by Gloria Cook
He was thinking about Faye. He was still avoiding her company but she was never out of his head. She was trying to make herself at home. When he’d glossed over her suggestion that she spend time working on the land, she’d immediately taken over the kitchen garden and set up thrice-weekly women’s knit-ins at the house. She clicked away all evening, turning out mufflers, gloves and socks for the troops. Although she didn’t go far, and as of yet had not rambled over to Ford Farm, she was becoming liked and respected in Hennaford. Tristan and Jonny had come for dinner and were besotted with her. Every time he arrived home, he hoped to find she’d packed up and gone, left to join the person she stole away to make regular telephone calls to. From the snatches of conversation he’d unwillingly overheard, the person wasn’t a boyfriend; perhaps it was her best friend. Often she looked as if she wanted to tell him something – he sensed it wasn’t about her childhood, and he always forestalled what he thought might be a revelation he wouldn’t care to hear.
Yet part of him was curious about her. He was afraid to ask her questions, afraid he’d respond favourably and form a desire to get close to her. She’d again demand to know why he had totally abandoned her to a new life and why he still chose to shun her brother. The simple reason for rejecting her was that he hadn’t loved her enough. If Faye learned this she’d rightly hate him for ever, and although she resented him now, he didn’t want that. He didn’t want her to entertain hatred, as he did. Hatred was slowly destroying him. It would be better for Faye to leave and forget all about him. He ought to put her back in his will though. She deserved at least to inherit his assets.
He dropped his soup spoon and twisted his fingers into his brow until it hurt. Oh, why did she have to look him up? It had never occurred to him that she would. A worse thought was her brother showing up some day. People would understand why he’d disowned the boy if they knew the truth, which he’d discovered when Brooke had hurled it at him on their one and only meeting in America. That she’d had a one-off fling with his older brother. Alec had been dying of a brain tumour then. He’d been behaving very oddly and Ben didn’t blame him for the indiscretion. But it had made him hate Brooke and her subsequent offspring – adding to the hatred he felt for Emilia. He’d like to tell Faye who her brother’s real father was and make her see that her mother wasn’t perfect. Most of all he’d love to fling the whole story in Emilia’s face – the smug bitch, she believed Alec had loved her exclusively – but his pride wouldn’t allow him to be thought of as a cuckold. He’d rather be assumed callous.
He snarled at his cold meal. He had no appetite but he’d swallow it down. Then he’d seek an interlude with female company. Despite his ruthless approach to women, there were many willing to entertain him at his whim, some fooling themselves that he’d grow to care for them. Abruptly, he had no appetite for pretence and not even for sex. His daughter might be back in his life but his world was growing ever smaller.
When he raised his head he noticed a man at the next table. The stranger, full-faced, bespectacled, portly, wearing a tweed sports coat, a well-knotted tie and immaculately polished shoes, his grey hair parted precisely, had been glancing at him for some time, endeavouring to make eye contact. Ben shot him an aggressive look. He picked up his spoon, determined to finish the soup, but he would tell the maître d’ that he’d changed his mind about the subsequent courses. It was Saturday night. He’d cycle home and get ready for the dance. He’d already contributed generously to the hospital linen fund, but he thought it important to show his face on every such occasion. He wasn’t looking forward to this evening’s event. Although it was always good to see Tristan and Jonny, the rest of his insufferable relatives would also be there, and despite his efforts to put her off, Faye was determined to go and make herself known properly at last in the village.
‘It’s time I saw my cousins, Aunt Em and Perry Bosweld again,’ she’d said, tossing her head as if it was her right. ‘We don’t need to arrive together, sir.’
He hated her calling him ‘sir’ but he couldn’t bring himself to ask her to call him Father. She might not want to, and who could blame her?
He was swallowing his last mouthful when the man from the next table approached him with confident steps. ‘Mr Benjamin Harvey? I wonder if I might have a word.’
‘Look, old man, bugger off!’ Ben hissed, clenching a fist. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m strictly for the ladies.’
Unruffled, the man peered down over a superior nose. He produced a scrap of paper and held it for a moment under Ben’s eyes. Ben didn’t need his glasses to read the initials of a certain organization, in Baker Street, London, written on it. ‘My name’s Goodrington. Maxwell Goodrington.’ He destroyed the paper by ripping it into shreds. ‘I believe you could be of good use to us, Mr Harvey. Now may I sit down?’
A heady joy broke into Ben’s expression. A healthy, excited colour lit up his cheeks. His posture changed from sluggish to parade squareness. ‘Yes, indeed, Mr Goodrington. What are you drinking?’
* * *
Lottie put on her best dress and angled herself in front of her full-length mirror. Copied from a Vogue pattern, it was of violet-blue silky cloth, rested just below her knee and clung beguilingly to her figure. She’d had the dress for some time but had not fully valued its qualities until now. She admired her reflection, saw what others had been saying about her for years, that she looked lovely. Although never lacking in confidence, it gave her a new self-assurance. Jill’s friendship had made her appreciate her femininity, made her seriously explore the prospect of falling in love, something she now thought she’d rather like.
She began to whistle, checked herself – it wasn’t ladylike – and picked up her curling tongs and went to Jill’s bedroom. ‘We’ll have to go down to the kitchen to heat these in the range. The men have been banned from the room until we’re ready. Jill, why have you put that on? You look as if you’re going to church.’
Jill pulled ruefully at her frumpish long skirt and white cotton blouse, both about ten years old and styled to suit a much older woman. ‘These were my grandmother’s. I used to give her nearly all my clothing coupons, I felt I owed it to her. I’m afraid I haven’t got any high heels either. Look, I think I’ll stay here and have a quiet evening instead. I’ll write a postcard to Ronnie. I don’t mind,’ she lied, as Lottie’s face fell.
‘You will not stay here. I’ve got something you can wear. A pale yellow frock with piping and a dear little belt. It’ll suit your colouring perfectly. And you can borrow my sandals. You need a social life, Jill. I’m sure your Ronnie would agree. You do really want to go tonight?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Jill replied emphatically.
‘Right then. Let’s get ready to dazzle. Mum lets me wear lipstick. You can put some on too. I don’t suppose you’ve got any jewellery?’
‘Actually, I have.’ Jill held out her left hand.
‘Wow!’ Lottie stared at the diamond cluster on Jill’s ring finger. ‘It’s beautiful. Ronnie must really adore you to fork out for something like that. You lucky thing.’
‘You want to get married, Lottie? I’d imagined you were much too independent to consider it for several years.’
‘Well, I don’t want to settle down next week or next year, but I hope one day to find someone I’ll love as much as Mum loves Pappa. Mind you, if my over-amorous brothers and cousin are anything to go by, I’m not likely to meet someone like Pappa round here.’
‘You never know. There’s a lot of good and honest men in the world. Ronnie’s not at all like…’ Jill looked down coyly.
Lottie joined her in blushing softly. ‘You mean he’s happy to wait before… bedroom activities. I’ll say it again, Jill, you are lucky.’
Lucky if he survives the fighting and comes back to me, Jill thought, filling up with a terrible ache to see Ronnie’s gentle face again, to hold him in her arms. She pleaded with the Almighty to spare him. Communications were sometimes difficult but she hadn’t received
a reply to any of her letters informing Ronnie of her new address.
* * *
Will and Jonny were in the pub, the Ploughshare. Tom was at the other end of the bar room, sitting at a table with five American servicemen. He’d deserted his brother and cousin almost from the moment they’d entered the place.
‘What is my brother up to? Why has he got in with that lot?’ Will asked the landlady, handing over his and Jonny’s empty half-pint glasses for refills. He tossed the change in the war fund savings box. The beer was watered down for the duration but palatable. He looked with annoyance round the dark, smoky confines. There were Yanks crowding his local. In general, they had the cheek to complain about the beer, and, damn their eyes, they made advances to the women. The RAF, ‘the cream of the British defence’, were able to ‘walk tall’ and cut a dash, but otherwise the crisp, high-quality uniforms and higher pay of the Americans put the ordinary squaddie at a disadvantage.
‘Mmm…’ Ruby Brokenshaw, who was just past retiring age but still sparky and nimble, pursed her bright-red lips. She motioned to the cousins to bring their heads closer to her. ‘Dodgy dealing. I’d have thought Tom of all people would know better. One of them GIs he’s with can get his hands on just about anything you please. That’s him there, with the curly hair, swarthy complexion, and voice like a twanging guitar. He’s got a funny name. Most of ’em have. He’s called Herv Brunstein.’
‘You’re joking!’ Jonny whistled through his perfectly straight white teeth. ‘Tom? A bit of a spiv? He’ll be wearing a wide-striped suit next. No, no, I take that back. Can’t see it myself. Tom’s always been the sensible one. Good-natured and all that. He’s just being friendly to that ruddy lot.’
‘Oh, your Tom’s full of surprises. You’d think he’s as soft as steam pudding but I’ve known him to belt a bloke for just being bad-mannered in front of a woman. Your mother don’t know half of what he gets up to. There’s many a woman who can thank him for the stockings on her legs. Young Lottie’s never short of niceties, you know. Still, I like the Americans, specially that lot there. They’re jolly and generous. They’re stationed at Devoran. Some of their division will be helping to provide the music for the dance. Shall go ’cross there myself later on.’
‘Oh, yes, they’re generous, particularly with their—’ Will stopped, remembering he was talking to a woman. Ruby prided herself on being a bit of a lady. ‘Come on, drink up, Jonny. The girls should be there by now. I don’t intend to fight my way through a posse of blasted Yanks to get to the delectable Jill.’
* * *
Faye hesitated outside the Methodist social rooms, which were attached to the chapel, across the road from the pub. She had walked along the series of lanes with Tremore’s three land girls, but had insisted they go in ahead of her. Why bother with this dance at all? she asked herself. She’d only be a subject of curiosity. And suffer more humiliation when her father snubbed her in public. Strangely, when he’d got back from Truro he’d surprised her and Agnes by singing loudly while he’d washed and changed, but whatever the reason for his uncharacteristic good humour was, it wouldn’t be reflected on her and she hadn’t waited for him to escort her here. She felt all alone in this village, but reminded herself that she wasn’t totally alone in the world and soon she would go to fetch the most important person in her life. Then she doubted the wisdom of doing so.
She gazed soulfully at the double chapel-style doors in front of her. Now she was here, she might as well go in and say hi to the rest of her family. It would be interesting to see how her cousins had turned out. She put her hand on the heavy iron latch.
There was a shout from the distance. ‘Faye, hang on! Wait for me.’
She was amazed to see her father running towards her. Amazed to see him actually grinning at her. She was speechless as he crooked her arm through his and took her inside.
* * *
‘Everything seems to be going well,’ Emilia said happily to Perry. They were helping to serve the lemonade, cups of tea and other refreshments from behind a long, white-clothed trestle table. It amused the villagers how Perry’s unconventional approach meant he wasn’t afraid to be seen to be doing ‘women’s work’.
It was nine o’clock and the creaking planked floor was packed with adults of all ages. The band, made up of locals and American servicemen, had played together successfully before and were producing a medley of popular big band tunes. Some people were in black or wearing black armbands, having lost husbands, sons or brothers in the fighting, or, in one or two cases, civilian relatives in the bombing. Others were in dull utility fashions. Only the young brought colour with them, but overall there was a sense of gaiety and purpose. ‘Oh, Perry, look! It must be Faye. Doesn’t she look a picture? And good heavens! She’s with Ben.’
Before Perry could caution her to mind what she said in front of Ben, Emilia was heading for the newcomers.
‘Jill, care to dance with a chap with his arm in a sling?’ Jonny was asking slickly. He had just beaten Will to her by shoving him aside with a sly elbow in the ribs.
Jill was in conversation with a plainly dressed, sweet-faced woman in her mid-forties. ‘I’m quite happy talking to Mrs Killigrew,’ she said firmly, knowing his intention, like his irreverent cousin’s, was only to manoeuvre her outside to the back of the building.
A master of tactics, Jonny aimed a smile heaped with charm at the other woman, who was the local land army representative. She was married to the local builder, who was currently serving in the merchant navy. ‘How’s Jim, Mrs Killigrew? I suppose you know, Jill, that Jim used to work for my Uncle Alec? He and I are close friends.’
‘Yes, I do know,’ Jill replied, polite but dismissive. ‘I’ve been telling Mrs Killigrew about my fiancé.’
Knowing when he was on a lost cause, Jonny listened to Elena Killigrew’s reply that the last news she had heard from her husband was that he was about to go to sea again. They all knew this meant he would be part of a convoy in the dangerous South Atlantic, bringing back vital supplies. God willing, a U-boat or enemy aircraft didn’t sink his ship: the merchant navy had suffered great losses. Withdrawing sportingly, he prodded Will in the direction of their uncle Ben’s land girls. ‘None as appealing as Jill, but we do have the choice of three. Ten bob on the brunette?’
Will studied the girl in question. She didn’t seem the shy sort, there wasn’t going to be much of a contest. His eyes returned to Jill. He never gave up easily hunting down a quarry.
‘Forget about them.’ Tom put himself in their path. He had been watching the two airmen, making sure they didn’t get the chance to proposition Jill, and suddenly he did not like their, or his own, caddish behaviour. He had been getting mixed looks of hope and reproach from a couple of girls he’d let down and he saw himself as juvenile and selfish. He wouldn’t like it if some bloke came on in the same way to Lottie. ‘Uncle Ben’s just turned up and he’s brought Faye. Let’s go and say hello to her.’
Tristan had also seen Ben and Faye enter and he beat Emilia and the younger men to them. He hoped the good sign of them arriving together would last. ‘Well, I say, Ben. Faye’s a stunner. You must be proud.’
‘Of course, Tris.’
Her father released her so she could accept a kiss from her uncle. He didn’t let her go at once and she wondered again what was behind his tremendous change in attitude. Had he softened at last? If only they’d talked before coming in. She could really enjoy the evening if she knew there wasn’t likely to be a repeat of his rejection, or conflict in the future. ‘It’s a pity Adele isn’t here. It seems a lifetime ago when she and I and cousin Lottie all played together.’
Lottie was on her way back to Jill and Elena Killigrew with drinks. Spying Faye through the throng, she excitedly changed course but was wrong-footed. ‘Hello, sweetcake.’
‘Don’t call me that!’ she snapped at the owner of the nasal American voice who’d planted himself in front of her. Like his compatriots grouped around him, he was in u
niform of low rank. To Lottie’s mind, every one of them had a wider than necessary grin.
‘Hey, baby, we’re on the same side, ya know. You’re supposed to be nice to me.’ The American pointed to himself then spread his hands. ‘To all of us. Let me carry those for you. The name’s Herv. And this is Todd, and Jeff and Mort and Brad. Pleased to meet ya, I’m sure. How about a dance?’
‘How about you drop dead? And all your friends too?’
She barged past the GIs, leaving them laughing good-humouredly after her. Then the three drinks in her hands were slipping, about to hit the floor. She’d make an awful mess and a fool of herself. ‘Oh no!’
‘Here, let me help you.’
‘Oh, thank you.’
A pair of warm, strong hands enveloped hers and the tumblers. Satisfied all was under control, she looked up and found herself gazing up into the gentlest, brownest pair of eyes she had ever seen. Into the quiet face of another American. A corporal, with insignia indicating he was a medic. ‘I hope the men weren’t bothering you, miss. They don’t mean to be rude.’
‘No… no, they weren’t.’ Lottie realized how disrespectful she had been, and she should never have told men that might soon be called on to go into battle to drop dead. She hoped this non-commissioned officer hadn’t overheard.
‘Lottie, I’m here. I’ll take the drinks.’ It was Jill.
The corporal took his hands away from Lottie’s.
‘Thank you, Jill,’ she said, using the politest voice of her life. ‘Thank you, Corporal.’
‘You’re welcome, miss.’ His voice was as strong as his hands yet as soft as his eyes, and those eyes were flickering over her, as if with interest. Lottie was apt to stare shamelessly back at others but she was temperate while she took in everything about him. He exuded a sense of command yet there was also something free and easy about him. His features were well balanced, as if fashioned by a perfectionist. His sandy hair was tidy, not slick, and a few strands fell carelessly across his hardy forehead. She stared on, inquisitive about him, and he gazed back, unhurried. For once she was not restless, eager to get on to the next thing. Then he blinked, his lashes fell, and she got the sinking feeling she was losing his attention. She was desperate to make a good impression on him, and not just to make amends for her belligerence towards his comrades. She offered him her hand. ‘Miss Harvey. Lottie Harvey. From Ford Farm. In the village.’
