‘If you must know it’s institution paint mixed with white.’
‘It’s worked. I can’t see a trace of the pattern on the wallpaper.’
‘You did say you were tired of overblown roses.’ He eyed her warily, uncertain whether to expect gratitude or an outburst for invading her privacy. He adored Jenny, every delectable, beautiful inch of her body and every erratic, unpredictable facet of her sharp, intelligent mind, but he wasn’t too besotted to realise that he loved her far more than she did him.
‘I was,’ she answered carelessly. ‘And now, I suppose you’ll expect me to show some appreciation?’
‘That would be nice.’
Unpinning her hat, she threw it on to the sideboard before walking through to the kitchen. Wiping his hands on his overalls, Alexander followed.
‘Finished for the day?’ she asked as he lifted an empty jam jar from the windowsill and filled it with turpentine.
‘I thought I’d finished the job.’
‘What about the skirting boards and doors?’
‘The stain’s sound enough, it just needs a good clean.’
‘You volunteering?’ She filled the kettle and lit the gas.
‘I could do it on my next day off’ Waiting until she moved away from the sink he pulled a bar of sugar soap from his pocket and began scrubbing his hands under the cold tap. ‘I don’t suppose …’
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’
‘Alexander Forbes, you can be the most infuriating man.’
‘I wondered if my next day off might coincide with yours?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘If you tell me when it is, I could swap shifts.’ Checking his hands to make sure they were clean, he dried them on a rag he’d tucked into his pocket. ‘I didn’t just bring paint with me this morning. I also managed to get a bottle of whisky. Real whisky.’ He closed his hands around her waist.
‘You’ll get me all messy.’
‘I’ve cleaned up.’ Bending his head, he brushed his lips over the top of her head. ‘How about that thank-you?’
She glanced at her wristwatch. ‘I’m meeting Judy in two hours.’
‘That gives us plenty of time.’
‘I need to wash and change.’
‘Why? You look perfect to me.’
‘I’m all sweaty and dusty from the factory.’
‘Not so I’ve noticed.’ Slipping his hand beneath her pullover he slid his fingers inside her bust shaper. ‘Where are you going?’
‘The café, or the pub. We haven’t decided.’
He curbed his jealousy and the urge to ask if they were meeting anyone. His relationship with Jenny was a precarious one. In his blackest moments he saw it as a reversal of the philandering cad, virginal maiden fable so beloved of Victorian melodrama; but he could hardly cast himself as the innocent. He had made love to many women before Pontypridd, the Maritime pit and Jenny had turned his comfortable academic, middle-class life upside down. But in all of his thirty-five years, no woman had touched his heart the way she had.
An independent widow, who was growing more independent every day courtesy of the wages she earned in the munitions factory and the takings of the shop she managed for her sick, absent father, she prided herself on her self-reliance, and didn’t hesitate to tell him to go to hell whenever she felt he was intruding into her private life. The one and only time he had mentioned marriage, she had refused to see him for two months. The most miserable months he had spent in Pontypridd.
He nuzzled the back of her neck and fingered her nipples beneath the layers of clothing, touches he knew she found difficult to resist.
‘I suppose I could spare you ten minutes,’ she muttered as his hand slid downwards beneath the waistband of her skirt.
Recognising the teasing note in her voice he pulled her round to face him.
‘Half an hour.’ He bent his head to hers and kissed her. It didn’t take long to elicit a response. She returned his kiss, but hers held none of the tenderness he’d offered, only harsh, selfish passion.
Reaching out blindly, she turned off the gas.
‘No tea for the worker?’
‘You can make it afterwards,’ she said as she left the kitchen for her bedroom.
Alexander stood at the head of the stairs as she moved towards the bed. Slowly, provocatively, aware that he was watching her through the open doorway, she stripped off her pullover and skirt. Her smile broadened as she looked into his eyes. Unable to resist any longer he stepped towards her. Slipping down the straps on her petticoat he allowed it to slide to the floor. The brush of the silky, sensuous fabric against his hands combined with the warmth of her skin sent his senses reeling. Pulling down her bust shaper he buried his face between her naked breasts.
‘God, you’re beautiful. You’ve no idea what you do to me …’
‘Why do men insist on talking at the most inopportune moments?’ Jenny pushed him away from the bed. He watched her peel off her workaday, thick, ugly stockings, suspender belt and artificial silk knickers as he struggled out of his overalls.
‘The floor.’ She moved towards him, her fingers already busy with the flies on his underpants.
‘It will be uncomfortable.’
‘Not for me.’ Pressing him down on his back she straddled him, running her fingers through the mat of hair on his chest, kissing his ears … his eyes… his mouth …
Conscious of his work-roughened hands, he caressed her lightly, gently, his calloused fingertips barely touching her breasts and thighs. ‘Jenny …’
Her hands reached downwards, stroking the soft skin around his groin, rousing him to fever pitch. ‘More action less words, Alex. I like it that way, remember?’
‘More potatoes, Lieutenant?’ Anthea Llewellyn-Jones coyly lowered her eyes as she pushed a dish of steaming mashed potatoes towards Kurt Schaffer.
‘I really couldn’t eat another thing, but thank you for the offer, Miss Anthea.’ He looked at Mrs Llewellyn-Jones. ‘That was the best home-cooked meal I’ve eaten since I left the States, ma’am. I can’t thank you enough for inviting me into your home.’
‘It’s our pleasure.’ Mrs Llewellyn-Jones discreetly elbowed her husband, who was working his way through the thickest slice of roast beef he’d seen in three years of war. He had been less enthusiastic at the thought of sharing his home with an American officer than his wife and daughter, especially when he saw the lavish meal his wife had ordered the cook to prepare. Her faith in his ability to provide extra rations was an embarrassment and, he suspected, a talking point in the town. Seeing her glaring at him in obvious expectation of a contribution to the conversation, he finally laid his knife and fork on his plate, and contemplated the stranger sitting at his table.
‘Are you a professional soldier, Lieutenant Schaffer?’ he enquired briskly, as though he were interrogating him for a loan.
Feeling suspiciously like a prospective bridegroom, Kurt pushed his chair out from the table in an attempt to distance himself from Anthea.
‘I was at West Point, sir. The fourth generation of my family to graduate from the academy.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘I believe it to be the equivalent of your Sandhurst, sir.’
‘Then you must welcome this war?’
‘Hardly, sir.’
‘Doesn’t it give you professionals a better chance of promotion?’
‘I was doing just fine before the war, sir. I was commissioned First Lieutenant less than six months after leaving the academy. Until we entered the war I was stationed in a training camp close to my home town.’
‘And where is home, Lieutenant?’
‘South Carolina, sir. My family live in Charleston.’
‘Your father is in business there?’
‘He was retired until the war broke out. He’s been recalled.’
‘An officer like yourself?’
‘A general, sir.’ Kurt enjoyed the effect the revelation had on the Llewellyn-
Joneses.
‘Do you have any brothers serving?’
‘I am an only child, sir.’
Mr Llewellyn-Jones nodded sagely. The man might be an American, but his manners were civilised, if effusive, and in all his years in the bank he’d never heard of a poor general, American or otherwise. Anthea was a splendid girl, but at twenty-nine, she had yet to receive her first marriage proposal.
Both he and his wife had assumed that Anthea would marry her childhood playmate, Andrew John. Indeed both families had expected the marriage to take place after Andrew completed his degree in London and returned to practise medicine in Pontypridd, but much to his own and Andrew’s father’s exasperation, the boy had insisted on marrying Bethan Powell, a nurse and nobody from the wrong side of town, and the daughter of a miner, to boot.
Boys like Andrew were scarce on the ground in Pontypridd. There were a few, a very few, others he might have considered suitable; young men destined to join their fathers in family concerns: solicitors – dentists – businessmen – but unfortunately none had presented himself as a suitor. An American officer would be a compromise, but better a compromise than the humiliation of spinsterhood and a dependent old age like his maiden aunt’s.
He studied Schaffer as the maid cleared the remains of the entree. The man was certainly presentable. It might be worth making discreet enquiries as to his bank balance and social standing. He was debating the best way to go about it, when his wife interrupted.
‘We have rhubarb crumble for dessert, with fresh cream.’
‘We were warned that food was in short supply in Britain, ma’am.’ Kurt leaned back so the maid could place his helping on the table in front of him. ‘I hope you haven’t gone to any trouble on my account?’
‘Don’t think we eat like this every day, Lieutenant,’ Mr Llewellyn-Jones cautioned, as the young girl handed Mrs Llewellyn-Jones the cream jug. ‘My wife’s killed the fatted calf on this occasion.’
‘Then I thank you again, ma’am.’
‘I just love your accent,’ Anthea enthused. ‘I could sit and listen to it all day long.’
‘I only wish my colonel thought the same way, Miss Anthea. Then I wouldn’t have to do any work, just talk.’ Kurt shifted uncomfortably on his chair as Anthea’s laughter filled the room. While he enjoyed flirtation and the thrill of the chase, he didn’t need his colonel’s warning to back away from his hostess’s daughter. The adoration in her eyes every time she looked at him meant only one thing. She was hungry for a wedding ring. Something he didn’t intend to slip on any girl’s finger for a long, long time.
When the crumble and cream had been reduced to smears on the plates, Mr Llewellyn-Jones took a key from his top pocket, left his seat and lumbered towards the sideboard. ‘Brandy and cigars?’ he offered expansively as he opened the door of the drinks cabinet.
‘Just a small brandy, sir. Thank you.’
‘Lieutenant Schaffer is organising a party for the town,’ Anthea announced as her father poured modest measures into two goblets.
‘A sort of thank-you for putting up with us,’ Kurt drawled, as he searched his mind for an excuse to escape from the dining room – and Anthea.
‘A party would be a most welcome gesture. Things have been rather bleak around here since the war started.’
‘People have so little to look forward to,’ his wife agreed. ‘Just sherry for Anthea and myself, dear.’
Mr Llewellyn-Jones filled two smaller glasses with sweet sherry and handed them to the maid to pass down the table to his wife and daughter. Standing in front of his chair, he lifted his goblet in a formal toast. ‘To the Anglo-American alliance and the demise of Hitler.’
Kurt rose to his feet and touched his glass to his hostess’s and her daughter’s. ‘And Britain’s fair and hospitable ladies,’ he added with an insincere smile.
‘You’re welcome to join us in the drawing room to listen to our wireless, Lieutenant Schaffer,’ Mr Llewellyn-Jones offered.
‘Thank you, sir, but I have to drive into town to check that the troop quarters are ready for the morning.’
‘I could show you the way,’ Anthea broke in eagerly.
‘I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble, Miss Anthea.’
‘It’s no trouble. No trouble at all.’
‘And such a good idea,’ Mrs Llewellyn-Jones purred. ‘You certainly had a problem getting your bearings this morning. It’s even worse in the blackout.’
‘I’ll get my coat.’ Anthea was out of the room before he could make any further protest. He stood and waited in the hall, cursing the impulse that had led him to accept Mrs Llewellyn-Jones’s offer of a billet. Perhaps he should have taken the colonel’s advice after all. If he’d gone into one of the chapel vestries he might have been plagued by the presence of the men, but at least his free time would have been his own.
It was past ten o’clock when Bethan finally finished her paperwork. Packing the completed forms into her nurse’s bag she turned off the lamp, left the study and felt her way through the blacked-out hall to the deserted kitchen. Switching on the light, she lifted the hob cover on the range, put the kettle on to boil and prepared for a long wait because Maisie had damped down the coals for the night. The mixed fragrances of food and the warmth of the room closed comforting and familiar around her as she settled in her rocking chair listening to the silence. Only when she was certain that the house was quiet, did she reach into her pocket for Andrew’s letter. Taking a knife from the .drawer she slit open the gummed section and began to read.
My darling Beth,
Today is the second anniversary of the day we arrived in this camp …
Checking the date, she discovered that the letter had taken only three and a half as opposed to the customary four months to reach her.
Needless to say all of us ‘Dunkirk veterans’ are even more depressed than usual. It’s exactly two years, two months, one week, four days and five hours since I last saw, kissed and touched you. Every morning I open my eyes, hoping that this will be the day that will bring the news that I can finally come home to you and the children. Sometimes, I think it’s the uncertainty that’s the worst. Criminals are better off than we are. At least they go into prison knowing their sentence. They can scratch a calendar on the wall of their cell and tick off the days. If only I knew that it was going to be one, two or six months longer. Surely to God it can’t be another year!
I tried to cheer myself up this morning by imagining the journey home. Packing my bag. (About thirty seconds’ work. If anyone had told me before the war that a man could survive with so few possessions I would have laughed at them.) Travelling through Germany in a real train instead of the cattle wagons that brought us here. Walking across the French docks and up the gangplank of a boat without a guard pointing a gun at my back, fighting for a chair inside rather than out on deck, sailing to Dover; getting on another train, arriving in London, picking up presents for Rachel and Eddie as I cross from Victoria to Paddington – that’s if there are any toys in the shops to be bought – or even any shops left after the bombing. Do you realise I don’t even know what sort of things they’d like?
I’ve seen Rachel holding dolls and teddies in the photographs you’ve sent me, but what kind of new one would she choose? Does she prefer dolls with black or blonde hair? Big ones, or little ones? And Eddie? Does he like toy cars yet, or does he prefer playing with lead animals and farmyards as Mother said I did at his age?
Paddington – sitting on the train – a corner seat if I’m lucky, looking out of the window at the countryside, reading off the towns as we pass through the stations, everyone taking me closer to you. Changing trains at Cardiff – I went through the whole rigmarole, step by step, even down to checking whether or not I needed a shave in the men’s room while I waited for the Pontypridd and Rhondda Valley train. Pacing up and down the carriage while we passed through the local stations. Running down the steps from the platform into Station Yard to be first in the queue for a
taxi. Driving up the Graig hill to Penycoedcae, seeing the house bathed in early morning sunlight and overshadowed by leafy trees – I always imagine arriving on a bright summer’s morning, I have no idea what I’ll do if the war ends in winter.
You sitting with the children on the lawn, you look up …
Bethan started guiltily. She hadn’t had the heart to write and tell Andrew that there was no more lawn. Every inch of garden had been dug up by her, her father and Maisie in the months after Dunkirk when food rationing had really begun to bite.
… will you be wearing essence of violets, the perfume I remember from the day I left? And your hair? Do you still roll it under at the nape of your neck? It’s difficult to see from your last photograph because of the hat. In my daydreams you’re always wearing the dark blue frock you bought for that last Christmas we spent together in 1940.
Then I open my eyes, look around and realise that I am lying on a straw mattress on a hard, wooden bunk; one of sixteen built in four tiers in a cramped compartment no bigger than my mother’s larder, set in this overcrowded wooden hut and likely to be here a while longer. I dare not even hazard a guess as to how much longer lest I go raving mad.
After reading this I realise that I’m suffering from yet another dose of acute self-pity. Don’t worry, it’s not terminal, or fortunately for us, contagious. For every depressed prisoner, or ‘kriegie’ as the German guards call us, there’s always one who can muster a modicum of optimism to cheer the rest, and because we have to do all our own housework, cooking, washing, cleaning and in my case, nursing as well as doctoring, we have plenty to keep ourselves busy.
What I can’t understand is how a woman, any woman, has time to do anything other than housework. It seems to take us the best part of half a day to collect food from the XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Bethan stared at the lines obliterated by the censor’s heavy pen. Guessing that Andrew had mentioned the rations the Germans allowed them in addition to the Red Cross parcels, and suspecting just how scant they might be, she read on.
XXXXX and make lunch. And no sooner have we washed our tins and pans than it’s time to start on supper.
Broken Rainbows Page 5
