Flora's War

by Audrey Reimann

  ‘Ruth!’ he pleaded. ‘Don’t do anything you may regret, my dear …’ But she pulled herself up and knelt in front of him, making him open his legs so that she could come in close, and the brandy fumes billowed inside his head and the scent of her, the sweet, heavy scent, blotted out his reason.

  ‘I don’t want to go, Gordon,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t cast me out.’

  ‘Ruth!’ He placed his hands gently on her shoulders, but he could feel her fine bones through the silk and her warm body trembled under the pressure. ‘I’m not casting you out, my dear. You will be safe in Cheshire.’

  ‘Don’t! Please don’t talk that way, Gordon. Not tonight.’ Her round blue eyes locked on to his, her hair was a thousand shades of tawny gold and her voice was low and husky. ‘You must know, darling, that I have always loved you.’

  He tried to pull back but his will was gone. He said softly, ‘I didn’t know.’ But he was hard and hot in blood and breath and her fingers were undoing the buttons of his uniform jacket so she could press her face close to his chest. He was pulsing and heat was growing in him even as he tried desperately not to respond to her and to say, ‘Ruth … Dear … Please … don’t let us …’ But his voice was thickening and his heart was thundering behind his ribs. Her pretty face was inches from his own, her eyes were half closed, just as Elizabeth’s …

  ‘Gordon … love me … Oh, Gordon … I want you …’ she whispered. ‘Please? Please, darling … I need you …’

  Then his mouth was on hers, locked into hers while he got to his feet and she rose with him to move close to the fire. His hands tore the ivory dress down from her shoulders. Her full breasts with their round and rigid pink nipples were thrusting forward for him as she arched her back and pressed her hips into the hard, urgent, throbbing and painful … ‘Oh God! Ruth …’ was all he could say.

  She leaned back a little and let him take her breast into his mouth, the nipple like rubber against his tongue as she made the exciting throaty sounds of a woman aroused and her hips moved sinuously away and back into him. Her hands were unfastening him, releasing him, and now she drew his trousers gently down his legs, her hands firm against his thighs. His head was light and reeling and all thoughts were gone, only sensation remaining as she knelt before him, lowered her head on to him and took him in her mouth. He felt her tongue stroking around and along the length of him. Before he lost control completely he lifted her to her feet and removed theivory silk dress so that her beautiful, slender body was revealed.

  He pulled her to him, sank to his knees and buried his face in her triangle of reddish hair, smelling the warm musk odour that drove every last rational thought from his distracted mind. Then she slid down to the Persian rug and reflections of the flames were dancing red and gold over the body that waited, trembling, eager and ready for him. He knelt between her thighs and pushed himself hard into her as she moaned and moved and grasped inside, fast and rhythmically, squeezing with muscles he never knew a woman had, crying out in delight even as he went first slowly to savour the pleasure, then in a fierce, thunderous release that he knew she shared.

  Afterwards he lay, spent, his head on her belly while her hands stroked his hair and she whispered, ‘Come to my bed …’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t want to lose you now.’

  ‘Nor I.’

  Then she seemed to come back to reality with a speed that alarmed him. ‘I might be pregnant. We must marry immediately by special licence …’

  Chapter Six

  Under the hot showers at Rosyth Naval Dockyard, Andrew scrubbed his soot-encrusted arms until the skin glowed pink through the black hair. Cleaning out the boilers with wire brushes had taken three days and it was hard, hot work. The weather too was unseasonably hot, that Saturday – 2 September 1939. Over the hiss of water and the smell of coal tar he called to Greg in the next cubicle, ‘Going ashore, Greg?’ Greg was no longer his oppo, for Andrew had been promoted to leading stoker.

  The firebox would be lit and brought up to pressure tomorrow. The engine room artificer who was a good bloke – ten times better than Pearce, who had been dishonourably discharged – had passed their work and the stokers had twenty-four hours’ shore leave until 10 a.m. on Sunday, when they would hear the announcement that war was declared. Nobody believed it would not happen. Two eight-inch and two secondary four-and-a-half-inch guns were ready, along with twelve two-pounders and eight torpedo tubes. Both the North Sea, which they patrolled, and the Atlantic were infested with German U-boats waiting for the signal to fire.

  ‘If you are,’ came Greg’s laughing reply. ‘Going to see Flora?’

  ‘Aye!’ Andrew turned the hot tap off and watched the grimy foam sluice away while the fierce cold jet stung his skin, making him aware of every nerve ending and every hair down the length of his body. ‘Oooh!’ He groaned with pleasure and lifted his arms to prolong the shock to his skin. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Ask for a free issue,’ Greg said. ‘See if I can find a girl.’

  Andrew turned off the taps, emerged from the cubicle, found his towel and started to dry himself vigorously in the relative spaciousness of the washroom. On board, their quarters were cramped – thirty men to a mess that held two twenty-foot tables with hammocks slung above, but there was a good bit of space here. He’d brought his best uniform from his locker and laid it out on the wooden seat.

  Greg came out of his cubicle. ‘How will she know?’

  ‘I’ll ring her from the dock.’

  ‘Telephone, eh? Posh!’ Greg laughed.

  ‘It’s the blind man. He needs it. But it’s ruddy useful.’ Andrew pulled on his bell-bottoms and tunic then swiftly tied his shoes. ‘I’ll wait for you by the gate. Don’t be long.’ He ran a comb through his hair and put it in his pocket beside his wallet and travel pass.

  He ran down the quay, under a cloudless sky, ignoring the men who were bringing supplies aboard, glancing only briefly at the deck crew of the Rutland who were scrubbing down the armour-plated decks. They were preparing for a long stretch at sea, judging by the stack of crates to be loaded. Andrew went to the office, found an empty phone box and within seconds the operator had put him through.

  ‘Flora?’

  ‘Andrew. Where are you?’ Her voice was sweet and musical. She was his beautiful, graceful and gentle girl and as always his heart felt as if it were going to burst with love for her.

  ‘I’m still in Rosyth. Take the day off.’ He spoke fast and loud so she’d hear and he could get everything said before his twopence ran out. ‘I’ve got twenty-four hours’ shore leave but I have to leave Edinburgh at midnight. So we’ve got precisely’ – he looked at his watch; it was 10.30 – ‘thirteen-and-a-half hours. I’m taking you to Ingersley to meet Ma.’

  ‘Oh, Andrew!’

  ‘I’ll be there in an hour.’ Andrew looked through the glass door to see if Greg was about. ‘And, Flora?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I tell Ma we’re getting married?’ He heard her catch her breath. His heart stopped for the few seconds it took her to say, ‘Yes … but’, and he took her hesitation for the shyness he loved her for. He’d settle all her fears about marrying him, but not from a call box. And she was full of fears. It could have already been done – they could have married in a registry office today – if she had gone for the forms when he’d asked her, weeks ago. He whispered over the line, ‘I love you, sweetheart. I’ll be there in an hour,’ then blew a kiss and hung up.

  Outside he saw Greg running towards him, being passed on the roadway by Captain Sir Gordon Campbell, who was behind the wheel of his Armstrong Siddeley, looking serious, making speed for the gates and Ingersley. Senior officers could take leave when the ship was in dock but Sir Gordon, though he left the ship for a few hours every day, returned to his command at night. It made him a heroic figure and a fine example to crew and officers.

  Sir Gordon would know where they were being sent tomorrow. But it was all classified
information and just as well, Andrew thought grimly. He hoped he’d acquit himself well under fire, but stronger than that hope was the hope that the war would be won in a few months.

  Flora put down the phone and went to Mr Davidson’s sitting-room door. She rapped hard because the radio was on. Mr Davidson left it on for long periods, without thought for conserving the battery. He did not like silences; besides which, he said, there was a chance that the Germans would retreat.

  ‘Enter,’ he called out in his educated Scots voice at the same time as he turned down the sound.

  ‘That was Andrew,’ Flora said as soon as she closed the door. She had become so sensitive to his blindness that she instinctively spoke as she moved towards him. He never had to turn his head this way and that, as he did in church, to locate the speaker. She said, ‘He’s got twenty-four-hours’ leave.’

  ‘Then invite your brother for supper and a musical evening, Miss Stewart,’ he said. ‘If that’s what you’d like.’

  Flora’s stomach went into a quivering spasm again. How could she tell this kind, God-fearing man that Andrew was not her brother? How could she tell Andrew that she was not yet sixteen and was too young to marry? How could she go on lying to both of them? But she said, ‘He’s taking me to North Berwick.’ She hesitated, seeing disappointment cloud Mr Davidson’s face, then went on to say, ‘I made a bacon and egg pie. I’ll leave you a slice with salad. There’s scones and bread as well. Is that all right?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, my dear,’ he said.

  ‘We won’t be back in time for supper.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. You haven’t forgotten that you are singing in church tomorrow, Flora?’

  ‘I’ve remembered.’ She sang in her powerful soprano in the choir and at church concerts. And tomorrow, she was to sing solo a verse of the anthem. ‘I’ve been practising,’ she said shyly. Then, with a little laugh, ‘It’s a wonder you haven’t heard me. The woman next door banged on the wall to tell me to quieten down, then stopped me in the street and said I was a noisy lass.’

  ‘Whatever next?’ Mr Davidson looked cross. ‘She’s an awful gabby woman. A terrible gossip. I do wish she’d keep her nose out of my business.’

  Flora answered, ‘It’s all right. I’m always polite. I said it won’t happen again. I’ll sing quieter songs – and sing them when she’s out.’ She would not dare tell Mr Davidson the downright wicked questioning the woman had subjected her to: ‘Where do you come from?’; ‘How old are you? You look awfu’ young to be a housekeeper’; and once, ‘I hope there’s no funny business going on. It’s not right for a young lass to be in a man’s employ.’

  Mr Davidson said he wanted her to go and enjoy her day out with Andrew, and now she ran upstairs to wash at the washstand placed to one side of the deep bay window that had thick net curtains for privacy. Anyone who had a view of the Forth as she had from here in her little sitting room could see that the wide river seaway now had more armoured ships than cargo and fishing boats. She was afraid. Andrew’s ship was ready for battle operations and the men awaiting orders were on tenterhooks.

  With shaking hands she soaped her neck and arms. In an hour’s time, when she and Andrew arrived by train at North Berwick station, she’d be taken to meet the mother he talked about, wrote about and was so proud and protective of. Andrew was going to tell his ma that they were to be married as soon as possible. Suppose his ma didn’t like her? Then, as if meeting her were not enough, Flora would also meet the Commander, who always came down to the kitchen after dinner to thank them all. Andrew would introduce her as ‘the girl I’m going to marry’.

  She dried herself on a snowy-white towel, put on clean underwear and checked for the umpteenth time that she looked neat and tidy. She was going to wear a maroon spotted dress with puffed short sleeves and white pique Peter Pan collar and cuffs. She had made it herself on the Singer treadle machine that had belonged to Mr Davidson’s mother. The whiteness of the cuffs made her pale arms look less peely-wally than normal, for she could not take a tan but had to sit in the shade or freckles would cover her translucent fine skin. She was thinner than when she had arrived a year ago, but losing her puppy fat was all to the good if she were to go on pretending.

  Wearing only her underclothes, she sat down with a thump on the bedroom chair as she thought on the truth of it all again. She was a month off sixteen. And she was sure the police were after her. She dodged into a doorway or turned about-face whenever she saw their blue uniforms. There was a police station only yards from her lodgings and the policemen stared at her more than they did the other girls who worked in the area. They were trained to spot spies and impostors. They could pick her up any time on suspicion of her being Flora Macdonald who had never finished her sentence at Guthrie’s.

  Six months ago she’d taken the tram to Leith and found Jessie Fairbairn. Jessie told her, ‘It goes on your record, Flora. You’ll have a record, ye ken. They’ll take you back to Guthrie’s or clap you in prison.’

  ‘But I told you – I stole my records. Stole everything: the court order, my school report, birth certificate – everything.’

  ‘They’ll have copies. Stealing makes it worse agin ye.’

  ‘But I nearly did my two years – all but for a week or two.’

  ‘Disnae matter. There’s girls of seventeen in Guthrie’s. And girls of thirteen in prison.’

  ‘You’ll never tell anyone, will you, Jessie? Never tell anyone how old – how young – I am?’

  ‘I won’t tell. I’d never do that.’

  ‘They maybe will stop looking. I’ve got money now. I’ve saved four pounds. I’m not destitute like before. I’m not a vagrant.’

  ‘Four pounds is nothing, to them.’

  ‘When will they stop looking for me, do you think?’

  ‘Never,’ Jessie replied firmly. ‘Not till you get married. They canna put a man’s wife in prison.’

  Flora was almost in tears. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Good grief! I should be. I’m married. Nobody is after me now.’ But even though she was not convinced of Jessie’s legal knowledge, Flora went sick to the stomach thinking about it; she wanted to faint whenever she saw a policeman walking on the beat.

  ‘Five minutes. We have to leave for church in five minutes,’ Gordon said in the cold tone of voice he once used only on men for whom he had no time and less respect. He increasingly used it now on Ruth.

  He watched her in the dressing-table mirror as slowly she ran a comb through her hair, turning it over her hand and curling it under into the page-boy style she favoured. He watched her – and he wondered why he should think that marriage to Ruth was a mistake. She had taken up the duties of Lady Campbell of Ingersley with alacrity, and her civic duties with a great deal less enthusiasm. He believed that she was more interested in feathering her own nest than in doing her duty when war came.

  Two weeks ago the government had passed the Emergency Powers (Defence) Act, giving themselves sweeping powers to requisition property and to take any steps deemed necessary in the defence of the realm. Poor women would be drafted into factory work. Already most ladies had volunteered for unpaid work. And all Ruth could say was that she was determined not to be pushed around when war came, but to be one of the civilian order-givers and to this end she would offer her services only where she would have the most influence. As far as she was concerned that meant that she would decide how the empty properties at Ingersley were distributed. She would be on the board of trustees and governors, should Ingersley, the estate and farm, be requisitioned. Already she was prepared. When war was declared tomorrow, mothers and children and expectant mothers would be evacuated from Edinburgh into East Lothian. Ruth was in charge of billeting.

  Against the fact that titled women were rolling up their sleeves to help the war effort in any way they could, it was only a minor vexation that Ruth had set about re-establishing the use of titles, expecting servitude and not service from staff she could not hope to
keep. Now, the look on her face was one of utter vanity. His own expression could not be hard to read but she had not noticed, for she said in her sharpest voice, ‘Why on earth – with only two days’ notice – did you offer to give a wedding reception for an employee? And why here?’

  ‘You know very well. There are hundreds of young couples marrying this weekend, before war comes to separate them.’ He adjusted his tie and reached for his uniform jacket. ‘Mike Hamilton is not just an employee. He is my neighbour and friend. He needs a wife. He has made a good choice in Lucy.’ His eyes were steely.

  ‘Lucy McNab’s a simpering fool.’ Satisfied with her reflection, Ruth set her hat over her shining gold-blonde hair. The wide brim framed her heart-shaped face and the ice-blue velour set off her eyes. ‘She is older than him, you know. She will bring a large dowry, I expect.’ She added, ‘Why did Mike Hamilton choose a time like this? A hasty marriage in a registry office would have been best.’

  His eyebrow lifted in amusement. ‘Are you suggesting that Lucy is with child?’ he said. Perhaps he misjudged Ruth. It would be hard for her to accept her own infertility if Mike Hamilton’s wife produced child after child. In truth, though, Ruth was not solely to blame for their childless state. Their marriage bed was not a loving place. He was so much the gentleman that he needed to know that his wife consented before he would make a move, and Ruth initiated lovemaking only when she saw coldness and distance in him. As now, when he’d answered her remark about the hasty marriage by suggesting that Lucy might already be with child.

  Ruth faced him and lifted her skirt high above the knees like a common harlot. She pursed her lips and said in the voice she thought provocative, ‘Women like Lucy don’t allow a man even a glimpse until they are married.’ Then she dropped the hem of her skirt and bent down to fasten her corsage to her handbag so as not to ruin the lapels of her dress.