At Long Last Love

by Milly Adams

  Kate tore back in, shouting, ‘All right, believe what you like. Andrei didn’t want me, and ran away – that’s what happened, because that’s what you all want to hear, so there you are. Tuck that into your prayers and tell your God, and may you all burn in hell.’

  She was gone the next day, with Sarah, leaving her father a broken man, with a fractured friendship, because of course Dr Bates knew we had asked questions of the nursing home. He moved soon afterwards, to a different parish. We didn’t see much of him, and I can’t say I blame him.

  Tom realised he still held his mug of mint tea in his hand. It was cold, and he couldn’t face it now. He looked again at the fire, which was dying gradually, and slowly a great disappointment enveloped him. He knew of Dr Bates’s reputation, which was above reproach, so how could Kate have …?

  Well, of course she was young, and scared, so perhaps a lie was a way out, in her desperation? He sat up, a thought flashing through his mind. But what if it hadn’t been a lie, because the Kate he knew was so utterly straightforward? He settled back, exhaustion overcoming him, because Hastings had checked the doctor’s whereabouts, so that was that.

  He gripped his mug, feeling cheated, just as Kate’s father, sister and Hastings himself must have felt. No wonder she had to leave the village. Just imagine if she had repeated the slander to someone else? Just imagine if it had been believed, and Bates had been ruined?

  What a bloody mess, and a perfect end to a totally miserable bloody day, and he found that at last he was relieved that Pauline had returned. At least she was familiar, and made no bones about who she was and how she felt.

  He shoved the notebook back in the drawer, took the mug to the sink and poured the tea down the plughole. The mint leaves clung to the grille. He picked them up, wet and limp, and put them into the waste bucket. This must be why Mrs Summers had been asked to keep an eye on Kate, as Mrs B had explained to him. Did Mrs B know about the lie, or had she merely heard the confession about the gypsy?

  Tom climbed the stairs, his mind racing, darting down alleys and backtracking, and finally decided that if Mrs B had heard, she would have mentioned it. She hadn’t. The perceived wisdom was that Kate Watson had run wild with the gypsies, and so let that remain the case. But how the hell was he going to face her tomorrow, and yet another audition? Then there would be the rehearsals, not to mention the show. He wasn’t sure how he’d react, when he saw Kate again.

  He opened his bedroom door, moved to the blackout blind and, before he pulled it down, said, ‘Oh God, help me. It’s in the past. Everyone has moved on, and Kate has her strengths and is proving a good aunt to Lizzy, so far. Let me treat her the same; let me hate the sin, but not the sinner. Please let me not show my innermost feelings, my hurt.’

  He pulled the blind down and drew the curtains, feeling his way to the bed, and wondering why on earth he had said ‘my hurt’. It was Kate’s family who had experienced that, for pity’s sake. He clambered in, pulling up the blankets and staring at the ceiling. He tossed and turned. What a mess, an awful bloody mess.

  It was only in the morning that he realised it was the first time he had really prayed since before Dunkirk.

  After supper the next day Kate hurried in Lizzy’s wake, remembering a time when she too had skipped, just as this lovely child was doing. She carried all her class’s reading and arithmetic books, so that she could mark their work in idle moments during the evening.

  She would spend a little time at the start of the evening with the children who had surrounded her on Sunday, explaining that they were frightened to sing in the show because they only knew hymns. She would tell them that, with Mrs B playing, they would be in safe hands; and either she or Miss Easton would be leading them anyway. The important thing was that, by the time of the show, they were well rehearsed and ready.

  She and Lizzy hurried into the hall, and while Lizzy sat at the back with the other schoolchildren, Kate had a quick word with them all and left them smiling. She and Stella Easton waited for Tom Rees to appear. He came with just a minute to spare, his arm around Pauline. As he reached them, he kissed Pauline’s cheek and asked her to draw up a chair and join them, if she would like. She did like.

  Stella nudged Kate. They shared a look. Something had changed between Tom and Pauline, and Tom seemed to be ignoring them. At last he nodded to them, taking out his pencil. ‘Shall we begin.’ It wasn’t a question.

  They listened to various acts and singers, and Stella whispered to Kate at one of the changeovers, ‘I know we’ve talked of tap for some of the songs, but surely we need ballroom too? And Adrian Fletcher, would you believe, was talking of a tango. He can, apparently. I’ve been thinking of using “Jealousy”. I think you should also dance it, because Lizzy was saying you were really good at the audition at the club.’ Stella nudged her, laughing. ‘Stop pulling that face.’

  She was much happier today because she had heard that Bradley was a prisoner-of-war in Germany, and quite safe.

  ‘Come on, Miss Kate Watson, you know we need some stars for the show, and you’re definitely one. We’ll need your voice too. Oh, Kate, we are unearthing so much talent, I don’t know quite where to start.’

  Kate murmured back, ‘Maybe we should include our lovebird vicar in the discussion.’ She didn’t know why she was annoyed, but she was, and she sensed the same in Stella. Pauline had no place on the panel, surely; what’s more, she was clearly longing to be gone.

  Kate and Stella craned forward. Pauline was reading a newspaper, while Tom was busily doodling on his pad. Kate nudged him. ‘Stella has a proposal. Do listen, while I check whether Mrs B has the music for “Jealousy”.’

  Pauline stood too. ‘I could do with stretching my legs to get my circulation going.’ She walked with Kate over towards the piano and Mrs B, uninvited. ‘I’m thinking of moving down here, Kate. Poor Tom isn’t being looked after well enough.’ They had reached the piano, and Mrs B had heard.

  Kate said, ‘Mrs Bartholomew has been a staunch support, first to the Reverend Hastings, and now to Tom. She knows how things run and has helped him settle into the routine. Now, Mrs Bartholomew, have you the music to “Begin the Beguine”? Mrs Martin and the WI committee have been practising and want to give it a shot. And our leader insists on a tango danced to “Jealousy”.’

  Mrs Bartholomew nodded. She stood up, her face grim, and checked through the pile of music on top of the piano.

  Pauline hadn’t finished yet. ‘You see, I can play the piano too, and because I’m young, I won’t get so tired and hit so many wrong notes. I think I could come up with some creative ideas for food at the vicarage too.’

  Mrs Bartholomew let the sheet music drop. She turned, but Kate was dragging Pauline away. ‘Mrs Bartholomew is a loyal member of the village. She has looked after all the vicars extremely well. We do have rationing, so cooking is difficult, and we don’t need you to play for us. I think, Pauline, that you need to watch your tongue, or I will have to tie it in a knot and sling it round your neck. I would then pull it tight.’

  They were heading back towards the table and Pauline stared at Kate, outraged. She said, clearly and distinctly, looking at Tom, ‘I don’t think that’s any way to talk to the vicar’s fiancée. I really don’t. I was merely making an observation and, as I’m not welcome here, I will wait for you, Tom, at the vicarage.’

  She stormed out of the hall, and Kate felt as though she had been slapped across the face. Fiancée? Tom had never mentioned anything of the sort. Kate had assumed there was more than met the eye, when she first met Pauline, but why had Tom kept Pauline a secret from her – well, from them all?

  Drawing herself up, she turned to Tom. ‘You must have heard how Pauline spoke to Mrs B, Tom. If you didn’t, you must really be deaf, not just using your hearing selectively, as you did at a particular funeral, if I remember rightly. That poor woman has looked after you well, you know she has, and Pauline has no right.’

  ‘Oh, do be quiet, Kate. Pauline doesn’t
mean any harm, so stop making such a fuss.’ Tom moved onto Kate’s empty seat and showed his list to Stella, who wasn’t ready to be so easily distracted and jumped to her friend’s defence.

  ‘Kate’s right. Please don’t bring her again, she’s a disruptive influence.’

  Tom sighed and closed his eyes.

  Kate composed herself and said very quietly, ‘You are the vicar. I know you want to get up and stalk out after “fancy pants”, but if you do, you will lose all authority. I don’t know what’s bothering you today and why you’re being so vile, but I suggest you talk to Mrs B at the very least. Go and reassure her that she is valued.’

  ‘Why don’t you do that, Kate? You seem so good with words and aren’t unduly bothered by the truth.’

  Kate stared at this man, who had been her friend. His eyes were so cold, where previously they had been full of warmth and laughter. She turned on her heel, feeling abandoned and uncertain. She walked back to Mrs B, who was putting her music into her case and closing the piano lid. Kate was playing with those last three words – ‘by the truth’ – and now she understood. Her heart sank. Tom knew that her father thought she’d lied. But how? It can’t have been Sarah, or Tom would have been like this from the start. His remarks played again in her mind, and then she saw beyond the rudeness. Was he also saying that Mrs B was not of value? Had he lost his mind?

  Mrs B had put on her jacket, though the next person to audition was onstage, waiting. There was no more time to mull it further. Kate reached her and said, ‘We’re all mortified. Pauline is not herself at the moment, and of course she didn’t mean what she said. Everyone knows that you are essential to the smooth running of the vicarage. Not only that, Mrs Bartholomew, but what would we do without you here? Please, I beg of you, don’t go.’

  Mrs B said as she picked up her music case, ‘“Mrs B” to you, young lady.’

  Kate was so surprised that for a moment she smiled: at this moment, when it felt as though she had almost been destroyed by Tom, Mrs Bartholomew had caught her and helped her up. Kate said, ‘Please, Mrs B, please don’t leave us to Pauline’s tender mercies. It’s not fair on the children or the other performers, or us. And I suspect I know what her piano-playing is like. Stay with us – we’re all part of the same gang.’

  Mrs B stood there, then looked towards the panel table. ‘Did the vicar send you?’

  ‘Why on earth wouldn’t he? But I would have come anyway, because only the panel decides who plays for our concert, and that’s that. We desperately need someone as reliable and good as you, but you know that very well.’

  Mrs B removed her coat and unpacked her music.

  Kate nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  She walked away, but Mrs B called after her. ‘Thank you, Kate, I’m glad someone came to make it right, and I’m happy it was you. You fudged when I asked if the vicar had sent you, which I think is rather splendid. We are going to make this show a success, you know. By the way, I have located more tap shoes, from a family in Preston Road. The mother used to work for Mrs Fellows, until she became pregnant. She and her husband now chauffeur and house-keep for that family. The pay is better too.’

  Mrs Fellows, who was waiting to play ‘Mood Indigo’ on the violin, flushed. She called, ‘We all make mistakes, Mrs Bartholomew.’

  Mrs B laughed. ‘Indeed we do. Did you hear that, Vicar?’

  Kate stared. She had never seen or heard Mrs B laugh. She walked back to the panel and, as Tom made no effort to vacate her seat, she took his place. Stella leaned forward and said to Kate, ‘You worked your magic then.’

  Kate shook her head, barely able to speak. ‘No, the show is doing that quite well on its own.’

  She didn’t talk to Tom for the rest of the evening, because why would she bother? If he was in a mood, let him get on with it. She was too busy and the world was turning, so he’d just have to try and jump on when he was ready. If there was no-one there to catch him, that was his own fault. The thought felt strong, but she was in fact crumbling, in spite of Mrs B’s kindness. She gripped her pencil as she listened to the last singer, Mrs Williams from Down End. Her voice was surprisingly good, an alto.

  Kate wrote down her name, checking with Stella, who had done the same. They shared a smile. Mrs B looked over and nodded. Kate reciprocated, hiding the hollowness and sense of abandonment that was setting up home within her again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sarah arrived at the Gare d’Austerlitz in the early morning. The leaves had been falling in the early November wind as they chugged through the countryside, which reminded her for a moment of Little Worthy. She blanked this from her mind.

  As she disembarked onto the platform, the wind was as keen as it had seemed from the train window. Without hesitation she strode into the centre of Paris, to walk the boulevards, as though it was not years since she and Derek had been here. She struggled to see his face, hear his voice as she walked, stunned at the change in this most beautiful of cities. There was so little noise, so few cars. Instead there were bicycles bearing number-plates, gloomy shop windows, and women – even here, in this bastion of fashion – wearing wooden-soled shoes.

  Sarah stopped every so often to look in shop windows and check the reflection. Was it still the same man following? No. She turned right down a street, then left, walking parallel to the boulevard, then right, but there was no shadow. She passed a hotel for Germans only. The Luftwaffe pilots and the Wehrmacht officers swaggering in and out chilled her, but the men in suits, with hats pulled down low, were even more forbidding. Gestapo? And, of course, there was the Abwehr, the military intelligence organisation. She didn’t falter, just kept on walking as though it was her normal route. She crossed the Seine. Last time she was here, she and Derek took a boat to Montmartre. Sarah still couldn’t remember his face.

  She checked her watch. Ten o’clock, so she had been walking for about two hours, just right. She located the hotel where she was to stay, registered and left her suitcase. She found the café near the rue Vernet where she was to wait. She sat at an outside table and eased off her faded and torn leather gloves, ordering coffee, longing for the real thing. It was not forthcoming. They were sheltered here from the wind, but it was still cold, though that didn’t seem to put off the clientele who sat at other tables, reading newspapers or chatting with friends. An armoured car passed, driven by Germans. Well, of course.

  Sarah sipped her ersatz with a mounting sense of relief, because she was to meet someone here with whom she would be working, rather than being directed here and there by a phantom. She had not thought, whilst training, of the dreadful loneliness, which she found increasingly hard to endure.

  She sipped again, diverting herself with thoughts of finer things, like shoes. Into her mind leapt lines from Lewis Carroll’s poem ‘The Walrus and the Carpenter’: of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings. Her mother would recite the poem to her, and later to Kate too. She ached to be young again, sitting with her mother and sister. What had happened to that Sarah? Why had she allowed herself to become so dull, so hard, so like her father? Ah, was that it? Was it perhaps because it pleased him, made him nicer, and life was therefore easier for her? But not for Kate; she had remained who she was and wouldn’t bend, no matter how he had shouted. Sarah drank the ersatz to the dregs, ashamed of herself.

  The time passed, and the sun glimmered between shifting clouds. She ordered a second coffee, checking her watch. Eleven thirty. She raised her face, closed her eyes, but a shadow fell, blocking out the slight warmth. She shielded her eyes, squinting. A man stood there; he tipped his hat. ‘Cécile, how lovely to see you here. You look as though you were about to fall into an easy sleep.’

  It was Bernard, with three words from Frost’s poem in place: lovely, easy, sleep.

  ‘What a surprise, Bernard. I arrived in Paris early, my business is complete.’ Surprise, business, complete: the code words.

  He sat, reached out and grasped her hand. ‘Thank God you’re
here. I gather you did well?’

  Sarah laughed. ‘I have thighs like a stevedore’s, with all that cycling, but my mother always said cycling gave people good ankles.’

  Bernard raised her hand to his mouth. ‘Enough about your thighs – it does my blood pressure little good. Have you finished? I have a place where the coffee is … well,’ he whispered, ‘coffee.’

  Sarah gestured to the waiter, paid him and left with Bernard. They walked towards the boulevard Haussmann as though they had all the time in the world, when they only had this moment for certain. Finally they turned down a street, and then another, until Bernard gestured towards a small restaurant just as a German patrol strode along the street. She didn’t falter, but laughed up at Bernard. ‘My word,’ she said, ‘a reception committee.’

  ‘No, no, my little cabbage, just a normal patrol.’

  The patrol was fast approaching, but now the soldiers hesitated. Were they going to check their papers?

  Bernard bent and kissed her, full on the lips, wrapping his arms around her. Sarah responded, listening all the time. The patrol passed. He released her. ‘Sorry, but needs must.’ They continued, then he stopped. ‘Actually, I’m not in the least sorry. It was quite delightful, just the thing to lift a cold morning. It stokes the inner furnace.’

  He held open the door of the restaurant, ushering Sarah in. She murmured, ‘Better than coal then?’

  His laugh followed her. She kept her smile as she saw two Wehrmacht officers sitting near the back. To the left of the window a man waved, pointing to a chair. ‘You two lovebirds, you are late.’

  It was George. He stood, his knitted scarf dangling, his tattered jacket unbuttoned. He kissed her hand. ‘Too long, Cécile, too long indeed. Sit, I can recommend the mutton.’

  She sat, as did Bernard. The patron came, with a scribbled menu. Most of it was crossed out. ‘Mutton is all,’ he shrugged. ‘Good, not plentiful.’ His fingers were nicotine-stained.