He cut up the hill which skirted the wood. He could hear voices – the low rumble of a man’s voice and giggling of a woman. There, lit by the moonlight, was a woman, her skirt up, a shred of satin around her ankles, stocking tops visible. Her legs were wrapped around a man’s back, a man who was thrusting into her. She was gasping, he was grunting. They looked like animals.
Vincent hurried quickly along the road past them. Leonard and June. Vincent felt sick in his stomach for Rusty.
Rusty whirled around as she saw a shadow fall over her newspaper. She had been lost in a world of her own and not heard the footsteps tread softly across the grass.
Vincent was standing there, cutting out the sun with his bulk. Rusty was flustered. She didn’t want him to see her bruised chin, but at the same time her heart was delighted he was here.
‘Oh hello, Vincent. I didn’t know you knew about this place,’ she said, self-consciously pulling strands of her dark red hair down across her face.
‘I found it the second day I was here,’ said Vincent. ‘I come to watch the fish and feed them.’
He indicated a square of cake which he had in his hand. He started to break it into pieces and throw it into the green waters of the deep lagoon that was hidden in this secret nook of the wood amongst the bluebells. The trees conspired high above it as if protecting it from the bright April sun. It was a stunningly pretty place that very few people – even die-hard locals – knew about.
Greedy fish mouths appeared at the surface of the water.
‘They recognise me,’ laughed Vincent. ‘Come, little fishes. It’s Uncle Vincent here to feed you.’
Rusty watched him delight in seeing their mouths close over the cake and disappear under the water. The sight of him made her ache inside that she couldn’t have him. He was destined for a lucky woman who would thank God every day of her life that such a big, gentle man had fallen in love with her. Rusty was destined to share her life with Leonard and pray that he died first so she could have some years of respite.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Vincent, turning too quickly for Rusty to avert her eyes. She felt a blush blooming on her cheeks that he had caught her staring so dreamily at him.
‘Oh, nothing,’ she said, placing her hands over her notepad. But Vincent reached down and snatched it from her. He was far too tall for her to reach it when he opened it above his head.
‘You’re drawing wedding dresses,’ he said. ‘They’re lovely. Why are you hiding them?’
He sat on a stone and flicked through the pages even though she shyly protested.
‘You drew all these?’
‘Yes,’ said Rusty. ‘Give it back. They’re no good really, just scribblings.’
‘They are beautiful. Let me see them all, then you can have your book back.’
Rusty conceded defeat and flumped to the grass at the side of him.
‘I’d like to open up a wedding dress shop. After the war,’ said Rusty. It was a stupid dream though – as if Leonard would let her. She was a farmer’s wife with ideas above her station.
‘You can sew these as well as draw them?’
‘I can sew a lot better than I can draw, trust me,’ said Rusty, wishing he would hand her designs back. But he was in no rush to do that.
‘That’s a nice plan to have,’ he said, tracing his finger around the outline of the dress that happened to be her favourite concept: a gown in ivory silk with small peach rosebuds around the neck. It wasn’t the fanciest of her dresses, but there was something about that one that made her wish she were the bride who would wear it.
‘What will you do after the war has ended, Vincent?’ asked Rusty. The Soviets were blasting their way through Berlin; it was only a matter of time now before Hitler surrendered.
‘I will go home,’ replied Vincent, closing the book and handing it back to her. ‘I will go back to what is left of Berlin.’
‘They say the war is nearly over. I wonder where Hitler—’
Vincent held up his hand to stop her. ‘Don’t say his name. I fought for Germany, not for him. He has destroyed the country that I love.’ Tears clouded in his eyes and instinctively Rusty put a comforting hand on his arm. Then his other hand closed over the top of hers. The warmth of it sank into her skin and travelled to her heart.
‘Is Rusty your real name?’ he said.
‘No,’ she replied, knowing she should move her hand away, and knowing that she wouldn’t. ‘My parents called me that because my hair is rusty red. No one ever calls me by my real name.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Freya,’ she said.
Vincent raised his pale blue eyes to meet with hers. ‘The Norse goddess of love and fertility and beauty,’ he said, his eyes roaming around her face. Then his hand left hers and he nudged her hair back to reveal the discoloured swelling on her chin.
Rusty stood immediately. ‘I have to go,’ she said and started walking away.
Vincent stayed by the side of the lagoon, but the words he then said followed her all the way home.
‘When I go back to Berlin, I am taking you with me.’
As he saw her coming out of the farm house, he dropped his spade and bounded over, his long legs clearing the distance between them in seconds.
Her pace increased as she sensed him coming but he caught her arm and forced her to halt.
‘You’ve been avoiding me,’ he said.
He could see she was nervous. Her eyes were avoiding hers, darting from side to side so see how was watching them both in such close proximity.
Only the Italian prisoners were around though and he had nothing to fear from them. They all knew that he had a soft spot for Rusty. And they all knew that she was married to a bastardo of a husband.
Vincent’s arm was still on hers and he pulled her around the side of the barn out of sight of anyone.
‘I said, you’ve been avoiding me,’ he repeated. His other hand lifted her chin and forced her to look into his blue, blue eyes. ‘You haven’t been to the lagoon to draw. Not since I said—’
‘Please let me go, Vincent,’ said Rusty, dragging her eyes away from his before she lost herself in them completely. ‘If Leonard sees you . . .’
Vincent’s lips crashed into her own and even if she had known that Leonard was around the corner with a shotgun in his hand, Rusty doubted she would have pulled away. Vincent’s kiss was powerful but tender, gentle, firm, lovely. When he eventually pulled his lips away from hers, he enfolded her in his huge arms and kissed the top of her head. Rusty was a tall woman, but Vincent dwarfed her. His embrace made her feel a rush of emotions: fragile, safe, loved.
‘I meant what I said,’ Vincent stepped away from her. ‘The war is almost over and I will go back to Germany but I won’t be going alone.’
Rusty stood with her back to the barn, her chest rising and falling hard with the deep breaths she needed to take to keep herself from falling over. Vincent’s kiss has opened a portal inside her to a world of new emotions she never thought existed. Her head was spinning with a flood of joy – and fear. When she walked back into the farmhouse, she did it like a drunk trying to act sober. She felt as if anyone who looked at her could see the change within her, see that she had been kissed by a man who was not her husband; she felt as if she were shining.
June, standing back from the window in the kitchen, had seen enough to be able to guess what Vincent and Rusty had done behind the barn. She wondered what Leonard Harrison would make of his wife fraternising with a handsome Nazi.
June stood up and brushed down the itchy straw from her before pulling up her drawers. Leonard’s hand reached up her skirt and jerked them down again.
‘Give up,’ she said, jerking away. ‘You’ve had enough.’
‘I’ve never had enough,’ said Leonard, not releasing the material from his hold. ‘Come on, Juney. Once more for luck.’
The sound of the lorry bringing the POWs was a welcome note in June’s ear.
‘The It
alians are here, gerroff,’ she said and Leonard let go at last but didn’t hurry to button up his trousers.
To be honest, June was tired of Leonard now. It had been fun in the beginning, flirting with the boss and teasing his attentions. He was a good-looking man and his air of arrogance – and his money – attracted her. She set out to seduce him and replace Rusty as the woman in his heart, but all she had earned was sex against trees and in barns with no thought for her fulfilment. And he was insatiable and rough in his sexual appetite.
Sometimes when they had finished, Leonard would slip a shilling between the twin mounds of her breasts; the equivalent cost of a pound of butcher’s meat, which was ironic, because that’s what he made her feel like – a slab of meat. There was none of the tenderness or fun she’d had with a couple of the Italians on the farm, who kissed her and satisfied her as well as themselves.
June had embarked on this ‘relationship’ because she coveted what Rusty had. Rusty, who never smiled and didn’t appreciate all the lovely items that her house was full of; Rusty whose wardrobe was packed with beautiful clothes; Rusty with her long, red hair and beautiful face whose husband treated her gently but masterfully in bed, no doubt; Rusty who was clumsiness itself, always walking around with bruises and cuts. Rusty – who didn’t know how bloody lucky she was because she was carrying on with a Nazi under her husband’s nose.
Leonard took a single brown penny from his pocket and coming from behind, he rammed it painfully down June’s blouse with one hand whilst nipping her left breast with the other. ‘It wasn’t worth a shilling today,’ he said with a dry chuckle and turned from her to open the barn door.
‘It’s still more than your wife gets because she’s giving it away for free.’
The words were out before June could stop them.
Leonard’s whole body froze. It seemed to take him an age to turn around, but when he did, a split second later he had advanced on her and grabbed her hard by her brittle bleached hair.
‘What are you talking about?’ he growled, the words forced out between his clenched teeth. The face June she thought was so handsome was now flooded with meanness and anger, his eyes storm-dark. June was young and flighty and totally out of her depth and in her panic told him what she thought would get him away from her: the knowing looks that passed between Rusty and the German, that she had seen them both come from behind the old cow barn together, the rumours she had heard from the Italians – rumours which she had made up because the Italians hadn’t said a word, but Leonard was hurting her so much.
He threw her on the ground before throwing open the barn door and marching towards the farmhouse. June could not have imagined what a demon she had just released.
They all heard the bangs and screams begin seconds after Leonard had blasted his way into the farmhouse. June saw Rusty run out of the house, only for Leonard to drag her back inside. He had twisted her long, red hair around his hand and she was crying in pain. Her face was bleeding and June then knew that it wasn’t cupboard doors that Rusty kept walking into or stairs that she often fell down.
‘Oh God, someone help her,’ said June as she heard the bolt behind the door scrape across. ‘He’s going to kill her.’
A couple of Italians picked up spades but stood around tentatively by the door not knowing what to do. Then from nowhere the huge German thundered towards the door, his shoulder battering again and again into the wood until it gave against his weight.
A scuffle between the two men began in the house but soon spilled outside. Billy Wardle came running over to grab Vincent and defend his boss, but the German flicked him away like an insect and he didn’t venture forward again. Leonard picked up the axe from the wood pile and circled it around like a battle-hungry Viking.
‘Come on then, Nazi.’ Leonard beckoned Vincent forward.
‘Oh my God,’ shrieked June as Vincent walked fearlessly towards the deranged farmer. The axe lodged into the top of Vincent’s arm but he made no sound as his other hand drew back and landed squarely on Leonard’s jaw. The farmer crumpled to the ground and Vincent ripped the axe away from him and threw it far aside.
Vincent now had Leonard’s arm screwed behind his back with one hand whilst the other hung limply at his side, blood squeezing through his brown uniform. Vincent was snarling in his guttural native language as Leonard struggled to get away, matching the force of the bigger man’s expletives. But Vincent was weakening. Two of the Italians and Reg came to his aid, keeping Leonard down. It took the combined force of all three of them to do that.
Rusty emerged from the house and immediately slid down onto the floor. June ran to her and saw that Rusty’s beautiful face was swollen and bleeding, her eye puffed out. She saw the finger marks on her arms, her stockings and dress ripped.
June threw her arms around her and held her. She’d got it all so very wrong. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said over and over again. ‘You’ll come home with me.’ She and one of the Italians helped raise Rusty to her feet and June half-carried her in the direction of Billy Wardle’s truck.
As June passed the pinioned Leonard she turned and spat on him. He was screaming like a man possessed. ‘Filthy whores, Nazi-collaborating bitches.’
‘Someone get help quick for Vincent,’ yelled June. ‘Reg. He needs taking to hospital. Get the farm truck. Billy, take Rusty to my house – get her away from here.’ Billy took Rusty from her arms as June returned to assist the soldier-guard who was trying to stem the bleeding in Vincent’s deep wound.
Then, in the madness, a truck came racing up the lane, its horn blasting. ‘The Germans have surrendered,’ the driver screamed out of the window. ‘The bloody war is over.’
June lived with her half-blind Aunt Mabel in a tiny terraced house in the roughest part of the town, yet Mabel welcomed the poor, battered creature with the beautiful red hair into her humble home with open arms. They bathed her cuts and made her soup and put her to bed in clean sheets. The hospital was full and the doctor said that Rusty would be better off at home with them to sleep off the shock of what had happened to her. Rumours had been quick to spread and most chose to believe that Leonard Harrison had been right to act as he did, seeing as his wife was sleeping with the German under his nose. But June put them right whenever she got the chance. Leonard Harrison was an animal hiding behind that excuse, she told them in no uncertain terms. Rusty Harrison was a woman who only made all the POWs sandwiches and gave them a kind word because they were far from home, not knowing the fate of their families.
It was a fortnight before Rusty’s body shrugged off the protection of sleep and she ventured out into the world of clear consciousness again. Her first question was to ask where Vincent was. But June couldn’t answer her. Vincent had been taken to the hospital, but then he had been sent to another one because the local ones were overflowing. No one knew where he was now.
June was working as a barmaid. She missed the attentions of the Italians but the town was a merry place now that the war was over. She and her auntie Mabel lived well. There was always well over the rations available for them, thanks to June ‘swapping favours’.
Rusty didn’t go out much. There were still the hard-liners who believed she was a collaborator and spat at her in the street. She was content to sit and keep Mabel company and listen to the radio – and draw her wedding dresses and sew clothes onto peg dolls, which were mini masterpieces and fascinated June.
One day, June came home with a huge parcel – a bolt of ivory silk.
‘Where on earth did you get this?’ Rusty asked, breathless with delight.
‘Don’t ask,’ smiled June. She had been only too glad to do what she had with the American GI in return for this favour. He was funny, handsome and generous, gave her chocolate and nylons and what had started off as a trading relationship was developing into something surprisingly warm and cosy. He was besotted by her and she liked it. He could get his hands on anything she wanted, he told her, so she asked him for a length of material for he
r friend who liked to sew.
‘You can make one of your wedding dresses now, can’t you?’ said June, giving Rusty a squeeze on her thin shoulder. She would never make up for her betrayal of Rusty to Leonard, but she loved Rusty like a sister now and would have done anything to try and make her smile again.
Rusty knew which dress she would make from the material. She would never wear the dress herself, she knew – Leonard would never allow her to divorce him, and Vincent was gone – so she would sew the gown for another bride, a happy bride; every stitch would come with a wish and a prayer that the woman who wore it one day would know true happiness. The like of which Rusty was not destined to have.
The dress was complete and hung on a wooden frame which June’s GI had also managed to find for Rusty. It was exactly the dress in her drawing book – and although that was still at the farm, or most likely on a bonfire by now, she remembered all her designs and their intricate detail exactly. She had made tiny satin peach roses from scraps of material and sewed them around the neck, just as in the design she had showed to Vincent. She thought about him often, always with a sweet pang in her heart. Many of the POWs had been repatriated now, but she had not discovered where he was, or even if he was alive or dead.
June and her GI were engaged now. Her wild ways were behind her, except in the bedroom with her fiancé and she was two months pregnant so a quick wedding was arranged. Rusty was busy making her a white wedding dress for her, the one in cream silk with the pretty peach was far too small for June’s curvy body.
‘You’re a wonder, you are,’ said June, watching Rusty’s needle work in tiny stitches. ‘I can’t sew for toffee.’
‘You have other talents,’ Rusty smiled cheekily at her and June chuckled. ‘Oh Rusty, I wish you could meet a nice man and get married and wear your lovely dress down the aisle.’
The Wedding Dress Page 3
