking in Welsh.
“What do you mean, ‘what lad’? I mean the lad. Our lad. What other lad would I be talking about? He’s just finishing up with the whitewash in the shed, so after we’ve had our cup of tea, we can get on with—”
“Paul?”
“Aye, Paul.”
“You mean Paul’s here?” Lorna could hardly breathe. “But he can’t be. Paul’s gone. On the convoy. They’ve cleared the camp. Today. They’ve all gone.”
Nellie was patting her shoulder.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Not all of them left. They’ve shifted some of them off to somewhere else, because of the overcrowding apparently, so—”
“Then Paul’s here?”
“Did you not hear your dad?” Nellie was chuckling now. “Paul’s in the shed mixing whitewash, and in minute or two, he’ll be coming in for his—”
But Lorna wasn’t there to hear more.
She ran through the door and jumped off the top step, her shoes sliding on the muddy cobbles as she landed. Then she sprinted, with Caddy’s noisy and tangling escort, across the yard. At the door of the lambing shed, Lorna yanked herself to a skidding stop by grabbing hold of the door frame.
Paul looked up from the wide white tub, a long wooden spoon in his hand. Almost at once, he noticed the watch on her wrist and smiled.
“At last, you have your birthday present.” He indicated the watch. “Very late, but I hope that you like it.”
Not even a second passed before Lorna was pressing her lips to his and twisting her hands into the short hair on his neck. And before Paul was kissing her back.
There was a vague splash as the spoon dropped into the thick liquid, and then Paul’s arms were around her so tightly, he almost lifted her off the floor.
When eventually she pulled back, she tilted her chin so she could gaze into those silver-gray eyes again.
“So I think perhaps you like your gift?” said Paul with a shy smile.
Lorna gently ran her thumb across a thick white smudge of whitewash that crossed the shiny pink scarring of his cheek.
“Quite the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life.”
Paul’s smile widened, and his hand cupped Lorna’s face in reply.
“I know what you mean.”
Lorna kissed the white-stained palm of his hand and then rested her face against her favorite place on his shoulder. Paul was here, with her.
“I thought I’d lost you,” she said.
“You will never lose me.” Paul kissed the top of her head. “And even if I have to leave, you must know that I will come back to you again. If you’ll wait for me?”
Lorna nodded against his chest. “Of course I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you forever.”
Paul’s arms tightened around her, but then he chuckled.
“But before your father gets out his shotgun,” he said, “perhaps I might be allowed to kiss you again?”
Lorna smiled and withdrew her arms from around Paul’s back so she could look again at the beautiful watch on her wrist.
She lifted her mouth to meet his once more. Just as their lips touched, she whispered, “I think we have a little time.”
Author’s Note
When I was writing this book, I wanted to be truthful to the people of Aberlady in 1945. However, I did allow myself to take a few liberties with history. So, what was real and what wasn’t?
There was a farm called Craigielaw exactly where I put it. Now Craigielaw Golf Club, the farm was then part of the Earl of Wemyss’s Gosford Estate. So that the farm would reach the water, I also adopted the tract of land next door, which was, and still is, Kilspindie Golf Club.
Across Britain, German and Italian prisoners of war were sent to work on farms near their prison camps. One of those camps was at Gosford House. Although the prisoners signed papers promising not to fraternize with local people, in reality, the prisoners developed long-standing friendships and even love affairs. Many stayed in Scotland after the war, avoiding a return to homes in the Russian Zone, what was to become communist East Germany for the next few decades. The POWs often returned the kindnesses of the British people they met by making gifts by hand, as Paul does, such as jewelry, paintings, and wooden toys for the children.
Before the POWs arrived, farms around Britain were already “manned” by the Women’s Land Army. Though some of the eighty thousand Land Girls were from the countryside, many, like Nellie, came from the big cities and had never even seen a cow before.
So if those are some truths, here are some liberties:
Aberlady School is actually a primary or elementary school. Older students like Lorna would have traveled to North Berwick High by bus each day.
The United States Army Air Force did not have bomber base in Scotland. However, East Fortune was a Royal Air Force training base from June 1940 to 1946. It is now the National Museum of Flight and hosts Scotland’s National Air Show every July.
There was no attack by the German air force, the Luftwaffe, on East Lothian so late in the war, although there were German bases in Norway until 1945 and the Messerschmitt 110 fighters did have the range to reach Aberlady. East Lothian was, however, bombed in two attacks in 1942, on Haddington and RAF Drem.
The sinking of the two merchant navy ships, Avondale Park and Sneland I, actually took place on the night of May 7, not May 8, as I have it. Nine men died in torpedo attacks several hours after peace was declared, because the German submarine captain refused to believe the radio messages from Berlin telling him to surrender.
The Victory bonfire on Aberlady’s Sea Green was actually on August 15, 1945, to celebrate VJ Day—Victory over Japan—rather than VE Day in May.
Since I finished writing Wait for Me, I have heard about several love stories between Gosford POWs and local girls, who
met on farms during and immediately after the war. Some of these not-so-young lovers are still living in East Lothian. One email I received was from Effie Renton, the daughter of a Gosford POW, Rudi Franzel, who fell in love with and married Betty Young, a girl from Haddington. Effie told me:
My father was a POW in Gosford and worked on a local farm. He met and married my mum in 1948 while still officially a POW, and they celebrated their diamond wedding in 2008. Sadly, Mum died in 2013, but my dad is now ninety and still very much alive.
[Your] story could have been about them, and I just wanted to let you know that they had a very happy life together.
Regards, Effie Renton (nee Franzel)
What wonderful reassurance that perhaps Lorna and Paul do get a happy ending after all.
Acknowledgments
This book is dedicated to my parents, Shirley and Jimmie Sibbald, who have always loved and supported me, and my sister, no matter what messes we got ourselves into (okay, Jane, the messes were mostly mine). They inspired my love of Scotland and my passion for reading and writing, and they shared with me their memories of World War II.
Mum was evacuated as a child from London in 1939 to a farm in Oxfordshire with her sister, Sylvia. Dad was called up at age eighteen in 1944 and followed his four brothers—Frank, Archie, Billy, and Eric—into the army. Sadly, Archie was killed by a German shell in North Africa on Christmas Day 1941.
In October 1939 in Port Seton, near Aberlady, Barbara Stevenson returned home from school to find two wringing-wet Germans drinking brandy in her kitchen. Shot down by RAF Spitfires while bombing Rosyth Naval Base, they were waiting for the army to arrive to arrest them. Barbara Sibbald, as she is now, is my aunt, and I tried to sneak her story into Wait for Me but failed.
I began this story in 2010, during NaNoWriMo—National Novel Writing Month—racing my friend Mike Deacon to fifty thousand words. He won, and I still owe him a victor’s pint. I owe more than a pint to Penny Linsenmayer, who loves historical fiction even more than I do, and who kept me believing.
Thanks also:
To my dear Welsh writer friend, Angharad Wynne, who first told me of a watch given in friendship by a prisoner of war. If you meet Angharad and her daughter Myfi out walking, you will also meet the real Caddy (or rather Cadi, in Welsh).
To my experts: Ian Malcolm from Aberlady Heritage, Liz Martin (and Bunty), Kennethmont Taylor and Jan Michaelis; to eastlothianatwar.com and to the Scotsman Archive for permission to use the Dresden article.
To my best friends, Rachel Dickson and Lara Powers, and to my critique group: Andrea White, Chris Cander, Tobey Forney, Mimi Vance, and Gretchen Mazziotti.
To Kathi Appelt, who mentored me as my priceless prize in the SCBWI Joan Lowery Nixon Prize in 2014. And to Clara Gifford Clark and Stephen Roos, my patient tutors at the Institute of Children’s Literature.
To my wise SCBWI friends, Samantha Clark, Nikki Loftin, Cynthia Leitich Smith, Melissa Buron, and Sara Joiner, and to HarperCollins’s Jocelyn Davies, who first gave me hope. And to all the Swanky 17s—other YA/MG authors debuting in 2017—who have kept me going.
To Alice Jerman, my fabulous editor at HarperCollins, who read ten pages as an RWA Emily Prize judge and immediately believed in my book. With Alice’s insight and her smiley emojis, Lorna and Paul’s story became stronger and leaner (and sexier). Also to all the team at HarperCollins, including Aurora Parlagreco, Alison Klapthor, Renée Cafiero, Elizabeth Ward, Sabrina Abballe, Gina Rizzo, and Jean McGinley, and also to Valerie Shea.
To Jackie Lindert and Joanna Volpe at New Leaf Literary & Media, who are leading me by the hand through the thrillingly scary mire that is publishing. Thanks too to Suzie Townsend and Danielle Barthel.
To Perryn, my husband, who told people I was a writer long before I could. He turned us upside down by moving us to Texas, which gave me time and space to write. I owe him so much.
And to my children—Jemma, you were this family’s writer long before I was. You are an exceptional soul, with the fortitude and wisdom of the ancients. Kirsty, you constantly amaze me with your intelligence, your wit, and your extraordinary energy. Rory, you are so passionate and so talented, you shine on every stage. I wish I could keep all three of you in my arms forever, but I also can’t wait to see what joy you will bring to the world.
And thanks to you, dear reader, for allowing Lorna and Paul’s story to fly.
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About the Author
Photo by Priscilla Dickson
CAROLINE LEECH is a Scottish writer who moved to Texas for an adventure ten years ago. In addition to writing YA fiction, she blogs a lot, reads a lot, and almost always has an audiobook playing through her headphones. She lives in Houston with her husband and three teenage children. Wait for Me is her debut novel, and she can be found online at www.carolineleech.com.
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Praise for Wait for Me
“A delicately written love story with a gorgeously evoked setting, an intrepid heroine, and a knee-weakening romance. Not to be missed.”
—ANNE BLANKMAN, author of the Prisoner of Night and Fog series and Traitor Angels
“A sweetly engaging and richly authentic historical romance. Wait for Me charms and satisfies.”
—JOY PREBLE, author of the bestselling Dreaming Anastasia series
“Compelling, moving, and beautifully written, this extraordinary debut novel is rich with history, conflict, and tension.”
—SARAH ALEXANDER, author of The Art of Not Breathing
Credits
Cover art © 2017 by Mark Owen/Trevillion Images and johncairns/Getty Images (planes)
Cover design by Aurora Parlagreco
Copyright
The quotation here is reprinted courtesy of The Scotsman.
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
WAIT FOR ME. Copyright © 2017 by Caroline Leech. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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ISBN 978-0-06-245988-6 (trade bdg.)
EPub Edition © January 2017 ISBN 9780062459909
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