‘Very nice,’ Charlie said, still looking at Helen. The intensity of his stare made her feel awkward, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from those blue eyes.
Nellie didn’t seem to notice as she bustled around. ‘Come in, son, let’s see about getting you something to eat. I expect you’re hungry?’
‘Famished.’ Christopher stepped into the kitchen. Helen moved back to let him pass, but his body still brushed against hers. He smelled of stale sweat mingled with the salty tang of the sea.
‘You always are, as I recall!’ His aunt smiled fondly at him. ‘You’ve missed Christmas dinner, but I can fetch you some cold meat and pickles, if you like?’
‘Smashing.’
‘Go through to the parlour and I’ll bring it in to you. They’ll all be pleased to see you, especially the kids.’
‘To be honest, Auntie Nell, I could do with a good wash first,’ Christopher said, unhooking his duffel bag from his shoulder. ‘I’ve been curled up on the back of a coal wagon all day, so I ain’t really fit for company.’
‘Of course, I should have thought of that. You can have a scrub down in the scullery.’
‘I’ll heat the water up,’ Helen offered quickly.
She darted into the scullery, filled the heavy iron kettle and put it on the hob. She picked up the matches and tried to light the gas, but for some reason her hands were suddenly shaking so much she couldn’t hold a match steady enough to strike it.
‘Here, let me.’ She jumped as Christopher came up behind her and took the box out of her hands.
‘Thank you.’ As he bent over the hob, Helen let her gaze travel up the breadth of his shoulders. His fair hair was neatly trimmed, revealing sunburned skin on the back of his neck.
‘You looked like you’d seen a ghost when I walked in.’ He turned and caught her looking at him.
‘I thought you were Charlie,’ she admitted.
He frowned. ‘I’m nothing like him!’
‘I can see that now.’ She blushed to think she could have been so stupid. Imagine her thinking her dead husband had returned to her. But Christmas wishes did sometimes come true, and she’d wished often enough that she didn’t have to be lonely any more.
But it wasn’t just the shock that had disturbed her. Her reaction to Christopher had been too intense for her own liking. It was as if seeing him had ignited something deep within her.
He paused, his eyes fixed on the dancing blue flames of the gas ring. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get back for the funeral, but I was stuck on a cargo ship in the middle of the Atlantic. I would’ve liked to pay my respects to Charlie. He was a good mate. One of the best.’
‘He was,’ Helen agreed.
The silence stretched between them. Helen was aware of him standing close to her, their bodies almost touching in the narrow confines of the scullery. She was also suddenly aware that she hadn’t breathed in a long time.
‘I’ll go and help with your supper,’ she said.
Nellie prattled on as she made sandwiches, sawing great doorsteps of bread from the loaf she’d retrieved from the larder.
‘Chris is my sister-in-law Ada’s boy,’ she explained. ‘She passed away when he was just a nipper and he’s never got on with his dad, so we took him in. Charlie must have mentioned him to you, I’m sure?’
‘I don’t think so. I can’t remember.’
‘They were close as two boys could be until Chris went off and joined the Merchant Navy when he was fifteen,’ Nellie went on. ‘We don’t see as much of him as we’d like these days because he’s away at sea so often. He keeps in touch, though. Sends me postcards from wherever he goes. I keep them all, too, in a tin under the bed. I’ve got postcards from all over the world.’
‘Nellie?’ She looked up at the sound of her husband calling her name from up the passageway. ‘Nellie, you’re wanted!’
‘I’m busy,’ she called back, and went on sawing away at the loaf.
‘I can do that, if you like?’ Helen said.
‘Oh, no, love. You’re a visitor.’
‘You’re always telling me I’m family, remember?’ Helen reminded her. ‘And I’d like to make myself useful,’ she added.
‘Go on, then.’ Nellie straightened up, pushing a stray curl off her face with the back of her hand. ‘Just finish buttering this bread, I’ll be back in a minute.’
Helen buttered the bread, conscious all the time of the sound of splashing water coming from the other side of the thin scullery curtain. She went to the larder to fetch the pickles, but as she turned back, the curtain suddenly swished aside and Chris stood there, naked to the waist, water gleaming off the smooth, sleek muscles of his chest. His hair was wet and dripping and he was wiping it out of his eyes with one hand as he groped about blindly with the other.
‘Pass us a towel, will you, Auntie?’
Helen grabbed the towel off the fireguard and thrust it at him. Try as she might, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his leanly muscled torso, the broad chest tapering into the narrow waistband of his blue serge trousers.
He wiped his face, then looked up and saw her. ‘Oh!’ He covered his chest with the flimsy towel. ‘I thought you were Auntie Nellie.’
‘She’s not here,’ Helen whispered, suddenly dry-mouthed.
‘So I see.’ He grinned at her. ‘I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to shock you.’
‘You didn’t.’ Helen found her voice. ‘I’m a nurse. I see people undressed every day.’
‘And do you stare at them, too?’
His words broke the spell. Helen flicked her gaze away quickly and hurried to the table to finish making the sandwiches. But she was aware of Christopher behind her, crossing the room, delving into his duffel bag and pulling out a clean shirt.
‘Is that for me?’ he asked, nodded towards the food.
Helen pushed the plate towards him. ‘Would you like a cup of tea to go with it?’ she asked.
‘I’d rather have a beer, if you don’t mind?’
He sat down at the table. Helen went to the larder, found the jug of beer and filled him a glass. She was aware she was blushing. If she wasn’t careful she would lose her composure completely.
She put the glass down and was about to move away when he said, ‘Ain’t you going to keep me company?’
‘I thought you’d want to join the others in the parlour?’
He grinned. ‘What, and listen to my aunties squawking and Uncle Harry murdering tunes on that old piano? I’m in no hurry, believe me!’
Helen smiled reluctantly. ‘They’re not that bad.’
‘Then why were you running away?’
His eyes met hers across the table, direct and challenging.
‘I wasn’t,’ Helen said. ‘I just needed some fresh air, that’s all.’
‘A likely story! Come on, you can tell me. I won’t tell a soul.’
She smiled furtively. ‘I am finding it quite – difficult,’ she admitted.
‘I daresay you are. Brings back a few memories, I suppose?’
Helen nodded. She traced a pattern on the scrubbed wood of the kitchen table with her thumbnail. ‘I know I’m being silly, but—’
‘Not silly at all. But I’m glad you didn’t run away before I met you,’ he said.
Nellie came back into the kitchen. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said, looking from one to the other of them. ‘Oh, I see Helen’s been looking after you, has she? That’s good.’
‘She’s been looking after me very well.’
Helen was aware of him watching her across the table but she kept her eyes lowered.
She got to her feet. ‘I’m going back to join the party.’
In the parlour, all the talk was of Christopher’s unexpected arrival.
‘I wonder what’s brought him back now?’ Auntie Mabel said.
‘I expect he’s in trouble again.’ Uncle Harry shook his head. ‘He only ever comes home when he’s worn out his welcome everywhere else.’
‘Now, Harry,
you know Nellie won’t hear a word said against him,’ Charlie’s father warned. ‘You and I might have our own opinion of him, but we’d best keep it to ourselves.’
‘Besides, all that’s in the past now,’ Auntie Midge joined in. ‘Chris is a changed man since he joined the Merchant Navy.’
‘A leopard can’t change its spots, Midge, as you well know.’
Helen looked from one to the other. She desperately wanted to find out more, but good manners prevented her from asking.
The party went on, with more music and singing and laughter. Helen fixed a smile on her face and joined in, but all the while she kept looking up at the door, waiting for Christopher to come in.
And then, finally, he did. Helen was at the piano at the time, turning the pages of sheet music for Uncle Harry. She didn’t need to look round to know that Christopher had walked in. It was as if an electric current had run through her body, lighting up her nerve endings.
The family greeted him like a prodigal son. Helen watched as he worked his way around the room, charming the aunties until they blushed and flapped at him with their hands and told him not to be so saucy. He joked with the uncles, telling them outrageous stories that made them roar with laughter. He played with the boys, swinging them up on his broad shoulders, and danced with the little girls.
The only one he didn’t speak to was Helen. But she was aware of him all the time, could feel his every move like a brush across her skin. She was grateful he didn’t speak to her. She felt sure that if he did, she would blush and stutter like a tongue-tied schoolgirl.
Shortly afterwards, Helen went home. She wanted to slip away quietly, but Nellie found her putting on her coat in the hall.
‘You can’t go out on your own,’ she said. ‘Wait a minute, and I’ll get Chris to walk you back to the hospital . . .’
‘No!’ Helen said, so sharply that Nellie blinked at her. ‘It’s all right, honestly. It’s not late.’
‘But I’m sure he won’t mind . . .’
‘No, really. I don’t want to spoil the party.’
Helen hurried away, out into the frosty darkness, before Nellie could press her further. The last thing she wanted was to be alone in the dark with someone like Christopher. She had a feeling that might be very dangerous indeed.
Chapter Eighteen
AFTER SUPPER ON Christmas Day, the staff gathered in the dining room for the long-awaited Christmas Show.
Those taking part concealed themselves in the kitchens beyond the makeshift stage to prepare, while everyone else filed in to take their seats among the rows of chairs set out for the audience. Porters brought in patients in wheelchairs and positioned them along the walls.
Frannie sat at her piano at the front of the stage, running her hands lightly over the keys in an improvised overture. All the time her eyes scanned the room, waiting for John to arrive.
‘Looking for someone?’ Kathleen Fox asked. She sat beside her friend, sorting the sheet music into order for her.
‘Just someone I invited to come this evening.’ She glanced at the clock on the wall. Five minutes to curtain up.
‘Oh, yes? Anyone I know?’
Frannie shook her head. ‘He’s an old friend of Matthew’s. From when we were growing up.’
‘I see.’ Kathleen paused, then said, ‘Is that a new dress you’re wearing, Fran?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact. Why?’
‘And your hair’s looking rather nice this evening. You’ve done it differently, haven’t you? Those waves suit you.’
Frannie came to the end of her improvised piece. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking,’ she whispered, over the final flourish.
‘I’m not thinking anything, I assure you.’
‘Yes, you are. I can see that gleam in your eye. Anyway, even if I did make an effort it looks as if it was wasted,’ she said.
But then, just as the lights dimmed, John strode in looking every inch the officer in his smart uniform. He caught Frannie’s eye and waved as he took his seat at the back of the room.
Kathleen grinned. ‘I can see why you wore the new dress,’ she said.
‘Stop it.’ Frannie shook her head and propped the piece of introductory music on her stand. But she could feel herself blushing like a schoolgirl as the first act began.
The show was the usual mixture of comedy, chaos and choral singing. Unfortunately, too many of the laughs were unintentional, such as when a slightly tipsy Dr Bertram forgot the punchline of his comedy monologue, or when Owen Evans tripped over his skirt on his way off the stage and sprawled headlong at Frannie’s feet. But somehow they muddled through, and the audience seemed to enjoy every minute.
Afterwards, John approached Frannie as she was tidying away her music.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That was a most enjoyable show.’
She grimaced. ‘It’s all right, you don’t have to be kind!’
‘No, I mean it. It was most – entertaining.’
‘We do our best.’ Frannie started to collect up her music, conscious that John was still behind her, waiting.
Finally, he said, ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider joining me for supper at my club? As a way of saying thank you for this evening, I mean. Although I expect you’re busy,’ he went on, his words coming out in a rush. ‘You probably already have plans . . .’
She looked at him, and suddenly it was as if the years had rolled back and she saw again the diffident orphanage boy gazing warily back at her.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I would like that very much.’
John’s club was in an elegant Georgian building off Piccadilly. As befitted an officers’ club, it was full of men in uniform. In spite of her feelings towards the military, Frannie couldn’t help but be impressed by the number of men who saluted John as they passed. It gave her a quiet lift of pride to be by his side.
‘I really don’t feel as if I belong here,’ she whispered, as they headed down the long wood-panelled passage to the lounge.
‘I’ll let you into a secret – neither do I,’ John whispered back. ‘I keep thinking at any moment someone is going to realise I’m that boy from the workhouse and throw me out on my ear.’
‘But you’re an officer!’
‘I don’t feel like one. I never have. Even when I got my commission after the war, I never felt as if I quite belonged.’
They sipped their cocktails in the hushed atmosphere of the lounge, watched over by suits of armour and paintings of imperious-looking men in Napoleonic uniform.
‘I really don’t know what my friends in the Peace Society would make of this,’ Frannie laughed as she sipped her cocktail.
‘Just because we wear uniforms, it doesn’t make us the enemy,’ John pointed out quietly. ‘I bet if you asked any of the men here, they would sooner choose peace over going to war any day. And talking of going to war, I have something for you.’ He reached into the top pocket of his tunic. ‘This is yours, I believe?’
Frannie gazed down at the smooth grey stone he’d placed in her palm. She recognised it straight away. ‘My lucky charm! You mean to tell me you’ve kept it all these years?’ she said.
He nodded. ‘It’s seen me through a great many sticky situations, I can tell you. I always hoped to be able to return it to you one day.’
She laughed. ‘It’s just a pebble.’
‘It was a great deal more to me than just that.’ He looked down at it, then lifted his gaze to meet hers. ‘I still remember the moment you gave it to me, as clearly as if it were yesterday,’ he said. ‘I was standing by myself on that railway platform, watching everyone say goodbye to their loved ones and wishing I had someone to tell me how much they’d miss me. And then suddenly there you were.’ His voice was gruff with emotion. ‘You were the only one who noticed me that day. I was more grateful than you could ever imagine.’
Frannie looked away, embarrassed by his intensity. Her fingers closed around the pebble. ‘I remember that day, too,’ she said. ‘It was t
he last time I ever saw Matthew.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t think . . .’
‘It’s all right. It’s been more than twenty years, I’m hardly a tearful girl any more.’ Frannie leaned back in the leather-covered wing chair and stared into the crackling flames of the fire. She knew she shouldn’t ask, but she couldn’t stop herself. ‘How did he get on out there?’
He frowned. ‘Didn’t Matthew tell you in his letters?’
‘At first he did. When he arrived in France his letters were typically Matthew, full of fun and stories about the things you all got up to. But then gradually they became – well, less like him, I suppose.’ She thought about those letters, and how she came to dread reading them. Gloom and despair dripped from every page. There was sickness, disease and death all around him, and Matthew had told her he didn’t know how much more he could take.
Frannie had done her best to cheer him up, sending him little gifts of socks and chocolate and his favourite tobacco, when she could. She tried to reassure him it wouldn’t be for ever, the war would end soon. She gave him news of home to try and make him feel less far away.
But then, suddenly, the letters had ceased.
‘I don’t know why he stopped writing,’ she said. ‘Poor Matthew, I think he just found it so difficult to cope with it all . . .’
‘We all found it difficult to cope, not just him!’ John’s voice was harsh. ‘It wasn’t easy for any of us, watching our mates being picked off one by one, wondering if the next day it would be our turn.’
‘Yes, but he was right to be afraid, wasn’t he?’ Frannie snapped back. ‘Matthew was one of the ones who didn’t come home.’
John didn’t reply. He gulped down his drink and gazed moodily into the fire. Frannie followed his gaze towards the dancing flames.
‘I waited for him, you know,’ she said. ‘Even after that telegram arrived, I refused to believe it. I thought there must be some mistake, that he’d been forgotten about, perhaps he’d lost his memory. It had happened before, you see. We’d get men dragged in to the field hospital off the battlefield, so shocked and injured they had no idea who they were or where they’d come from. It was so easy, wasn’t it, to lose track of someone in all that chaos . . .’ She felt the old familiar emotion rising in her chest and paused for a moment to gain control of herself. ‘I was sure he would be found injured in a hospital behind the lines,’ she said, more calmly. ‘That’s why I waited for him. I never gave up hope that one day I’d be working in the hospital, and I’d look up and there he’d be, standing in the doorway. I thought he’d find his way back to me one day.’
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