The Hidden Years

by Penny Jordan

  'They're beautiful,' he told her quietly. 'So very much like those at Cottingdean… My grandmother adored her garden.'

  'Who lives there now?' Lizzie asked him, more because she sensed his need to talk about the house he obviously loved so much than out of any real curiosity.

  'No one. It was requisitioned during the early part of the war, but it's empty now. It's too remote to be of any real use—on the edge of a tiny village tucked away in the Wiltshire hills. Ultimately, I suppose, it belongs now to my cousin. His father was the elder son, mine the younger. Sometimes during the night I dream that I'm back there…' A bitter smile twisted his face. 'Pure escapism. If I do go back, it won't be as a boy free to run around but as a useless cripple…'

  Lizzie bit her lip, wondering if she had done the right thing in bringing him out here… wondering if she had perhaps not been kind in stirring up memories of his childhood.

  Without saying a word, she turned the wheelchair round. She knew from experience that when these moods of deep despair came down on him it was best to simply let Edward speak. Rather like letting poison drain out of a wound, only for his particular wound there could never he any total cleansing and healing.

  They were halfway back to the hospital when she saw the man walking down the path towards them. She recognised him immediately, her heart giving a tremendous bound of pleasure and shock. He was walking with the sun behind him, so that his dark hair had a golden nimbus, his easy, long-legged stride so male, so unconsciously arrogant that her heart bled a little for Edward, whom she could see gripping the arms of his wheelchair.

  Such was her incandescent joy at the sight of him that there was no time, no room in her mind to question what he was doing. All she wanted to do was to fly towards him, to feel his arms tighten around her, his man's body press close to hers, his mouth find hers to possess and cherish it until the tremulous joy flooding through her burst into a wild surge.

  But it wasn't her he addressed—he seemed not to notice her at all, speaking instead to Edward, saying casually, 'Ah, there you are, old boy. They told me I'd find you down here somewhere…'

  'Christopher…'

  Christopher… His name was Christopher… It suited him somehow… She savoured it silently, tasting it, rolling it around her mouth, marvelling at the foresight of parents able instinctively to choose a name so fitting.

  'I'll push this for you, shall I?'

  Engrossed in her bemusement, she hadn't seen him move, and now suddenly he was standing beside her, her body instantly aware of his, so that she longed to move closer to him, to bathe in his body heat, to breathe in his special scent.

  She tried to look at him and couldn't, paralysed by unexpected, awkward shyness. In front of her she heard Edward saying, 'Lizzie…this is Christopher Danvers… My cousin… Christopher, Lizzie is—'

  'I know. Lizzie and I have already met… This morning when I practically ran her down…'

  He held out his hand and gripped hers. The pressure of his fingers against her own made her quiver with delight.

  'Call me Kit,' he told her softly, while his blue eyes laughed dangerously into hers.

  She was so bemused, so entranced by him that it wasn't until several seconds after he had released her hand and she had turned away from him that she became aware of Edward's tension.

  And then, hypersensitive to a point where she almost felt as though she had stepped inside his skin, she could feel the pressure he was placing on his fragile muscles and instinctively moved towards him and then stopped, confused by her own actions.

  For a moment she had wanted to place herself protectively between Edward and Kit. But why…? And why to protect Edward…? Kit was his cousin…

  She was in love with him. He was wonderful, perfect. She couldn't understand Edward's antagonism towards him.

  'You always did drive too damn fast,' Edward was saying curtly.

  'Well, luckily there was no harm done, and when your ministering angel told me that she was spending her time off charitably entertaining one of her patients I had no idea she meant you.'

  'What are you doing here, Kit?'

  The way Edward Danvers asked the question was brusque, almost as though he disliked the other man, which startled Lizzie.

  'Felt I ought to, old chap, now that the old man's finally gone. Duty. Head of the family and all that. Came to see how you were getting on. What plans you've got for when all this is over…'

  'I won't be burdening you with my presence at Cottingdean, if that's what's worrying you,' Edward said stiffly.

  Lizzie was beginning to feel uncomfortable. There was something here between the two men which she felt instinctively should not be aired in front of a third party.

  'I… I think I'd better go,' she began uncertainly, and appealed to Kit, 'You've obviously got private family business to discuss…'

  She started to move away down the path, but Kit followed her, standing between her and Edward and blocking her view of the wheelchair as he bent his head and murmured, 'You haven't forgotten about our date, have you? I shouldn't be too long with old Edward… Half-past two, remember.'

  Her heart gave a tremendous thud as happiness burst into a million tiny effervescent fragments inside her.

  'Half-past two,' she agreed shakily.

  Both men watched her walk out of sight, and then Kit drawled, 'Pretty little thing for a skivvy.'

  'She is not a skivvy, she is a nursing aide… By rights she ought to have done more years at school. She's far too bright for this kind of work.' Edward moved restlessly in his chair and cursed bitterly, 'Damn this war… Damn it to hell…'

  'Steady on, old chap. Can't say I blame you, though. Tied to that thing and not able to do a thing about it, while you've got a pretty little bit like that fluttering round you. Must say, I'd feel pretty frustrated myself.' He watched in cynical amusement as he saw his cousin's skin turn dark red.

  Edward always had been over-prudish, which was perhaps just as well in all the circumstances when you thought about it. Kit hadn't been looking forward to this visit. While his father had been alive he had carelessly pushed the thought of his cousin and his plight out of his mind; he had more important things to think about, such as winning a war and in the process laying as many pretty girls as he could… One of the perks of being one of Britain's bravest. As a pilot, it was virtually expected of him. Not that he found it any hardship… But now his father was dead, and his CO had made one too many comments about Edward's plight, so that he had felt obliged to drive down here and see how he was doing, and to make it plain to Edward that once this war was over they would both have their own separate lives to lead.

  'You leave her alone,' he heard Edward saying grimly. 'She's still little more than a child. She doesn't understand the kind of rules you play by, Kit. She's an innocent…' He broke off, realising that he was only affording the other amusement, and asked instead, 'I take it you are still engaged to Lillian?'

  'Of course. All that money, you know… Besides, I don't have much option, do I?'

  'If you don't love her—'

  'Love? What a fool you are, Edward. You've been spending too much time on your own,' he added derisively. 'I need a wife like Lillian, but that doesn't mean I can't amuse myself in other directions.'

  'You haven't changed, Kit. You never did care about people's feelings and you never will.'

  'While you always cared too much, which is why you're in that wheelchair. If you hadn't been so damned heroic, you'd still be a whole man, instead of a helpless cripple,' Kit taunted him. 'You're a fool, Edward, you always were and you always will be… And by the way, old man, once Lillian and I are married, don't expect to find yourself a billet at Cottingdean, will you? I dare say I shall sell the old place anyway. Lillian wants a flat in London, and I dare say by the time this is over Cottingdean will only be fit for knocking down.'

  Kit always had had a cruel streak, Edward reflected silently; as a boy he had been inclined to bully and torment. That
hadn't bothered him then… He suddenly realised how tired and sick he felt, how helpless and vulnerable. He felt his eyes mist with the helpless tears of impotence and frustration, and he wished, as he had wished so many times before, that he had the strength and the courage to put an end to it all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  'Got a date, have you?'

  Lizzie flushed, even though the question was asked in a friendly enough way. The moment she had left Edward and Kit, she had collected her bike and ridden back to the hostel.

  Mindful of Kit's commands, she had rifled frantically through her meagre wardrobe, looking in vain for anything that might be described as 'pretty'. There wasn't anything, of course, but she could unpin her hair from its braids, brush it until it shined and leave it hanging loose.

  That it felt odd and slightly uncomfortable didn't matter. Kit had demanded it of her, and for him she was prepared to make any sacrifice…do anything that might please him.

  Now though, confronted by the amused scrutiny of the other girls who also had the time off from working at the hospital, she felt acutely self-conscious, her face burning as she stammered an assent.

  'Not going to go out wearing that, are you?' another girl commented, grimacing.

  Lizzie blushed harder. She wasn't used to confiding in others, to encouraging intimacy with them. Aunt Vi always kept her at a distance and had taught her to do the same to others.

  'I… I don't have anything else.'

  It shamed her to admit it. She bent her head forwards, so that her curtain of hair swung across her face.

  'I could lend you something,' one of the girls offered. 'We're about the same size.'

  'Give over, Rosie, you might be the same height, but she's much thinner than you.'

  'Not that much,' Rosie protested. 'She could wear that dress I got from Meg the other week. With a belt round the waist.'

  'Well, I suppose she could try it, only she's going to need a bit of make-up as well, isn't she? And some decent shoes. What size do you take, Lizzie?'

  Thoroughly bemused, Lizzie stood there while they argued good-naturedly and loudly all around her.

  'It's a pity you didn't think to put your hair in rags last night,' one of them told her. 'Then it would have a bit of a curl to it. You're lucky to be so blonde. Men really go for that. What is he? Yank?'

  'No, no, he's—'

  'Here's the dress,' Rosie interrupted. 'Come on, Lizzie, try it on.'

  Suddenly she was one of them, an outsider no longer, but she flinched when they laughed at her sturdy utilitarian underwear.

  'Heavens, just look at it,' one of them derided as she slipped off her cardigan and blouse to reveal the heavy cotton brassiere which, like the rest of her clothes, had been inherited from someone else.

  Normally she tried to undress and dress in privacy. Aunt Vi had always made her feel somehow that her body was something she ought to be ashamed of and, even when she had had the luxury of her own bedroom, she had always studiously avoided looking at herself.

  Now she blushed deeply as one of the older girls announced cynically, 'My God, whoever he is, he's going to get a shock when he sees that. Let's hope he's in the artillery. They're used to dealing with armour plating.'

  The other girls laughed, but it was good-natured laughter, Lizzie recognised.

  'You'll have to take it off,' Rosie told her decisively, and before she could protest the other girl had stepped behind her and unsnapped the fastener.

  She had never stood in front of anyone before clad in only her knickers and she felt a sharp stab of shock ricochet through her system as she realised how easily she was shedding Aunt Vi's rules.

  'Look at her,' someone said mockingly. 'She doesn't need to wear anything. There's hardly anything of her.'

  'No, but at least what she's got is in the right place,' another girl responded.

  Rosie turned to her and said kindly, 'Don't pay any attention to Mavis, she's jealous because her boyfriend says her chest is too big… Poor Mavis. She's used to them thinking it's wonderful. She needed taking down a peg or two. The rest of us were sick of hearing about how wonderful her forty inches were… Here you are, get this on,' she instructed, handing her a flimsy cotton garment.

  Lizzie hesitated as she stared at the fabric, its white background rather dingy from too many washings of a poor-quality cloth. The fabric was overprinted with a too-busy design of bright red and yellow flowers that made her feel slightly dizzy, but everyone was waiting and if she refused she would offend Rosie and probably everyone else as well. They were, after all, trying to be helpful.

  As she put the dress on and fastened the buttons down the front she realised how much plumper Rosie must be. The dress, which on Rosie hugged the waist, hung loosely on her, and the V-neckline was surely much more revealing on her than it was when it strained across Rosie's plump breasts.

  She tried not to feel relieved as she reached for the buttons. 'It's kind of you, Rosie, but it doesn't look anywhere near as good on me as it does on you,' she said tactfully.

  Although she was loath to admit it she was actually longing to get back to Lady Jeveson's cast-offs. At least in them she felt she was decently dressed. She had been horror stricken to realise that through the thin fabric of Rosie's dress it was actually possible to see not only the outline of her nipples, but also the dark shadowing of their surrounding areola.

  'No, keep it on,' Rosie protested, 'all it needs is a belt. You've got a red one, haven't you, Jean…? Bring it here and let's see how it looks…'

  Jean Adams was a tall thin girl, with dark hair and dense brown eyes. The belt in question was made of bright red shiny plastic and had been a present from an admiring GI.

  Lizzie felt her fingers recoil from contact with the sharp shiny stuff in distaste. The only belts she was familiar with were soft leather, often worn, with the stitching gone in places, and always in dull browns and greys.

  'Give it 'ere, Jean,' Rosie instructed, obviously enjoying her role as transformer-in-chief. 'Now breathe in, Lizzie, while I get it fastened… My goodness, you are thin, aren't you? Even Jean can't get it fastened on that first notch, can you, Jean? No, you can't look at yourself yet,' Rosie told her firmly as she tried to step to one side so that she could see her reflection in the dormitory's one spotted mirror.

  'What you need now is a bit of colour in your face. Some nice bright red lipstick and a bit of rouge…'

  'And some blacking on her lashes,' someone suggested. 'What size shoes does she take?'

  'Threes,' Lizzie said weakly.

  'So small… well, it will have to be Mary's white courts, then… You take a four, don't you, Mary? We'll have to stuff the toes. Where's he meeting you, love, outside?'

  Lizzie shook her head. 'On the back lane to the hospital.'

  'She's not walking all down there, not in my white courts,' Mary objected indignantly.

  'No, well, she'll have to wear her own shoes and then change just before she meets him. Leave her own hidden—she can pick them up in the morning.'

  Lizzie wanted to object that it wasn't necessary for Mary to make such a sacrifice. Aunt Vi had always told her that a lady never wore white shoes, but it was difficult to speak with Rosie determinedly outlining her mouth with what felt like sticky paste, and someone else spitting on a cake of mascara ready to attend to her eyelashes.

  It was a good half-hour before they were satisfied with their efforts and ready to let her look in the mirror.

  When she did, the image confronting her was so totally unfamiliar that she could only stare at it in confused disbelief. She looked so much older, so much more worldly, so… so common, a sharp inner voice derided, but with the circle of expectant faces watching her she could only swallow down her dismay and weakly thank them.

  'Just you remember,' Rosie warned her, all motherly concern, 'if he tries it on, you make him wait. Show him that you expect to be treated with a bit of respect. They're all the same… All after one thing… and they'll tell you any
thing to get it…'

  She wanted to protest that they were wrong, that Kit was different… but her feelings were too new… too precious to be shared with anyone else.

  Someone, she rather thought it was Mary, provided her with a white cardigan to wear over the dress, which mercifully buttoned up to the throat, and then she was being escorted downstairs and outside, so that it was impossible for her to plead that she couldn't accept their generosity and change back into her own things.

  Lizzie couldn't cycle to meet Kit, not wearing her borrowed finery, and at first she found it disconcerting to feel the freer movements of her breasts as she walked.

  That the sensation of her flesh pressing against this cotton was not entirely unpleasant shocked her, as did the sudden illuminating knowledge that when Kit took her in his arms she would be able to feel his body against her own separated only by such a flimsy barrier.

  Such thoughts were forbidden, disgusting, Aunt Vi would have said, but it wasn't disgust that welled up inside her. Far from it. It was the same fizzing, exciting sensation she had experienced when Kit had pressed his lips against hers, the same curling tautness deep down inside her, which made her stop walking and instinctively press the palm of her hand low down against her body, until she realised what she was doing and went scarlet with shock and guilt.

  She knew all about what happened between men and women—it would have been hard not to, when the other girls gave such graphic and detailed descriptions of their boyfriends' prowess or lack of it—but she had never realised until now that the physical intimacies they had described, and which she had found rather nauseating, could be responsible for the kind of delicious ache that was tormenting her body and making her hurry eagerly to meet Kit.

  She had set off in plenty of time and, when she reached the arranged rendezvous, she was able to slip out of her own brogues and replace them with Mary's white shoes, which looked very large and ungainly on her own slender feet.

  The only thing she had not been provided with was a pair of the much prized stockings, and she had firmly refused to allow her helpers to draw lines down the backs of her legs in imitation of stocking seams. Her ankles looked very fragile and pale, she decided, eyeing them uncertainly, but her woollen stockings would have looked ridiculous with Rosie's dress.