by Susan Gandar
‘If my mother was here she’d want to know what was up, because something is for sure. But my mother’s not here, you’ve just got me, so tell me, Tom.’
‘No, Jess, I can’t, you think you want to know but you–’
‘Tell me.’
She said nothing, just waited, listening to the rain beating against the window.
‘William and Peter, my brothers, lasted six months. They were killed within just a few weeks of each other. Peter by a sniper, a bullet through his brain. William leading his men over the top. They were hit by machine-gun fire. His sergeant managed to drag him back to the trench but he died on his way to the dressing station. I’ve been out there over a year now, in France fighting on the front line. Junior officers don’t usually last longer than three months, four if they’re lucky, many of them less than six weeks…’
He closed his eyes.
‘At school, being part of the Officers’ Training Corps had all been a jolly good game. And when the war broke out, joining up, serving your country and being a soldier was regarded as an extension of that game…’
She mustn’t ask any questions. She mustn’t say anything. She must just let him talk.
‘When I was old enough to fight, Father organised a commission for me in his old regiment. He’d done the same for my brothers, both still out in France, and it was accepted, and expected, that he would do the same for me. And I had no quarrel with that. It was a war that was justified, a battle that had to be fought. The evening before I was due to embark Father took me out to his club. We smoked too many cigars and drank too many brandies. He told me how very proud he was. In the morning both of them, Mother and Father, came to the station. The train pulled out, the military brass band played and handkerchiefs were waved. But nobody, nobody at all, not my father, not my brothers when they came home on leave, had ever talked about the fighting… what it would be like…’
He reached out and took her hand.
‘First time across no-man’s-land, nothing big, no major push, a daylight raid, just myself and a handful of my men, checking out who was there, what they were doing. We cut the wire and crawled down into the enemy trench. I was expecting hell, machine-gun fire, bayonets, grenades, the full works, but there was nothing. It was empty. There was nobody there.
I sent my men ahead. I was about to follow, when there was this sound behind me. I don’t know where he’d come from but there he was, this German, just a boy, standing rifle up, bayonet ready. He took a step forward and he stabbed at me. I fired my pistol but the wretched thing jammed. He stabbed again. I stepped aside, back against the trench wall, kicked out, knocked him down onto the ground and twisted the rifle out of his hand. I stood over him, looking down at a boy just like me lying there, helpless. I jammed the bayonet down into stomach and turned it, just like I’d been taught. He reached out towards me, tried to say something and I jammed the bayonet in deeper…’
His hand tightened its grip on hers. He shuddered.
‘He was lying there, this enemy I had been told to hate, bleeding his guts out. And all I wanted was for him to push the bayonet aside, stand up, laugh, slap me on the back and tell me it was just a game, a fake, just like the ones we’d had at summer school. But no one was going to stand up because he was dead. The first man I’d killed was just a blonde, blue-eyed boy like me, who happened to be speaking the wrong language and wearing the wrong uniform. A boy who had a father and a mother and a brother and a sister, and all he wanted was to live, be happy, fall in love and one day marry and have a family. That’s all my brothers ever wanted. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted. To live and be happy and fall in love…’
He opened his eyes and turned and looked at her. And he was still looking as he untied her cap, unknotted her apron, unbuttoned her dress, unlaced her corset and removed, one by one, the pins from her hair.
THIRTY-ONE
SHE BOBBED A CURTSEY.
‘Ma’am.’
The Major’s wife looked up from the letter she was writing.
‘Yes, Jess?’
‘Will that be all, ma’am?’
She put down her pen.
‘Jess, I know it’s the second Wednesday of the month but are you sure you can’t delay your afternoon off? It’s very inconvenient with Tom being at home. There’s so much to do…’
Jess kept her eyes fixed to the floor.
‘Ma’am, like I said yesterday, a friend’s coming up from Sussex. We’re having tea. I can’t change it now, she’ll already be on the train. The meat’s done, ready to go on…’
Please don’t let the Major’s wife change her mind.
‘The potatoes are peeled and the carrots…’
The Major’s wife picked up her pen.
‘Very well, you may go but make sure you’re back by six o’clock. Not a minute later.’
She pulled off her uniform. She mopped herself all over with a damp cloth and slipped on the dress that Tom had smuggled into the house the day before. She brushed her hair, tied it back in a ribbon and then perched the straw hat, decorated with a bunch of roses, on top of her head.
She stepped out of the cool, dark kitchen into the baking heat of the paved yard. She locked the door behind her. Up a flight of stone steps and she was in the main part of the garden.
The Major was at his club and his wife was resting upstairs, something she always did after lunch. The bedroom faced out onto the street, which was why she and Tom had agreed that Jess should leave through the back garden. If the Major’s wife saw her wearing the dress questions would be asked. It was simple, pink roses on a white background but still beyond anything that Jess would ever be able to afford.
She ran across the lawn, unbolted the gate and slipped out into the alley, which ran along the back of the house. Two minutes later she turned left onto the main street. Forty minutes later she got off the bus at Kensington Gardens.
‘Jess…’
He pulled her close.
‘The shop assistant, she didn’t believe me, not for a second, when I said I had to buy clothes for my sister…’
Two elderly ladies, tightly corseted in black from head to toe, swivelled their heads in Tom and Jess’ direction.
‘Tom, don’t…’
She pushed him away.
‘What’s the matter?’
One old lady said something to the other old lady.
‘People are watching.’
They both shook their heads.
‘If they don’t like it they can look the other way…’
The old ladies walked on, their backs straight, noses in the air.
‘Jess, we have so little time.’
He pulled her closer.
‘Promise me we’ll be happy…’
You should never make a promise unless you could keep it.
‘I promise.’
Tom’s face relaxed into a smile.
‘I thought we might go out on the lake. It will be cooler out there…’
He led her along a wooden pontoon lined on either side with rowing boats. Each had a number painted on its prow.
‘This is ours. Number seven…’
She hitched up the skirt of her dress and, taking hold of Tom’s hand, stepped into the boat.
‘Sit yourself there, where I can see you.’
She did as she was told. He untied the boat.
‘I’ll get us out and then you can have a go.’
He sat down facing her.
‘You have to keep the oars just above the water…’
He pushed off from the pontoon.
‘Now you reach all the way forward. Make sure the blades are flat. Twist your wrist towards you, lower the blades into the water, keeping them perpendicular…’
They were moving away from the shore, fast, towards the centre of the lake.
‘…Lift the oars, again keeping them flat, twist your wrists forward…’
There was a roar of laughter, followed by a loud bellow and a splash.
One young man w
as already in and the other three were stripping off their clothes. Another splash and two heads were bobbing in the water.
Tom pulled off his shoes, then his socks.
‘Tom, what you doing?’
‘What do you think…’
He stood up. He pulled off his shirt.
‘You can’t.’
‘I can and I will.’ He leant forward. ‘And nobody, least of all you, Jessica Brown,’ he kissed her, ‘is going to stop me.’
He kicked off his trousers and dived in. Grinning, he swam back to the boat, hauled himself up and hooked his elbows over the side.
‘Coming in?’
‘Don’t be silly, you know I can’t…’
‘Then you’ll just have to get wet where you are.’
He pushed himself off. The boat rocked, violently, from side to side.
‘Tom Osborne, I’ll have you.’
He turned on his back and kicked away.
‘Please do, Jessica Brown, be my guest, any time.’
Jess stood up. She sat down in the centre of the boat, where Tom had been sitting, and grabbed the oars.
‘Jess, what are you doing…’
She pulled, swiftly and strongly, away from Tom towards the shore.
‘What do you think I’m doing? I’m rowing. Like my father taught me…’
He was no longer grinning. He wasn’t even smiling.
‘You can’t…’
Another stroke. And another.
‘I can and I will. And nobody, least of all you, Tom Osborne, is going to stop me.’
He was swimming towards her, trying to catch up, but the stronger he swam the stronger she pulled. A crowd of people, mostly young, many in uniform, cheered as she pulled up against the pontoon. She tied up the boat. She picked up Tom’s shoes and clothes, hitched up her skirt, stepped up onto the wooden decking and walked, without looking back, down the pontoon towards the promenade which ran around the edge of the lake.
‘Jess, please stop.’
She could hear his feet slapping down behind her on the decking.
‘I’m sorry, what I said, Jess…’
‘Tom, Tom Osborne, is that you?’
A thinner version of the Major was standing staring at them.
‘It is you, isn’t it, Tom, your parents said you were home on leave.’
A tiny, grey-haired woman, carrying a parasol, her pale face flushed pink, peered out from behind him.
Tom grabbed his clothes. ‘Baking hot day – thought I’d go for a swim.’ He pulled on his trousers and dragged on his shirt, ‘Not much chance of that on the front…bit muddy.’
He shoved his feet into his shoes, pushed his hair off his forehead and stepped forward. The two men shook hands. Tom turned towards Jess.
‘Mr and Mrs Hamilton, may I introduce you to Miss Emily Carrington. Mr and Mrs Hamilton are very old friends of my parents.’
‘Absolutely charming.’
Mr Hamilton took off his hat and bowed. His wife bobbed her head.
‘My dear, it’s such a pleasure to meet you.’
She recognised them. The husband had ignored her when he blustered through the front door of Eaton Villa. But his wife had been polite, had even smiled, even insisted on looking her in the eye and said thank you, properly, when Jess had taken her coat.
‘Emily is the sister of Mathew Carrington, a brother officer. I promised Mathew I would drop in to see her when I was home on leave.’
Mrs Hamilton plucked at her sleeve.
‘Now, both of you, you must join us…’
Standing there, silent, blushing demurely, she could easily be mistaken for the perfect young lady. But her secret would be out as soon as she opened her mouth.
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Hamilton, maybe another time. I promised Emily’s mother that I would get her home before six o’clock. If we don’t go now we’ll be late and I’ll never be allowed to see her again.’
The Hamiltons went in one direction. Tom and Jess in another. They parted outside the main entrance to the gardens. Tom would go back in a cab. She would go back on the bus.
Hat and dress off, uniform on, the clocks were just starting to chime six o’clock when she walked into the drawing room.
‘Jess, how was your friend, the one from Sussex, the one you were having tea with…’
She bobbed a curtsey.
‘Very well, ma’am.’
‘And where did you go? You look as though you caught the sun…’
‘Marble Arch, ma’am, the Lyons Cornerhouse…’
‘How nice, you may go, dinner at eight.’
She bobbed another curtsey and headed for the door.
‘Tom, we had a telephone call, from the Hamiltons, just before you got back…’
Jess walked fast, eyes down, out of the drawing room into the hallway.
‘They said they met you in Kensington Gardens, something about you going swimming, and a girl…’
Had their secret been discovered?
‘Yes, Father, Emily Carrington, sister of Mathew Carrington. A fellow officer, educated at Eton.’
A very good family – even if they didn’t exist.
‘And this Emily, will you be seeing her again?’
‘I very much hope so, Mother. Very often and very frequently.’
Jess stuffed her apron into her mouth. She was halfway down the stairs to the kitchen when the phone rang. Who else had seen them? Still laughing, she stumbled back up the stairs. A deep breath in, a deep breath out, one, two, three and she picked up the receiver.
‘The Osborne residence.’
THIRTY-TWO
LYING THERE, SIDE BY side, skin to skin, on top of his narrow bed, she had felt no guilt, none at all, not the first morning, nor any of the days and nights that followed. But tonight, the hours snatched between midnight, when she had finished her work, and five o’clock when she had to get up, get dressed and go down to get the house ready for the family, would be their last time together. Lieutenant Thomas Osborne had been called back to France.
‘The scent of your skin? What is it?’
She felt the touch of his lips on the back of her neck.
‘Honeysuckle and roses. Spring in an English garden.’
She wanted the clocks to slow down, for time to stand still so the two of them could remain, hidden away, together forever. But the minutes and seconds had ticked away ever faster. How was she going to stay on her own, there in the house, washing and cooking, cleaning and sweeping, pretending that nothing had happened, keeping their happiness a secret, not knowing where he was, whether he was alive or dead, whether she would ever see him again?
‘You’ll write?’
‘That may be difficult.’
Out of the window, way up high, a plane ducked and dived in and out of the searchlights.
‘My parents must never find out about us. It would never be allowed. They’d send you away.’
‘But it’s always me who picks up the post in the hall. Your parents never do it.’
‘But what if you’re ill? They’d recognise my handwriting.’
‘I could get a job in a factory, making munitions. The Woolwich Arsenal would take me. I could lie about my age. It’s good money. And there are hostels for–’
‘No, Jess. It’s dirty, dangerous work. Women are injured and killed all the time and not just a few. You know that, you read the papers, hear it talked about on the streets. Please, stay here, where I know you’ll be safe, where I know I’ll be able to find you. My parents will look after you. They are decent people.’
‘You could send the letters to Ellie next-door. She could pass them on to me?’
He shook his head.
‘No, Jess. We can’t take the risk.’
He was right. But not ever to hear from him, not ever to get a letter, was too much to bear.
‘What about pretending to be someone else?’
‘Swap ink for pencil and forget to cross my ‘t’s?’
He slid a f
inger down her nose.
‘I could. It might work. But it would be easier, and safer, if you wrote to me. I’ll give you money for stamps, clothes, anything you need. A letter would be something to look forward to.’
He pressed his body up against hers.
‘One in the morning…’
He nuzzled his face up against her cheek.
‘One in the afternoon…’
She rolled over, laughing, onto her back.
‘And one in the evening?’
He pulled a box out from underneath the pillow.
‘I have something for you.’
He slipped off the lid. Inside, lying on a tiny, purple velvet cushion was a heart-shaped locket on a chain. He fastened it around her neck.
‘Promise me that you will always wear it. Then wherever you are, and wherever you go, we will always be together.’
She slid out of his bed and stood there, naked, looking down at this man she loved, nursing the feeling of his body inside her. He opened his eyes and seeing her there pulled her down to lie beside him. They lay there, two joined into one, until the clocks chimed five.
As the last stroke echoed up through the house, she pulled herself out of his arms. She slipped from his bed and crept from his room, along the corridor, through the door and up the narrow flight of stairs into the attic. She poured water out of the jug into the bowl and, picking up a cloth, washed herself clean of his touch and smell.
THIRTY-THREE
SHE SLEEPWALKED, HER BODY brushing the carpets and shaking out the mats, drawing up the blinds, pulling back the curtains and opening the windows, while her head and her heart remained curled up, beside her lover, in his bed, at the top of the house.
She wanted desperately, but at the same time dreaded even more desperately, to find herself alone with him. And now here he was – but he wasn’t alone. Dressed in a khaki tunic and breeches, his revolver tucked into the holster at his waist, he was sitting at the table in the dining room with his mother and father.
‘It says here that Germany is within six months of collapse.’
The Major closed his newspaper.
‘One more push and the war will be over. Good news, eh?’
The Major’s wife dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.
‘Six months? You’ll be home in time for Christmas, Tom.’
