Love for a Soldier

by Mary Jane Staples

‘Did he, Mama?’

  ‘No. Not a word. He asked if you would let him know how you felt about him, whether he—I can’t remember.’

  ‘Yes, you can.’

  ‘Whether he could come to see you, whether you would like him to.’

  ‘Mama, did he say he loved me? Will you tell me that, please?’

  A longer pause.

  ‘I really don’t know. I put it on the fire before I’d finished it.’

  ‘Yes, Mama. And the second letter?’

  ‘It was brief. It was about the fact that you hadn’t replied. He said he understood. He wished you happiness. He – I really can’t remember everything.’

  ‘He what, Mama?’

  ‘He sent you his love.’

  ‘Thank you, Mama. You’re an angel. I’ll see you and Papa soon, I’m coming home for a little while.’

  ‘Sophia, my dear, I wish you would, I hope you will.’

  ‘Mama, you wish to be happy for me, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are very wise, Mama, and must know you can only be happy for me if I’m happy myself. While I’m home with you, I’d like you to teach me a little English. You speak English, I know.’

  ‘Sophia, you aren’t thinking of – you can’t possibly –’

  ‘Mama, I love you.’

  ‘Oh, my dear.’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  PATTIE, THE SOLE servant in the vicarage, answered the ring at the door. Outside on the gravelled drive stood a motor car, its yellow paintwork dusty. On the step stood a beautiful young woman in a summer costume of pastel blue, the long jacket perfectly tailored to her waist and bosom. Her shoes were blue, her hat navy and white, and her gloves were white. Her fair hair, where it escaped her hat, was softly looped over ears and forehead. Pattie stared in awe and admiration. The young woman, a phrase book in her hand and a slightly anxious smile on her face, said in heavily accented English, ‘Please, to see the pastor, may I?’

  ‘Pastor? You mean parson? There be the Reverend Howard Marsh, he be the parson, miss.’

  ‘Marsh, yes.’ Sophia’s smile became warm with relief. ‘If you please?’

  She was so gracious and so elegant that Pattie, mesmerized, asked her to step in and went to fetch the vicar from his study. The Reverend Howard Marsh, tall, grey-headed and upright, arrived on a note of benign curiosity. In the vicarage parlour, Sophia greeted him a little nervously.

  ‘Please, good morning,’ she said.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said genially, thinking her as beautiful as the summer day.

  Sophia, carefully precise because her vocabulary was limited, said, ‘If you please, you are the pastor here?’

  ‘The vicar. Please sit down.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Sophia sat, her long legs modestly tucked back. ‘I am come, please, to ask –’ She consulted the phrase book, as much to gather herself together as to find the right words. ‘I am come to ask is it correct you are father to Captain Peter Marsh – if you please.’ She had got it out, and the tall man in clerical grey and white dog collar was smiling at her.

  ‘Yes, Peter is my younger son.’

  ‘Good, yes,’ said Sophia, and worried a little about the difficulty of articulate communication. ‘The French or the German you do not speak?’

  ‘I speak French. Would you prefer that?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Sophia gratefully. The vicar, frankly dazzled, smiled again. In French she said, ‘I have very few words in English. I have some like how much and which is the way to Somerset House, London, but I’m proficient in French.’

  ‘You’re excellent,’ said the vicar, taking up the conversation in the preferred language.

  ‘It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?’ she said. She had motored slowly through the village and seen the picturesque stone cottages, the little shops and an old-looking saddler’s establishment. ‘So many pretty gardens, and such a lovely day.’

  ‘On such a day all God’s creatures dwell in radiance,’ said the Reverend Marsh, ‘and we should give thanks for that.’

  ‘And for His many wonders?’ said Sophia, a lapsed Christian who had recently returned to the fold.

  ‘For that which is before us,’ smiled the vicar, a healthy admirer of beauty in women. He observed his intriguing visitor with new interest, a suspicion as to her identity forming in his mind. She seemed hesitant about explaining the reason why she was here, looking around as if seeking inspiration from the solid Victorian furniture, the multitude of ornaments and the roses on the wallpaper. ‘May I ask if I can be of service to you?’ he said. His French was not as well spoken as his son’s, for his son had perfected his fluency and accent in France, but it was easily understood by Sophia.

  Her gloved hands tightened around the phrase book in her lap.

  ‘I – I would like very much to see Captain Marsh, if I may,’ she said.

  The vicar studied the pale gold of her hair and her blue eyes.

  ‘My dear young lady,’ he said, ‘are you Sophia von Feldermann?’

  Her face lit up.

  ‘Oh, you know me, Monsieur le Curé? He has told you about me?’

  ‘Indeed he has. A story of his transgression and your fortitude. The wrath of the Lord should have descended on him. He assured me it almost did.’

  ‘Oh, no, it wasn’t like that,’ said Sophia. ‘He was trying to avoid capture. He hated the thought of a prisoner-of-war camp, and there are rules which permit soldiers on the run to take desperate measures. I understood that.’

  ‘It sounded to me as if he made his own rules.’ The vicar’s smile was thoughtful. ‘Is it possible that the reason you’re here is to tell him you’ve forgiven him? His story shocked me. I confess it did not affect my wife in quite the same way. She was enthralled. However, it did inspire a sermon of mine which I thought very good, but I’m not sure if my congregation fully appreciated it. Have you come all the way from Germany to visit us?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sophia’s anxiety about her reception was changing to melting gratitude. She had shot this clergyman’s son, but he had only kindness for her. ‘But not to forgive Peter. How could I do that, when I am the one who should ask him to forgive me?’

  ‘Upon my soul,’ said the Reverend Marsh, ‘you’ve arrived in sweet charity, my child. To speak of asking forgiveness of the transgressor is a gesture of true Christian humility. There’s not too much of that about.’

  ‘But I –’ Sophia’s heartbeats were painful. ‘Monsieur le Curé, I –’

  ‘I think it’s more suitable, even in French, to call me Reverend.’ The vicar carefully enunciated the title.

  ‘Yes. Reverend.’ Sophia enunciated just as carefully. ‘Please, may I see Peter?’

  ‘You will have to go to Little Bassington.’

  ‘Excuse me, please?’ said Sophia, wondering how to get her tongue around that.

  ‘Little Bassington.’ Again the vicar enunciated with care.

  ‘Yes, Leedle Bazzinkdonk,’ said Sophia.

  ‘That will do,’ said the enchanted clergyman. ‘It’s a very small country town, and not too far.’

  ‘Please, will you tell me, does he have a motor garage and forge there?’

  ‘Yes, and a cottage in which he lives.’

  Sophia radiated delight.

  ‘Oh, that is wonderful, isn’t it?’

  ‘A motor garage?’ The vicar seemed dubious. ‘Has God really designed us for the purpose of mechanization?’

  ‘I am sure the wheel was a gift from God,’ said Sophia earnestly.

  ‘Well, there it is,’ said the vicar, ‘a motor garage, although not very profitable. However, it isn’t the profiteers who receive all the blessings.’

  ‘I am very good myself with motors,’ said Sophia.

  ‘So Peter said.’ The Reverend Marsh eased his long frame into a chair, the better to study this extraordinary and vital-looking German girl. German – alas, there would be a few frowns. ‘My outrageous son was favoured by your aptitude at
the wheel, I believe. He was also favoured in not dying when the sentry shot him.’

  ‘The sentry?’ said Sophia faintly.

  ‘I have the story right? He was attempting to reach a German aeroplane, but was shot by the sentry. We received a hospital postcard from him when he was on the mend, but not until he arrived home did we hear exactly what had happened.’

  ‘Oh, but—’ Sophia stopped. She must confess to this man of God – except why had Peter said the sentry shot him? She must ask him before she confessed to his parents. Her whole body was melting because the answer might mean cherishing love.

  The door opened and a plump lady in a dark brown dress came in, a lady with streaks of silver in her hair and a flush of garden warmth about her. In her hand was a pair of shears, and on her face was a look of homely exasperation.

  ‘Howard, these shears—Oh, I beg your pardon.’

  ‘My dear Mary,’ said the vicar, rising from his chair, ‘do you remember Peter’s extraordinary story and its regrettable nature? Who do you think is here but none other than the young lady who showed such fortitude during the ordeal he forced on her?’

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ gasped the astonished Mrs Marsh.

  ‘Sophia – may I call you Sophia? – this is my wife, Mary. Mary, this is Sophia von Feldermann, an entirely forgiving young lady.’ The vicar made the introduction on a highly intrigued note, and Sophia rose to her feet, nervous again.

  ‘Oh, my dear goodness,’ said Mrs Marsh, and turned her astonishment on the visitor. Astonishment became approval. It was impossible to fault Sophia’s appearance. Her costume was chic. It bestowed elegance. Her hat was a delicious piquancy, and silk stockings graced her legs. Her eyes had the clarity of a cloudless summer sky. ‘Was there ever such a surprise?’ said the vicar’s wife. ‘How delightful of you, my dear. Of all things, this is the most intriguing. That dreadful son of mine. My husband was appalled at his infamy.’ She had not been too appalled herself, and had told her husband not to forget that God helped those who helped themselves. The vicar, in words of many syllables, had pointed out the gracelessness of such a sentiment.

  ‘Frau Marsh –’ said Sophia.

  ‘Our son Peter ventured to suggest it was simply the only thing he could do at the time. Quite the most thoughtless thing, of course. A young lady. Her car. And you’re so very young – oh, but it’s all over, my dear, the war. You haven’t come to have him arrested, I hope? I shouldn’t blame you, although I felt perhaps he was more thoughtless than unprincipled. You must stay to lunch –’

  ‘Please, you are speaking too quick,’ said Sophia, ‘I have only the little English.’

  Mrs Marsh patted her arm and said, ‘Well, never mind, we shall teach you a little more over lunch. If Pattie is on her toes, we shall eat in an hour at twelve-thirty. You have come to stay a while, I hope. Reconciliation is the peaceful child of time. You’re really quite well known to us through Peter. I believe he wrote to you. Is that why you’re here? But he lives in—’

  ‘Please to excuse me?’ begged Sophia. She knew she could not possibly wait until after lunch to be on her way to see Peter. If he had told his family so much about her, that was a good sign, surely. But, the letters, the letters to which he had received no reply. There might be someone else now. There were so many eligible women, and such a scarcity of eligible men. She must go, she must.

  The Reverend Marsh, reading her wishes, said, ‘We’ll happily excuse you.’ He continued in French. ‘I understand from Pattie that you arrived in a car. If that means you have your luggage with you, then please leave it here. You must stay with us until you return to Germany, and we shall try to restore the family’s credit. To get to Little Bassington, go through the village and turn right. Go on until you reach the Crown crossroads. You’ll see the Crown Inn on the corner. Turn left and Little Bassington is fifteen miles on. The motor garage is on the right just before you enter the high street.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Reverend. You have been kindness itself. I am so grateful. You will not think too badly of me if I go at once?’

  ‘I think you’ll find my deplorable son will be delighted to see you.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Sophia again, and breathlessly.

  ‘I’m only catching a little of what you’re both saying,’ said Mrs Marsh, ‘but never mind. I’m sure Peter will accept that retribution in the shape of a visitation could only be delayed. It’s now arrived.’

  She smiled at Sophia in homely warmth.

  Sophia faintly coloured. Peter’s mother knew why she had come.

  She drove through the village, the sun a caress and the air so soft. The cottage gardens were bursting with colour, and a boy and girl, standing at the gates of the little village school, looked at her as she passed by in the car she had driven all the way from Munich, accompanied by Elissa and Major Kirsten. They had seen her on to an early-morning ferry in Boulogne, and from Dover she had driven to a hotel in Salisbury, a cathedral city that entranced her. Elissa had been so helpful. So had Major Kirsten. So had her father. As a respected soldier he could still pull one or two strings, and had eventually come up with the address of Captain Marsh’s family, together with the information that Captain Marsh was not married. Her mother, at last reconciled to the fact that Sophia must live her life her own way, saw her off affectionately, but not without a sigh.

  Sophia had spent three weeks in Lissa reorientating herself and shedding the dusty blue rings around her eyes. Now she was here, in Wiltshire, turning on to the road that led to Little Bassington. What a strange name for a place.

  Her engine was purring, behaving itself so well after such an arduous and lengthy journey. There had been looks from some people in the Salisbury hotel on discovering she was German. She supposed she would have to accept that some English memories could be as long as German ones. But if she could come among the English, knowing they had been wrong and unfair in going to war with Germany, then they should be similarly tolerant of her, for Germany had no guilt. At the moment, of course, it was only important that she did not receive similar looks from Peter.

  Her heart was at its most erratic and painful, her foot even trembling on the accelerator as the car steadily ate up the country road. The little hills were a dry hot green, the apple orchards laden, the hedgerows sprinkled with yellow honeysuckle and green blackberries. High in the seat of the car, Sophia travelled on fluttering wings of anxiety and hope, her motoring scarf whisking. The eyes of other travellers turned and stared and smiled. Chin up, mouth firm, hands tight, Sophia drew on her courage. Shake if you must, Elissa had said, but be positive.

  There it was. Little Bassington. The sign said so. She saw the high street ahead, hazy and softly brown in the golden light of August. And the motor garage, that was there too, on the other side of the road. Her heart stopped beating, or seemed to. There was a farm cart outside the adjacent forge, one wheel off. Next door, on the garage forecourt, stood an old truck and two cars. Sophia turned in and came to a careful halt beside one of the cars. She sat there. No one was about. Her hands remained glued to the wheel. Her knees were shaking. Could she get out without buckling? She tried it. She did not fall down, although every limb was tremulous.

  There was a name over the wide doors of the garage workshop: PETER MARSH – AUTOMOBILE REPAIRS. Inside, there were benches, tools and a pit that looked dreadfully oily. A lad was working at a bench, repairing the damaged wire spokes of a wheel. Absorbed, he did not see her as she passed in front of the open doors.

  Over the entrance to the forge was another name, that of Joshua Henry, Blacksmith. It was very faded. She supposed that was the name of the previous owner. Expecting Peter to appear at any moment, she was charged with sensitive anticipation. She peeped into the forge. The fire was a glowing furnace. She saw two men, one thin and dark, the other stout and hearty. The thin man had iron in the fire, tongs grasping it. The stout man was talking to him. The fire and the heat reddened their faces.

  Out came the white
-hot iron to be laid on the anvil. Sophia gazed in fascination. The hammer smote. The iron rang. The sparks flew. The stout man shouted to make himself heard.

  ‘That be it, then, Simon, that be what I want, fairish quick and mind what ’ee charges me.’

  ‘Fairish quick be the best I can do, Tom.’

  The stout man came out. He eyed Sophia out of a rugged, weatherbeaten face. He blinked and touched his hat to her.

  ‘Be a fine marning, missy, I reckon,’ he smiled.

  Heavens, thought Sophia, what has he said?

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she ventured, feeling that could not be a totally wrong response.

  ‘I be zur? Well, I never did,’ he said, and proceeded at a jaunty walk towards the high street.

  Sophia put her head inside the forge door and said, ‘If you please?’

  The thin man turned. His eyes opened wide at the silhouetted figure at the door. He put the iron into the fire, shut off the draught for the moment, and came out, his leather apron blackened, his long-fingered hands sooty.

  ‘Be you wanting me, miss?’

  Sophia liked the look of him. His lean face was strong, his mop of curly black hair damp from the sweat at his temples, his eyes friendly and his smile shy.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Marning to ’ee too,’ he said.

  ‘I speak the little English,’ said Sophia.

  ‘Ah,’ he said.

  ‘To ask you I wish – are you Simon Tukes?’

  ‘That be I,’ said Simon.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Sophia, nonplussed by the West Country accent, was apologetic in her failure to understand.

  ‘Simon Tukes, that be I,’ said Simon, overwhelmed by the picture she presented.

  ‘Please,’ said Sophia, picking her words very carefully, ‘I am asking to see Captain Peter Marsh.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Simon again. He brightened. ‘Be your car knocked up?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  He tried again.

  ‘Be that your car, miss?’ he said, pointing to the parked yellow Benz.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sophia, and smiled with relief at having established a beginning to communication. ‘If you please, sir, where is Captain Marsh?’