by Rose Meddon
On the morning following that particular discussion, the postman finally brought Rowley an envelope, from inside of which she watched him extract several smaller ones.
‘Your mother’s been catching up,’ she said when he grinned at her and waved the contents.
‘She has. This first one is from my elder sister, Eugenie. I recognize her handwriting.’ He flicked on down through the pile. ‘Then there’s a mess bill – which should most surely stand at zero – a statement of account from my bank, and this,’ he said of the last one, putting down the other envelopes and, with the letter opener, slitting along the top of it. ‘Which must be about my return to service.’
Feeling as though something inside her chose that moment to shrivel up, and acutely aware that she was holding her breath, she watched him unfold a single sheet of heavy paper and scan the contents. In one way, she hoped that he was going to be able to return to flying – since it was, after all, what he wanted to do – but, on the other hand, she hoped there was also a chance that they would no longer want him.
‘Well?’ she said, unable to tell anything from his expression and unexpectedly desperate to know.
He looked up. ‘I’ve been called to the old RFC central training school at Upavon for assessment and interview.’
‘Soon?’ she asked, forcing herself to swallow.
Raising his left hand, he looked at his wristwatch. ‘Actually, yes. I have to report there on Thursday.’ Examining the page more closely, he went on, ‘I think this letter must have been sitting around at home for rather a while. God job it turned up when it did, otherwise I’d be in deep trouble. Well then, I suppose I had better see about trains – and find out whether I can bunk at the camp for a couple of nights.’
As it happened, a little earlier, Naomi had announced that she intended going into the village.
‘If you can be ready in the next quarter of an hour,’ she said upon learning of Rowley’s news, ‘I can take you to the railway station. I have a few things to attend to, after which I can bring you back again.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, shooting Kate a pleased look. ‘And while I’m there I can send the rolls of film from the camera for developing. And buy a couple of replacements, too. Good stuff.’
From that moment, Kate felt as though the rest of the week passed in a blur. Before she knew it, it was Thursday – the day of Rowley’s assessment – and when she went into the dining room to set the table for breakfast, he was already down, the sight of him back in his uniform stopping her dead.
‘Don’t suppose I shall be able to wear this khaki for much longer,’ he said, poking a finger behind his starched collar in an apparent attempt to relieve the discomfort of it against his neck. ‘Now that we’re the RAF, we have new pale blue kit.’
Never mind the colour, she was still struggling with the effect of his changed appearance: immaculate; business-like.
‘Oh.’
‘But, since we have to buy our own, we’ve been granted a period of “wearing out” for these old ones. All the chaps I know prefer this one anyway – the pale blue is quite nasty—’
‘Aunty Kate, Aunty Kate!’
She turned away from him. In the doorway stood Esme.
‘Hello, lovey.’ By way of apology for the interruption, she gave Rowley a smile and then went towards the door. Seeing no sign of Naomi, she bent down to the little girl’s height. ‘Where’s your mamma?’
‘Poorly sick.’
‘She’s poorly?’
‘Mamma says Esme get Aunty Kate.’
Puzzled, she took hold of the child’s hand. ‘So, who got you all dressed then?’
‘Mamma dress Esme.’
‘And then she went back to bed?’
Looking terribly solemn, Esme nodded. ‘Uh-huh. Mamma poorly sick.’
‘All right. Well, let’s you an’ me go up and see her then.’ Turning back into the room, she found that Rowley had been watching her. ‘Hopefully,’ she said, for some reason blushing, ‘I’ll be back in a moment or two to ready the table.’
Upstairs, Kate discovered that Naomi was indeed back in bed, her velvet sleep-mask over her eyes, the curtains drawn tightly across the window. ‘Dreadful headache,’ she murmured as Kate approached. ‘Woke up with it.’
‘Oh dear. Can I get you anything? Some feverfew and honey? Some ginger powder tea?’
Slowly, Naomi shook her head. ‘Perhaps some of Mrs Channer’s peppermint when you have a moment. That sometimes works.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and brew you some.’
‘And can you see to Esme’s breakfast for me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Oh, and the other day, I said I’d take Rowley to catch his train. But I’m not sure I’m going to feel like driving—’
‘No, I’ll go and explain that he needs to telephone for the cab.’
‘Better than that, borrow the Humberette and take him yourself.’
Despite being in a darkened room, Kate blinked as though dazzled. ‘Me?’
‘Yes. You know how to drive.’
What Naomi was suggesting felt wrong in so many ways that she didn’t know where to begin. ‘Happen I do,’ she ventured, wondering which of the reasons stood the best chance of getting her out of the task. ‘But it’s ages since I’ve driven anything.’
Unseen in the darkness, Naomi sounded exasperated. ‘It’s not something you forget.’
‘But the roads around here—’
‘Are far quieter than they are in town.’
‘And you forget that I’m in mourning.’
With that, she made out that Naomi had lifted her head from the pillow and turned in her direction.
‘I hardly think the sight of you running an officer of the RAF into the village to catch a train will have people branding you an unfaithful widow. If anyone passes comment, tell them he’s a cousin. It’s not that implausible – you do both have brown hair.’
‘But—’
‘Well,’ Naomi said, lowering her head. ‘It’s down to you. Take him or don’t take him. But if he misses his train…’
Not even certain why she felt so cross with Naomi for suggesting it, Kate shook her head in irritation. ‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll take Esme down and then I’ll be back up with your peppermint tea.’
‘Thank you. Oh, and you might like to bear in mind,’ Naomi said, sounding suddenly less weary, ‘that just lately, the motor has needed several cranks to get it going. But I’m sure Rowley will see to it for you.’
As it turned out, not much more than half an hour later, Rowley – clearly surprised that she should be the one to take him at all – wouldn’t even countenance letting her try to start the motor.
‘No, I’m afraid I must insist,’ he said, depositing his kit bag and pushing back his cuffs. As it happened, on the first turn of the crank, and with a tickety-clack-clack-clack-clack, the engine spluttered to life and, from where she had been standing a pace or so behind him, looking on, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. ‘There,’ he said, rubbing his palms and moving around to the driver’s side to open the door. ‘All set.’
All she could think in that moment, as he stood smiling back at her, was that the chances of her making a fool of herself were almost without limit.
‘Yes. Thank you. All set.’
‘Lovely little motor. Just right for running about. Dashing colour, too.’
But then, as he took a step back, apparently in readiness to assist her up, she was struck by an idea.
‘Would you like to drive it down?’
He didn’t hesitate. ‘Very much. But are you sure?’
She had never been more sure of anything: suggesting that he drive did away with so many chances for her to embarrass herself. ‘Yes,’ she said, nodding eagerly. ‘I can drive it any time.’
‘Then may I help you up?’ he asked, moving smartly around to the other side.
‘Um…’
&nbs
p; All she had done, she realized at that moment, was shift her discomfort from having to drive the thing with him as her passenger, to being forced to allow him to help her up and then still have to sit next to him. In any event, unable to bring herself to decline his request and risk causing him embarrassment, she placed her hand on top of the one he was proffering and, stepping first onto the running board, climbed up onto the seat. When he then closed the little door behind her, she mumbled her thanks and stared down into her lap.
Down on the ground, he went around to the other side and, picking up his bag and placing it on the seat between them, climbed in behind the wheel.
‘You’re sure Mrs Colborne won’t mind me driving her?’
At that precise moment, what Naomi would or would not mind was the least of Kate’s worries. But, this way, she would only have to drive back from the station, with few people to witness her mistakes – of which, no doubt, there would still be plenty.
‘Not at all,’ she eventually replied to his question.
‘Then hold tight and off we go.’
‘Yes. Off we go.’
When he reached outside of the door for the lever to disengage the brake, she gripped her fingers around the edge of the seat. With something of a lurch, they pulled away, trundling cautiously over the gravel of the driveway and onwards through the gates.
Along the track, the lodge houses to the old manor came into view and she wondered, rather too late, how she would explain to Ma Channer how she came to be in a motorcar with a young and unmarried man. Despite there being little point in her doing so, as they passed by, she reached for the narrow rim of her hat, as though to hold it in place, even though it was already secured against the wind with a scarf. Eventually, further along the lane, she brought her hand back to the edge of the seat.
Barely a foot from her right shoulder, she felt him turn towards her.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked above the noise of the little engine and the clatter of loose stones being thrown up from the lane.
She nodded. ‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Glorious morning,’ he said above the din.
Above them, the canopy of ash and oak, and of hornbeam and willow, was filtering the bright sunlight such that when she looked back at him, a procession of shadows flicked across his face.
‘Yes,’ she raised her voice to answer him. Among the folds of her skirt, she slackened the grip of her fingers. It was glorious. But it was also unsettling. And not a little bewildering – in her chest a sensation of hurtling towards the unknown, and in her head a lightness, a giddiness almost.
Once out onto the lane proper, Rowley changed gear and the little motorcar quickened its pace.
‘Do you mind this speed?’ he asked, once again glancing towards her.
She shook her head. ‘No.’
The truth was that Naomi drove a good deal faster – and with rather more abandon and less consideration for the machine under her control. Rowley, she noticed, drove it as though he understood the workings of the engine, changing gear more often and conducting the motor with far greater sympathy.
At the top of the hill above Westward Quay, he slowed and pulled onto the verge. ‘Goodness, what a view.’
Forcing a swallow, she nodded, fearful of what he might say or do next. But, after a moment spent staring out to sea, he pulled away again, using the gears to hold the motor back from hurtling down the hill; Naomi, at this same point, would simply be standing on the brake pedal. At the bottom of the hill, they motored past Church Green and, at the junction with Quay Street, turned right towards the station, where he brought the vehicle to a smooth halt alongside the entrance. ‘Thank you for allowing me to drive her,’ he said, opening back the door. ‘Shall I leave her running for you?’
Relieved, but also feeling a peculiar tinge of disappointment, she nodded. ‘Yes, please do.’
Leaving his bag on the seat, he went around to her side and opened the door. ‘Take firm hold,’ he said, reaching with his hand, ‘and mind your skirt on the step.’ Satisfied that she was safely on the ground, he reached for his bag. ‘Well, thank you again. All being well, I shall see you in a couple of days.’
She nodded. ‘Yes. I hope it all goes all right for you.’
‘Me too,’ he said, adjusting the angle his cap on his head. ‘Do take care going back.’
Casting her eyes downwards, she moved around to the other side of the motorcar and, with one hand lifting the hem of her skirt, reached with the other to the back of the seat and climbed up. Then, careful not to meet the look of any of the people milling about the station forecourt, she closed the door, engaged the gears, let off the brake, and slowly edged the little car back out onto the road. With her heart beating nineteen to the dozen in her chest, she conducted the Humberette very slowly back towards the junction and turned left.
From there, unable to decide what was causing her the greatest distress, she pressed down on the accelerator pedal to gain more speed and make it up the hill. Stay in low gear, she recalled Naomi reminding herself on the first occasion they had made this trip. Maintain sufficient speed.
Under her stiff and terrified direction, the Humberette struggled up the incline, passing Bellevue House at the bend and lumbering on past Wennacott Farm just before the rise. Shortly after achieving the summit, she pulled over onto the grassy verge, peeled her hands away from the steering wheel to apply the brake and, while the engine sat chuckling away in front of her, brought her hands to her lap, where they lay trembling and pale against the black crepe of her mourning frock. She would take a minute to calm her thoughts – and perhaps try to work out quite why they were in such a tizzy to start with.
Peering through the windscreen, she took in the view. Ahead, the land dipped softly away before rising up again. Somewhere, down in the fold of the valley, concealed by the lush woodland, sat the house where she had spent almost all of her life. And then, hundreds of miles beyond that farthest ridge was London, home to her more recent years and her brief spell as a wife, albeit in little more than name only.
Leaning back against the seat, she recalled the afternoon Mr Lawrence had stood before the fireplace and told her of Luke’s death – and how Naomi had been quick to reassure her that her life in London would still be there. But was that what she still wanted? Where, without Luke, did her future lie – surrounded by the busyness of town, or back here, in the peace and tranquillity of a landscape much less foreign? Did it even really matter? Without a husband, wherever she ended up, she would still be alone.
Although continuing to stare ahead, she stopped noticing the myriad greens of the pastures, the sunshine yellow of the specks of gorse, or the first glimpses of the lilac of the heathers. All she could see with any certainty was that wherever she ended up, she hoped not to spend the rest of her days like Edith – which meant that at some point, she would be faced with having to remarry. And that was a prospect as difficult to countenance at that moment as spinsterhood. Or, perhaps more correctly, as widowhood.
With a long sigh, she put the motor back into gear, reached to release the brake lever and, with a glance over her shoulder, pulled back out onto the lane. But, despite having sat for those few moments in the blustery air, she felt no calmer: as she pressed down on the pedal and the little car picked up speed, and the breeze began to lift the brim of her hat and flap at the end of the scarf tied under her chin, her earlier sense of being deeply unsettled still prickled at the back of her throat and nagged at her stomach. And it was going to keep doing so, too, because, while all of those other matters clamouring for her attention had rightly to be reconciled and dealt with, the thing unsettling her the most was the one she was trying so studiously to ignore – in part because, as feelings went, they had arrived so unexpectedly, but also because, deep down, she was fairly certain that for someone so freshly widowed, even simply entertaining them was a deeply unholy thing to do.
Chapter Twelve
Surprises
‘Please forgi
ve the state of it, but Esme got to it first.’
Handing Rowley a dog-eared envelope that arrived by first post a few mornings later, Kate continued on around the table to pass a second one to Naomi.
‘I do apologize,’ Naomi looked across at Rowley to say. ‘I’ve told her before that she mustn’t open the post. I trust you will find the contents undamaged.’
Running a finger under the flap, Rowley shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t be the end of the world if they weren’t – it’s only from my squadron. Probably another demand for me to settle my mess account, which they seem unable to comprehend stands at zero.’
Despite having already finished her breakfast, Kate sat back down at the table; the writing on the envelope she had handed to Naomi was Lawrence’s, and she was keen to hear how he was. Of even greater interest, though, was the one for Rowley, which she suspected not to be a mess bill at all. And one look at his face proved her suspicions correct. In fact, having taken no more than a cursory glance at the single sheet of paper contained therein, he got to his feet, excused himself, and left the room.
‘Bad news, do you think?’ Naomi enquired with the briefest of glances to his departing back.
Uncertainly, Kate shrugged her shoulders. For Rowley’s sake she did hope not. ‘Couldn’t say. What about Mr Lawrence? He writes that he is well, I hope.’
When Naomi put down the first sheet of notepaper and, picking up the second, continued reading, Kate chanced the briefest of glances towards the door. She did hope Rowley was all right. The thought of him returning to flying might make her feel uneasy, but it seemed to be the thing upon which he had been pinning his hopes.
‘He does indeed seem well,’ Naomi eventually remarked of Lawrence, setting down her letter and picking up her coffee cup. ‘He writes a great deal about working in the vegetable garden – waxes quite lyrical in fact.’
‘That’s good.’ Despite trying to sound interested, she was finding it hard to sit still. Why hadn’t Rowley come back and told them what his letter said? Could it be that he had received his orders? Could it be that, at this very moment, he was upstairs packing in readiness to leave? Unable to bear not knowing, she shot to her feet.
