A Winter Love Song

by Rita Bradshaw

  Nelly had come to see Bonnie several times since she had been hospitalized and she told him she had made enquiries too. ‘I know Bonnie is down as next of kin now,’ she said to Art one evening on their return from the hospital when they sat having a glass of wine together. ‘But I’ve told them I’m John’s sister.’ Art had raised his eyebrows and Nelly had smiled, a sad smile. ‘It’s as near as makes no odds,’ she said quietly. ‘I thought just in case they couldn’t contact Bonnie at any time it’d give us a second string to our bow, you know?’

  Art didn’t, not really. Surely Bonnie being John/Abe’s daughter was sufficient for any information, but he liked Nelly and Bonnie had confided that she had been fond of her father once, and so he’d just nodded and smiled. Nelly had had a rough deal, in Art’s opinion. He knew the circumstances surrounding Thomas’s birth – Nelly had told him about it herself when they had sat by Bonnie’s hospital bed one evening whilst she slept. He had got the impression she had expected him to be shocked or to look at her differently as she had spoken, and when he had told her that he wished all mothers loved their children the way she loved Thomas and that her son was a very fortunate boy to have her, it had cemented their friendship in a way nothing else could have done.

  Art was thinking of Nelly and Thomas as he walked into the hospital one bitterly cold afternoon in the middle of December. He knew it still wasn’t all plain sailing between the two and he thought it would do both of them good to spend Christmas in London where there was plenty for Thomas to see and do. He’d suggest it to Bonnie and see what she thought, he decided, as he made his way to her room. She could help him plan where to take the boy, and he could perhaps spend some time with Thomas on a man-to-man basis while Nelly came to see Bonnie. If nothing else, it might take Bonnie’s mind off the tragedy of Glenn Miller being lost at sea – she’d been terribly upset the day before. Miller had gone missing over the Channel a couple of days ago on a routine flight to France where his band was due to play. Bonnie had met him, singing with the Miller Orchestra once when the band had come to the UK on a visit the year before, but now it looked as though the man who had given the world ‘In the Mood’ and ‘Moonlight Serenade’ was no more.

  He opened the door to Bonnie’s room quietly – sometimes she was sleeping if she’d had a bad night – but he needn’t have bothered. She was sitting in the big easy chair by her window and immediately she saw him her face lit up. ‘I can come home.’ She beamed at him and then stood up and flung her arms round his neck. ‘Tomorrow I can come home. Oh, Art, I’ll be home for Christmas.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It was Christmas Eve, and as Nelly stood waiting at the train station with Art and Thomas, her heart was thudding fit to burst. For the umpteenth time, she turned to Art and said, ‘You’re sure we’re doing the right thing – in not telling Bonnie, I mean? You’re sure the surprise won’t be too much for her?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Or rather he had been, Art told himself. And he still was sure the surprise wouldn’t be too much for her – it was just keeping the news secret for the last five days that Bonnie might give him gyp for. But it was too late now. He had made the decision not to get her hopes up in case something went wrong at the last minute and that was that. He’d have to take the consequences, and if she was angry with him, so be it.

  The train was pulling into the station and now he winced as Nelly clutched at his arm so tightly it hurt. Her eyes were wide and staring as the train rumbled to a stop and the carriage doors began to open, passengers alighting and being greeted by waiting loved ones. In a few moments it was all noise and clamour and activity, and Nelly stood on tiptoe, oblivious to Art and Thomas as she searched frantically for one face among the happy crowd full of festive cheer.

  The number of passengers descending onto the platform had lessened and gradually dwindled to just the last few. Now Nelly was holding her breath, terrified it wasn’t going to happen. It had been by no means certain, after all.

  And then she saw two soldiers in uniform helping another man on crutches down onto the platform. She couldn’t see the injured man clearly – one of the others was in the way – but she heard the soldier who was obscuring her view say, ‘You sure you’re gonna be all right, mate? We can wait a while with you if you want?’ as a third soldier jumped down from the train with a holdall.

  It was then that the man moved, just as John raised his head and stared straight at her. All her senses came together in an acuteness nearing ecstasy and for a moment she couldn’t speak. She was supposed to tell Art when she saw Bonnie’s father – Art had never met him which was one of the reasons he had asked her along – but instead she found herself going forward although she wasn’t aware of walking at all. He’s here, he’s here, he’s here . . . It was her only thought, and in the seconds it took her to reach him she saw his expression lift from one of exhaustion into a smile.

  As she reached him one of the soldiers said, half-laughing, ‘Well, I can see you’re gonna be well looked after, pal. We’ll leave you to it then,’ and she heard John answer, while still continuing to look at her, ‘Yes, thank you. Thank you for your help,’ but that was on the perimeter of her mind. She had long ago given up hope that he was alive, even before she had become reacquainted with Bonnie and learned that she’d never heard from her father again. But her subconscious, that part of her that had been unable to let go of him, had brought him to her in her dreams. And now this was dreamlike and for a moment she was terrified that was all it was, a dream, and that she would wake up and be in the real world again.

  ‘Nelly.’

  His voice was the same but that was all. His hair was grey, almost white, and his face was unnaturally pale, and he was nothing but skin and bone. The empty trouser leg had been folded up and secured, and she was weeping inside at the brokenness of him, but it was still John. Somehow a miracle had happened and she could still hardly believe it. Softly, very softly, she said, ‘Hello, John.’ Such inadequate words when she wanted to fling her arms round his neck and press her lips to his.

  ‘Oh, Nelly, I’m so sorry.’

  She didn’t know exactly what he was apologizing for and it didn’t matter as she was choked by her love for him. All the hurt and disappointment and loneliness and agony of loss were wiped away by those few words, melted into nothingness. And even though she knew she couldn’t express her love for him it didn’t matter. It was enough that she would be able to see him, to talk to him, be near him, even if only as a friend. With that she would be content. She had made herself that promise when Art had told her John was safely out of Burma and the army had sent notification – which he had intercepted before Bonnie had seen it – that he would be home for Christmas. Art had immediately rung someone high up in officialdom that he knew who had been able to glean a few more details. Apparently the army doctors had wanted to hospitalize John for a while once he reached England’s shores, but he was having none of it. Nelly had smiled when Art had told her that. It seemed that John’s spirit was intact even if his body wasn’t. She’d said as much to Art who had nodded, saying it boded well for the future.

  And it did, it did bode well, Nelly thought, as she stood aside and said, ‘This is Bonnie’s husband, Art Franklin. Art, John Lindsay.’ But now that she could see just how frail John was, she knew the road to recovery was going to be a long one.

  The two men shook hands, both a little awkward, and then John turned to Thomas. Before he could speak, Thomas held out his hand, saying, ‘Hello, Mr Lindsay, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Thomas.’

  Nelly saw John’s eyes widen for an infinitesimal moment, and she knew he had seen Franco in the boy when his gaze flashed to her and then back to Thomas. ‘Call me John,’ he said warmly. ‘I’m such an old friend of your mother’s we can’t stand on ceremony.’

  Art had picked up the holdall. ‘You must be wondering why Bonnie isn’t here to meet you, John, but that’s my fault. It’s like this . . .’

  By the time he had finishe
d explaining they were in the taxi and on their way to Kingston upon Thames. It had been a little difficult getting John into the cab; he had been clumsy but had refused any help even when he had floundered and nearly fallen as one of the crutches had gone off at an angle. It was clear his helplessness and what he perceived as his inadequacy didn’t sit well, and mixed in with Nelly’s love and desire was such a strong compassion that her chest ached with it. She purposely kept the conversation away from the war and on inconsequential things during the journey, Art doing his bit when he realized what she was about. John said little, and as he leaned back in his seat, his acute thinness struck Nelly anew. She’d heard the expression ‘a shell of the former man’ and that’s what he was. He looked brittle, breakable, and it frightened her.

  When the taxi reached the house they all got out but after Nelly had assisted John with his crutches and Art had the holdall, she said, ‘Thomas and I aren’t coming in,’ and motioned for her son to climb back into the taxi. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow for Christmas dinner.’ Selina had moved Violet into her and Cyril’s room and Nelly and Thomas were sleeping at Fairview.

  Art made to protest, but Nelly said softly, ‘No, please, we’d prefer to go now. Bonnie needs some time with her father and I’d feel we were intruding.’

  Which was true, but not the total truth. She had seen the glances John had made Thomas’s way and she knew at some point she was going to have to explain about Franco, but for now she couldn’t answer any questions about her supposed ‘marriage’. She knew Bonnie had told her father that she was a widow with a son, and she’d always imagined that should John survive his injuries and come home, one day she would tell him how Thomas had been conceived, but, stupidly, it hadn’t occurred to her that John would see Thomas and know. When she looked at Thomas she just saw Thomas, her beautiful, handsome, wonderful son, but seeing him afresh with John’s eyes, of course the similarity in looks to Franco was unmistakable.

  She had seated herself beside Thomas when John came to the open window of the taxi. ‘Thank you for coming today,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m not a one for words, never have been, but you know that.’ He smiled. ‘It’s lovely to see you again, Nelly.’

  Her smile was a little shaky. ‘Lovely’ didn’t even begin to describe how she felt about seeing him. Keeping hold of the iron control she was exerting was taking every ounce of willpower. ‘Likewise,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Till tomorrow.’ His eyes held hers for another moment before he said to Thomas, ‘It was good to meet you, Thomas.’

  As the taxi drew away Nelly wanted to resist the impulse to turn and look back but failed miserably. John was still standing looking after them. In the rapidly deepening twilight he looked a lonely, solitary figure and the poignancy of the crutches and the space where his leg should have been tore at her heart. She didn’t want to cry; things between her and Thomas were still not right, and whatever would he think?

  And then she felt her son’s arms go round her. ‘It’s all right, Mum,’ he murmured, the use of ‘Mum’ rather than the ‘Mother’ he usually favoured touching her even more than the hug. ‘He’s the one, isn’t he? The one who broke your heart and caused you to seek comfort from my father that one night?’

  ‘I never said anyone broke my heart,’ she whispered, tears wetting her face.

  ‘I worked that out for myself. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately – you could call it growing up – and I know what a good person you are. I love you. I love you very much and I don’t care about my father, all right? It’s you who brought me up and loved and cared for me, not some philanderer who bedded you when you were at your most vulnerable.’

  ‘Thomas, it wasn’t altogether his fault, he wasn’t a bad man—’

  ‘Mum, I’m not stupid. I know I’m only fifteen but already some of my friends think that girls are there for one thing only, like – like he did. I asked Auntie Bonnie about him when we were in the hospital one day and you’d gone out for a breath of fresh air, and she didn’t pull her punches. She said he’d been after you for a long time and that there had always been women; even though he was married. She said you would never have gone with him if it hadn’t been for something that happened, something that rocked you to your core. And then he pounced. But she wouldn’t say what had happened, only that you had been terribly hurt and lost and alone.’

  ‘Oh, Thomas.’ His understanding was too much on top of seeing John again, and now she wept unrestrainedly.

  ‘I’m not like my father, Mum. I’m like you.’

  ‘Oh, I know you are, I know.’

  ‘And I’m sorry for how I’ve been.’

  ‘No, no, it’s my fault. I should have told you. Of course you had a right to be upset.’ She was making his coat damp and now she sat up, blowing her nose on her handkerchief before she said, ‘But Bonnie was right – I would never have succumbed to your father but for the fact that John had disappeared and we all thought the worst.’

  Thomas nodded. He knew John’s story. ‘And you loved him.’

  ‘From the first moment I saw him. And we were friends, we still are, I hope. But – but he loved his dead wife. He never gave me any encouragement, you mustn’t think that. He’s a good man, an honourable man. In spite of all that’s happened and the mistakes he’s made, I am sure of that.’

  ‘You still feel the same about him.’ It was a statement, not a question, and said very gently.

  ‘I can’t help it.’ She turned her head and met his eyes. ‘Was – was it obvious?’ She would hate that, for John to know.

  Because he loved her, Thomas lied. ‘Of course it wasn’t, but I’m your son, you can’t keep anything from me.’ He grinned at her and Nelly felt a flood of overwhelming relief that she had him back again. They had weathered the storm.

  He had kept one arm round her shoulders and now she settled back in the seat, a peace coming over her. She might have lost Thomas for ever, she knew that, and it would have broken her. Even John coming back into her life wouldn’t have compensated for the loss of her son. But he had forgiven her and he loved her still, and she would thank God all her days for it. She was a blessed woman.

  Bonnie heard the taxi draw up outside but she didn’t get out of her armchair near the roaring fire. It wasn’t so much that she was tired, although she was – she hadn’t realized just how draining it would be when she left the comfortable womb of the hospital room – but it was more that she was feeling extremely hard done by.

  It was Christmas Eve; the yule log was on the fire, the smell of Annie’s cooking pervaded the house and carols were playing on the radio, and here she was sitting by herself while Art took Nelly and Thomas shopping. She didn’t mind that, or at least she hadn’t earlier on, but they had been gone for such a long while now. And she didn’t understand why Nelly hadn’t wanted to stay with her and Art this Christmas either. It had all been arranged weeks ago, and then Nelly had suddenly decided she was going to Hilda’s and nothing she had been able to say had changed her mind. Nelly’s excuse had been that it would be too much with her just coming out of hospital, but that was ridiculous. Thomas loved staying here; Annie treated him like one of her grandsons and spoiled him rotten and Thomas loved every moment.

  Bonnie bit hard on her lip, telling herself not to be so grumpy. If Nelly wanted to stay with Hilda, that was up to her. She shouldn’t mind. But she did. She had thought this Christmas was going to be so special but now she felt almost . . . abandoned. And then she checked herself again. Abandoned. How dramatic. She was feeling sorry for herself, that was all, and it wasn’t a very attractive characteristic at the best of times.

  The front door opened and closed and she heard voices in the hall, and determining that she would be bright and happy no matter what, she stitched a smile on her face. The door to the sitting room opened and the light, laughing remark she was about to make died on her lips as she took in the gaunt figure standing there. She was out of her chair like a shot, her cry of ‘Da’ torn from her,
the note it contained so full of an inexpressible joy that it made Art shut his eyes and wrinkle his face against the shaft of emotion it caused in him.

  Laughing and crying and utterly beside herself, Bonnie helped her father to the chair she had been sitting in, and once he was seated she knelt on the floor at his feet, her arms round him as he strained her to him. There were no words, but their tears mingled as she rested her cheek against his, carols playing in the background and outside the first starry flakes of snow beginning to fall.

  It was much later that night, and the rest of the household were asleep when Bonnie carefully climbed out of bed, moving cautiously to avoid disturbing Art who was snoring softly at her side. She had lain awake for a couple of hours watching the flickering shadows from the fire in the little black-leaded grate, her heart so full of wonder and thankfulness it made sleep impossible. Pulling on her dressing gown and slippers, she made her way downstairs and into the kitchen, intending to make a drink of hot milk. But as her hand reached for the light switch, she paused. The little courtyard garden had been transformed into a winter wonderland; fat, feathery flakes of snow still falling from a laden sky.

  Walking to the back door, she opened it and stood breathing in the icy cold air. For once the city was still and hushed, not a sound disturbing the enchantment that wrapped itself around her. Her da was home, he was safe. Her chest felt as though it could burst with the emotion filling it, an emotion similar to the one she’d always experienced when she’d begun to sing. As the feeling caused her throat to ache she shut her eyes and softly, very softly because her voice had lost its power and volume, the words of ‘A Song at Sunrise’ trembled on her lips. But now she was singing a love song to her father . . .