At Long Last Love

by Milly Adams

  On 21st November a courier left a message at the communications drop, a felled tree on the outskirts of a village. A coded message had arrived via the BBC: there was to be an agent and supply drop the next night. They’d need a reception committee at the ‘zero dropping zone’, as Bernard and Sarah had named it. Also a party to deliver the armaments and explosives to the hiding place within the woods that sheltered the 350-yard zone from all eyes. Bernard went one way, Sarah another, informing their recruits of the time and place. They were to bring torches.

  Soon they would be able to activate the plans to sabotage the ordnance factory to which a man known as ‘Pierre’ had access. Soon they would be in business, but no Germans must be killed. Absolutely no Germans, or they would have hostages on their conscience.

  Any repatriation must wait for the following month, George would be told.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Kate stood at the attic window, the November day dawning. She wished she could see again the gypsies’ summer wood-smoke spiralling above the trees. This time she would go with Andrei, just to live in a sort of peace. As she stood here, she could almost smell the smoke. She dug her fingernails into the ancient paint of the sill: hard, harder still, before holding her hands high, then letting them fall to her sides. There were indents where her nails had been.

  So she did exist.

  Pressing her nails into the paintwork of the windowsill was what she had done when she lived in London; it was what she had done when she returned here. She looked along the sill at all the indents. This was the evidence of her blood and flesh, but it didn’t include a heart. She did not have one. She had thought for once that she had a friend, someone who knew about the world, heaven, hell; someone who was wise; someone who was scarred, as she was, and had known darkness, and who felt that to judge was wrong, whose role was to care, not to turn away.

  Why had Tom’s warmth turned cold? Why had he hurt Mrs B?

  But this was what she was used to, this was where she belonged – in a place where nothing mattered or existed, not really. It was easier to bear living each day then.

  Kate heard a distant knocking at the front door. Was it Sarah home unexpectedly? They’d had two vague letters. Well, they would be vague, and were probably written before she had left England. She checked her watch: eight o’clock in the morning. Well, not that early then, but if it was Sarah, she’d just come in. Standing here like a gormless log-jam wouldn’t sort things. She threw on some clothes and climbed down the attic ladder, calling from the top of the stairs, ‘Hang on, be there in a moment.’

  She rushed into the bathroom. Lizzy came in, her hair tangled, her pyjamas rolled up at her ankles, bought by her mother with room for growth. ‘Who is it, Aunt Lizzy?’

  Kate said through the toothpaste, ‘Not sure.’ She was out of the bathroom in a moment, and tousled Lizzy’s hair as she passed, ‘The only way to find out is to go and see.’

  She hurried down the stairs, calling, ‘We’re just coming.’ She unlocked the front door and opened it a little bit. In London you never knew who might be on the other side, but here? Well, it was wartime, and an escaped German prisoner-of-war had been reported last week. He’d been captured, but you never knew.

  It was a ginger-haired army sergeant. He was pale, with dark circles under his eyes and a kitbag at his feet. He wore a sergeant’s uniform; from some rifle regiment, by the look of it. He was twisting his cap between his hands. She didn’t know him. He said, ‘Mrs Baxter?’, peering back at her through the crack.

  ‘No, she’s away. I’m the babysitter.’

  Lizzy called from behind, ‘No, you’re my aunt. Who is it?’

  The man said, ‘I’m a friend of Derek’s.’ His face said it all.

  Lizzy was pulling at Kate. ‘He knows Daddy. Let him in, come on – open the door.’

  Kate was already opening it wide and gesturing the sergeant in. He entered the hall, the cold clinging to his uniform. It looked new, and it probably prickled. Kate thought of this, not of what news he bore, because she didn’t want to be the one responsible for Lizzy when she heard. For how could she make Lizzy’s pain better?

  ‘You look as though you could do with a cup of hot tea. Put your kitbag down and come through to the kitchen, Sergeant …’ Kate paused, as Lizzy jigged up and down beside her.

  ‘Sergeant Jones. I’d have come sooner, but I’ve not long returned, you see. Was hidden for weeks – well, months – by some good Frenchies, then a bit of a trek over the Pyrenees into Spain, then interned, then escaped, and now here. I’ve been in hospital; not well, you see. Not too sure in me ’ead what was what, who I was, that sort of thing.’

  Kate gestured to the chair and set a cup before him, filling the kettle and heating it. She dished up two teaspoons of tea – fresh tea leaves only for this man, and for her, to help deal with whatever was to be said in the next few moments. She made Lizzy a cup of precious hot cocoa.

  Lizzy sat opposite Sergeant Jones, staring from him to Kate, her lips set in a line, trying not to ask. She looked at her cocoa, then at Kate, then at Sergeant Jones and pushed her cup away. Kate picked it up and said gently, ‘Drink this, please, Lizzy.’

  Lizzy looked at Kate and clearly saw something in her eyes, because she became very still and reached out her hand, but not for the cocoa. Kate gripped it, then released Lizzy’s hand and gave this child her mug of cocoa. Lizzy held it between both hands and sipped it, while Sergeant Jones drank his tea with trembling hands. Kate made toast. The range was gurgling. She fed it with logs. She put the toast with a little butter on the table, and knives and plates. They all looked at them, and no-one moved.

  Kate said, ‘I think you have something to tell us, Sergeant Jones. We’ve had no news, you see.’

  ‘There was no news because, once back in England, it took weeks in hospital for us to return to the land of the living.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Jonny and me – we made it back together, but not Derek. Sorry, missus, and little ’un; you will be getting it official like, but Derek, he died right at the start. His last thought was of you, Lizzy gal. You need to hold that tight to you, like you’re ’olding that cocoa. He didn’t suffer, it was just like going to sleep, and he said, ‘Tell Lizzy and Sarah I love them.’

  There was silence. Lizzy still held the mug to her mouth. Her tears were running through her cocoa-moustache. She licked them away. Kate took the cocoa from her. They held hands, then Kate reached out to put her arm around Lizzy’s shoulder. Lizzy drew back. Kate nodded. The child needed her mother.

  Sergeant Jones rose. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a pencil. It had been sharpened to half its length. There was a rubber on the top. ‘He wanted you to have this back, Lizzy. You gave it to him, and ’e held it as he died. He carried it all through, you see.’

  Lizzy just sat, unseeing. He placed it on the table, nodded at Kate. ‘I’ll see myself out.’ She followed.

  At the front door she handed him his kitbag and asked, ‘So, he didn’t suffer?’

  He said, ‘What else can you say? It gives some comfort. Thanks for the tea.’

  She opened the door and he walked down the path. She called, ‘Stay safe, and thank you. You are still a good friend to him.’

  When she returned to the kitchen it was empty, and the cold was rushing in through the back door. The pencil was gone. She checked the waste bin and took it out, placing it on the table, and walked into the garden. Lizzy was urging the swing higher and higher, her face contorted. Kate watched for a while, until the child grew pale with cold, then she built up the range with logs, damping it down afterwards. She gathered their coats from the hall-stand and returned to the swing. She took up position behind Lizzy, slowing it. When it stopped, she handed the child her coat. ‘Put it on. We’re going to a place that might bring you some comfort. It’s where I used to go when I felt alone, angry and lost.’

  She had never been back, but today she must. She led her child through the back garden and
then over fields where frost lingered, keeping to the hedge, as good walkers should. With her child, who sometimes looked like him; her child who was also so like her.

  They reached the woods and she guided Lizzy under the beech trees, the dark-red leaves underfoot muffling their footsteps. They could see their own breath, and pigeons burst from the branches, startled at the intrusion. On and on they walked beneath the canopy in quietness, until finally, and for the first time in what seemed like centuries, Kate stood in the clearing. There was nothing to show that the encampment had existed, except the darker green of the grass where the fire had been. The fallen oak still lay on the far side, but now it showed signs of rot.

  ‘Come with me.’ She gripped Lizzy’s hand and led her to the oak. They sat down together. ‘It was a favourite place of mine. I came here when I was older than you, but still a child. It’s where I found comfort.’ Lizzy leaned against her, and now in this place, at her daughter’s invitation, Kate held her close, and in her heart would never let her go. They sat for all the hours that Lizzy needed.

  It wasn’t until two in the afternoon that they returned. Kate opened up the range vents, replenished the logs, ran a bath, a deep one – and damn the two-inch rule. She waited while the heat of the water brought feeling back into Lizzy’s body, before rubbing her dry with a huge towel. She dressed her as though she were a baby, as she should have done, just once, before Sarah took her away. She brushed her hair, allowing herself to see the shape of Lizzy’s head as it was when she was born.

  She built up a fire in the sitting room and sat Lizzy there, with her colouring book. She made her vegetable soup, and they had it on trays in front of the fire. She brought in the cold toast from breakfast and they heated it on toasting forks. Kate cleared up the kitchen, then sat with Lizzy on the sofa. After a while Lizzy talked about how Derek had made her laugh so much.

  ‘He’d chase me, Aunt Kate, and tickle me, but not too much or I felt sick. Mummy will be even sadder than me, because it was Daddy she loved most, and he loved her most. They both loved me, but not as much.’

  She was colouring carefully, keeping within the lines. Kate said, ‘I don’t think that’s quite true, you know, Lizzy. Your mum and dad would have moved heaven and earth for you, and you have such a place in their lives.’

  Lizzy nodded. ‘But they both went away in the end. Daddy had to, because he joined to become a soldier, but I don’t think it was the same for Mum. She wanted to. Lots of mums have stayed, after all.’

  Kate knelt before Lizzy, putting her hands over the peacock she was colouring and making the child stop. ‘In wartime, some people have special skills that the country needs. Sometimes they just have to go away, to keep their children safer than if they stayed at home. She is good with French, you know. I expect she is telling people what various signals mean, or something like that. Heavens, it doesn’t matter where I am. Look, someone – anyone – can do my singing job in London, and my ARP patrol. So it’s right that I have come here to look after you, and help with the school and the concert. People can sing anywhere, you know.’

  ‘I thought she was driving a lorry or pushing a tea trolley?’ Lizzy was leaning back on the sofa.

  Kate sighed; she wasn’t very good at lying. ‘Oh, I expect she does some of that too, helping men like Sergeant Jones. Believe me, she will be home when she can.’

  Lizzy sat up, her hand to her mouth. ‘How will we tell her about Dad?’

  ‘She left me instructions. Now, I’ll go and see what she said, while you just have a little nap. I think it’s best if you stay home, for this evening’s rehearsal. Shall I stay here with you, or shall I ask Mrs Summers if she can come and look after you?’

  Lizzy shook her head. ‘You must go because you’re wrong: not anyone can do your job, only you can. So, you see, you are the same as Mum. We all are, we’re all helping, we’re all important.’ She lay down, almost asleep. Kate covered her with a blanket, checked the fireguard, then hurried to the telephone box to contact Mrs Summers.

  Later, while she waited for Mrs Summers to arrive, Kate found the envelope that Sarah had left for just such an eventuality:

  Dear Kate

  In the event that news is received about Derek, or even if Lizzy is unwell, or has an accident, please do not contact me unless there is something I need to do about it. I must concentrate. If, on the other hand, there is something I can do to help, please write to this address. I will be told.

  Beneath her signature was an address in London.

  Kate didn’t write; what was the point? Because it was clear to her that Sarah was ‘elsewhere’, doing her bit, and it would be criminal to distract her. It could mean the difference between her life and death. Anyway, Derek was dead, so what could the poor girl do about that? The powers-that-be would probably filter the news through to London, and then it was up to Sarah’s masters to make the decision.

  By the time Kate arrived at the village hall, it had been set up for the final audition. Mrs B and her piano were to the left of the stage, and behind the panel Stella had sectioned off areas. In one area the costume team had congregated as usual around a large table, normally used by the chairman of the WI; that was apt, because it was their members who comprised the costume team. Mrs Woolton had a host of bits and bobs of fabric in her loft, it transpired, and had brought them to the afternoon WI meeting the week before and shown Kate, who was now a member.

  In another section the stage manager, Bob Pritchard, the veteran of many an amateur dramatic performance, having cycled as usual from his farm near Stickhollow, was poring over designs with his team. In yet another, Fran Billings was gathering together the children chosen for the chorus.

  Stella called, ‘Sit down on the floor, children. Let Mrs Billings tell you what we have in mind for you this evening, and anyone who doesn’t listen will not be in the show. Later Miss Watson will take you through the first of the tap-dancing rehearsals. Is that quite clear?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Easton.’

  Kate waved to Fran and winked. Fran grimaced in return, mouthing, ‘You’re late.’

  Kate slipped across to her. ‘We’ve just heard Derek’s dead. I’ve left Lizzy with Mrs Summers. She’s very tired and needs time to absorb it.’

  Fran pressed her arm, but Stella was calling, ‘We’re behind, Kate. I hope you don’t mind – we started without you.’

  Two singers were coming onstage. It was Susie Fletcher, Adrian’s wife, with the man himself. Kate hurried to the audition table. Tom sat next to Pauline, who had become a fixture on the auditioning team over the last few nights. Kate took the spare chair on the end, next to Stella.

  ‘So sorry,’ she muttered, leaning forward and addressing them all.

  Pauline sniffed. ‘I should think so. Everyone else makes it on time and, after all, you are the prime mover. I suppose it’s different for you Londoners; the world is expected to wait on you.’

  An evacuee mother, herding a child past the table towards Fran’s group, spun round. ‘I begs yer pardon? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Tom put up his hand. ‘Ladies, enough – let’s get on. We have so much to do.’

  Susie Fletcher handed her music to Mrs B, who had a quick look and called to the panel, ‘“Anything Goes”.’

  Stella made a note, then called, ‘Excellent. Are you all right with that, Mrs B?’

  ‘Indeed. I’ll just have a quick run-through.’

  Stella muttered to Kate, ‘If Susie’s already learned the words, then it shows she’s keen. Let’s see what she sounds like.’

  Kate called to Susie, ‘Just stay on the point, if you would please, Susie. We’ve marked the stage with tape.’

  While Mrs B played quietly, Susie and Adrian settled into the centre of the stage, on the mark that Kate had created. It was a test to see if those auditioning were willing to take instructions.

  Pauline spoke again. ‘Where is Lizzy? We can’t have one of the organiser’s dependants letting us down.’


  Stella put her hand on Kate’s arm in warning, but too late. Kate was already leaning forward, the words tumbling from her mouth. ‘She heard today that her father is dead. She is with Mrs Summers while I am here, and would rather be there. Is that reason enough, for the affianced of the highly and indeed very Reverend Thomas Rees?’

  Tom swung round to face her, and Kate just glared at him. He flushed, saying, ‘I had no idea. I ought to go and see her.’

  Kate turned back to the Fletchers. Mrs B was looking at her, shocked. She called, ‘Oh, Kate. Oh, my dear.’

  Kate smiled. ‘Thank you, Mrs B, but the show must go on.’ Her voice shook. She bit down on her lip.

  Tom said again, ‘I should go?’

  Kate said, without looking up, ‘That’s entirely up to you, Vicar.’ Her voice was as icy as his had recently become. ‘Are you ready, Susie and Adrian?’

  Stella took hold of Kate’s hand and squeezed. While the Fletchers sang, the two women sat, hand-in-hand, immersed in their own thoughts, until the song and dance penetrated. They stared at the Fletchers, open-mouthed, as they now dived into a bit of a Charleston that they had clearly rehearsed. Mrs B rattled out the music, then seamlessly swung into ‘Jealousy’, to which the couple performed a tango. It wasn’t perfect, but it could be.

  Kate and Stella sat back; around them everyone had stopped what they were doing and had gathered behind the panel. So, this is what had brought these two together? Perhaps it would help them remain so.

  When the couple finished, the room erupted in applause, led by Kate and Stella. Stella nudged Kate. ‘Possible principals – what do you think?’

  ‘I should say so. What about you, Tom?’

  But his seat was empty, and only Pauline remained, reading a book, her lips formed into a firm pout.

  Stella said, ‘So that’s two couples for a tango, if we can find someone to partner you. I’ve tried Tom again, because he’s quite a dab hand. Pauline mentioned that his mother thought it an asset to a young man joining the army, even if it was as a padre.’