by Erica James
She smiled at him sadly. ‘You had to ask, didn’t you?’
‘Sure I did. Well?’
‘Please don’t make me answer that. It’s not fair.’
‘Which is answer enough,’ he responded with a shrug. ‘But you could at least soften the blow, for the sake of my battered ego, and say you love me just a little bit more than Artie. Have you no heart?’
She knew he was teasing her now. ‘Oh my darling Ellis,’ she said, ‘I do so hope you never change.’
‘I shan’t,’ he said. ‘And I shan’t even feel jealous of Artie. I mean, what’s he got that I haven’t? Apart from being the most decent man I know, and the best friend a man could ever have. Will you still come to the dance with me tomorrow evening?’
‘If you’re sure you’d still like that.’ It never failed to amaze Clarissa how Ellis conducted a conversation, how he could seamlessly switch from one line of questioning to another.
‘Yeah, I could probably stand it,’ he said. ‘But no disgraceful flashing of those beautiful eyes of yours at anyone else.’
‘I’ve never flashed my eyes at anyone in my life,’ she said indignantly.
He laughed. ‘You’re doing it at me now.’
She laughed too. ‘Those are my angry eyes.’
‘A look I’ve frequently been on the receiving end of since the day we met.’
‘And will continue to be so for a long time yet.’
He put his arm around her. ‘Well, I’m glad we have that sorted out. Now tell me what you’ve done about Henry Willet. Have you fired him and found yourself a new lawyer?’
‘I haven’t had a chance yet; it’s been a busy week.’
‘I shouldn’t hang about if I were you; it gives him more time to hide any irregularities he might have been cooking up. Would you like me to instigate a few checks of my own to see what he’s been up to?’
She shook her head. ‘You have quite enough to do with winning this war. I can fight my own battles, thank you.’
‘Don’t we all know it?’
She dug him in the ribs with her elbow. ‘What’s the latest news on Effie?’
He groaned. ‘Dear God, if it’s not Artie, it’s Effie you want to talk about. Don’t you understand I’d much rather talk about me?’
‘Oh, do get on with it,’ she said, amused.
‘She’s in London, arrived a few days ago. She wanted to come straight here, but whoever is in charge of things her end denied her leave. Which won’t have gone down well with her. Effie only knows one way to behave, and that’s to get her own way.’
Not unlike you, Ellis, she thought. ‘I can’t wait to see her,’ Clarissa said. Will she even recognise me, I wonder?’
‘Sure she will. And if she doesn’t, she’ll pretend she does. She’s a real pro, that girl!’
‘That’s why she would make you the perfect wife. Why don’t you just propose to her and have done with it?’
‘What, when I’m on the rebound from you?’
Clarissa laughed. ‘Don’t be absurd, how can you be on the rebound from me when we’ve only ever been friends?’
‘But in my mind we’ve been so much more. I’ve lost count how many times we’ve made love. I might say that, with a little more practice with me, you’d really make the model lover.’
Her cheeks flushed. ‘Ellis, you’re a disgraceful show-off! I’ll bet you’ve had more affairs of the heart than all the men in your squadron put together.’
He put a hand to his heart. ‘I’m all talk. I’ve been as chaste as a pope all these years, just waiting for you to give me the green light. Couldn’t you take pity on me just once? It could be your gift to me in case I don’t return from a mission.’
‘That’s low, Ellis, even by your standards. Shame on you.’
He winked. ‘Worth a try, though.’
The next day, and after Clarissa had taken Nicholas for a routine health check at the doctor’s surgery, and had queued at the greengrocer’s and the butcher’s, then posted a letter to Artie, she returned home and telephoned Polly in London to ask her if she could recommend a solicitor to take over from Henry.
Polly came up trumps and put her in touch with her own solicitor, the senior partner of a firm in Bishopsgate who, she claimed, she would trust to guard her very last bar of rationed chocolate.
Another telephone call made, and Clarissa put the matter of Henry Willet to one side; she had done all she could.
More important now was getting ready for the dance that evening. Despite the sadness it provoked – the last dance she had attended had been the night she met William – she was looking forward to it. Mrs Cook was more than happy to look after Nicholas, as well as Thomas and Walter who, at ages thirteen and eleven, declared they didn’t need looking after. There was a strong element of truth in this, particularly so with Thomas, who often spoke of when the time came for him to take his part in the war. It depressed Clarissa that a child of his age and sensitivity could think of there being no foreseeable end to the war, that, in his young eyes, it stretched dauntingly on forever, as though it were simply a way of life.
As before, Leon escorted her to the dance, Ellis having extended the invitation to include him. One way or another, most of the girls in the village, along with the land girls, had also been invited, all eager to meet the Yanks, who were, to all intents and purposes, a different breed.
This time, however, Leon and Clarissa didn’t walk; he took her on the back of his Norton, the US airbase being six miles away. Ellis had offered to fetch her, but she said it was a waste of petrol for him to make the journey. It wasn’t the first time Leon had given Clarissa a lift on his motorbike, which was his pride and joy and on which he lavished much time and attention. To her great delight, he’d taught her how to kick-start his precious Norton and had been impressed with her ability to handle the heavy motorbike for a short distance. This evening, with dusk settling in, it felt especially exciting as they raced along the country lanes, the wind snatching at the silk scarf which she had tied around her head in a vain attempt to protect her hair.
They weren’t late when they arrived, but judging by the blaring music they were met with, along with the unmistakable smell of alcohol, the dance was clearly well under way.
‘How do I look?’ she asked Leon when they dismounted and she’d released her hair from the scarf.
‘You look great,’ he said a little shyly.
‘As do you,’ she said. She slipped her arm through his. ‘Shall we make our entrance?’
The band was playing at such a volume Clarissa soon realised that conversation would be almost impossible. Leon mimed that he would go in search of something to drink for them both.
Watching people jitterbugging with wild abandon to the raucous music was incredibly exhilarating and before she knew it, Clarissa was swaying to the beat as she looked around the hall for Ellis and anyone she might recognise. She spotted a couple of girls who worked in the Primrose Tea Rooms – they looked very different in their best dresses and with their hair elegantly pinned in place, and their scarlet mouths smiling as their uniformed partners whirled them around the dance floor.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and started: it was Ellis. Without asking her, he pulled her onto the dance floor just as the band started playing Glenn Miller’s ‘In the Mood’. He then proceeded to alternate between twirling, pushing or pulling her to him. Dizzy and breathless, and not knowing the steps, she had no choice but to follow Ellis’s lead.
‘When did you learn to dance like that?’ she asked, when at last the band brought the song to an end and she caught her breath.
‘Just another of my many talents,’ he said, not at all out of breath.
From behind them the bandleader called for quiet. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special guest here tonight – would you please put your hands together for the one
and only Effie Chase!’
Clarissa’s jaw dropped as, from behind a flimsy curtain on the stage, Effie appeared, resplendent in a khaki uniform, complete with tie and cap. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Clarissa gasped as the place erupted with wild applause and the stamping of feet.
‘Effie wanted to surprise you,’ Ellis said above the crescendo. ‘And the expression on your face tells me she succeeded.’ He put his fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. Effie turned to look, spotted him and then saw Clarissa. Clarissa waved madly at her and just as enthusiastically, Effie waved back. But then she turned to the bandleader and nodded, who in turn nodded at the band members and they struck up with ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’. Clarissa wanted to stand and stare, to enjoy Effie’s performance, but Ellis was having none of it. He grabbed her and they were off again, dancing with everybody else.
Chapter Forty-Nine
May 1944, Skylark Cottage, Shillingbury
It was almost two in the morning when Clarissa and Leon finally made a move to set off for home. They’d had a wonderful carefree night – a high spot for Leon being on stage with Effie and singing with her. The dance had officially finished at midnight with Effie closing the show with ‘The Very Thought of You’. ‘What a hoot this war is!’ she had declared happily when they were alone and a round of drinks had materialised from somewhere. ‘Who’d have thought I’d end up here in England, singing in a Nissen hut!’
Rolling his eyes, Ellis had said, ‘Only Effie could describe this war as a hoot.’
She smacked his hand as she would a naughty child. ‘You know exactly what I mean.’
‘Indeed I do. Now if you and Clarissa could make your arrangements when you’re next going to see one another, we can all get some sleep.’
‘Sleep!’ Effie had cried. ‘I can’t possibly sleep now. Clarissa and I have far too much catching up to do to waste time sleeping.’
But in the end, the sensible option had been to finish their drinks and agree for Effie to visit Skylark Cottage in the morning. Sadly she was leaving to perform at another US airbase.
Now, clinging onto Leon as they rode carefully along the lanes towards Shillingbury, the only light in the blackout darkness to guide them provided by a half-moon that was intermittently hidden behind banks of clouds in the sky, Clarissa hummed another song Effie had sung at the dance, ‘Midnight, the Stars and You’.
She was conscious that the alcohol had flowed with a generous hand all evening and very likely she was just a little tipsy. But what the heck! See, Herr Hitler, she thought, you can throw as many bombs at us as you see fit, but you’ll never stop us from enjoying ourselves. One way or another, we’ll always find a way to do that!’ A bubble of mirth rose up within her and she started to laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’ shouted Leon over his shoulder to her.
‘Everything!’ she shouted back, unpinning her hair and letting it stream out behind her.
‘Well, don’t do anything silly, will you?’ he yelled at her. ‘Remember to hang on tight.’
‘Ah, don’t be a spoilsport, Leon!’ Nonetheless, she did as she was told and put her arms around his waist.
They were a mile from home, approaching the deceptively sharp curve in the road, when from nowhere there was a loud bang and a jolt that went right through her. What happened next seemed to go on for an eternity, but really it was in no more than a blink of an eye.
To Clarissa’s horror, Leon seemed to lose control of the motorbike and they began to zigzag wildly across the road. A puncture was her first thought as she tightened her grip on Leon, expecting him somehow to get the motorbike under control again. But slumped forward, taking her with him, he showed no sign of being able to stop the motorbike from hurtling down the sloping road. Fear made her scream out to him when she realised they were heading straight towards the ditch at the side of the road, but he paid her no heed. With a terrible inevitability that had her screaming and frantically shaking Leon to do something, they careered off the road straight into the ditch and at the looming outline of what could only be a large tree.
Clarissa braced herself for the crash, but when it happened it wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. For a moment she lay very still, assessing what part of her was hurt. Miraculously she didn’t think anything was broken, but perhaps that was because she was lying on top of Leon; he must have cushioned her from the worst. ‘Leon,’ she said, crawling off him, ‘are you all right?’
He didn’t answer. ‘Leon,’ she said more loudly, ‘can you hear me?’
Again he didn’t reply. On her knees, just as she was gently turning him over, she heard footsteps. Hurried footsteps. Thank God! Somebody must have heard the accident and was coming to help. She peered into the blackness. ‘Over here,’ she called out, instinctively raising a hand to alert whoever it was to where she was, even though it was unlikely they would see her at any distance. ‘Over here,’ she repeated more urgently. It was then that she became aware that her hands were wet. Not only her hands, but her arms and her chest. A heart-stopping thought occurred to her; straining her eyes in the darkness, she looked at Leon more closely and saw what was causing the wetness: it was blood, Leon was badly injured – he was bleeding profusely. Lowering her head to his face, she tried to detect if he was still breathing. She felt for his pulse, but couldn’t find one. A tremor ran through her and in the darkness she put her hand to his bloodied chest feeling for his heart. But unlike her heart, which was pounding painfully against her ribcage, there was nothing from Leon’s. ‘No!’ she cried desperately, panic filling her. ‘No, no, no!’
‘On your feet and put your hands above your head! Do as I say and I will not hurt you.’
Clarissa froze at the distinctive sound of English being spoken with exaggerated care. She slowly turned her head. Looking down at her was a man wearing the flying suit of the Luftwaffe. Even in the darkness, she could make out the pistol in his hand, pointed directly at her. How many times had they laughed in the village about the chances of coming upon a German airman on the run, or a German spy hiding in a barn or coal shed? Only the other day, when they’d been alerted that a German plane had come down near Ipswich and the pilot was unaccounted for, they hadn’t taken it seriously. Old Mrs Bladon had said she’d arm herself with a frying pan and a rolling pin if she found a German sneaking about in her outside privy. Then it had all seemed amusing, but there was nothing remotely funny about the situation in which Clarissa now found herself.
‘I said stand up!’ the German ordered her.
She looked at the gun, then back at Leon, recalling the loud bang she had imagined was a tyre blowing. ‘You shot my friend!’ she said incredulously. ‘He’s dead!’
‘And I will shoot you if you do not do as I say.’
His words brought Clarissa up short as she realised this man would have no hesitation in shooting her. Fear seized hold of her at the thought of never seeing Nicholas again, and she began to shake uncontrollably.
‘I want only your motorcycle,’ the German said. ‘Do as I say and you will not come to harm.’
She didn’t believe him. He had killed Leon – poor Leon, who had escaped the ruthless purge of Jews by the Nazis in Poland only to lose his life on a quiet country lane after a carefree night out – this ruthless man wouldn’t think twice about killing her as well.
He waved the gun at her. ‘I need to escape, but I need your help.’
Never! She wanted to shout at him. Never would she help him so he could return to Germany and climb into another airplane and drop more bombs on innocent people! ‘What do you need me to do?’ she said, rising slowly to her feet.
‘I need you to help me lift up the motorcycle.’
It was then that Clarissa noticed the left sleeve of his flying suit was ripped and badly stained with blood. ‘You’re injured,’ she said.
‘It’s nothing. Now will you help me?’
<
br /> She looked over to where the Norton lay on the other side of Leon’s inert body. ‘I doubt it will work now,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t have stopped us the way you did.’
The airman moved around her, all the time keeping the gun trained on her. She watched him stoop to inspect the motorbike in the ditch and wondered if she dare consider trying to prevent him from escaping. He was injured, after all. But what could she do?
‘Come here,’ he ordered her. ‘Come and lift the motorcycle for me.’
She did as he said, but with her senses on full alert. There had to be a way to stop him. It took all her strength to heave the motorcycle from the bottom of the ditch; twice she had it almost out, before it slipped back down. She was scrabbling around in the ditch when her hand knocked against something rough and hard in the long grass: it was a brick, or more precisely, two-thirds of a brick that somebody must have dumped here. Here was her weapon! If she could somehow find a way to use it when the airman’s back was turned, she might stand a chance of grabbing the gun. She then had an idea.
‘Hurry up!’ he ordered.
Opting for a different approach, she let out a long sigh. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said weakly, ‘I’m doing my best, but the motorbike’s so heavy.’
‘It cannot be that heavy,’ he barked back at her. He remained where he was staring down at her, the gun still raised.
When at last she had the bike out of the ditch, she said breathlessly, ‘Take it, then, before it falls back into the ditch.’
He stepped forward to grab hold of one of the handlebars, first putting the gun into his left hand. ‘Where is the key?’ he demanded. ‘It is not there. What have you done with it?’
‘I haven’t done anything,’ she lied. ‘It probably fell out when we crashed.’
‘I do not believe you. You have taken it. Give me the key. Now!’
‘But I don’t have it.’ She began to cry. ‘Please don’t shoot me,’ she pleaded, dropping to her knees, her head bowed in supplication. ‘I’ve done all I can to help you. Just go. I won’t tell anyone I saw you. I promise. I just want to go home to my baby.’
