At Long Last Love

by Milly Adams

  Kate had been here before and wasn’t going to pore over a contract in close proximity to this man today, or any day. ‘I’m pleased you liked my act. Why not pass the contract over, then I can sit right down here and take my time.’ She gestured to the sofa that Brucie kept in his study because he felt it made him look like a big-businessman.

  ‘Well, why not, little lady.’ McManus held the contract out to her, resting his cigar on the edge of the ashtray. She reached over, but instead of handing her the contract, he grabbed her arm, pulling her to him, his mouth opening on hers. It tasted like the bottom of an ashtray. Kate was off-balance and fell against him; he kneaded her breast and trapped her between his legs.

  She pushed away, but he was too strong – her legs were pinioned, but her arms were free as he pawed her body, pulling the top of her dress down, baring her breasts and bending his head, his mouth open. She beat at his face, going for the eyes and, as he cursed and released her, she tore away, holding her dress up. He grabbed her back, slapping her full across the face, splitting her lip and yanking her hair, wrenching her head back and ripping her dress away. Once more she hit him, and kicked. He hit her back. She stabbed at him with her high heel, catching his shin. McManus recoiled and Kate staggered away, turning from him and heading for the door, clasping what was left of her dress.

  She heard him coming after her. Then he stopped, saying, ‘What the hell are those scars on your back? They’re bloody disgusting. If I’d seen them, I’d have left you alone.’

  She reached the door, opened it and, forcing herself to keep her voice level, said, ‘It’s collateral damage. Try it sometime. But no, you spend your time over the pond, away from the bombs, you bastard.’

  She closed the door quietly behind her and looked both ways, tasting blood, feeling her lip swelling and her nose bleeding. Her eye hurt too, but not as much as having some fat old bastard saying that she disgusted him. And what’s more, her back was hurting from the struggle.

  Once in the dressing room, she locked the door and leaned back against it, letting the torn dress fall off her to the floor. She wiped her hand across her face. It came away red. Blood or lipstick? She checked her watch. Lizzy? She must hurry. The dressing room smelled of Cheryl’s perfume, though that was preferable to cigar smoke and sweat, but only just. Furiously Kate dressed, dabbing at her face with water from the sink in the corner. She stuffed cotton wool up her bleeding nose, patted her lip, brushed her hair. Someone banged on the door. She froze.

  ‘Kate, it’s me, Brucie.’ He was almost whispering. ‘Come on, open the door – we can put this right.’ She opened it and he stared, then said, ‘What the hell have you done? What ’arm is there in a bit of a grope? Doesn’t “casting couch” mean anything to you, babe? Come on now, play along; it’s just business.’

  She listened to the words, then reached for her handbag. ‘I need to catch the train. I don’t know if I’ll be back.’

  He held out his hand. Kate side-stepped him. She had always known that Brucie was hardly the perfect boyfriend, but this treatment of her now was something she’d never expected. ‘You’re a bastard too, you know, Brucie. We’ve been together for too long for you not to know that I don’t do casting couches. Besides, I’m damaged goods – didn’t McManus tell you? He doesn’t care for my scars.’

  ‘He likes your front, though, and he likes your voice and the way you move. We can still swing it; we can still make this work.’

  She pondered him, head on one side, eye throbbing. But what wasn’t throbbing? ‘We? You’re up for a bit of a grope, are you? You like having your clothes ripped off you, do you?’

  Brucie put up his hands, as though in submission. ‘It’s just a game, sweetie, a damned game. I’m sorry he hurt you, but it will heal. I’ll try to fix it. It’s not all lost.’

  She pushed past him, clipping along the corridor in her high heels and into the club. The band sat round a table, smoking. Stan half rose when he saw her, but then, at Kate’s gesture, sank back down. ‘All these doors I walk into,’ she said. ‘Maybe see you in a couple of weeks, lads.’

  They just narrowed their eyes against the smoke, nodding. Roberto said, ‘No trip to the States then?’

  She laughed. ‘You should see the other guy.’ She walked on and into the kitchen, where Alfredo was working alongside Lizzy, and both were whisking something in bowls. Lizzy wore a high white hat and was listening as Alfredo explained the intricacies of the clientele’s needs.

  Frankie came to stand beside Kate. ‘I won’t ask.’

  She nodded, suddenly exhausted. ‘I don’t know,’ she said in a loud voice. Lizzy looked up. Kate continued, ‘I had completely forgotten that the step was there, and down I went, into the door.’

  Lizzy gasped. ‘Holy moly – have I said that right, Alfredo? You look awful. What have you got up your nose?’ She laid the whisk beside the bowl, and Alfredo undid her apron as Kate explained about the cotton wool, and that her nose had probably stopped bleeding now.

  Alfredo wagged his dripping whisk at her. ‘You remove it outside my kitchen, then you may take this child for a meal. I have a friend in Leicester Square.’ He gave Lizzy a business card. ‘He will know I sent you, and will have something to delight the tastebuds.’

  It was the last thing Kate needed, but she smiled, making her lip bleed again. She dabbed it. ‘Come along then, and thank Frankie and Alfredo very much, Lizzy. See you soon, lads, I’m grateful.’

  It was seven o’clock before they were on the train, but it was an uninterrupted run, a mere two and a half hours this time before they arrived at Yeovil. A taxi was there, which they shared with another family. Lizzy told them the tale of the forgotten step, the door, but also included the wonderful singing and dancing at the theatre, confessing that she had peeped. Kate smiled and said nothing.

  The family were going on to their farm, well past Little Worthy, so Kate and Lizzy were dropped at the bus stop at the village turn-off. They paid their share and walked through the village, lighting their way with a filtered torch.

  Lizzy said, ‘The roses smell stronger at night, don’t they, Aunt Kate?’

  ‘If it’s been a hot day.’

  They were passing the village hall just as the WI members left. Leading the charge was Mrs Bartholomew, who turned as she heard Lizzy’s voice calling to Fran Billings.

  ‘Mrs Billings, hey, Mrs Billings, we had a lovely time. And we’re home so late, and I’m not a bit tired. Aunt Kate did a lovely song and dance at the theatre. It had lights and a band, but she’s not going to America. She had a fall too. She forgot a step was there and bashed her face against a door.’

  Deliberately, so that Kate could hear, Mrs Bartholomew said loudly and disapprovingly to Mrs Whitehead, ‘You met them on the train, didn’t you, Mrs Whitehead? It was a nightclub surely – not at all the place for a child. I can’t think what her mother will say. Tripped on a step, indeed. Too much alcohol, I expect.’

  Lizzy looked up at Kate, who had not faltered at Mrs B’s jibe, but had kept on walking. ‘But it was a step, wasn’t it?’ Lizzy asked.

  ‘Of course it was,’ lied Kate. It was a decent lie, one that saved others from the truth. Perhaps that’s what she should have done all those years ago.

  Fran Billings and Miss Easton caught up with Kate and Lizzy, leaving sour Mrs B and Mrs Whitehead behind. Soon Mrs Martin, the butcher’s wife, and Mrs Woolton, the haberdashery owner, caught up with the foursome too.

  ‘How exciting,’ Miss Easton said to Kate. ‘What a shame it had to end like that. I can’t smell any alcohol on your breath, Kate, so what on earth is all this about drinking?’ She had raised her voice. Mrs Whitehead carried on past, rather like a galleon in full sail, with Mrs Bartholomew at her side.

  Kate whispered, ‘Oh, Miss Easton, don’t worry. You’re new to the village and will find that Mrs B’s bark is worse than her bite, and besides life hasn’t been easy for her.’

  Mrs Woolton peeled off at the haberdashery, picking her
way carefully with her limited torchlight, but called back, ‘Yes, I will do the costumes for the fund-raiser, Miss Easton. It’s just a shame Miss Watson won’t be here, but I’m sure the vicar will do the honours, weeding out those who come to the auditions.’

  ‘Well, good luck with that,’ Fran muttered. ‘It will be as bad as choosing one load of leeks over another at the village show.’ They all laughed, including Kate, who wished she hadn’t, as she tasted blood again.

  Mrs Martin waved and walked across to her shop. Fran Billings headed off to her end of the terrace. Her eldest child, Sandra, was old enough to look after the other two, it had been decreed. Finally, at last, there was Melbury Cottage.

  Kate said to the teacher, ‘Surely you don’t live down this way?’

  Miss Easton touched Kate’s arm and leaned close. ‘I am enjoying the walk. I’ll turn now, but put something cool on that face – and all thoughts of spiteful words out of your mind. I, for one, will miss you on your return to London. You make me laugh, you are so strong and vibrant, and you seem to have made our vicar smell the roses again.’

  Kate said, ‘If I was staying, I’d be in there helping you, doing all I can. Good luck anyway. And thank you.’ The two women smiled.

  Miss Easton replied, ‘You are easy to help, and deserve better than this gossipy lot.’

  ‘Ah well, you weren’t here then. I’m sure it didn’t appear to be my finest hour.’

  That night Kate lay in bed, the blackout curtains wide open, the moon lighting the trunks full of the memorabilia of Sarah’s childhood. There was none belonging to her. Lizzy had asked where Kate’s things had gone. She had thought for a moment, then merely told Lizzy that mistakes happened, things got thrown or given away when perhaps they shouldn’t.

  She stared at the ceiling. Here there were just eaves – no damp stain to watch, while your world was ripped from you, and you knew you would never be the same again. In two weeks she must leave yet again, as she had done all those years ago. At least she had someone to go to, because, when all was said and done, Brucie only wanted the best for her; and he loved her, even though she was scarred. There weren’t many men who would.

  The next day Yeovil was bombed and three were killed, and many injured. For a while Mrs Bartholomew and Mrs Whitehead had other things to talk about.

  Chapter Ten

  The Reverend Thomas Rees arrived back from Portsmouth at Little Worthy vicarage on Tuesday evening, as July was about to fade into August. Mrs B had headed home some while before, to her bungalow. She had left a note directing him to a grated-cheese salad left in the meat safe, and mentioned that his stand-in, the Reverend Bob Sylvester, had performed the morning service competently, but had done little else. She added that she hoped his check-up had gone well.

  Well, it had, and after being poked and prodded at the military hospital in Portsmouth, Tom had been pronounced as close to perfection as he would ever be. His new glass eye had been fitted; the absence of a spleen was not proving onerous; and although his leg, which had been broken in two places in the blast, would ache from time to time, he was signed off.

  He unpacked, placing his mother’s birthday gift of new pyjamas in the second drawer in his bedroom. He could hardly tell her that he went to bed naked in the summer heat, after she’d searched the shops for them. Probably he’d change his mind when the winter winds blew, but so be it. He knew where the pyjamas were.

  He seemed to be thinking ‘So be it’ a great deal these days, now that his sleep was so much better and his work less intimidating. In fact he felt that at last he was doing some good, and the villagers Tom had met as he walked down the High Street seemed pleased to see him. As he sauntered along, he had smelled the roses and heard the owls. In a month or so the countryside would look shorn, and then ploughing and sowing would begin.

  There was a relentless predictability to the country year that he found comforting; he hadn’t thought of it until Kate had mentioned it after church a couple of Sundays ago. She’d also reminded him about mending the church clock – in that voice, as only she could. He sighed and ate at the kitchen table as the clock chimed ten.

  He washed and dried his plate and cutlery, then was at last free to slip into the annexe, which now looked much more like a snug than a study. He had brought in Hastings’s old armchair from the sitting room, but kept the other in here too, still oozing horsehair. A couple of bookcases had been hidden behind trunks laid on top of one another and were now filled with his books, but the pièce de résistance remained the writing desk.

  He had even discovered a fireplace, behind boxes of National Geographic magazines that he had donated to the local grammar school. Finally he had resurrected Hastings’s typewriter, and it was on this that he stabbed out his sermons and other parish business; importantly, Mrs B and her duster were banned from the desk, and in that way the papers on it stayed where he put them.

  He loved his mother, but as he settled into Bertie Hastings’s armchair – the one that suited his predecessor’s shape – he relaxed. It was good to be home, and this feeling had been growing as he neared Little Worthy. Yes, good to be home and to have a chance to catch up on the notebooks, knowing that already the old man’s insights had enhanced his understanding and had created a desire in him to be alert to his parishioners’ needs, and to be active in helping them, when possible.

  He picked up the second of the notebooks, but as he opened it at the bookmark he paused, recapping on all that he had learned, both from the notebook and from village happenings. How would he cope, for example, if he lost his two children from diphtheria, as Mrs B had, only to suffer another blow when her husband left her for a younger woman, some two years later. It made him more tolerant of her meanness of spirit, but did not stop him in his intention to curb it.

  Then there were the Fletchers. Had Olive really killed her husband, as she had insinuated? He suspected she had, but they would never know, and did it really matter? It was over and done with, and the son seemed lighter, more in tune with his young wife, without the tyranny of his father leading him astray. Adrian was certainly less combative now, when Tom called. What’s more, he knew that a certain Kate Watson dropped in on them from time to time too.

  Tom checked his watch. At midnight he would push aside the blackout curtain so that Kate would be forced to tick him off for showing a light. Naturally he would ask her in for a cup of tea, after all he had no time to waste in his new campaign to help where he could – and Miss Kate Watson could do with his ministering, if the notebook was anything to go by. For now, though, he would bury himself in Hastings’s thoughts, but before he did, he wondered briefly, as he had before, whether this was an invasion of privacy? But any information would remain with him and, as he had told his mother, he would destroy the notebooks when he had completed his reading, just to be on the safe side. Perhaps he, in his time, would leave a history for his successor, or some words of wisdom, if he ever managed to acquire any. ‘At the moment, I don’t know my arse from my elbow,’ he had said.

  His mother had agreed, which he felt was not altogether supportive.

  He opened the book, crossed his legs and began to read. At two, Kate’s knock came, as he had hoped. He adjusted the blackout. ‘I’m putting the kettle on.’

  ‘I’ll be at the back door any second.’ She sounded tired, but that was hardly surprising when she’d been up all day, and sleep wouldn’t be forthcoming until Lizzy was in bed tomorrow evening.

  He opened the back door. Kate stepped into the darkness of the kitchen and he shut the door behind her, switching on the light.

  ‘How did it go?’ she asked. He turned and she said, ‘Ah, my word, young man, you have an eye, and it’s the same colour as the other one. The church’s blue-eyed boy, eh?’

  He grinned. ‘Mint?’

  ‘Please.’ But first she caught at his sleeve, examining his face carefully, which even his mother couldn’t do.

  He said, ‘I heard last week that you’d been away yo
urself. Well, for a day at least. I can still see the remains of the black eye. I don’t know: here I am, almost presentable, and there you are … Quite a pair, eh?’

  ‘Indeed,’ she said, nodding. ‘And those eyes are, too. They’ve matched the colour very well. Does it hurt?’ She reached up, and touched his scar.

  He said, ‘The scar or the eye?’

  ‘The eye.’ She dropped her hand. ‘The scar too.’

  ‘Neither, not really, except for the corner of my lip, where the good meets the bad.’ He turned now, and made the tea.

  Kate said, ‘There’s no bad – it’s all still you, and I do think the scar is less obvious, don’t you?’

  He could still feel where her fingers had touched his cheek and for a moment he couldn’t speak. No-one had done that; no-one had ever looked so closely or had ever said, ‘It’s still you.’

  This wasn’t the daughter he had read about, the one who had run wild with the gypsies, causing her father, the verger, untold outrage, and Hastings so much concern. No, this was a young girl who had lost her mother, her dog and Melanie, her school friend, all within a short space of time, and who had reacted to her loneliness by seeking out companionship and life.

  They took their tea into the annexe and Kate responded as Tom had thought she would. ‘This is excellent; it’s your own private space. I can picture old Hastings here.’ She paused. ‘I used to like him.’ She blurted out the words with a savagery that took him aback.

  He said nothing, but gestured to one of the armchairs, determined to pursue his agenda.