‘I – I want to ask you things, Kitty.’
Kitty said softly, ‘You won’t need to ask me. But I’ll tell you whatever you like.’
‘What will he do? Take me to a theatre, or one of those restaurants they’re always talking about? Where would I stay? What . . . would I do?’
Kitty looked for the biscuit tin. ‘He loves you, Alex. He’s not some fumbling lout at the village dance. He’s Jonathan Blackwood, and he’s trying to tell you.’
Doctor Pitcairn wandered through from the hall, and they both fell silent.
‘You know, I think the nights are drawing in already. Doesn’t seem possible.’ He smiled at Kitty. ‘Anything unusual happen today?’
Alex turned her face away and heard her friend reply casually, ‘Can’t think of anything.’
The doctor was so immersed in his notes that he hardly noticed.
‘That’s good. Now let’s have some tea.’
The London rail terminus of Waterloo was busier than ever, or so it seemed to him: packed with people saying good-bye, or waiting nervously to welcome someone home from the war.
Jonathan had arrived far too early, just in case he missed her. She would have received his letter but had not had time to reply to it. There was another possibility, of course. She might have changed her mind, or recognised the danger in what she was doing.
He had been to the R.T.O.’s office to check on schedules, and had managed to avoid two Royal Marine captains he knew who were returning to Portsmouth.
Beyond the rank of ticket barriers the trains lay waiting to leave, or came to a halt amidst clouds of steam with doors flinging open like fins along their full lengths. The passengers were mostly in army or naval uniforms. At the gates military police stood double-banked, their eyes everywhere as the inspectors took or clipped the outthrust tickets while the crowds surged through: looking for deserters, men overstaying their leave, or others who were improperly dressed. By the sharp contrast in their appearance Jonathan recognised those from a barracks or some training depot: smart as paint, eager to get on leave. The veterans, in stained uniforms and scarred boots, were dull-eyed, empty of expression as they stared around until a familiar face or waiting family emerged from the crowd. There were trolleys piled with kit-bags and sailors’ hammocks, a boozy-looking chief petty officer with a party of boy seamen on their way to complete their training. Some appeared to be no more than about fourteen.
Jonathan thought of Harry Payne with regret and a certain sadness. He had asked him what he would do on this brief leave, and Payne had been vague.
‘Might look up an old pal. If not I’ll beg a place at Eastney. I’ll give the gate my whereabouts,’case you need me.’ One thing he did not intend to do was visit his mother and stepfather.
Wyke had said he was going to see his young lady, then take her to meet his parents. He had seemed very confident that it would turn out well.
Both Payne and Wyke had probably guessed why he himself wanted to remain alone. He had heard no rumours around the battalion, so obviously the pair of them, like Swan, knew a secret when they saw one.
He recalled the depression and dismay when the Fifty-First had received its new orders for moving to the French coast. They had been ready, keyed up to the limit after the army’s success at the Messines Ridge, and the order to wait while reinforcements and more artillery were brought up had seemed like madness, particularly to company commanders who would eventually be expected to lead their men against a rested and well-prepared enemy.
He saw some women from the Salvation Army with collecting boxes, and others handing out pamphlets to the passing throng. No one took any notice. He was reminded of the trio of soldiers he had seen on his way here, still wearing khaki uniforms from which the badges and ranks had been stripped. They had been standing near the Savoy Hotel playing their instruments, a mouth organ, a concertina and a flute, and there had not been a whole man among them. One had an arm missing, one a leg, and the third was badly scarred in the face. They had not been openly appealing to the passersby, and in turn, no one had appeared to notice the khaki cap upended on the pavement.
Take me back to dear old Blighty . . .
They had seemed to be in good spirits: maybe it was enough merely to be back in dear old Blighty, away from the mud and the blood and the lice and the smell of death. He had been deeply moved, and had stopped and put some notes in the cap, probably more than they usually collected in a week. The one with the concertina had given him a broad grin and said, ‘First time I’ve ever ’ad a blinkin’ colonel on ’is knees to me!’ His one eye had fixed on Jonathan’s D.S.O. ‘Give the bastards ’ell, sir!’
He had hurried on towards Waterloo Bridge, but his thoughts lingered on the Savoy. What it would be like to take her there, openly, and without shame: to have her waited on and fussed over by the staff, and all the while he would be watching her, bringing the dream to reality.
He had strode on, angry with himself. It was only a dream. Suppose he had asked her to go there with him? What sort of man would she think he was? There were so many regulations now about hotel registration and food allowances it would have been very soon apparent that they weren’t married, and that would have made her feel so cheap. Her distress would have been unbearable.
She would probably reconsider and take the next train back in any case once she found out what he had arranged: accommodation at a town house belonging to one of David’s friends, who had inherited wealth and property in Norfolk and very seldom used the London house unless there was a race meeting somewhere in the area. He had always insisted that David or either of his brothers use it as a pied-à-terre if in the city, and Jonathan had gone there upon his arrival in London.
At least they would have a base, he thought, trying to justify himself, somewhere to talk and be alone together.
He was so uncertain that every time a train moved he realised how nervous he had become. There had been something in the tone of Alex’s precious letters which had kindled hope, where before any thought of her had been a delusion; a warmth had crept into her written words so that they might have been spoken by her voice in his mind, and he was able to see her vividly whenever he had read them.
Suppose she misunderstood this latest clumsy attempt to reach her, to salvage something if not of the future then the present, and believed he only thought of her as a passing fancy?
Porters were shouting, women were frantically embracing departing men, and steam was puffing towards him around a bend in the track, which suddenly seemed to be lines of blinding silver in the sunlight beyond the covered platforms.
It was the one, it had to be. He glanced at his watch. Right on time: the good old Southern Railway.
‘I say – Jonathan Blackwood, isn’t it?’
He turned and saw a vaguely familiar face: a man wearing a smart, well-tailored suit that made him look like a prosperous lawyer. That was it. He plucked the name out of memory.
‘Mr Collins! How good to see you.’ He was a lawyer; had handled his father’s complicated business affairs and the repayment of his many debts after his death.
The other man was going on about the weather, the war, and the crowds. None of it made sense. He could hear the train grunting up to its platform, saw the inspector opening the gate, the redcaps taking a sudden interest.
‘Meeting anyone I know?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ He knew he sounded curt, but he couldn’t help it. The train had stopped: all the doors were banging open like the previous arrivals. He turned to say something else but the lawyer had gone; probably in a huff, he thought, to wait in the buffet and see for himself who was coming.
He stared down the platform in vain. Crowds of sailors and more troops were nearly through, with the few civilians among them immediately apparent. A soldier was being questioned by two redcaps, his face like death. The other crowds pressed closer to the gates. The last farewell.
Khaki uniforms hurried past. Some saluted, others look
ed in the opposite direction.
Back to the house then. Another long evening drinking and staring at the sporting paintings that filled every wall, watching him. Men with guns, men with dogs, and unlikely looking jockeys on improbable horses.
He thought with envy of Wyke: showing off his girl, all the fear and the danger forgotten.
She was coming towards the gates. She wore a white blouse and a dark green suit and hat, and carried a small leather case, and she passed through a bar of unbroken sunlight where the glass roof had fallen in after a Zeppelin raid. For those brief seconds she seemed to shimmer in his vision. Then she was through the gate, smiling and waving, watched by one of the inspectors with admiration.
He held her tightly.
‘I was beginning to wonder.’ He studied every detail of her face. As he had expected she was very tanned, and her eyes were shining with excitement and emotion.
She said, ‘You’re staring.’ Then she lifted her face to his. ‘I’ve been thinking about you all the time. I feel so wicked, coming here like this.’
He kissed her gently, but this time she did not turn her mouth to his lips. It was enough to see, hear and hold her; the beauty of her face, the curve of her throat, the very freshness of her was more than he had dared to imagine.
He took her bag and immediately she protested. ‘Oh, you mustn’t! You’re in uniform!’
He said lightly, ‘I don’t have to keep saluting this way.’
She asked, suddenly and abruptly, ‘How long?’
‘Six days. I have to see some people at Headquarters tomorrow.’ He already knew what the next question would be.
‘Where are we staying?’
He knew it was important. It was something she had wondered about, perhaps dreaded. He explained as best he could, thinking how convenient, how premeditated it all sounded, and was surprised when she said calmly, ‘I hoped it would be something like that. A hotel might have been . . .’ But the mood changed instantly as she held up her left hand. ‘But I came prepared, just in case!’
It was a plain wedding ring, and suddenly he wanted to hug her.
She said, ‘I won’t have people gossiping about my colonel.’ And as an afterthought, ‘I went all the way to Alton for it, so you needn’t think—’
‘I was thinking only that you came. I don’t know how you managed it, I don’t know how you explained. I only know that I’m overwhelmed.’ He steered her around luggage and trolleys and waved to a cab. ‘I’m taking you out to dinner tonight, by the way. Not a big place, and not full of red-tabbed generals and politicians. I’ve had just about enough of those lately.’
She held his arm tightly. For only a second the bitterness had shown itself. But the strain was much less evident, falling from his face even as they walked and spoke, and the quiet confidence she had always sensed in him was unimpaired. If she had harboured doubts, they were now gone.
The cab rattled over the bridge and down towards Trafalgar Square, and she leaned over him to peer out and up at the little admiral.
‘How lovely!’ she said, with the unsophisticated pleasure he found so appealing. ‘Just like the picture on my pencil box when I was a child! I don’t remember ever seeing it before.’
The cabbie, who sported a ferocious walrus moustache that would have put Sergeant-Major McCann to shame, chuckled. ‘Where’s your wife been then, Guvnor? In the nick?’
And although they both laughed, Jonathan saw her flush and nervously turn the wedding ring on her left hand.
Down a narrow street, and the cab came to a halt. She got out and gazed up at the house, her apprehension returning. The front was narrow but it was three storeys high, with splendid wrought-iron railings and a fanlight over the dark blue door. The brass knocker, typical of the owner, had been made in the form of a fox mask and riding crop.
‘You said it was small.’
He said, ‘Well, I suppose – by London standards, it is.’
‘You see?’ she said. ‘I’m just a country girl.’ Her face clouded suddenly. ‘Out to dinner? I’m not well dressed enough for that—’
He put his fingers under her chin and smiled down at her. ‘If you wore a stoker’s boiler-suit you’d be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.’
He said it so seriously and with such sincerity that she could find no answer. At that moment the door opened and the elderly housekeeper peered out.
Jonathan said, ‘It’s kind of you to be here, Mrs Scully.’
‘A pleasure, Colonel.’ Her eyes moved to the girl.
‘Ma ’am.’ As she closed the door behind them she said, ‘I’ve made up the rooms, sir, and there’s plenty in the pantry. You won’t need any more until . . .’
But Alexandra was staring up at the curving staircase, at the paintings, the freshly-polished, elegant furniture. He had never brought a woman here before; it was quite obvious. But she guessed that others had, and no questions had been asked.
More to the point, he had not brought her here out of subterfuge, but to protect her and any reputation she might have when she returned home again.
Six days. Was that all? She climbed the stairs slowly, missing nothing. They would be days she would never forget.
As her first night in London drew to a close Alexandra sat in her room and went over everything they had done together, wondering why she was not completely exhausted. He had taken her to see Buckingham Palace and then for afternoon tea at the Grand Hotel, where nearby a band playing in the square had entertained servicemen and civilians alike. To her eyes there seemed so many uniforms, but otherwise the war and the shadows it cast seemed far away. They had returned to the house so that she could rest and change into the one special gown she had brought, then he had taken her to a small restaurant in Piccadilly: a place with comfortable booths and red velvet draperies and cushions. All the waiters had seemed quite ancient, and Jonathan had remarked that the younger ones were probably in the army. But mostly he let her talk: about her mother and her life, her past, and the thoughts she had never before shared with anyone.
He had seemed nervous, even shy: more so than she had expected, but his attention to her, his willingness to escort her wherever she wanted to go, and his companionship moved her in a way she had never known.
They had walked back to the house and she imagined that he was glad of the darkness: his arm must have ached from all the salutes he had had to return. He had commented, ‘They just want to see the lovely girl beside me!’
She brushed her hair and felt the slightest breeze, saw it stir the curtains. She had opened the windows wide for, as many people had remarked, it was the hottest and most humid day yet.
She thought of him in the adjoining room. Undressing; perhaps having a drink before he turned in. Not once, beyond his very apparent affection, had he made any advances or behaved in a manner which might have offended her.
Five more full days. It would go like the wind. What had she really expected, perhaps secretly hoped? That he would have insisted upon more? She opened the drawer in the dressing table, where she had put the nightgown Kitty had offered her.
It was mine. I never had the chance to wear it. You take it with you, Alex love.
She stood quite still and held the nightgown against her body. Beautifully laced and daringly cut, it had been for the wedding night Kitty had never known. Against it her own cotton gown looked like a smock. She wrinkled her nose and then pulled it over her head and gazed at herself in the mirror, strangely excited and shocked by her nakedness.
Maybe you think it’s a bit of a cheek, Kitty had said, and blushed. If you do – well, I’m sorry.
She put on the silk nightgown and adjusted it so that it fitted her body to perfection. What would she do if he knocked or spoke to her through the door, or opened it? But she knew he would not.
She lay on the bed in the darkness. When she had looked in the mirror it had been like that other time. She had smiled, and the girl who had smiled back had been a stranger. A wo
man in love.
The air was so humid that she had to push down the sheet, and she thought she would never be able to sleep as each precious memory flowed back into her mind. But she did sleep, more peacefully than for a long time.
And suddenly she was awake, her heart beating furiously although she did not know why. Even as she sat up the curtains were lit with a fierce, vivid flash, followed a second later by a roar of thunder that seemed to shake the foundations. She opened the curtains and looked out at the dark city, feeling the warm, moist air on her bare arms and shoulders. More lightning revealed the neighbouring roofs and chimney pots, stark against the black sky, and she withdrew hurriedly. Someone might see her like this. There was going to be a real storm, perhaps a cloudburst. She thought of Hampshire. That might stop the farmers complaining, for a while anyway.
Then she froze. Perhaps that had been the sound which had awakened her, and not the storm. She strained her ears and heard it again: a voice calling out, pleading incoherently. She did not hesitate but pulled her dressing gown around her and listened at the connecting door. It was Jonathan, and he seemed to be weeping, crying out.
What must she do? Pretend not to hear? There was nobody to call, and the housekeeper had gone long ago.
The connecting door was locked, and she went out into the passageway, her progress lit occasionally by the violent flashes. Outside his door she was unable to move. If only Harry Payne were here, or somebody else.
Then she knew she wanted nobody else to see him this way, and opened the door very carefully, waiting for another flash to light up the room. There was a small lamp on a table, and she felt for the switch and was momentarily blinded by the sudden light. Jonathan lay face down on the bed, his head buried in his arms, wearing only pyjama trousers; and she stared for what seemed like minutes at the jagged, star-shaped scars on his back.
The crumpled jacket lay like a wet rag on the carpet and there was an empty glass overturned beside it. The thunder tore the night again and he flung himself upright in the bed, his eyes wide and anguished. She knew he could not see her. He was somewhere else.
The Horizon (1993) Page 27
