by Janet Tanner
No more kisses, no chance to exchange a word even. And when she had left this morning and gone to kiss Huw goodbye she had sensed his withdrawal.
But why – why – what had gone wrong?
It must be something Mum said to him, Barbara thought. That she didn’t want us to be together, that I’m too young or he’s too likely to be killed, or something. But why should he take it like this?
Tears choked at the back of her throat and she stared out of the window of the bus swallowing at them angrily. She would not cry. She would not. And really there was nothing to cry about. Huw’s feelings could not have changed in half an hour. It was something else that was making him different.
She would write to him tonight. She would tell him that whatever her mother had said she didn’t care. She loved him and wanted to be with him.
Oh, please God let it be all right! Barbara prayed.
And please, above all, keep him safe!
Their letters must have crossed in the post.
Barbara received hers from Huw two days later. She took it up to her room to read filled with a sense of dread as if she already knew what it said.
‘Dear Barbara. I’m sorry but what happened when I came home was all a mistake. Please try and forget it and go back to the way things used to be between us. Go out with other boys. You’ll soon find someone who will make you forget me. I’m sorry if I hurt you. I didn’t mean to. Love, Huw.’
She sat staring at it and the tears washed down her cheeks.
Forget him? As if she ever could!
The rain beat on the window, but not even the bleakness of the winter weather could match the bleakness in Barbara’s heart.
Chapter Twelve
Christmas came and went, a miserable Christmas by most people’s standards. The shop windows which were usually a blaze of light at this time of year were covered with blackout paper and every conceivable extra which made Christmas festivities special was in short supply or not available at all. Sugar and butter were rationed, making it difficult to cook rich festive fare, and nuts, grapes, bananas and tangerines were nowhere to be found. As if even nature herself was tightening her belt against the war the holly bushes were bare of berries, so that when Amy sent the girls out to look for sprigs to tuck behind the pictures as she did each year they returned with an armful of sad looking branches, and Ralph rather felt that his regular contribution of a Christmas tree was something of an extravagance.
The new year augured no better. In the first week of January the meat allowance was reduced for the second time in as many weeks and the children were unable to buy sweets or chocolates – all available supplies were being sent to the forces, it was said.
In the third week of January Ralph’s Spitfire Fund achieved its target. The idea had caught the imagination of everyone and many of the villages surrounding Hillsbridge had joined in with their own schemes to raise money, from collecting boxes left on the counters of shops and general stores to ‘penny bun sales’, from whist drives and dances to slide shows. A final handsome donation from Sir Richard Spindler made up the required £5,000 with £1.2s. 3d. to spare! Everyone was full of congratulations for Ralph and his team but in the midst of the euphoria Amy could only be secretly glad it was over – coming on top of her long hard days at the office the raising of the money had meant a lot of extra work.
She was worried, too, about Barbara. At first she had been only grateful that Huw had behaved as he had and told herself that Barbara would soon get over the ending of her first love affair, but it had not been that easy. As she watched Barbara’s misery day after day she began blaming herself. Huw had been right, she should have spoken out long ago, and she found herself remembering her mother’s old dictum: Oh what a tangled web we weave, When first we practise to deceive!
Yet even now she did not see what she could have done about it. She had wanted only to preserve family harmony and the moment for telling Huw had never seemed the right one. She had gone on in the mistaken belief that it was something which need never come to light and by the time she had begun to realise what was happening between Barbara and Huw it was much too late.
God forgive me, Amy thought. I only did what I believed to be for the best and look how it has turned out!
On the Monday evening after the Spitfire Fund target had been reached a final meeting was arranged and Amy, anxious to find anything to take Barbara’s mind off her broken heart, suggested she should come along with her and Ralph.
‘Oh, I don’t want to go to a boring meeting,’ Barbara said.
‘This one won’t be boring – it might be fun!’ Amy coaxed. ‘The organisers from the villages will be there and we’ve planned a celebration to thank them for all their hard work. You’re not fire watching this evening, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Well, there you are. You’ve no excuse.’
‘Maureen isn’t going, is she?’
‘I don’t think Maureen is old enough to be going into pubs even if it is the functions room. And she has her homework to do, anyway. Please, Barbara,’ Amy said, making one last effort, ‘I really would like you to come.’
‘Oh all right, I suppose so,’ Barbara said ungraciously.
She, Ralph and Amy were among the first to arrive at The George but soon the others were milling in, smiling and looking pleased with themselves. When the time came for the meeting to begin Ralph and Amy were required to take their places at a long trestle table which had been set out at the front of the room for the committee and Barbara sat at the back, prepared to be bored. Then, just before the meeting was called to order, there was a small stir when voices could be heard on the stairway leading to the functions room, Barbara turned towards the door and saw a stout middle aged man in an expensively-cut overcoat with a dark moleskin collar and an Anthony Eden style hat. His face, heavy-jowled, had the look of a man who might be a little too fond of his port, and she recognised him at once as Sir Richard Spindler. Following him into the room was a younger man, tall, fair and handsome, and although he was now wearing a dark suit instead of his uniform he, too, was instantly recognisable as Marcus, who had been given a hero’s welcome home the previous summer.
The stir became more pronounced. Someone rushed forward to put out two extra chairs in the front row and the Spindlers were escorted to them, smiling and nodding like visiting royalty.
Typical! thought Barbara bad temperedly. Typical of them to swan in at the last moment expecting everyone to fall over backwards just because they had deigned to grace the meeting with their presence.
But as she listened – or rather did not listen – to the first of the rather self-congratulatory speeches, she found her eyes straying to the back of Marcus’head. The hair that had looked golden in the sunshine the day he came home looked no less dull tonight as the light from the overhead chandelier fell on it and tiny bristles gleamed like gold dust on the nape of his neck above the white shirt collar and dark grey of his suit. He really was a very good looking young man.
He had been invalided out of the army, Barbara had heard, and intended to help his elder brother run the estate side of the Spindler empire – whatever that might entail.
The speeches were over at last, everyone who had contributed to the success of the fund had been thanked and Ralph was on his feet holding the all important cheque.
‘On behalf of the Spitfire Committee I have great pleasure in formally presenting this cheque for £5,000 to Sir Richard who has kindly agreed to pass it to Lord Beaverbrook on our behalf.’
Sir Richard rose and accepted the cheque amid a burst of clapping.
‘Now I hope you will all join me in enjoying the remainder of the evening,’ he concluded. ‘A great deal of hard work has gone into this project. When we each have a glass in our hands I suggest we raise it to drink to the Spitfire – our Spitfire – and hope it plays its part in bringing a speedy end to the rascally exploits of Adolf Hitler!’
Waitresses, specially employed for the occasi
on, were moving between the rows of chairs with trays of sherries; Barbara took one and raised it with everyone else.
‘The Hillsbridge Spitfire!’
The thick sweet sherry cloyed in Barbara’s mouth as she thought of Huw, perhaps flying tonight in a fighter just like the one they were toasting.
They were making it sound like a game, she thought, endowing it as if it were a new cricket pavilion for the greater glory of the first eleven. But the war was not a game. It was life and death for young men like Huw.
The rows of chairs were being cleared away to turn the functions room floor into an open space where people could mingle and chat whilst they drank their sherry. Barbara was cornered by one of the village representatives who swore he could remember her as a little girl, though Barbara could not recall ever having seen him in her life before.
‘Oh my, where does time go?’ he asked ponderously, and when he reached the point of tweaking her curls and attempting to pat her bottom Barbara decided it was time to escape.
The trays of sherry were standing on a table near the door. Barbara exchanged her empty glass for a full one, sidled closer to the door, checked that no one was watching her and slipped out. The staircase was carpeted, leading downwards to the Lounge Bar and upwards to the rooms which The George let to paying guests. Barbara was just trying to decide whether to go up or down when a voice behind her said:
‘Not leaving already, are you?’
She swung round to face Marcus Spindler. Colour rushed to her cheeks, then she thought – why try to deny the truth?
‘Escaping,’ she said and laughed.
‘I thought as much.’ He came down the two steps to the landing where she was standing. ‘What do you say we escape together?’
‘You?’ she exlaimed quickly, then her flush deepened. ‘I would have thought you were used to this sort of thing’, she explained.
‘That doesn’t mean I have to like it.’ He smiled. It was a nice smile, bringing deep dimples on either side of his mouth into play. ‘The old man railroaded me into coming along.’
‘That is exactly what my mother did to me.’
‘So they have nobody to blame but themselves if we creep off,’ he said. ‘What do you say we get a proper drink?’ He glanced in disgust at the sherry he was holding.
‘I – well, yes, why not?’
They went down the stairs to the Lounge. It was half empty since most of its regulars were upstairs at the meeting.
‘What can I get you?’ he asked.
Barbara hesitated, wondering what sounded the most suitable.
‘Gin,’ she decided.
‘And tonic?’
Taste vied with a desire for sophistication. Taste won.
‘Orange.’
‘Grab a seat,’ he said. ‘I’ll join you in a minute.’
She crossed to a table in an alcove. He carried the drinks from the bar one at a time as if he could not use one of his hands and she noticed that his limp was still evident. Then he pulled up a stool to sit facing her.
‘Here’s to escape.’ He raised his glass, half full of amber liquid, and drank. Barbara sipped hers and tasted the tart ‘bite’of the gin beneath the sticky sweetness of the orange squash.
‘I’m Marcus Spindler, by the way,’ he introduced himself. ‘Who are you?’
‘Barbara Roberts. Ralph Porter is my stepfather.’
‘Oh yes, the timber man.’ There was something dismissive about the way he said it.
Had he not been so handsome Barbara might have been annoyed. As it was she said, ‘I expect you know my uncle, too – Harry Hall. He’s the Miners’Agent at the moment, though he might end up by being our MP.’
‘Yes.’ He smiled briefly. ‘He just cost my father rather a lot of money. He talked through an annual paid holiday of six days per annum for his men, and time and a half payment for Good Friday and Easter Monday last year as well. It went to arbitration just after Christmas and my father was notified of the arbitrator’s findings last week. He nearly had apoplexy.’
‘Sorry about that,’ Barbara said.
‘Not your fault.’
‘It doesn’t sound as if you care much for my family,’ Barbara said.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Hall is a good sound man, if a little misguided. Naturally, he does the best he can for his men while my father is mainly interested in making a profit. And politically speaking anyone in the Labour Party is to my father like red rag to a bull.’ He laughed at his own joke.
‘Ralph is a Tory,’ Barbara offered.
‘Most business people are. Anyway,’ he said, ‘we don’t want to talk politics do we? Let’s talk about you. What do you do?’
Barbara sipped her drink, gaining confidence as the gin warmed her throat. ‘I’m learning business studies so I can be of help with Mum’s companies. But if I had my way I’d be in the forces – as you were.’
She saw the shadow come into his eyes.
‘Not any more.’
‘No, but … I saw you arrive home at the station. We just happened to be passing,’ she added quickly, afraid he might think she had gone there specially – a very unsophisticated thing to have done. ‘And we felt so proud. To think someone from Hillsbridge should have been so brave!’
‘It was nothing,’ he said. He was looking at his drink now, not at her. ‘I’m sure there are a great many Hillsbridge men who are braver than I.’
‘You don’t want to talk about it, do you?’ she said. ‘I can understand that. It must have been awful for you. I just wanted you to know that we were very proud.’
He finished his drink. ‘Would you like another one?’
‘Oh no, thank you. Well …’ she giggled. ‘All right then – why not.’
He refilled the glasses. Again, she noticed the large amount of amber liquid in his tumbler. Not surprising really, when you knew what he had been through. Huw also drank more than he used to. Perhaps they all did, the young men who had to live with a knowledge of imminent death. She pushed the thought away. Thinking of Huw in danger or not was painful. Just for tonight she would not think of him at all.
They sat for a while chatting and Marcus had refilled their glasses once again when Amy put her head round the door.
‘There you are! We wondered what had become of you!’
Marcus rose to his feet. ‘I’m afraid I kidnapped her, Mrs Porter. Can I get you a drink?’
‘Oh no, thank you all the same. We’re just leaving. Are you ready, Barbara?’ Amy asked.
‘Yes.’ Barbara got up reluctantly. She had been enjoying herself. ‘Thank you for the drinks,’ she said to Marcus.
‘My pleasure.’ As she slipped past him he touched her arm. ‘May I telephone you?’
Barbara felt the flush beginning again. She glanced at Amy, waiting in the doorway, and looked back at Marcus, so tall, so handsome.
‘If you like,’ she said.
‘You seemed to be getting on very well with Marcus Spindler,’ Amy said in the car on the way home.
‘He’s very nice.’
‘Yes he is. So good looking and a hero as well.’
‘Not to mention his father’s title,’ Ralph said drily.
‘Did I hear him ask if he could phone you?’ Amy asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you might sound a little more enthusiastic! Most girls would be thrilled to bits to have Marcus Spindler chasing after them.’
‘He wasn’t chasing.’
‘Well, if he does phone and ask you out I hope you’ll go,’ Amy said. ‘It would do you the world of good, Barbara. It’s just what you need to cheer you up.’
‘Mum, did you know Marcus Spindler was going to be there when you persuaded me to go to the meeting?’ Barbara asked suspiciously.
‘I thought he might be, yes.’
‘Please don’t start matchmaking for me,’ Barbara said with asperity. ‘I don’t care for it.’
‘I’m not matchmaking! I’m only saying he is a very eligible
young man and I hope you realise how lucky you are.’
‘Amy!’ Ralph said warningly. ‘Leave Barbara to make up her own mind. The last thing any girl wants is an interfering mother.’
‘Well, I’m sure I’m not that!’ Amy said huffily.
They completed the journey home in silence.
Marcus phoned the following evening.
‘It’s Marcus for you!’ Amy called upstairs to Barbara when the telephone rang. In spite of the rebuff she had received from both Barbara and Ralph she was unable to keep the delight out of her voice.
‘Hello, Barbara,’ Marcus said when she had come to the telephone. ‘I thought I ought to get in touch with you fairly quickly before you forget who I am.’
Barbara almost giggled. It would not be easy to forget Marcus Spindler, she thought, but she had no intention of saying so.
‘I wondered if perhaps you would allow me to take you out to dinner. Would you be free one evening this week?’
‘I’ll be fire watching tomorrow and Friday,’ Barbara said. ‘I don’t believe I am doing anything on Saturday.’
‘Do I take it that’s an acceptance of my invitation?’
Barbara hesitated. She was not sure she wanted to go out to dinner with Marcus Spindler or anyone else, grand and grown up as it sounded, unless that someone else should happen to be Huw. But Huw had rejected her.
‘Well?’
Oh, why not? thought Barbara. Mum is right, I can’t moon about for ever.
