At Long Last Love

by Milly Adams

  Psalm 23 had been chosen by Adrian, the son, and he duly read it. The service droned on, and then it was time for the committal.

  The funeral directors removed the brass handles; it was wartime, after all. They traipsed along past the meadow, as the left-hand side of the cemetery had been christened, in Tom’s mind. They reached the grave, with soil heaped to one side, and lowered the casket. The committal began.

  ‘Almighty God, you judge us with infinite mercy and justice …’ He had chosen that, because he felt ‘justice’ was particularly apt, in this case. They continued with the committal as the wind stirred the yew tree, the bees buzzed, the pigeons cooed, and the distant sound of children playing on the recreation ground reached them. Children were ignorant of death, thank heavens; or were they? Some were evacuees from London.

  He looked at the Fletchers. He had reached the home stretch.

  ‘May God give you his comfort and his peace …’

  It was over and time to sprinkle some soil onto the casket. He handed a trowel to Olive Fletcher. She dug it into the heap of soil. Many of the villagers were drifting away, eager for the ham tea that the Fletchers had arranged at the village hall. He reached out to reclaim the trowel, but Olive was digging it into the pile of earth again, and this time she didn’t sprinkle, but hurled it onto the casket, and again, and again. Mrs B was standing opposite, looking shocked. The funeral directors looked the other way.

  Behind him he heard a whisper, ‘Oh my, justice indeed. You did well, my reverend friend, very well – no embroidery or flannel. I would applaud, but the show isn’t over. You really do need to take care of that poor little Susie, because like father, like son?’

  It was a question that somehow Tom knew he must address, partially due to Kate’s prompting, which had so annoyed him. Mrs B had left and was heading down the path and then out of the gate, making for the village hall, determined no doubt to share Olive’s comments with her friends. So far Tom had read nothing of Albert Hastings’s insight into Mrs B’s life, but surely there was something that he could do to help.

  Adrian Fletcher was staring at his mother, but now she handed the trowel to Susie, who took up where she had left off, tipping soil onto the casket, then again, and again. Olive turned to her son, whispering fiercely, ‘You touch another hair of yon girl’s head and you might have an accident, an’ all. You’re too like that father of yorn. Things happen on farms, so if you want to come into the farmhouse again, then it is with decency, because that is where Susie and I will be livin’. You think on, my son.’

  Now she took the trowel from Susie’s hand and returned it to Tom. Together the women walked away from the grave. Mrs Fletcher called over her shoulder to Tom, ‘You can let ’em fill him in now, Vicar, and I thank you.’

  Adrian stared from the women to the vicar. ‘You ’eard all that, Vicar; and you, Kate Watson. She bloody killed ’im.’

  Tom froze, just for a moment, as he had frozen on the beach that terrible day, but then he saw movement at his side. It was Kate stepping towards Adrian, her mouth opening.

  No, no, he was not going to be found wanting a second time. He said, cupping his hand to his ear, ‘I have the most dreadful hearing, after the Dunkirk beaches. You too, I think, Miss Watson. It’s all that drumming behind you on the stage. It does damage the ears, so they say.’

  Kate slowed, closing her mouth. She frowned, looking puzzled, and glanced from Adrian to Tom. Then suddenly she caught on and said, ‘Pardon, you’ll have to speak up, Vicar. The clubs are so noisy, I find I miss a great deal. I thought I’d head off and pick up Lizzy.’

  Tom said, ‘Off you go then. I’ll walk with Adrian to the village hall.’ He gripped Adrian’s arm and moved him along. ‘You and I are going to have to work together to support the family now, you know, Adrian. The village will of course be keeping a very, very close eye on you too, just in case there is need of help.’

  Kate called, ‘I’ll take the eastern gate then. Sleep well tonight, Vicar. Oh, I forgot: he’s Mutt ’n’ Jeff. Tell the vicar what I said, would you, Adrian? I’m so sorry for your loss. Please tell your mother.’

  Tom felt Adrian gear himself up, as though to spring from his grasp, and said, ‘You’ve been given a chance, Adrian, to run your farm and your life, now your father has gone. Use that chance wisely. Better men than both of us are dying to protect their wives and families and allow our way of life to continue. To protect, Adrian – remember that.’

  That night Tom slept until dawn. It was a natural awakening. Yes, he’d had the dreams, but the demons had not pulled him down so far, the sand hadn’t clung to him. And although on that day in Dunkirk he had paused, he knew that had he gone immediately, he would have been killed too. Perhaps he had been saved for today, possibly to save a family who had suffered enough.

  He rose and lifted the blackout at his bedroom window. He didn’t really know, any more, what was right, what was the truth, so he just had to manage as best he could. After all, Kate would not be here much longer to act as a cattle-prod. He half laughed, knowing he would miss her, but also that life would be simpler with her gone.

  It was as he turned from the window that he pictured Olive Fletcher throwing earth onto the coffin in a flurry of fury. Something had been nagging at him, and now he remembered the chip on the inscription on Reginald Watson’s headstone. This evening he would continue to clear out the annexe, and as a reward to himself he would continue to read the notebooks. Perhaps, just perhaps, there would be some answers to the riddle of Kate Watson, which was buzzing inside his head.

  Chapter Nine

  The hammering on the front door startled Kate, who had been dozing since dawn. It was now Tuesday, and the funeral of yesterday was still playing on her mind. The hammering began again. She slung on her dressing gown and hurried down the attic ladder, meeting Lizzy on the landing.

  ‘It’s only seven, Aunt Kate. Is it the telegram boy? He banged like that when he brought the one about Dad being missing.’

  Kate didn’t stop, but took the stairs two at a time, calling over her shoulder, ‘The only way to find out is to open the door.’

  Lizzy followed. ‘Coming, we’re coming,’ the child called. The hammering continued.

  Kate yelled, ‘You’ll knock the door down in a moment, so give your knuckles a rest.’ She yanked open the front door.

  ‘Telegram, miss. Sign ’ere.’ The boy thrust the buff envelope at her.

  Kate signed for it. Lizzy leaned against her as they watched the boy hurry back down the path, leap on his bike and pedal off. Somewhere a dog barked and a cockerel crowed.

  ‘It must be about Mum. She’s in uniform now.’ Lizzy clung to Kate, who stroked her tangled hair.

  ‘You can see through an envelope, can you, my girl? Let’s close the door and toddle to the kitchen, sit down and read it. Let me go; hold my hand and pull me, so we get there more quickly.’ After all, what would it hurt to delay the inevitable, but how could it have happened? Had the canteen been hit, or had Sarah been driving a lorry? Kate’s mouth was dry, her heart thumping.

  Lizzy was tugging her along.

  ‘Go on, give me a real pull.’ She’d do anything to distract the child, whose face had been taut with fear, but was now just set with determination as she hauled this lump of an aunt along the hallway. In the kitchen, Kate sat down at the table. Lizzy came to stand by her. Kate said, ‘Come along, we’ll read this – two girls together, eh?’

  She opened it, but after all the fuss, it was only from Brucie:

  You not telephoned for week Stop You said Mondays Stop Get train today Stop Scout for New York Cockatoo today five Stop Red dress in dressing room Stop Brucie

  ‘Who’s Brucie? We were worried, weren’t we? It wasn’t fair to do that.’ Lizzy stood with hands on hips, as though Kate was to blame for all the anxieties of the world.

  Kate leapt to her feet. ‘Never mind that. Mrs Summers is in Exeter today, so she can’t look after you. Quick, I must do something with
my hair, while I think about who else might manage it.’

  Lizzy planted herself in front of Kate, refusing to move. ‘Who is Scout? We have them, but they collect stuff for the war. What does this one want with a bird? I think you are being naughty, like Mummy said. If I’m worried, I must get help from someone. What’s more, it’s the school holiday picnic, remember, and you said you would make sandwiches and come with us, to help Miss Easton and …’

  Kate waved Lizzy to a hush and scooted around her. ‘Look, I’ll make sandwiches, like I said, and leave them with Fran at the end of the terrace, or Miss Easton, either of whom I’m sure will look after you until it’s time for the picnic.’ She wasn’t sure at all, but it was worth a try.

  Lizzy moved swiftly to block Kate as she tried to enter the hall. ‘Or you could take me with you. I haven’t been to London, and I’d like to go.’

  ‘I can’t take you – it’s for grown-ups.’

  She slipped past Lizzy, flew up the stairs and washed her hair, pinning it up so that it would bounce onto her shoulders, once it dried. She dressed in a straight skirt, stockings, high heels and a silk blouse, and then appeared again in the kitchen.

  Lizzy was nursing a cut finger at the sink, counting the drops of blood that dripped into it. On the kitchen table was the loaf and the bread knife. Two doorstep slices had been cut; one was blood-stained. Lizzy said without looking round, ‘I thought I’d help, by cutting the bread for the sandwiches, so all you had to do was boil the eggs and mash them. It would make you pleased with me, and you’d take me. Everyone leaves, and I’m never sure they will come back. How can we know anyone will come back? But now you’ll be cross, and I’ll have to go on the picnic.’ She turned now, holding up her finger. The blood ran down her hand and then her arm. ‘I’m sorry too, because you’re not naughty. I know that. I don’t ever need help when you are here.’

  Kate tied on an apron and herded the child back to the sink, then ran the tap. ‘We’ll let the water wash it clean.’ Lizzy leaned against her, and Kate stroked her hair. ‘Cuts hurt, and of course I’m not cross.’ How could she be, with this precious child, whom she was coming to care for far too much? ‘Accidents happen, we all know that, and this was one born of good intentions, as our beloved vicar might say from his pulpit.’

  Lizzy giggled.

  Kate said, ‘Now budge over, you dear little horror, I have to find medical supplies.’

  She searched in the household cleaner cupboard and dug out the first-aid kit, while Lizzy said, ‘I’d really like to come with you.’

  ‘Let’s sort out one thing at a time. Blood takes priority.’ Kate patted the cut dry. It wasn’t deep. She bandaged it with cotton wool and gauze. There was not one whimper from this dark-haired, dark-eyed child with the voice of an angel and a spirit that made Kate smile. ‘Thank you, Miss Elizabeth Baxter, for trying to help me; let’s boil the eggs. We’ll have one each for breakfast, after which your job will be to mash them, because I’m hopeless at that sort of thing. How about it?’

  ‘But you will take me, won’t you?’

  They arrived at Waterloo Station at four o’clock, after an interminable journey that took almost five hours. Lizzy had slept for some of it, but fretted about her hair, which kept escaping from her plaits. She wore her new deep-pink dress, white socks and sandals. Miss Easton had accepted the sandwiches and the excuse of a meeting, which indeed there was, wishing them a lovely time. They had travelled on the bus with Mrs Bartholomew’s friend, Mrs Whitehead, who was taking the train to Sherborne. Kate’s heart sank, because Lizzy, with the excitement of London looming, shared every detail of the telegram with Mrs Whitehead, right down to the Cockatoo.

  Mrs Whitehead had pursed her lips and said little. But as she left the train at Sherborne, she had mouthed to Kate, ‘Shame on you, all dolled up and taking a child to a nightclub.’

  They took the Underground from Waterloo, and Kate made a game of running through the streets, once they reached Leicester Square. They arrived at the Blue Cockatoo, panting. Kate’s feet were killing her. She lifted Lizzy so that she could bang the brass knocker, lowering her to the ground and trying all the while to keep Lizzy’s sandals from smudging her cream skirt. There was no answer, and Kate whacked the knocker. She heard Tony calling, ‘Keep your ’air on.’

  The door swung open. Tony grinned, leaned forward and gave her a smacking kiss. ‘Brucie’s about to burst a gasket; you’ve fifteen minutes to get your glad-rags on. Looking good, gal – got a bit of colour in yer cheeks.’

  She slipped past him, pushing Lizzy before her. ‘That’s because we’ve been running, haven’t we, Lizzy? Is Teresa here yet?’

  He shook his head, pointing at Lizzy. ‘The boss won’t like that.’

  ‘That, Tony, is my lovely niece, Lizzy. What about Frankie?’

  ‘Good idea; he’ll take her off to the kitchens. ’Ang on a minute. I’ll see if the coast is clear.’ He stuck his head round the curtain into the club. ‘Quick, now.’

  Kate put her finger to her lips. She turned to Lizzy and said quietly, ‘Remember I told you this place is for grown-ups, so I need to make sure that you are safe and sound somewhere else. We’re finding Frankie to look after you, just while I meet this scout, because he might have some work for me, when your mum comes home.’

  She slipped around Tony, leading Lizzy along the back of the tables, which were all laid up.

  Lizzy whispered, ‘It’s really dark.’

  ‘The lights come on when people start arriving, a bit like the theatre, which it is really, but with people eating and dancing. I expect Brucie has kept it closed while the audition takes place.’

  ‘Mrs Bartholomew said you worked in a place where people drank and behaved badly. I heard her telling the old vicar. I think some man told her, because he’d seen you, but it wasn’t called this. It was called the Burley Club, or something like that.’

  They were hurrying into another corridor now, and Kate opened the door into the kitchen. It had a row of ovens, and bottles of wine stacked in boxes. Frankie was sorting out some pans with the chef. ‘’Allo, lovely gal,’ he shouted, almost running towards Kate and folding her in his arms.

  For a moment she rested her head on his shoulder. ‘It’s good to be home,’ she said.

  ‘So good to ’ave yer – ain’t ’alf missed you. But you’re almost late. He’s in one of his baits, cos the big cheese is ’ere and you ain’t.’ He looked at Lizzy. ‘Babysitting problems?’

  Kate nodded. ‘I feel bad bringing her, but can you keep Lizzy in the kitchens? She’s great at mixing things, Alfredo.’ Alfredo, the chef, was chopping vegetables at the large table and nodded, unimpressed.

  Frankie squeezed Kate’s arm. ‘I’ll look after her. She can dust the bottles with me. ’Ow about that, little lady?’

  Lizzy was looking from one to the other, wide-eyed.

  ‘I’ll be back soon, all of you. Be good, Lizzy.’ Kate left, half running along the back of the tables again, down the other side and through the curtain to the right of the stage, where Roberto, Stan and Elliot were now tuning up. They waved and winked, but she didn’t stop, just rushed into the dressing room.

  Cheryl was there, stripped to her underwear, about to put on Kate’s red dress.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ Kate demanded.

  Cheryl flushed. ‘Well, you weren’t here, so I’m grabbing my chance.’

  ‘Well, back off, get in line and wear your own damned dress.’ All Kate’s pent-up frustration at the day spilled out onto this girl, who bit back.

  ‘Brucie said I should.’ Cheryl flung the dress at Kate and stalked out, slamming the door.

  Kate changed in just a few seconds, brushed her hair, added more lipstick, then strolled onto the stage as though she’d been here all day. Brucie was standing on the dance floor, introducing Cheryl to a man smoking a cigar, his waistcoat stretched across his massive girth. None of them had noticed her. She leaned against the piano, where Roberto was warming up,
playing ‘Top Hat, White Tie and Tails’.

  He whispered, ‘Give ’em hell, darlin’. That Cheryl would dance on your grave, if you gave her half the chance. We can’t wait to have you back. No nanny yet, then?’

  When she shook her head, he crashed his hands on the keys, bounding into the song. The scout turned round. Kate began to sing and dance, because it was what she was born for. As she did so, she could almost smell the wood-smoke of the fire, see the darkness of Andrei’s eyes and the dark hair that he would fling back before he danced, and feel the warmth of his hand as he pulled her from where she sat on the log. She felt the strength of his body as he held her to him, spun her away, dancing as others were doing. It was a lifetime ago, but the memory still kept her breathing, kept her feeling alive, made her rise in the morning.

  Stan brought his saxophone to the microphone, Elliot thumped on the base, Kate flung back her hair and then they rolled into ‘Begin the Beguine’. As they finished, she saw that Cheryl had gone, and that Brucie was leading the scout through the curtained doorway. She checked behind her, and the boys shrugged.

  ‘We don’t like the look of that scout, Kate,’ Stan said. ‘You can do better than go across to the States with that one, but it’s up to you.’

  Brucie had re-emerged and beckoned to her. She thanked the lads and joined Brucie, who hugged and kissed her. He’d been drinking, and she could smell cigars on his breath too. ‘You go on in, sweetie. Teddy McManus wants to talk to you. Handle him well and we could be on our way to the big time.’

  She gave a quick glance towards the kitchen corridor. No sign of Lizzy. ‘Thank you, Frankie,’ she whispered to herself as she slipped behind the curtain and along to the half-glazed office door. It was ajar.

  McManus was half sitting on Brucie’s desk, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his jacket folded on the chair behind the desk. He waved her in, and the cigar he was holding left a trail of smoke.

  ‘Ya knocked me over, darlin’,’ McManus said in his American drawl. ‘I have a place for you, too damned right. And that dress … Phew, makes me feel hot just to look at ya.’ He reached over and picked up his glass, containing a double Scotch, perhaps even a triple. He gulped, then replaced it on the desk, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I got a cute little contract here. Come on over and let’s take a look together. Then I can put ya right on any points ya don’t like. I have to tell ya, Brucie boy thought it a damned good deal. Come on over – don’t be shy.’