by Milly Adams
It was as though he woke from somewhere else, because he stared at her. ‘You are a remarkable woman, a remarkable aunt.’ He turned and walked into the hall.
She called after him. ‘Quick change, young vicar. Flattery gets you absolutely nowhere.’
But it did; it helped. No-one had ever called her remarkable in quite that way.
She hurried to Mrs B and the band. ‘Mrs B, shall we just manage “Jealousy” with you and the drums? Or, members of the band, would you like to give it a bash?’
The band did not want this, in any way, shape or form. ‘We’re just about perfect on “Anything Goes”,’ explained Arthur, the comb player, ‘but need more practice for the others.’
Mrs B stared at him, her face impassive. Kate could see her thinking, Perfect? I beg your pardon? Once Mrs B would have said it, but not now; instead the housekeeper suggested that the band might like to go into the kitchen and have another run-through, starting with the one they felt most confident about and moving on through the others. They trooped off.
Mrs B whispered to Kate, ‘It’s chaos without Mr Smith and his saxophone, poor man. What on earth are we to do?’
Kate shook her head, leaning on the piano and trying to find a more comfortable position, arching her back, knowing immediately it was not a good idea.
Mrs B said, ‘Kate, what is it?’
‘Just a twinge, nothing to worry about. Now, about the band, we can’t possibly get rid of even one of them; they have no idea how bad they are, and we can’t upset them. They have improved, a bit.’ The two women looked at one another, and neither needed to say that they couldn’t have become any worse. Kate smiled; who would have thought Mrs B and she would ever reach a point where they could read one another’s minds. ‘We have three more weeks, almost, and I will just have to factor in some time for them. But I’m not a musician, that’s the problem. However, don’t worry, I’ll sort something.’
Mrs B smiled. ‘I know you will, and I’ll think around the subject as well. Now, off you go and change, and I’ll brush up on “Jealousy”.’
Adrian and Susie were now onstage in their costumes and practising the tango promenade.
Kate walked carefully to the dressing room, which was, to her relief, empty. She slipped from her clothes and eased her back, before forcing herself upright. The door opened and Stella popped her head in and called, ‘One minute, Kat—’ She stopped. ‘Oh, Kate, I didn’t know.’
Kate had been about to step into her maroon dress, and continued to do so, saying just, ‘I was an ARP warden, in the Blitz. Bombs were dropping, one whacked me, and a burning beam had the cheek to fall while I was in the way. There may have also been some shrapnel involved – a real wartime injury. It’s fine, not a problem.’
Stella came and zipped her up. She said nothing, just turned Kate around and kissed her cheek. ‘You are very fine, Kate Watson, very fine indeed.’ Her lips were trembling.
‘Don’t cry,’ Kate whispered. ‘Please don’t, because sometimes it hurts a bit, and that would just make it worse.’
Stella nodded, swallowing back her tears. ‘Thirty seconds, madam.’ She left.
Kate ran her hands down her dress, looking in the mirror. She was too pale, and her face was drawn in pain. She must smile. She did and found some lipstick in her handbag. She dug around and found powder. There, that was better.
She put on her high heels and walked out onto the stage, her back straight. Mrs B was warming up; Susie and Adrian were taking a long step, starting the promenade, hips to hips, she in her blue dress, he in his close-fitting jacket and trousers, his bow tie neatly tied. Tom was nowhere to be seen, but Kate could hear someone running up the steps on the far side of the stage. He arrived, his bow tie in his hand, looking frantic. He saw her and waved the bow tie, then stopped, his mouth open. ‘Good heavens, you look wonderful, Kate.’
She walked towards him, laughing. ‘Don’t sound so surprised. Give me that, and let’s sort you out.’ While Tom stood before her, chin up, she tied the bow, finally pulling it straight. ‘Very smart. Mrs Woolton’s done a grand job with the suit.’
‘It was Mr Woolton’s, which she’s taken in. She told me he died in it, after a good night out.’
‘There’s really nothing I can add to that,’ Kate murmured, after the drum roll sounded loud and clear. ‘Now, young man, let’s see what you’re made of.’
He took her in his arms.
She said, ‘The tango is one of the most graceful dances known to man, so remember that it is deliberate and slow, majestic but passionate. Also remember that the stage is quite small, so we must accommodate the other couple. In other words, no barging, laddie.’
‘Oh, bugger,’ he groaned. ‘You make it sound so difficult. I learned it before I joined the army, and just did it. I doubt I was graceful, majestic or passionate.’
‘That’s a penny for the swear box, naughty man of God.’
He realised what he’d said, but now Mrs B was into the introduction, with Ben, the young drummer, in accord. Kate glanced across at Susie, who winked, and at Adrian, who mouthed, ‘We’ve been practising.’
They were all off and, to Kate’s surprise, Tom’s arms were strong and he led her in the closed promenade. She smiled, relaxing, at one with his body, because this was a dance she loved, a dance of love. He led her to the beat, gliding and striding, interweaving with Susie and Adrian, his head closer than it should be, his eyes on hers when they shouldn’t be, and she should break away, but couldn’t, as he swept her into a fall-away whisk, but somehow he did it gently and the pain didn’t overwhelm her. He guided her backwards, then into the break, and feet crossed into the turn, side-by-side, on and on, and then into the fall-away whisk again, but this time the pain sliced through her like a knife, so deep and hard that it took her breath, her strength.
She sagged, the darkness came and the agony endured. Tom pulled her to him, ‘Kate, Kate …’
She heard a scream. Was it her? The music stopped.
Feet were pounding. He lowered her to the floor. ‘Get an ambulance,’ he yelled. Mrs B was by her side, patting her hand. ‘Kate, dear. Kate, tell us where it hurts.’
Now Stella was here, holding her other hand. ‘It must be her back. I’ve just seen it.’
Tom said, ‘Lie still; whatever you do, don’t move. If it’s your back, don’t move.’
Stella said, ‘It’s so badly burnt, and she said it hurt. I should have done something, but it’s such a scar. I didn’t realise it could hurt like this.’ Then she was gone.
Kate heard them all, saw them all as though through a mist of agony. The hall was very quiet. Why? They needed to rehearse. She forced her eyes open. ‘Get me off the stage, they need to use it – help me.’
It was Tom beside her, looking down at her, his face pale. ‘Look at me, stay awake, Kate. Don’t move,’ he murmured.
She said, ‘I must.’
He took her hand and held it to his mouth, ‘You must not.’ He kissed it. The vicar was kissing her hand, and now he was stroking her hair. Mrs B still held her other hand, shouting, ‘Where is that damned doctor?’
Kate snatched her hand away and struggled to rise, but Tom held her shoulders. ‘Keep still, there’s something wrong.’
‘No doctor,’ she almost screamed.
Tom bent over Kate, holding her face firmly, saying quietly just to her, ‘Listen to me, Katie Watson. I know the truth about Dr Bates. I know, do you understand? I read about it in a notebook the Reverend Hastings left for me. He discovered the truth, but died the same night. Dr Bates is a vile man, who raped you. No-one believed you, and I took my time to do so, but I finally got there. Can you hear me? It is written in black-and-white. Well, blue-and-white. Katie, listen to me, I believe you. You told the truth, you always do, but I was too stupid to realise.’
Her body was so hot, the pain so intense that it was drowning out his words, which came and went, but what she heard as she surfaced once more was, ‘You must understand t
hat I believe you. You told the truth, the Bishop knows, Reverend Hastings knew. Your father didn’t, Sarah didn’t, but Bates was clever. He created an alibi. He has done it to others. When you are better, you will decide what you want to do, but now you are going to hospital.’
Mrs B had reclaimed her hand, and gripped it. ‘Oh Kate, I’m so sorry, just so sorry. I will go with you.’
Tom still held Kate’s face and looked at her, while his words were for Mrs B. ‘I will go, Mrs B, and I will stay until they chase me away. Perhaps you will look after Lizzy. Please take her to the vicarage, so that I can telephone you there with any news. And this is between ourselves.’
‘Indeed.’
There was a clattering of feet and Stella’s voice calling, ‘They’re here. The ambulance is here. Everyone stand to one side, and soon we will continue.’
Kate smiled. ‘The show must go on,’ she murmured.
A stranger loomed over her. He had a stethoscope, like Dr Bates, but Tom said he believed her and would stay with her; had he said for ever? She hoped so. She gripped Mrs B’s hand and held onto Tom’s lapel with the other hand. She felt him loosening her fingers, one by one. She closed her eyes, then murmured, ‘You see, I can’t sleep in my bedroom because the ceiling is stained. It’s what I watched while he was doing it.’
Then there was nothing, just darkness.
Mrs B and Tom walked on either side of the stretcher to the ambulance. It flashed no lights, of course. Tom climbed in, though the elderly doctor demurred. Tom looked at him. ‘You’ll have to throw me out. Don’t be fooled by the bow tie and dancing shoes. I was at Dunkirk and can be as ugly as my face.’
The doctor nodded. ‘Miss Easton gave me her background: a bomb blast, then a falling beam. Could be shrapnel that’s moved, but I’d have expected the doctor at the hospital to sort that out when it happened.’
Tom looked at him, his face deadpan, but his voice filled with fury. ‘She was raped by her doctor when she was fifteen. She doesn’t like you lot, so I expect she wouldn’t stay. You’d better do a bloody good job, and I will be there to make sure you do.’
The doctor busied himself checking her pulse.
At the hospital a nursing sister asked if Tom was next of kin. ‘I’m her spiritual advisor, the Reverend Tom Rees. I usually wear a dog collar, and this tango outfit belies a man of considerable strength and difficult disposition. Her present next of kin is at war, so I’m coming through with her. I promised, you see.’ The sister – Sister Newsome, if her badge was correct – did see. It was in his face, and voice.
Tom watched in the emergency room as they turned Kate over, very carefully, and cut off her dress. He, like they, fell silent at the sight of her monstrous scarring. He now understood why she had touched his own scar and shown such humanity.
A young nurse muttered, ‘Who will want this poor woman now?’
‘I do, and always will,’ Tom said.
She looked up at him, and his scar.
He said, ‘We’re still the people we once were, but wiser and kinder, perhaps, than you.’
Sister Newsome said in no uncertain terms, ‘Out, until you can grow up, Nurse. Send in Staff Nurse Formby, if you will, who is far more suited to the task.’ The nurse flounced out. Sister Newsome demanded, ‘You too, Vicar.’
Tom went, saying, ‘I am just outside, and listening.’
After half an hour the chair felt extraordinarily hard, and he heard Mrs B’s voice in reception. ‘I will not be told where to sit. I need to be with the vicar.’ She swept into the corridor and sat with him, her handbag on her lap.
Tom said, ‘I thought you were with Lizzy?’
‘They are continuing the rehearsal – it’s what Kate would want. I am to return with news, and not before. A note will be left, with information of who I am to telephone first. Lizzy will be taken to Mrs Billings’s and will share the bedroom with Sandra, who is of a similar age, and they will support one another. I have brought us a sandwich each.’
She dug in her handbag for a package wrapped in greaseproof paper. It contained sandwiches filled with precious ham; was it from the vicarage ration, or from the back shelf at the butcher’s? Who cared? Tom realised he was ravenous. Mrs B ate too.
The doctor popped his head round the door. ‘We’re off to theatre. She is stabilised and we’ll have a ferret about, see what we can find.’
Mrs B stared at the closing door. ‘Did my ears deceive me, or did he say ferret? Is this what the world is coming to?’
Tom patted her knee. She glared. He removed his hand swiftly. He said, ‘He’s a good doctor, I think. He allowed a harridan of a sister to sort out a young flibbertigibbet of a nurse. Now we wait.’
They did, for two hours. Mrs B sat upright the whole time and only spoke once. ‘I remember sitting somewhere like this when my little boys were brought in, so ill. I am not allowing anyone else I am fond of to die, Vicar, especially after her dreadful experience, so you’d better get some prayers said, d’you hear? Our Kate is due some fairness. I knew about her accusation, you see. I didn’t believe her then, but clearly I was wrong. I think I had begun to realise that, because this young woman tells it like it is – or that is how a young American put it, in Taunton when I was there one day. It does us all good, you know, to hear Kate. It reminds me of her mother. So now get on and pray.’
Tom did, and he just hoped his God would listen.
At two in the morning Mrs B arrived at the vicarage by taxi. She let herself in. There was a note through the door from Mrs Woolton:
Phone me with your news, whatever time it is. I have set up the ‘snow-line’ we normally use for the WI to get the word round by telephone if we are snowed off. First stop this time will be Mrs Billings, so Lizzy knows the news, good or bad. She will then telephone the next on the list.
Mrs B immediately lifted the telephone.
‘What number do you wish to call?’ Sally at the telephone exchange asked, mid-yawn.
‘Mrs Woolton, Sally. One-four-five, please.’
‘And the news?’
‘Shrapnel had moved and was fidgeting about near Kate’s spinal cord, or so the surgeon said. She is lucky. They have removed two pieces, stitched her up and tidied up some of her scarring.’
‘I heard about that too. Poor wee thing.’
‘Indeed. Poor wee thing.’
Mrs B held herself in check, and when Mrs Woolton answered on the first ring, she told her the news. Mrs Woolton said, ‘Thanks be to God.’
Mrs B said, ‘Don’t forget a bloody good surgeon. Let the next in the snow-line know, if you would.’ She slammed the receiver down. She seldom swore, but sometimes she needed to, because there was no rhyme or reason to life, she realised. Some lived, some died; it was how you went forward afterwards that mattered. Perhaps young Kate would find that she could begin to feel she actually existed, now that at least two people knew the truth. What’s more, one of those was the young man who loved her, because Tom Rees most certainly did. Whether the boy knew it or not was another matter. Sometimes men were so slow.
As she removed her hat and gloves, she found, to her surprise, that she was crying. She moved through into the vicar’s sitting room and sobbed for her children, and for the life she had subsequently lived, until Kate had reminded her that the children deserved more than grief as their epitaph. She slept in the chair that she had used to knit in of an evening, while the Reverend Hastings wrote his diary, neither of them requiring anything further of one another. It was one way to live, she supposed, but she was only fifty-seven and wanted more from now on.
Chapter Twenty
Sarah sat shivering on the stone floor, her chest wheezing and aching. She had been left for … well, they had taken her watch, so she didn’t know how long. Hours or days? Two guards had led her here, politely. The door had clanged shut behind her. There had been no food or water since then; no anything, in fact. She had peed in the corner. She heard comings and goings. She laid her head on her knees and doz
ed. She woke to someone tapping on a pipe. It was Morse code.
I am Paul, the taps spelled out. She didn’t reply, for it could be a plant.
I am Cécile, Sarah said to herself, repeating her cover story, again and again. She dozed, then woke for a while, staring into the darkness, coughing, shivering, burning. She pretended she was still training and that she was safe.
Finally, boots clanged along the stone corridor. They passed. A cell door opened. Someone shouted, ‘Get off me.’ He was British. Was he Paul?
She called in French, ‘Give them hell.’
He laughed, then grunted. There was the sound of more blows, of retching, then silence for a moment. After a beat or two of her heart, the boots clumped back along the passage, dragging someone between them.
She yelled, ‘Someone cares, someone knows you’re here.’ Her voice was cracked and hoarse, her throat dry and sore.
There was a thud against her door. ‘Shut up,’ in German. ‘We’ll be back for you, do not worry.’
She dug her fingers into her forehead. In French she said, ‘I don’t understand.’ She did understand German, but every secret meant a vestige of power retained.
The darkness was a cloak. She dozed. The clumping of boots woke her. She stopped breathing, the wheezing ceased. Nearer, nearer. They passed. She drew in a deep breath and coughed. A door opened and then slammed shut. She waited. Nearer, nearer. They passed. She breathed again, coughing, again and again.
The taps came. ‘I am still Paul.’
‘Yes, you are,’ she tapped.
She still didn’t say who she was, because she trusted no-one. I will remember my training, she mouthed. Again she dozed, almost numb with cold, and parched, and now she saw shapes in the darkness.
Looming.
Moving.
She shrank into the corner. She tapped on the pipe. ‘It is less than a month to Christmas, or it was when I was captured.’
‘Thank you. Hard to know how long here, in the basement.’
‘Yes.’
