by Lisa Bingham
“Sara’s out of the bathroom, dear,” her mother said, bustling back into the kitchen and collecting Susan’s dishes. Susan felt a pang of guilt at the way her mother took the dirty plate to task. There was a time when the whole family had revolved around a rigid schedule of meals so that her mother could spend two hours in front of the wireless with her feet up, darning endless piles of socks, or knitting jumpers and woolen mufflers for the winter while she listened to her favorite programs.
Lately, she’d become a slave to the kitchen. No sooner had one person eaten, than another arrived demanding food. Millicent had grown incredibly thin. Her hair, which had once been a rich chocolaty brown, was streaked with gray.
“Mum, I’d be glad to help.”
A ring from the front door signaled the arrival of Sara’s companion.
“If you’d get that for me, there’s a good girl.”
Susan sighed. She didn’t feel much like exchanging polite chit-chat with Bernard Biddiwell or any of the other men who came to call on Sara. Since becoming a clippie, Sara had begun to collect stray servicemen the way others might collect abandoned puppies. She brought them home for tea or agreed to meet them at the local dances. Susan had long since lost track of most of their names.
The blackout curtains made the parlor feel more like a cave than a sitting room. With the heat of the day still lingering in the trapped, airless room, Susan felt a momentary sense of claustrophobia.
Of all the restrictions the war had brought, the blackout had proven to be the most difficult for Susan. She hadn’t yet adapted to the sense of being closed in, trapped. She missed the gleam of moonlight washing over her bed and the twinkle of stars like bits of chipped ice sparkling just outside the window. And the utter lack of nighttime breezes throughout the summer had been unbearable. Every possible chink of light that could escape had to be thwarted. To that end, Susan had helped the younger children cut paper squares from grocery bags and attach them to the panes of glass with rubber cement. Shutters and frames had been made to cover those windows which would be left uncovered during the day, and yards and yards of blackout fabric had been made into curtains. To ignore even the smallest infractions could result in a hefty fine…or worse yet, a bomb being dropped on your block.
In order to prevent any light from seeping around the front entrance, Mrs. Blunt had hung a curtain rod overhead. Thick, lined woolen panels were pulled into place as soon as the shadows began to fall.
Extinguishing the hall light so that she could open the door, Susan slid the drapes aside. Then, after twisting the knob, she gestured for the shape outside to enter. Once the door was closed again, she slid the drapes back into place and flipped on the light.
A gasp lodged in her throat as light bathed the tall lean figure. Her stomach lurched, then flooded with heat.
Paul Overdone.
Paul who’d kissed her in the darkness. Who’d held her body tightly. Caressing her. Filling her veins with fire.
“Paul!” she whispered, taking an involuntary step forward. She held up a hand, to touch him, to assure herself that he was real and not a product of her overly active imagination.
But he was real. As he swept his cap from his head, tucking it beneath his arm, a brief puff of air swirled around her, redolent with the scents of Brylcreem and tobacco. Underneath it all was a faint wisp of cologne. Bay Rum.
He peered at her carefully, a quizzical gleam to his chocolate brown eyes. “Susan?” he asked hesitantly.
She nodded, then died a little when his eagerness faded and he drew himself up to a more formal stance. “Good evening, Susan. Is Sara at home?”
Susan opened her mouth, wanting to speak.
Don’t you know me? Don’t you recognize me? Can’t you sense that I’m the one who danced with you, kissed you?
Disappointment surged through her with the strength of a tidal wave. Afraid that what might emerge would be inarticulate gibberish, she nodded. Turning her back to him, she busied herself with ensuring that the blackout curtains were firmly in place.
Paul. Here. Tonight.
Unable to delay any longer, she whirled to face him again. As much as it pained her to be so weak and needy, she had to assure herself that he was unhurt. She’d heard second-hand reports of Paul’s exploits at Flight Training from Matthew’s letters. Then the pair of them had been sent to France. Just before Dunkirk.
“You’re well?” she asked, wondering if he heard the thread of torment she couldn’t entirely conceal. She’d been beside herself in June when, after the British defeat in France, Matthew’s letters had begun to grow more clipped and taciturn. Only once had he mentioned how hard it had been to lose so many of his friends. She’d prayed he hadn’t meant Paul, but until this moment, she hadn’t been entirely sure.
“As well as can be expected,” Paul said.
Susan hungrily drank in the sight of him. His hair had been clipped even shorter than before. The brilliant blue of his uniform accented his tanned skin, and a pair of silver wings on his left breast gleamed in the light. But she could see no sign of injury.
“You’re still with the RAF, I see.”
“Yes. I’ve got a short leave before returning to my base.”
“Somewhere close?” Could he hear the breathless quality to her voice.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“O-of course, not,” she said, flushing.
Loose lips sink ships.
Suddenly, she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t dare ask too much about his flying or his experiences in the war, but she couldn’t blurt out that she’d missed him terribly either.
After all, as far as he knew, Paul had spoken to her less than a half-dozen times. He couldn’t possibly know that Sara and Susan had traded places. Just for a night. For a few scant hours.
The most magical hours she could have ever imagined.
The silence twined around them, uncomfortable and fraught with hidden danger. More than anything, Susan wanted to rush toward him and see for herself that he was truly alive and in one piece, but she couldn’t manage to think, let alone move. As if she stood in quicksand, she was slowly drowning in want and regret.
“Paul!”
Sara squealed in delight from the top of the stairs, then raced down them to throw herself in Paul’s arms. He held her tightly, his eyes squeezing closed as if he’d suddenly found a piece of heaven. Then he released her and stepped away to a more respectable distance.
“You look lovely!” He was so clearly delighted that Susan felt a tangible pain in her chest.
Sara blushed in delight and Susan had to concede that she did indeed look pretty tonight. She wore a pink organdy dress piped in white with one of her mother’s few remaining rose blossoms tucked in her belt.
“And you’re a sight for sore eyes.” She reached on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek, then bounced away again. “Would you like to come with us, Susan? We’re just going for a drink at the Triple Crown.”
Paul looked a little alarmed by Sara’s impetuous invitation.
More than anything, Susan wanted to accept. But as much as she’d fantasized about having Paul turn to her, recognize her as the girl he’d kissed and held, she realized that real life was rarely that neat and tidy.
“Yes…Susan. Please come.”
His grudging invitation was her deciding factor. “No. I’ve just arrived home from work. You two have fun.”
Sara linked her arm through Paul’s. “Next time you have to come with us. You could bring a fellow pilot for her, couldn’t you?”
The last thing Susan wanted was for Paul to provide her with an escort since she was clearly too pitiful to come up with her own. Suddenly vexed, she plunged the hall back into darkness, flung the curtain aside, and opened the door. “Enjoy yourselves at the pub.”
The two of them disappeared down the walk, Paul’s palm firmly planted in the hollow of Sara’s back. Susan remembered just how it felt to be touched like that—the warmth, the weight of
his hand.
An involuntary sob rose in Susan’s throat, but she refused to let it escape.
Susan had only herself to blame for this mess. She’d known from the instant that Sara had proposed the idea that they shouldn’t switch places. They were too old to play such childish games. Where once people might have been amused by the ruse, they would not take kindly to adults playing that sort of a prank.
Which was why she could never, ever, let on what she’d done, she vowed.
But as she closed the door, she couldn’t keep from casting one last glance in Paul’s direction—as if she could will him to turn around and see her not her sister.
“You’re a coward,” she whispered to herself.
“What’s that, dear?” her mother asked as she came down the stairs.
“Nothing, Mum. Just muttering nonsense to myself.”
Sweetheart,
In the RAF, waiting is the worst. From 4:30 on, we’re dressed and ready…then it could be minutes or hours before we’re summoned to action. A few of the fellows have grown so weary of the incessant delays that they’ve scrounged up deck chairs and discarded furniture. They’ve set it up next to the dispersal hut like a twisted version of a sitting room. We’ve even got a settee, a rickety table, and an ancient Victrola.
Madson, the beggar that he is, tends to rouse everyone early on by playing a scratched rendition of Tchaikovsky’s 1812th Overture. Says that it gets the blood flowing.
As if any of us need it. From the moment we’re dumped at the dispersal hut, every muscle is tensed. Your heart thuds slow and loud in your ears and your nerves are stretched so taut you’ll see hands shake as the men pass around Woodbines and matches.
There’s an attempt at normality—if there even is such a thing anymore. Blokes play cards or toss a ball. We’ve even been known to set up a cricket match from time to time. But most days the boys are too keyed up for anything more than sitting, eyes trained on the telephone or the planes.
The moment Bertie shouts from inside the hut, there’s a mad scramble for the Spits. At times, it’s another spate of waiting, or we might even be called back. But if the “Tally-Ho!” is given, it’s an amazing sight as the aircraft roll across the field in tandem, lifting one at a time, awkwardly at first—because the Spit can handle like a pig on the ground. But once they’ve gained purchase, it’s like gliding on silk as they climb up, up, up into formation.
Then all the waiting, the nerves, the tension is forgotten as you begin scouring the skies for the first sign of your prey, moving like the devil to get high as you can with the sun at your back.
P.
Chapter Six
Charles’ unit was not one of those evacuated from France. He has been listed as missing since June…
For the first time since her arrival, RueAnn welcomed her motherin-law’s chilly demeanor. As soon as she’d made her pronouncement, she marched from RueAnn’s room, closing the door behind her.
Her footfalls made sharp, rapping sounds as she descended the stairs, each one like a hammer to RueAnn’s already pounding head.
RueAnn felt as if she’d been encased in concrete, becoming thick, slow-witted as she was buried in the remnants of her shattered fantasies of England and Charlie. Her husband was deeply embroiled in the war. Missing.
No wonder Charlie hadn’t responded to her letters. She’d written to him time and time again, demanding the return of her property—or at the very least, an explanation for his continual silence. Each missive had grown more forceful, more strident. When she’d received no response, another coal had been heaped on her blazing fury.
Then she’d begun to plead. Did he want an annulment, a divorce? As much as she’d feared the answers, she’d waited week after week for his reply, praying that he wouldn’t cast her adrift. Not when she wanted to see him again. Just one more time.
Shame washed over her. She’d been so selfish, so shortsighted. She’d known that he might have been deployed. She’d even considered that it could take time for her letters to be redirected. But she’d never considered that he could be missing or dead.
He’d probably been in combat most of the time they’d been apart.
What little energy RueAnn possessed bled from her limbs. She dropped heavily onto the bare box springs, abandoning her charade of poise and respectability. Ignoring the pinch of the bare metal coils, she drew her knees up to her chin and squeezed her eyes shut tight, tight, tight, against a tidal wave of panic.
She’d prepared herself for a dozen different situations: that Charlie was deployed; that he’d been refused leave; he was sick; he was injured. But she had never even considered the possibility that the situation could be worse. So much worse.
Missing.
Possibly dead.
She’d been so naïve.
A sob wormed its way up from her chest, but she fought to keep it unuttered, enduring the pain as it lodged in her throat like a swallowed wooden block.
She wouldn’t cry.
She mustn’t cry.
Not when Charlie’s mother waited like an imperious, disappointed monarch. If Edna were to discern even a hint of redness to RueAnn’s eyes, the older woman would pounce upon that weakness, RueAnn was sure.
Her fingers trembled as she covered her mouth in horror, gazing wild-eyed around the room as if the wood and mortar of this house were a living witness and could share its secrets with her.
But her only answer was silence. Charlie. Charlie was missing. She refused to think beyond that. He was missing, which meant that he would be back. One day. Until she had proof to the contrary, she would stay. Because she intended to talk to him, face to face, and demand an explanation for his betrayal. Only then would she know what to do next.
Nevertheless, she was still faced with one formidable obstacle to her goal. Edna Tolliver. Without Charlie’s presence or the promise of his imminent return, there would be no reason for Edna Tolliver to temper her zeal. Judging by her blatant antagonism, she would do everything in her power to drive RueAnn away.
A glance at the ticking alarm clock next to the bed reminded RueAnn that her time was limited. Mrs. Tolliver had given her twenty minutes—and most of that time had already elapsed.
Uncurling from her near-fetal position, RueAnn forced herself to stand, her muscles and joints protesting like those of an old woman. The last thing she wanted at this moment was food. RueAnn would much rather have unrolled the mattress and fallen asleep atop it with only a blanket to cover her. But she needed to be civil. Perhaps, there was still time to create a more favorable impression with Edna.
Summoning what little strength still remained, RueAnn washed as best she could, donned a clean skirt, crisp blouse, and a comfortable pair of shoes. After combing and plaiting her hair, then pinning it around the crown of her head to control the wayward tresses, she made her way downstairs.
It wasn’t hard to find her way back to the place where this strange odyssey had begun. The stairs bottomed out at a narrow foyer near the front door. Black and white floor tiles made RueAnn’s weary eyes cross. But even the few scant minutes which had elapsed had brought change. Heavy draperies had been pulled over the windows and doors, leaving the rooms airless, the walls closing in upon her.
RueAnn stood gripping the newel post, the pads of her fingers absorbing the warm oak made satiny smooth by countless hands rubbing over the polished grain. She palmed the dark wood like a gypsy warming a crystal ball. If she closed her eyes, could she feel a remnant of energy left by Charlie’s last touch?
Before she could investigate the notion, Edna swept out of the room to her left, emerging from a formal sitting area made even more stilted by weighty furniture covered in sensible, darkly patterned fabrics. A single lamp spilled a puddle of light onto the floor next to a huge, cabinet radio, its dial glowing like a Cyclops eye.
“There you are,” Edna announced as if she’d been waiting for the better part of an hour rather than minutes. Her cool gaze raked down RueAnn’s form
and she sniffed but made no comment on her appearance. Instead, she said, “You’ll find I keep an orderly, God-fearing home.”
She peered at RueAnn sharply, waiting. When it became apparent that RueAnn would issue no argument, she continued.
“This is the sitting room,” Edna explained, her mouth and jaw so tight, they could have been carved from marble. “I expect you to keep it tidy. No newspapers, no personal items.” She pointed to the closed doors opposite. “Through here is the dining room. We eat breakfast at seven without exception. Evening meals vary according to my schedule with the WVS.” At RueAnn’s blank look, she supplied, “The Women’s Voluntary Service.” She then gestured to another doorway at the end of the hall. “The kitchen is through there.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Edna sailed past RueAnn toward the dining room, sweeping open the pocket doors as if she were unveiling the private quarters of royalty. She made her way to the head of the table, indicating that RueAnn should take the seat to her left.
No sooner had RueAnn sunk into the chair than the door connecting to the kitchen swung open and a plump, middle-aged woman dressed in a black uniform and crisp white apron emerged. She set a tureen of soup in the middle of the table.
“Louise Thompson, I’d like you to meet…” Edna glanced at RueAnn, waiting for her to supply her name.
“RueAnn Boggs.” RueAnn cursed herself when she realized she’d forgotten to give her married name. “Tolliver,” she added more firmly.
“Louise helps with the housekeeping and the cooking.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Louise.”
The woman smiled—the first genuine, welcoming gesture that RueAnn had received. “And you, Miss. Master Charlie is a lucky fellow to have married someone so pretty.”
Edna gave the woman a crisp, “Thank you, Louise. That will be all for now.”
In an instant, Louise disappeared into the kitchen—and RueAnn immediately wished the woman hadn’t been dismissed so quickly. There’d been a friendly twinkle to Louise’s eyes that had bolstered RueAnn’s spirits. But like a ray of sunshine obscured by clouds, that hint of warmth was gone, leaving RueAnn to wither in Edna Tolliver’s blatant disapproval.
