Nightingale

by Fiona McIntosh

  He thought he would feel a tremor of elation at her sad expression. Instead he felt a deep and disappointed dismay that anyone would let her down in this way. If he were that blessed soldier, no injury or hospital would keep him from her . . . only death would halt his path to her heart.

  Are you dead, Jamie Wren? he asked silently into the jolly atmosphere. Be dead, Wren, and let me live again.

  ________

  Claire had not given up hope despite having the time to read closely the entire menu. Today’s afternoon tea offered a range of delicate fingers of creamy hen’s egg and cress sandwiches, elegant triangles of minted cucumber, and neat quarters of chicken with celery, apple and walnuts. For fish lovers there was even a sandwich of Scottish smoked salmon with a cauliflower mousse. It read too good to be true given the austerity of the war years. Fluffy still-warm scones were on the menu too, to be served with the richest of Devonshire clotted cream and thick blackberry jam with all the sweetness of late summer held within its jewel-like, shiny darkness. And then there were the cakes. Her gaze had followed one towering tiered stand of what could only be described as bijoux. They were indeed like oversized jewels of pink icing, yellow confectioner’s custard, chocolate fancies and mouthwatering treats of tiny lemon tarts dusted with sugar or jellied tarts of hibiscus and blackcurrant, layered slices of vanilla sponge with cream and strawberry conserve oozing within, and thick sticks of shortbread with crystals of sugar glistening on top. Claire knew she’d held her breath as she watched this delicious fare being served in all of its decadence and her guilt intensified. She tempered it with her memory of Istanbul and the overwhelming number of treats that were served up on platters in the hammam. They were emerging from the privations of war too but managed to put together a feast to make her eyes bulge and her belly groan.

  This was a time of celebration, she had to admit. The war was finished. The world had to look forward despite all of the destruction and desolation in the hearts of those who had lost their loved ones. She had to embrace this belief and if Jamie was not coming today, then she must show the courage that others had and take life forward, keeping her promise to herself.

  She glanced up with painful understanding that she was being called upon to keep that promise to herself now. Accept it, she thought, bitterness finally breaking through. Jamie is not coming. The letters had not lied. He had died in the desert of the Middle East, no doubt charging courageously on a horse he loved that was just as brave as he. Jamie was a hero but even heroes died in war. His name would go down with the millions of others killed in action and no amount of wishing or daydreaming could change the fact he was not coming for her today.

  It was time to go. She checked her watch. Four o’clock. She raised a finger, caught the eye of the maître d’ and he understood. She stood, accepted help with her coat, returned gloves to hands, hat to head and paid her bill with a well-constructed smile on the mask she’d contrived to hide her anguish. She demanded of herself that she retain her composure and once out of the hotel she could give in to loss fully, but for now, her nurse’s training served her valiantly and she betrayed no obvious sign of unravelling.

  Deliberately keeping her eyes lowered as best she could, Claire blocked out her surrounds and didn’t see the gentleman tucked away in a corner by the musicians signal for the bill. She didn’t notice that when he stood to full height he caught the attention of several attractive women in the Palm Court. She was entirely unaware that he had eyes only for her as he struggled to neatly fold the newspaper beneath his arm, his gaze focused on where she was smiling at the maitre d’ as he opened the door to usher her out.

  Once clear of the Palm Court, Claire hurried across the floor of the lobby, hoping she didn’t fall on the marble. She was aware of the queue of pages again but didn’t look left or right as she skipped down the stairs and out into the freezing afternoon air of London. It was raining heavily and she quickly opened her umbrella, blocking out everyone and everything but the ground she stared at, which was blurred by her tears that joined the raindrops on the pavement running away towards the London drains. She turned her back on the hotel and hurried towards a side street. She didn’t look up to see the one-armed man limping into Portland Place, his gaze fixed only on the entrance of the hotel.

  Claire hit her stride, watching for ice, but dodging immediately out of sight of Regent Street, running down various side roads, not caring where she ended up so long as she could outrun her sorrow and the building that had come to represent so much of the past, present and future to her. It was no longer her happy place and she could not get away from it fast enough.

  ________

  Rifki had sensed her decision before she acted upon it, but it had still come as a shock to surreptitiously watch her gather up her hat, gloves and pain and leave. She stood gracefully, looking no one in the eye, least of all the gentleman in charge, who moved quickly to help her on with her coat.

  He too had to move fast now if he was to catch her or he may lose her completely. He quickly folded up his newspaper, struggling slightly and marvelling at how adept the English were at this particular action. He couldn’t take his gaze from Claire, even as he caught the notice of the waitress, or when he stood and reached for his homburg. He watched her every move as she swept from the room. She was gone and she was in a hurry.

  Claire was gone! He was caught in a dawning of enlightenment and felt momentarily paralysed. She had accepted her soldier was dead. Claire might be available to him now: not immediately, but surely she would be delighted to see him and he could soothe away the sorrows, help her to accept what had surely been the inevitable and ultimately . . . just maybe . . . examine her admission again of in another lifetime. This was another lifetime opening up, wasn’t it? She was free to consider him now.

  Move, Rifki, he urged, chase her; don’t lose her again. His thoughts scattered as to what he would say when he caught up with her but he knew he’d think of something. As he looked around to check he’d left nothing of his behind, the maître d’ arrived at his table to halt him. Rifki blinked at the delay.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir, how was your afternoon tea?’

  Rifki glanced at the mostly untouched spread. ‘Forgive me,’ he admitted, embarrassed. ‘It was more than I could eat alone.’

  ‘But your tea is hardly sipped. Please, let me refresh the pot. And perhaps we can clear away some of the food, leave you a couple of the biscuits, or one of the sandwiches if you find the full presentation too much.’ Rifki did not eat bread with mashed-up egg. It tasted like the food one fed an infant, but he smiled politely as he glanced at the door. She would have already left the hotel premises by now, be walking down Regent Street, or perhaps had swung towards Portland Place. How would he find her? He took a slow breath and stared at the kind man who was still talking. ‘I understand completely. After all the limitations of the war, sir, all this colour and largesse can be overwhelming.’

  ‘No, truly,’ Rifki said, trying not to show his agitation but certain it was revealed in the way his voice was calm but firm, his thoughts racing on how he would find her. ‘I must go. It has been a pleasure and next time I promise to come with a better appetite.’

  The man nodded a bow in acquiescence. ‘In that case, sir, let me have this all cleared away and please follow me so we can get you on your way.’

  ‘Your receipt, sir, thank you,’ the maitre d’ said a minute later, graciously handing him the folded paper with a courteous bow of the head. ‘Ah, here’s your coat, sir, thank you, Amanda.’

  ________

  Jamie had finally arrived at the Langham and taken a few moments to catch his breath, awkwardly wipe his face dry with his handkerchief and gather his thoughts. He didn’t want to arrive looking panicked. He suspected a man in uniform, especially an officer, would draw a smile and a grateful nod. A porter touched his hat and the doorman reached quickly for the handle to swing the entrance open to him as he was welcomed warmly.

  ‘Hope it’s go
od to be back, sir?’ he enquired politely.

  He grinned. ‘First time to the hotel, I’ll admit, but my oath it’s good to be back in peacetime.’

  The doorman nodded. ‘Welcome to the Langham Hotel, sir.’

  One of the pages grinned. ‘Love your fevver, sir,’ he said, pointing to his hat, which he now pulled off for good manners.

  He threw the youngster a wink. ‘Only the Australian Light Horse wears these,’ he said, touching the feather with reverence. ‘Too many who wore them didn’t get home.’

  ‘Glad you made it, sir.’

  ‘Where’s the Palm Court?’ he asked, feeling a buzz of excitement erupt in his belly.

  ‘Straight fru, sir. Can’t miss it. Follow the palms. Hope she loves you, sir,’ he added cheekily, making a calculated guess.

  He grinned. ‘I’m going to marry her today.’

  ‘Blimey, sir! I hope she knows. I didn’t see no bride walkin’ in, but there have been some beautiful ladies taking afternoon tea today. Good luck, sir,’ the messenger boy called to him.

  ‘Won’t need it. If she’s here waiting, I know she’ll say yes.’ He winked again and then he was hurrying through the conveniently opening glass doors, unaware of pushing past a debonair, slightly swarthy gentleman into the Court where a string quartet was playing beautiful chamber music. He recognised it as Chopin from his family’s collection of music sheets – it was a pretty waltz, which seemed appropriate as he scanned the elegant room for a glimpse of the woman he loved.

  ________

  Rifki, his thoughts scrambled, had just shrugged on his coat with help from the maître d’.

  ‘With you in a moment, sir,’ the man said over Rifki’s shoulder to someone behind who had just entered. ‘Come again, sir.’

  ‘I will,’ he said and, accepting his hat from the man, he turned and was confronted by the sight of a wounded soldier: a handsome, eager Australian if he wasn’t mistaken about the uniform.

  A mixture of visceral responses erupted like lava from the pit of his belly. First, the hot anger of defeat blazed through him, but just as quickly it turned to despair, floating through his mind as hope turned to ashes that emerged as bitter saliva in his suddenly dry throat. Yet even though his heart felt as though it were sinking so fast the sensation made him catch his breath inwardly, the thought of Claire’s faith being rewarded brought him an unexpected smile, which was – at least – timely. ‘James Wren?’ he forced out, not much more than a whisper as the soldier turned towards him in surprise.

  25

  Rifki regarded the man who was unwittingly dismantling his hopes with his easy smile and heroic empty sleeve. He’d guided the limping, damaged soldier to an armchair in the drawing room so they could talk without too many observers while the young man had given a torrent of explanation for his lateness, beginning that morning with a car that broke down on its way to the station and then a train needing repairs that held up every train behind it. Rifki had let it flow but tuned out the man’s arrival into crowded London, his slowness on the crutch he was still learning to manoeuvre, the queues for taxis, the crowded streets, the weather! He understood the man’s anxiety and it gave him some precious moments to gather up his own hurts. He looked past the despicably handsome presence of Wren that even a missing arm couldn’t spoil, and allowed his conscience to ask its inevitable question: Will you tell him?

  ‘Were you sharing tea with her?’ Wren asked.

  He blinked, coming out of his thoughts. ‘Er, no. She didn’t even know I was here.’

  Jamie frowned and Rifki drew a slow breath as he decided to skirt the truth. ‘I was to meet another professor here this afternoon. It seems both of you have been beset by weather woes, Mr Wren. He didn’t make our appointment either.’

  He could imagine all the wheels turning in Wren’s mind and was ready for the next question. ‘But how do you know Claire?’

  ‘I will tell you everything, but can I offer you anything first? You look fatigued.’

  Wren shook his head. ‘Just tell me what you know . . . quickly, please. I have to find her.’

  Rifki began an abridged version of events and with each carefully chosen sentence he felt his bonds to Claire loosen like a ship being cast away from its moorings. He settled deeper into his armchair.

  ‘You are Açar’s father?’ Jamie murmured, his expression filled with disbelief. Rifki watched the young man push his hand through hair that was still damp from the inclement weather. Inadvertently he messed the formerly neatly parted and combed style but that only gave him a rakish quality. Wren was staring past him, frowning, trying to make sense of what he’d just been told. ‘How can you be here? I don’t understand.’ He shook his head, perplexed. ‘Açar’s father?’

  Rifki nodded. ‘Let me explain.’ He told him about the opportunity to study and teach in London and of Claire’s visit to Istanbul. ‘This is how I know your name.’ He shrugged. ‘I couldn’t imagine you to be anyone but the James Wren that Claire had told me about. I could hardly not introduce myself. Fate is clearly enjoying playing with our lives, Mr Wren. I am aware that I owe you my heartfelt thanks for befriending my son, accepting the responsibility of his letter and prayer book, and to Claire, of course, for returning them to us. My family became most fond of her.’

  ‘Did you know she’d be here today?’ Something flickered in Wren’s gaze but it was gone in a heartbeat.

  ‘I suppose I did, but it was also one of life’s odd coincidences as my colleague chose the venue,’ he lied. ‘I didn’t see her until she was leaving.’ He hoped he’d convinced the light horseman in his dashing uniform, who made him feel so plain by comparison.

  Wren studied him in a brief hesitation before smiling disarmingly. ‘I’m glad she did what she did for your family . . . and for you.’

  Rifki looked up sharply.

  ‘I mean, I would like to think that someone would do that for my father. Açar was sad when he and I met that day. He wanted to tell you how much he loved you.’

  Rifki’s breath felt trapped as the old wound reopened inside and bled. He didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I think you’re right about fate. It has a sense of humour today, pushing us all around like little chess pieces. I’m a bit confused but I’m glad we met, Mr Shahin.’ Jamie smiled crookedly. He struggled to stand and Rifki wanted to help but suspected the soldier preferred to help himself. ‘But now I have to find Claire,’ he murmured.

  Rifki swallowed his yearning. She was no longer his. No matter what his desperate thoughts plotted for preserving Claire for himself none of it felt right, certainly not taking advantage of this courageous soldier – his enemy once, perhaps, but now simply his rival for a woman who was never his to contest. If there was to be any nobility in his clandestine activity, it should show itself right now; he needed to be honourable. Will you tell him? his conscience demanded, and he hovered between wishing to keep Claire and knowing he could not.

  ‘I may know where you might find her,’ he said, letting the words slip before he could wrestle them back.

  Jamie’s expression brightened immediately. He shifted awkwardly to face Rifki square on. ‘Really? Please, Mr Shahin, tell me now. The only thing that kept me alive all these years was dreaming of Claire.’

  ‘I understand,’ he said softly. ‘She told me that she was returning to a friend. I believe her name is Eugenie Lester. She lives in a place called Radlett.’ He shrugged.

  ‘Loom Lane,’ Jamie breathed in wonder. ‘I remember that now.’

  Rifki felt his throat clogging with agonising disappointment. ‘Good luck, James Wren. She told me all about you and my impression is that Claire is single-minded in her affection for you. You are a lucky man.’

  ‘I’d shake your hand if I could, Mr Shahin, but thank you.’

  ‘Bir şey değil,’ he said with a soft smile and yet it wasn’t nothing, it was everything, damn him! He had given Jamie Wren everything that mattered in this moment.

  ‘Perhaps we c
ould meet again,’ Jamie said, standing awkwardly.

  ‘Perhaps, yes,’ Rifki replied. He looked down momentarily, cleared his throat of its emotional pain and then fixed Wren with a soft smile. ‘Claire knows where she can contact our family in Istanbul. You are always welcome and you both have our family’s gratitude.’

  Jamie nodded and again Rifki saw a sense of knowing flash in his expression as though he was aware of the struggle that Rifki had faced and understood honour had won out. ‘To peace,’ he said, before turning and limping out of the drawing room, pushing away from Shahin towards the pull of Claire.

  ________

  She’d stopped running and knew this only because she wasn’t breathing hard from exertion. She had walked through that time without conscious thought; heaven only knew how she’d avoided being trampled by horses or jostling pedestrians. Now she came back to herself and took note of her surrounds, realising with surprise that she was standing in the Burlington Arcade behind Bond Street and off Piccadilly. She had been staring, unseeing, into the window of H.P. Truefitt, the only American shaving parlour in London. The tall, glazed arcade with its posh shopfronts let in no light, she realised, because it had already become dark outside and shops were shutting up around her, including this magnificently appointed saloon that was offering the gentleman everything from shaving, hair dressing and manicures to hats and hosiery.

  She turned away and noticed one of the adventurous, and to her mind courageous, women who had opened her own salon. This one was selling millinery and she was just beginning to roll down shutters and lock up for the day too. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked Claire over a shoulder.