Sunny drew in a breath.
‘I suppose you’re wondering if they were lovers. My mother and Cora.’
Edward cleared his throat. ‘Well, er—’
‘To tell the truth, I’m not sure. But I rather think not. Apart from James and me, they were all they had. They saved each other from an isolated, lonely life. It’s no wonder they grew so close.’
‘Did your mother’s death spur Cora to leave, too?’ said Edward.
‘It may have provided the initial impetus,’ said Sunny, ‘that first push that sets the flywheel turning. But, again, I can’t be sure. Cora left in April ’44. She took nothing but the clothes she had on and some money she’d made by selling her jewellery. She took Virgie over to the Blythes and told Martha Blythe she was catching a train to London for the day, to do some shopping. She never returned.’
‘Did Mr Potts go looking for her?’ April said.
‘Mr Potts’s hired thugs went looking for her. They had no success. It was as if she’d been spirited away.’
The door to the courtyard was open, and from inside the house came a sustained yodelling yowl.
‘Home is the hunter,’ said Sunny, with a sigh. ‘Which means either a headless rabbit corpse on the doorstep or a dead shrew in the laundry sink.’
‘Headless?’ said Edward, with a quick grimace of distaste.
‘He crunches up their skulls with a sound reminiscent of a small cow eating swedes,’ said Sunny. ‘The shrews, by contrast, have not a mark on them. I suspect they may die instantly of fright, and Fatso’s depositing of them in my sink is more to deprive another cat than to proudly display a trophy.’
Fatso slid through the doorway and curved around Sunny’s leg. She bent to stroke him and he butted his head against her hand, and then leapt up onto her lap.
‘I had a phone call from Charlie’s wife yesterday,’ Sunny said, unhooking the cat’s claws from her cotton-knit top. ‘Seems my oldest son has been in hospital, undergoing tests on his heart.’
‘Serious?’ said Edward.
‘I doubt it. Charlie is a notorious hypochondriac. But he has been advised, apparently, to take it slowly. No excitement.’
‘And your birthday party might well qualify as excitement, I assume.’
Fatso’s eyes were closed tight and his purr vibrated the air, loud as an approaching swarm of bees.
‘At least you bring me presents,’ Sunny said to him. ‘Even if I have to remove them on a shovel afterwards.’
She fondled the velvety spots at the base of his ears.
‘Tests of the heart. We all face them, don’t we? But I’m not sure there exists any medical intervention to assist with mine.’
CHAPTER 34
December, 1943
His announcement should have made him the centre of attention, thought James. But, even six months later, everyone was still blinking in the aftermath of Sunny’s mother’s fiery death, still dazzled by its brilliant halo. The news that he had decided to leave the shelter of his student exemption and enlist seemed trivial and mundane — he was only one of hundreds of thousands of others who’d done the same and, let’s face it, in the circumstances it was the least he could do. On top of that, he was still here and very much alive. He was not a hero yet.
Dorothea ‘Dimity’ Northcote had been posthumously awarded the Albert Medal for conspicuous gallantry. Sunny had declined to attend the ceremony organised by the mayor of Kingsfield, so James’s mother had accepted the medal on her behalf. The entire village had turned out for the medal ceremony, and for the funeral, too.
James, like Sunny, had only come for the funeral. He had only brief words with Sunny, being one in an enormous line waiting to offer condolences, and straight afterwards she’d enlisted in the ATS and gone to a training camp in Devon.
She’d arrived there, she said in a letter to him, as instructed, with no civilian clothes other than what she was wearing, and James got the impression that she’d welcomed the chance to be rid of reminders of home.
The ATS wouldn’t take married women, and unsure of their views on almost-married ones, Sunny had given her engagement ring to Reverend Brownlow for safekeeping. She wrote that there was still the risk that Ern might steal it. He’d stolen over a pound’s worth of coins from the collection plate while Reverend Brownlow was actually holding it. Mrs Cake only realised when she heard him jingling as they walked home.
By the time of the medal ceremony, Sunny was in an army camp in Nottinghamshire, driving lorries. In another letter, Sunny described her uniform — khaki serge with brass buttons and buckle, lisle stockings (also khaki), and heavy brown brogues. James wondered if Sunny liked wearing clothes that made her look exactly like all the other girls. He guessed that she would never look exactly like them. Sunny could be clad all in black against a starless sky and the force of her would glow like metal on a blacksmith’s forge.
James did not speak to Lily at the funeral at all, had no contact but to acknowledge her wave with one of his own. Lily and her mother insisted on doing all the catering, and were far too busy doling out cups of tea and sandwiches to the horde of mourners to speak to him. He had not expected Rowan to attend, but it would have been good to know how he was, and whether Lily still … visited him.
But there’d be time for a conversation now that he was home for Christmas. It would be a rather reduced Christmas without Sunny and her mother, just the three of them, plus Virgie, of course, who was so quiet she didn’t really count. His mother had suggested inviting the Blythes but his father wouldn’t hear of it. His father was not in a particularly festive mood. From the little he’d said, James knew that not all was well at the factory. No more strikes had been organised, but there had been several accidents that had brought a halt to production. By ‘accidents’, his father clearly meant sabotage, though it seemed nothing could be proved. In any case, production delays had not made a material dent in sales because they were continuing their rapid slide. Over the past year, Potts had begun to lay off staff, which had immediately spurred many workers to leave for better pay and conditions in ordnance factories. Those who stayed were probably the kind who preferred the devil they knew, thought James. Or who enjoyed stirring up trouble.
James’s father, however, was confident that any decline was temporary. When the war ended, sales would pick up, as would his political career when general elections began once more to be held. There were always boom times after wars, said James’s father. It was a natural cycle.
Virgie was in the hall, coat on and head almost entirely obscured by a large knitted muffler. She held a basket in be-mittened hands.
‘You’re not walking into the village, are you?’ said James. ‘It’s bloody cold out.’
She shook her head. ‘The Blythes. For eggs.’
James took his own coat and muffler from the stand. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Usually, Virgie was so quiet you hardly knew she was there. It was a useful survival tactic, he supposed, to be able to disappear into the background. James found it quite restful to be around her, as he had as a child with his mother and in his teenage years during his excursions with Rowan into the woods. Being with peaceful people helped you feel at peace, too. You could, of course, read their quiescence as indifference — that they didn’t care whether you were there or not — but James preferred to interpret their silence as companionable. He preferred that whatever thoughts they might or might not have remained unspoken. Then he could believe what he liked.
‘Are you scared?’
The content of Virgie’s question startled him as much as its utterance.
‘About what?’
‘Going to fight.’
‘Ah,’ said James. ‘Yes, I am. Quite a lot.’
It seemed safe enough to admit this to Virgie. She was unlikely to pass it on.
‘Are you scared of getting hurt? Or of hurting someone else?’
Dear God, how old was she? Thirteen going on ninety-five?
‘Probab
ly more scared of getting hurt.’
‘Ern got hurt end of summer,’ said Virgie. ‘He fell out of the mayor’s plum tree. Broke his arm.’
James had heard about that. Mrs Cake had been sympathetic enough to strap up Ern’s arm before tanning his rear end for scrumping.
‘If all that happens is I break my arm,’ said James, ‘I’ll consider myself lucky.’
And if he lost an arm, he’d be invalided out. James had never thought there’d be a time he would envy Billy Curry and his one leg.
As they approached the Blythes’ front door, someone was exiting.
‘Oh! James. Virgie. Good morning.’
It was Reverend Brownlow. He looked rather weary and harassed, James thought, but then his wife had only a week ago given birth to child number three, another daughter, which meant he now had three girls under three, an equation designed to murder sleep more effectively than Macbeth. (The Scottish play, being such a hit with the children last year, was being performed again this Christmas. Virgie was playing Banquo’s ghost, a part that could have been written for her.)
‘Your mother has very graciously invited me for drinks this evening,’ Reverend Brownlow said to James. ‘Could you be so kind as to let her know that I will regretfully have to decline? Imogen and Eliza both have croup and the baby is colicky, and, of course, Eleanor is quite exhausted after such an arduous labour, and so I really should—’
‘My mother will quite understand.’
James had caught the door before it shut, and now opened it a crack more to allow Virgie to sidle around the vicar and escape indoors.
‘Well, I mustn’t keep you outside in this weather,’ the Reverend was saying. But James was already closing the door.
Lily grabbed him by the hand as soon as he entered.
‘Barn,’ she said. ‘I need to talk to you.’
The barn, despite being well insulated by hay, was not the Blythes’ nice warm kitchen, where Virgie was about to be served a cup of hot cocoa and possibly a fresh baked bun. Lily could have waited five minutes before dragging him away, James thought.
But no, apparently she couldn’t have. He’d barely sat down on a hay bale before she launched into speech.
‘Reverend Brownlow came to talk to me about Rowan,’ she said. ‘He knew Papa was at the market, and that Mama still has a soft spot for Rowan. He’s so terribly worried about him. This will be his third winter in the woods and—’ Lily grabbed his hand again ‘—he told me that Rowan had tried to come to Mrs Northcote’s funeral. But he went to ask Old Ted if he wanted to come, too, and the bloody old sod took to him with his ash stick!’
‘What?’
‘Beat him so hard he bled, the Reverend said!’
Lily was gripping James’s hand too tightly for comfort, and her face was flushed dark red with anger — and fear, too, James saw. Her mouth was trembling and her eyes had a wild look to them, like a trapped animal.
‘Old Ted is ancient and pretty much blind,’ said James. ‘Surely Rowan could have stopped him?’
‘Oh, Rowan’s so weak now.’ Lily was close to tears. ‘So thin, you can see every rib. And he was so brave, trying to come to the funeral when so many of the villagers still hate him for being a coward. He did it for Sunny. Or he would have, if—’
And now she was crying properly, one hand still gripping James’s, the other trying to wipe away tears and snot.
‘Here.’ James offered her his handkerchief. ‘How the hell did Reverend Brownlow find out that Rowan had been beaten?’
Lily blew her nose. ‘Ted told him.’
‘Confessed?’
‘Not officially. The Reverend wouldn’t have been able to tell me if that were the case. Ted just sought him out last week and told him. Perhaps he wanted someone to make sure Rowan hadn’t died, though it would have been bloody months too late, the old sod. Who knows? I hate him!’
‘How come you didn’t know anything about it?’ said James.
Lily shook her head, eyes welling again. ‘I didn’t see him at all over the summer. I meant to but it was so busy here, because we lost Sunny and, of course, Mrs Northcote …’
James said, softly, cautiously, ‘And have you seen Rowan since?’
‘Oh, God.’
Those whispered two words contained all the information James needed.
‘I felt the scars on his back.’ She was barely audible. ‘I didn’t know what they were. I thought he’d been scraped by branches or something. I should have asked.’
‘When was this?’
‘Two weeks ago.’ Lily began swiping at her eyes with the handkerchief again. ‘We didn’t mean to, we really didn’t, but — oh, God.’
‘Come here.’
James reached out and gently drew her into an embrace. She came willingly and clung to him, face buried in his chest.
‘Dear, oh dear,’ he said. ‘It’s all a mess, isn’t it? A bloody mess.’
She began to hiccup with sobs. James cradled her head back onto his chest.
‘Shh, shh. Don’t think about it. You’re here, and so am I. Right now, we’re here and alive and well, so let’s just focus on that, shall we?’
Lily’s arms tightened around him, and they sat on the hay bale, locked together, until Lily lifted her head again and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You always know exactly what to say.’
James raised his hand, meaning only to brush the clinging blonde strands from her damp face. But a deeper urge made him cup her face and pull her to him, and take his first ever kiss from her beautiful mouth.
She pushed his chest to break it and it was his turn to say, ‘Oh, God.’
‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.’
But she did not look angry with him, or offended. She looked kind, concerned.
‘It’s the feeling that comes over you when you’re scared,’ she said. ‘I know it all too well.’
‘Am I scared?’ He attempted a smile.
‘I would be,’ she said. ‘I’d be terrified.’
She reached out and, just as he’d intended before, stroked his hair.
‘My brave boy,’ she said. ‘So, so brave.’
And he kissed her again, couldn’t stop himself, and she did not resist but kissed him back. But when he lifted her down off the hay bale and onto the straw-covered floor of the loft, she began to struggle away.
‘No,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘No, we can’t.’
James so nearly yelled at her. She’d do it again and again with Rowan! Why the hell not just once with him?
But he said, ‘Don’t worry. We’ll stop.’
And he sat up, leaned against the hay bale and dropped his face despairingly into his hands.
‘Oh, James.’
Lily was beside him, hand in his hair again, stroking.
‘It’s all right.’
She thought he was crying, he realised. And by God, he felt like it. All those years of wanting and never, ever having, never even getting close. All those years, and she had no idea. No one did. At least no one would know about today, either. That was a consolation prize, of sorts.
But what was this? Her hands, warm palms, cold fingertips, were on his, drawing them away from his face. And now her mouth was on his, and she was coaxing him back down onto the straw. And now her hand — James felt a jolt as if he’d touched a faulty switch — was down there, and …
‘Oh, God,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, God, yes.’
At last.
The panic set in the following morning. James had a sudden recollection of Sunny saying that she would never get pregnant because her mother had insisted on buying her a cervical cap and instructing her on its use. French letters weren’t reliable enough, Sunny’s mother had declared. Or rather, men weren’t reliable enough to properly inspect their contraceptives for holes. Her mother had learned everything from Marie Stopes’s Married Love, Sunny had said, which was ironic considering her father had been about as keen on
sex as one of those monks in the Greek monastery who wouldn’t allow anything female on the premises, not even hens. Probably less keen, knowing monks.
He’d used nothing. He was fairly sure Lily wouldn’t know anything about cervical caps. She had not got pregnant with Rowan, but then, who knew — perhaps Rowan was too weak to produce anything fertile? Or perhaps Rowan had been cautious and pulled out before …
James had not been cautious. He had not pulled out. He could not be sure that meant Lily was pregnant but, equally, he could not be sure she was not. James recalled that Sunny had been adamant that having sex without contraception was a mug’s game; humans were meant to breed and nature very rarely made that difficult. If you were a young, healthy male and hadn’t ridden a bicycle too often over cobbled streets, Sunny had avowed, you’d have no trouble at all getting a girl up the duff.
And what would happen if Lily were pregnant? One thing and one thing only, James knew: he would be marched up the aisle by Ellis Blythe, the big man’s vice-like grip on his arm. No amount of James’s father’s money or influence would make a difference, not when Lily’s reputation was at stake. Even if Lily were honest and confessed that the baby might also be Rowan’s, Ellis Blythe would never allow that union. Only James would be marrying a pregnant Lily, whether he wanted to or not.
James did not want to marry Lily. Now that he’d — now that they’d — done it, he did not even particularly want to do it again with her. It had been very good, really quite a lot better than he’d imagined, but it was as if now that he’d won that particular title, he felt no need to defend it. The conquest of Lily was a minor, provincial race — good fun in the moment — but now he could look to compete in a bigger arena. As a soldier in foreign places, he would have access to all kinds of women, older, more beautiful — more sophisticated. True prizes that only the best could hope to win.
What the hell should he do? His first instinct was to talk to Sunny, but he had no idea how to get hold of her. He could hardly talk to his mother. Or, God forbid, his father.
He could talk to Rowan. Even if all Rowan did was listen in his usual calm way, it would be enough. It would be a load off James’s mind. A problem shared is a problem halved and all that. Confession is good for the soul.
The Hiding Places Page 32
