Sighing, Laura slowed her pace, but kept her eyes to the front. ‘It was nearly three years ago, at Turnhouse. We fell in love, but marriage was out of the question.’
‘Why? Was he married already?’
‘Yes.’ It seemed the simplest explanation.
‘Wouldn’t his wife divorce him?’
‘No.’ Feeling that she was getting in deep water, Laura said, ‘I asked for a posting and was sent to Wick, then I came here. Do you mind if we don’t discuss it any more?’
Betty walked a few steps before saying, ‘Your leave starts next week, doesn’t it? I heard you telling that sergeant you came from Aberdeen, are you going home?’
Realizing that Betty probably thought it strange that she never mentioned her family, Laura said, carefully, ‘There’s nobody in Aberdeen for me to visit now.’
‘Have your Mum and Dad moved?’
‘They’re ... both dead.’ It was all she could think of to stop the questions, but it didn’t work.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. How did it happen? Was it a bomb?’
Laura was aware that Betty was only showing concern, and decided that it might be best to tell her the truth – so much of it, at any rate. To continue with this deception would make her as bad as her ... ‘That wasn’t true. They’re not dead, as far as I know. We’d a flaming row in 1941 and I walked out. Don’t ask about it, because I can’t tell you.’
‘Don’t you ever feel like going home and apologizing?’ ‘No, and you’d never understand. Can’t we just let it drop now – please?’
Louise came in at eleven o’clock, enthusing about the film she had seen, and raving about Ernie Partington, the fitter who had escorted her. ‘I’m going out with him again on Friday. I really like him, girls, and I think he likes me, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed to make sure.’
‘You’d better cross your legs, too,’ Betty said, wickedly, making the girl blush with embarrassment.
‘I hope it’s the real thing, Lep,’ Laura said, seriously. ‘You deserve it.’ She also hoped that her friend would never have to undergo the trauma of losing a boy she loved.
They said nothing to spoil Louise’s obvious bliss when she returned on Friday night; they were fond of their little ‘leprechaun’ and were only too pleased that she was happy.
That weekend, her second leave from Bonachy due in a few days, Laura felt depressed. She had gone to Glasgow in May, but the boarding house she had found had felt alien to her, and, although she had seen a lot more of the city, she had been glad when it was time to return to Banffshire. Then Operation Overlord had started in June, and the pressure on the Ops Room had put everything else out of her head, but it had eased off now. She would have been quite happy to carry on without a break, but knew that it would not be allowed. Where would she go, that was the problem.
On an impulse, when the time came, she took her warrant out to London – perhaps to disprove Bill Darbourne’s remark that it was a ‘helluva journey’; perhaps to be somewhere that held no unpleasant memories, where she would be lost in anonymity.
When she set off, the challenge of breaking new ground buoyed up her spirits, but, waiting in Aberdeen Joint Station for a train, she remembered that the last time she had been there was on her way to Edinburgh to say goodbye to John Watson for ever. The same sickness clutched at the pit of her stomach, the same ache gnawed at her heart, and for several minutes she wallowed in misery. It was only three years ago, but it seemed like another life, another world, and so much had happened in between.
At last she stood up and walked over to the kiosk to buy something to read on her journey, and by the time she was served the gates were open and she joined the queue, showing her travel documents to the ticket collector on her way to the correct platform. Finding an empty carriage, she slung her bag up on the luggage rack and settled down next the window. Most of the other travellers going past were in the services, but there was a sprinkling of civilians, and Laura wondered where and why they were travelling, because there were huge posters everywhere demanding, ‘Is your journey really necessary?’ Was hers, for that matter?
Before long, her carriage was filling up. Two REME boys, a sailor and a Wren had crushed into the opposite side, and two women, one young and the other middle-aged, were facing the engine like herself. Then a tall Norwegian sailor popped his head round the door and sighed with relief when he saw the small space next to Laura. The rack was full, but he sat down with his kitbag between his feet.
Noticing that people were standing in the corridor now, Laura supposed that Bill Darbourne must have had to stand all the way at some time, but the sudden vibration of the carriage and the hiss of the engine building up steam made everything else go out of her head. She was on her way to London, where anything could happen ... but she shouldn’t expect too much, otherwise she might be disappointed.
After they left the station, she read her newspaper then lay back, trying to shut her ears to the conversations around her, but she couldn’t help hearing the woman telling the girl that she was on her way to see her son, injured in an air raid and now in hospital in London, and the girl responding by saying that she was on her way to meet her husband in Rosyth, where his ship was in for repairs after having been hit by a torpedo. Laura picked up her magazine, reflecting that it was odd how total strangers could talk on trains as though they had known each other all their lives.
‘Excuse?’ The Norwegian sailor had turned towards her and was pointing to her newspaper with his eyebrows raised in question. ‘You read ... yes?’
‘I’ve finished with it.’ Handing it over, she looked at him properly for the first time. The wide collar set off his broad shoulders; his dimpled smile sat rather impudently in a longish face; his blonde hair nestled against the tips of his ears; his eyes – not deep blue, more the colour of the sky in summer – were regarding her with some amusement. In great confusion, she looked away, but he said, ‘Go ... hjem?’
The last word, so like the Scots ‘hame’, made Laura smile. ‘No, I’m not going home. I’m going to London on leave.’
‘I go London. I see you, yes?’
‘I wouldn’t think so. London’s a big place.’ Her heart was fluttering as she bent her head to read. She had imagined that no man would have this effect on her again, but she hoped that she would run into him in London. It would help to fill the days which were looming emptily ahead. She laid down her magazine, aware that he was still watching her, and smiled to him. ‘Is your ship based in Aberdeen?’
He seemed to understand. ‘Aberdeen ... tre dag.’ He held up three fingers. ‘I go hospital.’ He shrugged, the English word eluding him, then said, ‘Blindtarmbetendalse.’ Laying his hand low down on his right side, he grimaced to mime pain then drew his finger quickly across and pretended to pull something out.
Puzzling for a moment, Laura said, ‘Appendicitis?’
He nodded eagerly. ‘A ... pen ... dee ... site ... iss.’
‘That was bad luck for you in a strange place.’
‘Bad? No.’ A mischievous glint came into his eyes now. ‘Nurses good.’
‘I bet they were.’ Laura could picture them falling over each other to look after this gorgeous creature.
‘I no spik English good. No read. Nurse get Norske bøker.’ He shrugged again.
‘One of the nurses got Norwegian books for you? Oh yes, I believe someone told me that Aberdeen had set up a Reading Room for Norwegians. But wait a minute, if you can’t read English, why did you ask for my newspaper?’
Smiling broadly and winking, he pointed to himself then to her, implying that he had only wanted to talk to her. Laura laughed, but she was flattered by the compliment. ‘Are you all right now?’
‘All right?’ He looked mystified.
‘Better? Recovered? Well?’ Laura tried to think of a word he could understand.
‘Well?’ The blue eyes cleared instantly. ‘I well. Bot seile, I no. Hull ... two? ... weeks?’
‘You’ve to joi
n your ship in Hull in two weeks, is that it? And you’re going to London to pass the time?’
He nodded, delighted that she had understood so quickly, but Laura had become conscious that the other people in the carriage were looking at them and smiling, so she picked up her magazine again. It was one thing to enter into a little conversation with a foreign sailor, but quite a different matter when the eyes and ears of the world were on them.
The other girl left the train at Edinburgh, presumably to catch a bus to Rosyth, and a lanky Australian took over the vacant seat. He sank down in it wearily, a sure sign that he had been standing for some time, then leaned back and closed his eyes.
As they were borne swiftly through the night, Laura and her fellow passengers dozed, waking fitfully each time the train stopped. There was a large exodus at York, where the young sailor and Wren got out, but their seats were filled immediately, and when the train restarted, Laura went to the toilet. She discovered that the corridor was still packed. Servicemen and women were sitting on the floor, on kitbags, even standing, and, picking her way over luggage and feet, she half regretted ever having set out on the crazy journey.
When she returned to her seat, the Norwegian placed his hand on his chest and said, ‘Jeg heter ... Fridjof Hougland.’
Guessing that he was telling her his name, she smiled. ‘I’m Laura Fullerton.’
‘Laura? Good. Møte London, yes?’
‘Meet you in London? Why not? We could go and see the sights together.’
‘Sights?’
‘The important places, the Tower, Buckingham Palace, that sort of thing.’
‘Buckingham Palace? Yes!’
‘OK, we’ll go exploring.’ It would probably be great fun taking this blonde Adonis around London even if she had never been there herself, and it wasn’t too difficult to understand what he was saying, many of his words sounded similar to the dialect she had once despised.
‘Min alder ...’ Using his fingers, he indicated twenty-four, which she took to be his age.
‘I’m twenty-three.’ Also using her fingers, she laughed.
‘Excuse.’ He looked hurt by her amusement.
‘No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you. I don’t speak any Norwegian at all, and I admire you for knowing as much English as you do. I just love the way you speak.’
He seemed pleased at this, and they talked quietly and companionably, if a little disjointedly, until the train steamed into King’s Cross a little before seven. Allowing the other passengers to go first, Fridjof took her haversack down from the rack and held her arm until she jumped on to the platform, then, as they walked towards the barriers, he asked, ‘Hvor skal du hen?’ and pointed forward.
From his gesture, Laura gathered that he was asking where she was going. ‘I’ll have to find a room in a hotel.’
‘I komme?’
‘You want to stay at the same place as me?’ She had not foreseen this, but thought she may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. She had frittered away three years of her life and she was only young once. ‘OK, if we’re lucky.’
They went out into the grey light of the London dawn and found a hotel round the corner, where Laura asked if there were any vacancies. ‘One room, dear?’ The receptionist seemed to be quite accustomed to British girls taking a room with foreign servicemen.
Laura blushed. ‘No, no. Two separate rooms.’
The painted eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘We do have two small rooms vacant on the top floor. Would that suit?’
‘That’ll be fine.’
‘One night, dear, or two?’
‘I’m intending staying for nine nights, but I don’t know about the gentleman. How many nights do you want to book for, Fridjof? Until you go to Hull?’
Before the sailor could reply, the woman said, ‘Sorry, dear, but they’re only free for six nights, then they’re booked for two Yanks.’
‘Well, that’s it. We’ll take them for the six nights.’
After they signed the register, the receptionist handed Laura two keys. ‘Thirty-two and thirty-three, on the top floor. Breakfast’s at half past eight, if you’d like some.’
‘Yes, please. We’ve been travelling all night.’
When they reached the top floor, Laura said, ‘I’ll take thirty-two and you can have thirty-three. Now, I’m going to lie down for an hour, but I’ll give you a knock at oh-eight-two-five.’
‘Excuse?’
‘Wait a minute.’ Rummaging in her pocket, she produced a pencil and a piece of paper, then drew a clock face with the hands at twenty-five past eight. ‘Do you understand?’
‘You komme.’ He pointed to her sketch and then to his own watch.
‘That’s it. See you later.’
Laura flopped on the bed when she went into her room. What on earth had she let herself in for? Betty and Lep were never going to believe this.
Chapter Thirty
They went sightseeing every day – Buckingham Palace and the Tower, as Laura had suggested, Trafalgar Square, St Paul’s Cathedral, Hampton Court, Westminster Abbey – but the rubble and destruction they saw everywhere had far more impact on them than any of the historic buildings.
Britain’s capital city had been subjected to tremendous bombardments, but the people were still cheery, still openly confident about winning the war. Cheeky signs were pasted over the boarded-up windows, or pithy slogans daubed on with paint, and Laura explained them as well as she could to the curious Fridjof, the humour, unfortunately, being somewhat lost in the retelling.
The weather was good, and they returned to the hotel each evening tired out. On the first night, the Norwegian bought a bottle of wine, which they drank in Laura’s room, using the two tumblers from their wash basins and sitting together on her bed. As they discussed the places they had seen, he placed his arm round her shoulders, but she froze at the contact, holding herself rigid until his gentle, reassuring pressure made her relax a little – not too much, because she was aware that the situation could easily get out of hand.
He looked at her sadly. ‘No like?’
How could she get out of this? ‘I do like you,’ she said, cautiously, ‘but I don’t want to get involved with anybody.’
‘Involved?’
‘I don’t want to ...’ She couldn’t say ‘fall in love’, that would be taking things too far. ‘I don’t want to like anybody too much.’
‘I like too much.’
Perversely, Laura was a little disappointed that he did not even try to kiss her when he left soon afterwards, but she had only herself to blame.
They had a few drinks in a bar on the second night, but an alert sounded as they came out, and two air-raid wardens shepherded them through the piled sandbags into an Underground Station. Laura and Fridjof went down with the crowd, feeling quite safe amongst the devil-may-care, cocky Londoners, who appeared to be figuratively thumbing their noses at the Luftwaffe. The singing and joking passed the time so quickly that it didn’t seem long until the All Clear sounded, although the warning had lasted for the best part of an hour.
‘Not much doing tonight yet,’ remarked a lively, white-haired woman as they moved to leave. ‘It’s them ruddy V2s that’s the worst. Scare the pants off us old folk, they do.’
Her cackling laughter followed them as they made their way through the blanketed figures lying on the platform. Laura considered suggesting that they ought to remain there – it was only just after eleven and the guided missiles might still be to come – but Fridjof propelled her up the stairs. Thrusting aside her fears, she let herself be swept up into the open air.
In the street, a warden said, ‘Mind how you go.’ Winking lewdly, he added, ‘And if you can’t be good, be careful.’
Embarrassed, Laura did not attempt to explain this to her escort, and they carried on to their hotel. In her room, the Norwegian drew her towards him tentatively, and being in his arms felt so right to her that she let him kiss her ... but only to satisfy him that she did like him.<
br />
There being only one chair, they sat down on her bed, and after they had been talking for a short time, Fridjof stood up and pulled her to her feet. This kiss, although longer, was no more demanding than the first, but it demolished the barriers which Laura had built around her heart. Stepping back, he saluted and said, softly, ‘Godnatt, Laura.’
‘Goodnight, Fridjof,’ she whispered as he went out.
Lying down, she realized that his second kiss had done something to her, and try as she would she could not call up John Watson’s image. It was three years since she had seen him, and she had burned the only photograph she had, but ... could she be falling in love again? She certainly hoped that he had found someone else, too. She fell asleep thinking about the tall Norwegian with the dancing eyes and adorable accent.
Fridjof took her hand as they walked the following day. He was so considerate, such good company, that Laura had to admit to herself that she was falling in love. Correction – she had fallen in love.
Dancing in a Services Club that evening, she felt like a girl in her teens again, and had no inclination to mourn the wasted years. Fridjof had been worth waiting for. They had very little to drink, but returned to the hotel laughing at everything, and their love-making followed quite naturally.
‘Min kjaereste Laura, jeg elsker,’ Fridjof whispered against her hair, ‘I much happy.’
She could tell that his first words were words of love, but smiled at his fractured English. ‘I love you, my darling,’ she murmured, and room thirty-three was left unused that night and for the rest of their time in the hotel.
On their last morning, Laura said, ‘Will we look for somewhere else to stay? I’ve still got three days, and it’s a week before you’ve to join your ship.’
He nodded, then grinned. ‘Komme Hull?’
His pleading eyes were enough without the kiss he gave her to make sure she would agree, and when they arrived in Hull, Laura booked them into a hotel as Mr and Mrs Hougland. She got the impression that the receptionist guessed the truth, but she was passionately, recklessly, in love, and nothing was going to spoil it.
Time Shall Reap Page 31
