The Keeping of Secrets

by Alice Graysharp

  At this last I wept uncontrollably. There was nothing left of Peggy for me to mourn.

  My mother rose and, bending a little, wrapped her arms around me.

  Gradually the storm of weeping subsided and I scrabbled my handkerchief from my sleeve.

  ‘Have a nice cup of tea,’ said Mummy, a little inanely.

  I hear the English cure all ills with a cup of tea. Somehow meeting James didn’t now seem quite so important.

  By the following afternoon I was definitely thinking of standing James up. I felt desperately miserable about Peggy and my family had been so understanding and sympathetic that I felt guilty over my planned deception.

  When my mother got home she was brimming with excitement.

  ‘Pat, dear, you’ll never guess who I bumped into at the Club today. Well, not bumped into literally, not like you did! Yes,’ she added, with a little laugh at my astonished and slowly comprehending look, ‘that nice young airman James Whatshisname. He asked after you and I told him your sadness about Peggy and he said, a midsummer dance would be just the cure, and I said, what a splendid idea and did he have a girl yet and he said he’d be delighted to escort you, and, well, to cut a long story short, I’ve arranged for him to meet you off the tram at the Northumberland Avenue stop at around five-thirty, and he has promised to return you to the tram safely later, it’s light until nearly eleven now, so you’ll have plenty of time to enjoy yourself, and, oh, how I wish I could come with you but Daddy and I have already accepted Maud and Reggie’s invitation, never mind, I am sure he’s the perfect gentleman and you’re sixteen now and when I think at sixteen I’d been out at work for two years.

  ‘No,’ she added, drawing breath and cutting off my half-hearted protest with a raised hand, ‘you’re going to have an evening to enjoy yourself and that’s all there is to it. You’d better get a move on and get yourself ready.’

  A little over two hours later, bathed, hair-washed, made up, powdered, perfumed and decked in my finest lace-edged and embroidered frock, I stepped off the tram to a handshake and a brief grip of the upper part of my other arm. James offered me his arm and I tucked mine in his and we walked along together as if we did this every day. Beyond a brief, ‘Hello, Pat, good to see you again,’ and a ‘It’s good to see you again, too,’ from me, we walked in companionable silence for several minutes and when Trafalgar Square came into view James led me across to the centre. We perched on the side of the silent fountain base.

  ‘Before we go in,’ James said, turning to me, ‘I just want to say how sorry I am about your dog. I grew up with plenty of dogs on our farm and I was very fond of them all. I’ve been sad to lose some while in the air force and I understand you were especially close to yours.’

  I blinked back my sudden tears, afraid my makeup would smear, and replied, ‘Thank you, that’s very kind. She was my lifeline. We got her as a youngster when I was recovering from a childhood illness and she helped me through a difficult time. I suppose with being away at Leatherhead during the week I got used to not seeing her every day but it’s different knowing I’ll never see her again.’

  My voice broke a little as I spoke and James slid along the fountain’s rim and his arm went round me. We sat silently for a moment and then I roused myself.

  ‘But as the song says, I have to “pick myself up, dust myself off and start all over again”,’ I smiled tremulously up at him, for a man on leave needed a happy face, not a sad one, to remember.

  He leant in and kissed me, a gentle, tentative kiss, just enough to place his lips on mine for a few seconds, not demanding, but comforting. We drew back, smiling simultaneously at each other. His mouth fits mine perfectly, I thought.

  ‘You’re a brave girl,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming this evening. When I heard the news I thought you might feel too upset to come.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I lied. ‘Anyway,’ I added, to deflect attention from my woes, ‘I’m intrigued, what’s this about a farm? I thought you were a career flyer.’

  ‘I am,’ he replied. ‘My father’s greatest disappointment, but I told him it was his fault anyway as he wanted me to learn to fly when I was younger so I could cover the huge distances we need to travel to get anywhere in Canada fast. The main farm’s right out in the middle of the prairies and it can take days to get anywhere by road. I learnt to fly in the school holidays when I was fifteen. My father said he’d started to learn the business from his father when he was fifteen, so it was time for me to start too. He thought he would in time have his own private pilot and representative at stock and supplier’s meetings and the ability to move fast on business deals, instead of which three years later he got a son in the Royal Canadian Air Force he doesn’t see from one year to the next. Still, at least he has my younger brothers, Duncan and David, to take my place.’ James looked down at his feet then turned his head back towards me.

  ‘Do you feel ready to dance? I’ve been practising you know.’ He smiled a little sheepishly. ‘I arrived on leave on Thursday in time for Miss Mee’s evening lesson. The Club even supplies dancing shoes for us uncivilised clodhoppers.’

  I laughed and felt that my life could go on. Sending a silent apology to Peggy that I was enjoying myself less than two days after she had left us, I rose with James and we made our way to the dance.

  There was no time for maudlin thoughts or even romantic interludes as we foxtrotted, quick stepped, waltzed, swung and even jitterbugged our way through the evening. I had heard from our school dance teacher that shorter men tended to make better dancers, witness Fred Astaire, but although James was almost six feet tall, at five foot eight and in heeled shoes I felt well matched and his slenderness lent dexterity to his movements. We glided like swans crossing the Thames and I was lost in the music and rhythm. The more traditional dance music gave way to big band swing rhythm and James lifted me several times, turning me round at one point and holding me under my arms to swing me in a circle above the ground. I drew a line at being turned completely upside down, unlike some of the girls there, and he seemed to sense my reticence for he didn’t throw me around more than I cared for, or perhaps it was just that he’d worked out I wasn’t the lightest of girls he’d ever danced with.

  Later, laughing and breathless, we retreated to the basement for refreshments, pausing and smiling at each other at the foot of the stairs where we had met so abruptly a month ago, and returning fortified in time for the finale, a breakneck compilation which abruptly slowed at the last song, ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’, during which James held me tight and crooned the words softly into my ear. I closed my eyes and thought, I’ll capture this moment for ever in my memory, and when things are tough I’ll recall it.

  Afterwards, walking to the tram stop, James was preoccupied and we spoke little. Shaking his hand, saying, ‘Goodbye and thank you for a lovely evening,’ I boarded the tram. As it started moving away James leapt up and on, landing beside me on the hard wooden bench.

  ‘What…?’

  ‘Time for my tour of South London,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’ll see you to your front door.’ He looked out of the window. ‘Dusk now, can’t have you walking the streets on your own in the dark.’ Insisting on paying, he also insisted on my giving him a running commentary of the districts we passed through on the 33.

  ‘So here is Brixton,’ I said, as the tram glided past the Town Hall. ‘Where I have spent most of my life until the school moved out to Leatherhead last September. And just beyond here, to the right, is where I used to I live, and soon we’ll be going past Brockwell Park where I take, I mean used to take, Peggy…’

  James put a sympathetic hand on mine. We rode in silence the rest of the way. As we alighted and set off along Chatsworth Way and into Idmiston Road, James said, ‘I shouldn’t tell you this, but I’ll trust you to keep it to yourself. Our squadron arrived in Liverpool two days ago and should be in Hampshire around now. Group captains have responsibility for a group of squadrons; there’s no set number and,’ he
added, ironic amusement tinging his cadence, ‘I’m going to be responsible for just the coupla RCAF ones over here. But I’ll also be keeping my liaison role for Canadian pilots in the RAF and with the bombings and the increasing threat of invasion I’ll be slotting in a fair amount of flying where I can help out. I was lucky to wangle this leave, but I have to report to our squadron’s base in Hampshire tomorrow.’

  James looked down towards me, reaching out to draw me into his side as we slowed, the end of the road in sight, the end of our journey together. ‘I’m telling you so you’ll understand I’m not expecting to have any leave now for a very long time and I’m not expecting to be able to collect post from the Club easily. I’ll make sure arrangements are in place to send on anything for me. If you don’t hear back from me for a while, it won’t mean I’m not thinking of you.’

  ‘Of course, I more than understand. Don’t worry about writing to me. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of company now your squadron’s here. I’ll be busy anyway…’

  I was going to continue, ‘…with my matriculation exams,’ but he cut in,

  ‘No, I will write to you, I’m just not sure how busy I’ll be while we’re settling in and getting everyone up and running.’

  The houses loomed in the dusk like silent watchers, their blacked-out windows mournful eyes. We reached the end of the terrace and I stopped, realising that the night was gathering pace.

  ‘James, I’m so sorry, I think the last tram will have gone.’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s no trouble. I’ll pick up what transport I can, if not I really don’t mind the walk, I’ll just follow the tram lines north.’

  ‘But it’s miles,’ I protested.

  James smiled, and the crow’s feet crinkled. ‘Don’t forget, I’m a man from Canada, the world’s second largest country. Distances in this tiny island are nothing compared to home.’

  He looked first up and down the silent street, then, gently placing his hands around my upper arms, he leant forward and kissed me, slowly at first, increasingly urgent, his right arm, and next his left, sliding round my back. His tongue flicked my teeth, parting them, exploring my mouth, his encircling arms holding me tightly, his body pressed against mine.

  Just as I thought I would have to take a breath, my head spinning and my legs suddenly weak, he let go of me, nodding slightly, saying, ‘So long, Pat,’ and he stepped back, indicating the front door for me, turning and walking away down the road. I watched him go, shrinking as perspective kicked in. Some way down he slowed, there was a sudden flare and I realised he had fished out a cigarette and lit it and I saw the soft red glow of the cigarette end rise and fall as he lifted that hand and waved, and he turned back and was swallowed into the night.

  7

  The Battle of Britain

  I found myself reliving James’ last kiss and the sense of passion behind it. And I was only just sixteen and flattered at the attention and I enjoyed hugging the secret of his affection to myself. Outwardly I was casual, dismissive even, to my parents and grandmother, and spoke no more about him to my school friends, not even to Becky on her return later in the week. Not that we had much time for small talk, or for anyone to tease me about the revelations of my birthday picnic. The following Friday we sat the first of the public exams, English. I turned the page of part II and almost wept. Question 3 was,

  ‘Write a letter (not exceeding 150 words) to a friend either serving in one of the fighting forces or living in the town from which you have been evacuated, giving some of your recent news.’

  What shall I write, I thought, to someone serving in the fighting forces? That I lie awake at night waiting for Becky to fall asleep, then I lie awake longer wrapping my arms around myself as you did, thinking of your warm smile, your crinkly laughter lines, your hands about my body, your lips on mine, your tongue…? My sense of the absurd reasserted itself and I smiled wryly. Well, it might liven up an otherwise dull and uninteresting narrative for an examiner but it was unlikely to curry me any marks.

  With the weekend sandwiched between the Friday afternoon’s Arithmetic paper and the following Monday’s Geometry and English Literature papers, followed swiftly by Algebra, History, Biology, Geography, French, three Art papers and two Latin papers, I had no time to even write to James, let alone dwell further on our last meeting.

  I listened with mounting horror to news on Mrs Grice’s wireless of German bombing raids on the ports of the Bristol Channel, and on Hull and Wick on 1st July. Raids on Swansea and South Wales followed. So the invasion’s really going to happen, I thought. All those poor people dead or injured and families torn apart. And London will be next. In the afternoons in Leatherhead, despite our teachers urging us to remain indoors during break, we spilled out onto the playing fields of St Birstan’s lying north of the quadrangle along with the boys, watching vapour trails and specks in the sky growing larger and smaller. Once a parachutist was spotted in the distance and we followed his line of descent to the horizon while we heard the rumble of trucks on the distant main road, presumably to chase him down and either arrest him if a German or ensure there was no misunderstanding by the local populace if he were on our side.

  Joyce was very worried. ‘Do you think they’ll cancel the Summer Dance on Saturday?’ she speculated. ‘Peregrine thinks they might.’

  ‘Well, the fighting seems to be during the day and the chances of a stray German landing on the school field of an evening is pretty remote,’ I smiled. ‘So Peregrine is still your beau for the evening?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Joyce. ‘Who’s yours?’

  ‘I don’t have one. I don’t feel much in a party mood.’

  ‘Oh, Pat, it’ll be fun. I’ll ask Peregrine on Saturday if he’ll ask a friend to partner you.’

  ‘Still meeting in Woolworths, eh?’

  ‘Don’t avoid the subject, Pat,’ Becky interjected, mock severely. ‘Joyce, do your best.’

  Joyce did her best and I found myself partnered by a stocky, ruddy-faced boy who introduced himself as Alexander, ‘but my friends call me Alex,’ with dark hair and earnest brown eyes and much the same height as me. He concentrated on the dance manoeuvres as if his life depended on it, holding my hand tentatively with one hand while barely touching my back at waist level with the other. If it were not for his clear determination to undertake the assignment with as much precision as possible, which I thought rather sweet, I might have become impatient with him. But the contrast with James’ lively and spontaneous dancing could not have been greater and the only emotion I felt towards Alex was pity. He freely admitted that he had no sisters and wasn’t ‘great shakes’ around girls, and knew only what he did of dancing from the lessons at the school, which he further admitted he had done much to avoid. The contrast with the Beaver Club’s midsummer dance was unbearable. I longed for James in the midst of the festivities, a hunger and tautness in my very core. I suggested that we sit some dances out and we sneaked outside to beyond the science block where the school land met the recreation ground, concealing ourselves in the lee of outbuildings, as the sun dropped over the western horizon spreading pink and golden fingers of cloud above us and I made desultory conversation all the while watching the sky and wondering what James might be doing right now.

  The following weekend I returned home for the holidays and to constant daily air raid sirens. My father had given up on the Anderson shelter, preferring his own bed for the day’s sleep and after a while he could even sleep through the siren. My mother seemed to spend even longer at the Beaver Club, while my grandmother had more or less moved in with Mr Torston, only coming home as dusk fell. So that left me cooped up indoors trying to do some holiday reading ready for the sixth form with the most exquisite form of torture from below in the form of the screaming baby.

  After a few days my mother said, ‘I’ll get you a volunteer duty or two at the Club for the holidays and you can come down to the basement when the sirens go off in the Square,’ and within a couple of days I was travelling i
n with her, doing four hours’ volunteer duty, everything from table clearing to cleaning the library to helping with a bingo session, wherever the need was greatest.

  I looked daily for a letter from James and felt both relieved and desolate at the same time that there was none. Each week I dropped letter marked ‘Please Forward’ into the B pigeonhole, a short letter as I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to burden him with my worries about my forthcoming exam results so I kept it light, sticking to such topics as my journeys, the weather, books I was reading, the occasional concert I attended, the War Artists’ exhibition at the National Gallery and events being put on at the Beaver Club.

  One day in early August the doorman gave me a wink, saying ‘There might be something waiting for you,’ and I found a letter addressed simply, as usual, to ‘P. Roberts c/o The Beaver Club’, and I put it in my pocket for reading in private later.

  Dear Pat, he wrote, Thank you for your letters. I can now tell you that I am serving again with our squadron, No.1 RCAF, stationed at Croydon. So the wheel turns full circle and I am back where I started in England.

  We moved here a couple of weeks or so ago and it seems as if I have never left. Except that now I am flying mostly with my compatriots. However, we are all working towards the same end, the removal of the threat from across the Channel, so I am happy with whomever I fly. We are but part of a larger whole. I am flying Hurricanes which I prefer as although they may not climb or fly as fast as the Spitfire they are resilient, manoeuvrable creatures and provide a better chance of survival in combat. I have heard of losses of other Canadians serving with RAF squadrons. So far my squadron has not lost anyone although I guess that is just a game of chance.

  I am sorry I may be a little maudlin. I would rather write to you about happier times and so thank you again for accompanying me to the midsummer dance and for your companionship over the past couple of months.