At Long Last Love

by Milly Adams

  Kate sat. ‘Your sermon when I first arrived was kind, and I think it was directed partly at Mrs B. I wasn’t sure whether to tell you why she is as she is, but by now you probably know. After all, the village has a way of getting the past across to incomers. Just don’t think ill of her, but perhaps work out a way that you can help her emerge from her disaster. She can’t seem to take even a few steps towards something better.’

  He looked into his mug, then nodded, pleased that she had given him an opening. He leaned forward, glancing at her. ‘You’re right, but what makes you think it’s easy to take such steps? It isn’t, you know, and anyone who thinks it is is lying to themselves.’

  She said nothing, but seemed to be thinking of other things. She gulped her tea down to the dregs, then stood, thrusting her mug at him and glaring at the floor. ‘I didn’t say it was easy, but it has to be done. But you’re a vicar, so what do you lot know about life? And who the hell are you calling a liar?’

  She spun from the annexe into the kitchen darkness.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, check your blackout more carefully. Poor old Percy won’t be able to keep spending time with you, when I go, just because you can’t damned well sleep.’

  Tom struggled to his feet with both mugs, his own tea slopping as he followed her into the dark kitchen, bumping into the table. There was a draught, then the door slammed behind her. He placed the mugs on the table and felt his way to the light switch, flicking it on and staring at the door. ‘Damn the girl, and damn me.’ He spoke aloud because he was so furious with his clumsiness, when all he wanted was to give Kate an opening to talk. But why on earth should she spin off into a tizz about lying, when that wasn’t his point at all?

  He washed up the mugs in the sink, picking up the tea towel and drying them. He put them back in the cupboard, wanting to groan with a frustration that seemed familiar, whenever he had anything to do with Kate. That would teach him, for being cocky enough to decide that he was more than ready to do his ‘good vicar’ bit, and proceeding to dive in with his boots on. Well, she’d shown him that he still didn’t know his arse from his elbow, so it was back to the drawing board. And who knew what Kate thought of him now? That thought hurt.

  He was hanging the tea towel back on the hook when there was a tap on the door and he heard her voice. ‘Thank you for the tea, and I’m sorry. I know you have experienced a lot of awful things, but … Oh, nothing. Anyway, I’ll be gone in a few days, and you won’t see me again. It’s good news, isn’t it, about El Alamein? Perhaps things are really on the turn, now we’ve halted their advance.’

  Tom heard Kate’s footsteps as she walked away, and again felt the touch of her fingers tracing the ridges of his scar. She was leaving again soon, for ever. Now a strange anger flared, to push the hurt away, and he wanted to shout, ‘So you’re running away yet again, Kate Watson, in spite of all your fine talk of putting one foot in front of the other. Come back, let me help you. And forgive me. I don’t know why you think I accused you of being a liar. I just wanted to help.’

  His heart ached for her, just as it had for Mrs B, because although he had at first thought the housekeeper’s insinuation about the two Watson girls going away – one to give birth, the other to adopt – had been tittle-tattle, he had since come to realise, after further thought, that in all probability it was true. A tidy little solution, it might be said. But no, there was nothing tidy about it. It must have torn the heart out of Kate, just as it had with Mrs B. To be pregnant at fifteen, by a gypsy who probably would not marry her, or had perhaps already left the area, must have been appalling, and Kate must have felt so frightened and alone.

  He switched off all the lights and headed for bed, but barely slept, thinking of her, feeling exasperated and then tender. ‘Damn you, poor little Kate Watson. And damn me, for being a great clod,’ he said, as night became day.

  A few days later, Kate and Lizzy waited in the kitchen for the sound of Sarah’s key in the lock. Kate’s case was packed and parked in the hall. The red rose that Brucie had sent, by way of apology, would remain in the vase in the kitchen, because Lizzy liked it. In her pocket, though, Kate kept his note bearing words of love more fulsome than ever before, as Brucie begged her to return.

  She had spoken to him yesterday, Friday, standing in the village telephone box, slipping in extra money as the pips sounded. She listened to his escalating pleading, until she finally confirmed that she would be returning, probably on Sunday. Kate had always known that she would, for what choice did she have? And she loved him, she supposed, though she wasn’t sure quite what love was. What she was sure about, when she woke this morning, was her inability to stay here, feeling excluded, while Sarah and Lizzy rebonded.

  Lizzy was sitting at the table, opposite her. ‘You will come again, promise you will?’

  ‘Your mum will be here, having sorted out a new, and lovely, nanny, should she have to go away again.’ Kate was apparently reading the newspaper, staring at words that didn’t register, but in reality she was watching Lizzy doodling with her finger on the oilcloth. She closed the paper and moved to the window. She had never hugged this child; how could she, because then she would have to acknowledge that she cared too much? And she’d had enough of misery.

  Lizzy was sliding off her chair. She came and stood close, her hand resting on the edge of the sink. Her fingers were long, like his. Kate walked away, to stand at the back door, looking out towards the woods. She should have gone with Andrei when the gypsies left the village, but she had been scared of the unknown. She didn’t know then what the future had in store.

  She checked her watch and, as she did so, she heard the key in the lock.

  Lizzy tore down the hallway and flung her arms round her mother. Kate watched from the kitchen. Yes, Lizzy’s mother – one who was fit and suntanned, and moved with fluidity and ease, and was indefinably different from the Sarah who had left. Sarah who was hugging Lizzy and kissing her hair, which was neat in plaits and kirby grips.

  ‘Mum, I’m so glad you’re back. Yeovil was bombed, but not us. We are raising money for War Bonds. The vicar and Miss Easton are holding auditions. Can I sing? Please, please, and will you? I expect you have a nice voice, like Aunt Kate. She sings in church with me now.’

  She was dragging Sarah towards Kate. ‘Tell her, Aunt Kate.’

  Kate laughed. ‘I think you’ll have lots of time to tell your mum everything. When is the nanny coming, Sarah?’

  Sarah said, ‘I’m not quite sure. Are you off to catch your bus?’

  ‘Indeed I am. I think you’ll find everything in order. I’ve been sleeping in the attic room, so all is ready for the new girl. I have washed my sheets and they’re on the line. You look so well – obviously being a FANY suits you. I’m really pleased. You’ve succeeded in your training?’

  Sarah was holding Lizzy’s hand. ‘They’ll let me know within the week. And yes, it does suit me, Kate. It’s doing something useful.’

  ‘Aunt Kate’s been useful too; she’s in the ARP. Mrs Summers comes and sleeps over. Not in the attic room, though, in the nanny’s room, but she brings her own sheets. And Aunt Kate took me to London. She had to sing for Scout and had a fall. She had a black eye, and her lip was like a balloon …’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ Kate almost ran down the hall, snatching up her case. Sarah followed, dragging her child and hissing at them both, ‘What did you say? You went to the club? How could you, Lizzy, after my warnings? How could you take her, Kate?’

  Kate stopped. ‘For goodness’ sake, Sarah, it wasn’t a trip into hell’s mouth. I couldn’t find a babysitter, and I had the chance of a step up. The FANYs is your life, and mine is different. Lizzy was in the kitchen all the time, never in the club. Rest assured, she didn’t want to come. I insisted.’

  Lizzy smiled at her, and the warmth in it stirred something that Kate couldn’t afford to feel. She left, calling, ‘I’m glad I could help you both out.’ She hurried down the path, and through the village, look
ing neither to left nor right.

  Once in London, just after lunch, Kate took the Tube, then hurried to the club. There were posters pasted on the wall, featuring Cheryl as the star. Well, they could come down, right now. She knocked. Tony opened up and hesitated. ‘Kate, we weren’t expecting you until tomorrow. Come on in, sweetheart, so good to see you. I really mean that. We’ll have a bit of class onstage again.’ He took hold of her chin and searched her face. ‘Bastard,’ he said, ‘but the bruises are all gone, and you look as good as new.’

  ‘Brucie’s in the office, is he?’

  ‘I’ve just arrived for my shift, so I’m not sure.’

  She left her suitcase in the corridor. ‘Guard it with your life, my lovely friend.’

  Tony laughed. Was it her imagination or did he sound a bit odd? ‘You bet.’

  ‘Everything all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Always, darling, just missed you.’

  Kate swept aside the curtain. Once in the club, she skirted around the tables, heading to the kitchen with the runner beans she and Lizzy had picked yesterday and had wrapped in newspaper for Alfredo. He was chopping vegetables, as usual at this time, prepping for the evening. He too looked surprised. ‘Tomorrow. It was tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, like a bad penny, here I am.’ She placed the beans on the table. ‘From your apprentice chef; she wrote you a little card too.’ Kate had kept it in her pocket and it was crumpled.

  Alfredo seemed not to mind, but said, ‘You stay here, in the club. I will make a nice cake. I have sugar, and butter.’ He put his finger to his nose.

  She laughed, ‘Thanks, Alfredo. I’ll be back when I’ve seen Brucie.’

  He called after her, ‘He is not here. He shops. Yes, that’s right. He shops for you, for your return.’

  She grinned. ‘He’s a big softie really.’

  Frankie met her as she headed back to the corridor to pick up her suitcase. ‘Tony just told me you was ’ere. Stay for some food, babe. I haven’t seen you for too long.’

  ‘I might as well nip to the flat and unpack.’

  Tony loomed in the doorway. ‘Or you could leave your suitcase and see if you can catch up with Brucie in Oxford Street.’

  She laughed at the men. ‘That shows how little you know about shopping. How on earth would I find him, amongst all the other people? There might be a war on, but the Oxford Street shoppers remain. Besides, you know how Brucie drifts about. He’ll end up doing a bit of business, and then a bit more. No, I could do with putting my feet up. Don’t worry, I’ll be back later.’

  Frankie said, ‘I wish you’d stay, you—’

  Tony interrupted, ‘We’ll see you later, petal. You’re always welcome here; just you remember that. You are the one with the talent. Everyone else just trails along as a passenger.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re forgetting I’m not leaving, Frankie. I’ll see you this evening.’ Her flat was a short walk, thank heavens, because her feet were hot and her suitcase too heavy, but she hadn’t wanted to leave any clothes at Little Worthy.

  She would never return there. It was too painful.

  Kate carried on and opened the front door to the house, which had been converted into small flats, and climbed the stairs. She’d never know how Lizzy performed in the fund-raiser, or how well she did at school, but it was just as well. Lizzy had a mother, and her father might come home. Her own child was part of the fabric of the community and, most importantly, Lizzy was safe, because he, the child’s father, had gone from the village.

  She paused at the top of the stairs, suddenly exhausted. She should be pleased to be back, but, as on every other morning, afternoon and night, the pleasure only went so far. She almost dragged the case to flat number ten. She had painted the door a cheerful red. At the end of the landing was a stained-glass window and the sun was shining: red, blue and ochre stained the floorboards. She inserted her key and turned it. Soon she would be inside and could shut the door, and stop pretending.

  She opened the door, then closed it, put her case by the sofa and slumped down, stretching out her legs. ‘Here we are again,’ she breathed, leaning back, resting her head. Would Brucie come here, when Tony told him on his return from shopping? She smiled. Brucie wasn’t perfect, any more than she was, but they made some sort of a couple, and what did it matter? He hadn’t had to shop for anything else for her; he had sent the rose, which was at least something she could leave for Lizzy. Because the child had wanted it.

  She looked around. The room seemed small and dark, but she could smell Brucie’s Brylcreem, which was comforting, because all she needed was undemanding sameness. She ran her hands through her hair. She was tired, but she would sing tonight and soak in the applause, and feel real, for a while. But … She sat forward, puzzled. There was something else, over and above the Brylcreem. Then it came to her: it was perfume. She breathed deeply. Surely it was L’Air du Temps by Nina Ricci, the same perfume that she had smelled in the dressing room on the night of the McManus audition.

  She rose, looking around, expecting to see a bottle that Steve, the toerag, had left for her at the club. Perhaps Brucie, the old softie, had thought to spray some perfume in welcome. But why, when she was due home tomorrow, not today? There was no bottle of perfume on the mantelpiece, or the small table by the sofa. It was then that she saw it, a handbag on the easy chair by the electric fire: Cheryl’s.

  Of course, that’s why the boys at the club had wanted her to stay put.

  Kate crept to the bedroom door and took hold of the handle. She turned it slowly and then, scarcely breathing, because she didn’t want to see what she was sure she would, flung it open.

  Brucie lay in her double bed – their double bed – his arm around Cheryl; both were naked. Kate wouldn’t think, not yet. She coiled her courage together and said, ‘Get out, right now! This minute.’ She made her voice sound quite calm.

  Brucie said, sitting up and letting Cheryl fall back onto the mattress, ‘Sweetie. It’s not what it looks like.’

  Cheryl said, ‘It is what it looks like, you daft bitch. It has been for months – just not here.’

  Kate left the room, went to the kitchen and found her largest pan, filled it with cold water and returned. Brucie was scrambling towards his clothes, draped on the wicker chair, but Cheryl lounged on the bed, lighting a cigarette. Kate tipped the cold water over her, drenching her hair, face and as much of her body as she could manage. It didn’t matter that it soaked the sheets and mattress. She ignored Cheryl’s screeching, but brought the pan back over her shoulder, getting ready to swing it down.

  ‘You have ten seconds to leave this bed, get dressed and get the hell out of this flat.’

  Brucie came towards Kate, his hands out. ‘Babe, she’s lying. It’s a mistake.’

  ‘No, she’s not lying. And yes, it’s all been a mistake.’

  Cheryl was scrambling out of the other side of the bed, screeching, ‘You’re mad, you are.’

  ‘No, not mad. Eight seconds.’ She dangled the pan from one hand and moved to the wardrobe. ‘You, Bruce Turnbull, must get out too.’

  Kate dropped the pan, opened the window and then the wardrobe door, and threw Brucie’s clothes down to the street, hangers and all.

  Bruce was hopping into his trousers, but stopped and grabbed at Kate, shoving her into the wardrobe door. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘Helping you move out.’

  She picked up the pan again, her cheek hurting, and looked from one to the other. ‘Four seconds.’

  Cheryl, half dressed, picked up her dress and shoes, running in her pants and suspender belt out of the bedroom.

  Kate called after her. ‘Don’t forget your handbag. Anything left, I keep.’

  Brucie followed, holding up his trousers, his shirt in his hand, trying not to look as though he was hurrying. She chased them into the sitting room and he scuttled to the front door in his bare feet, yelling at Kate, ‘It’s your own damned fault – you’re frigid. And those scars
… Who the hell else will give you the time of day, if not me? Well, you’ve blown it with me and the Cockatoo, so you’ve got nothing. You got that?’

  He slammed the door behind him. Kate threw the pan, which dented the door and crashed to the ground. ‘Well, all the scarred brigade together, eh?’

  She opened the kitchen window to listen to the world on her doorstep. London, her world, continuing its wartime existence; one that was bigger than her, braver, and one in which she had found she could become lost. She dragged out the bottle of gin from beneath the sink and drank a glass, with water. Then another. Her cheek ached, her eye socket too. Not another black eye? She didn’t eat. She dozed on the sofa. She paced the sitting room, fingering the door. It was scarred, like Tom’s face, but her back was much more hideous than either of those. Hideous, disgusting. Well, the outside was like the inside, then.

  Night turned into day. Kate heard London carried on the breeze.

  Frankie knocked on the door. ‘You all right, cookie?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m always fine. I just need time.’

  Stan, Roberto and Elliot came, and Kate called through the door, ‘I’m fine. I need time.’ They went away.

  The days passed. The nights passed. She didn’t eat. She didn’t sleep. She drank until the bottle was empty. She had another, but where was it? She hunted until she found it, at the back of a shelf in the pantry cupboard.

  Brucie knocked on the door. His voice was low and urgent. ‘Come on, darlin’, the club needs you. I need you. That GI came good; his dad really is a scout and is coming over in December. Come on, sweetie. This’ll all pass. I was a fool.’

  She didn’t answer.

  Tony knocked. ‘Come on, doll, I don’t want to break down the door. I have to know you’re all right. We’re sorry. Should we have told you? Was it a mistake?’

  She answered, ‘No, not your mistake – just another of mine. I’m all right. Go back to the club, you’ll lose your job.’

  Manuel and Teresa knocked. They called through the door, ‘We miss you. Come back; steer clear of Brucie, if it helps. People are staying away, because it’s Cheryl. It’s you they like. Just like we do. We’ll leave a rose here, on the floor. Don’t let it die.’