‘It’s the mother–son and father–daughter thing,’ he’d once said laughingly, showing a surprising insight for one so young. ‘You’re Dad’s favourite.’
But Fleur wouldn’t allow that. ‘No, he doesn’t have favourites. You know that. But maybe he’s a bit more protective of me because I’m a girl.’
Kenny had grinned. ‘Nobody’s ever going to be good enough for his little girl, eh?’
Fleur had laughed. ‘Something like that.’
It hadn’t mattered then – there’d been no young man she’d been serious about. But now … ? Well, now it was different.
‘As a matter of fact,’ she said carefully, ‘the young man I went home with wasn’t a complete stranger.’
Jake’s face cleared. ‘Oh, it was someone you know?’
‘Not exactly,’ she said carefully. ‘Someone you know, or at least, used to know.’
The frown was back, but this time it was a puzzled look rather than a worried one that creased Jake’s craggy features. And, strangely, there was a touch of wariness in his eyes.
‘Do you remember someone called Mrs Rodwell and her son Robbie?’
Before Jake could answer a cry escaped Betsy and, her eyes wide, she pressed her hand to her mouth. And then to Fleur’s utter amazement, Betsy began to scream. ‘No, no, not her. Oh, not her. I thought she’d gone for good. I thought—’ She clutched wildly at her daughter, her fingers digging painfully into Fleur’s arm. ‘You’re to have nothing to do with him. Do you hear? He’s a bad lot.’
Jake moved forward at once and put his arms about his wife. ‘Now, now, Betsy love, don’t take on so. Surely, after all this time—?’
Betsy twisted to face him. ‘Leopards don’t change their spots, Jake. She’ll never change and her son’ll be like her. Self-centred, devious, spiteful.’ She rounded again on Fleur. ‘What did she say? Does she know who you are?’ Betsy was still like a wild thing, screaming questions at her daughter. Fleur stared at her. She’d seen her mother in some tempers, but never – in all her life – had she seen her quite like this. Completely out of control.
‘Mum—’ She reached out but Betsy slapped her hands away as if her daughter’s touch was suddenly abhorrent.
Fleur let her arms fall to her side. ‘Actually,’ she said flatly, realizing that the tentative romance that had already begun between her and Robbie was doomed. ‘She was as shocked as you are when she heard my surname, but she … she didn’t react quite as … as …’ Fleur faltered and her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Well, not like this.’
‘She took you in, you say?’
Fleur nodded.
Betsy’s voice hardened. ‘So – what was in it for her?’
‘Mum!’ Fleur was appalled. She’d liked Robbie’s mother. She couldn’t believe the things her own mother was saying about her. Mrs Rodwell had been so kind, so welcoming. And the old man; she hadn’t had much of a conversation with him, but he’d seemed a dear old boy.
Fleur sighed and said flatly, ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at, Mum. But there was nothing “in it” for her, as you put it. She was just nice to me. Cooking breakfast for me. Apologizing because she had no eggs when there I was – a complete stranger – taking their rations.’
‘But you’re not a stranger.’
‘I was then. She was doing all that before she knew my name. And Robbie says she works for the WVS. That she’s always taking home waifs and strays. And she looks after the old man—’
‘Ah! I knew it! She’s got another poor old boy in her clutches.’ Betsy was scathing now. ‘Well off, is he?’
‘An old man?’ Even Jake was curious now, but Fleur was startled by the sudden bleak look in his eyes. ‘Who was he? Her husband?’
‘I … I don’t think so. Robbie called him “Pops”. And … and … yes, she called him “Dad”.’ Fleur looked from one to the other, puzzled and more than a little alarmed by their reaction. ‘He must be her father.’
‘Her father? Now Jake was shocked. ‘My God!’ he murmured, and he was obviously stunned. ‘Her father.’
‘Huh!’ Betsy pulled her mouth down at the corners. ‘It’ll more likely be a fancy man who’s old enough to be her father.’
But Fleur was watching the strange, thoughtful look in Jake’s eyes.
Betsy’s voice was still high-pitched, demanding, ‘I want to know what she said.’
‘She asked how Dad was.’
‘I bet she did. Oh, I bet she did!’
Fleur blinked under the vehemence in her mother’s voice. She glanced at her father, but he was far away, lost in his own thoughts. She looked back at her mother, hoping to placate her. She couldn’t know that it was entirely the wrong thing to say as she added, ‘And she asked about you, too.’
‘Wanted to know if I was still around, I suppose. Hoping I wasn’t. Hoping I was dead and in my grave.’
‘Mum!’
‘Betsy!’
Jake and Fleur spoke together, shocked by Betsy’s hysterical outburst. Jake went on, ‘Now that’s enough. You’ve no call to—’
‘No call? No call, you say? Look at the lives she ruined with her … with her carryings on.’ The venom was spitting out of Betsy’s mouth. ‘But you still love her, don’t you? All these years you’ve never stopped loving her, and if she so much as crooked her little finger you’d go running.’
Fleur gasped and felt the colour drain from her own face as she listened to her mother’s terrible accusations.
Jake’s face was dark with anger, any sympathy and understanding gone from his expression. His wife was pushing him just a little too far now. ‘That’s not fair, Betsy, and you know it. I’ve always loved you and our children. I’ve done my best to be a good husband and father, haven’t I?’ He turned his head slightly and now his question included his daughter. ‘Haven’t I?’
Fleur moved swiftly to his side and linked her arm through his, hugging it to her. ‘Oh, Dad, of course you have.’ She turned towards her mother. ‘Mum—’
‘You stay out of this.’ Betsy’s voice was still high-pitched. ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’
‘Well, as a matter of fact, I think it has. You see – I’m sorry – but I invited Robbie to come out here to tea this afternoon. And … and I said he could bring his mother if … if he wanted.’
For a moment Betsy stared at her. Then she let out a chilling scream and began to pull at her own hair like someone demented. Jake released himself from Fleur’s grasp to take hold of his wife, but she struggled against him, beating his chest with her fists, crying and screaming, even kicking out at him. Jake winced as the toe of her sturdy shoe caught him on the shin.
‘Dad?’ Fleur raised her voice above the noise her mother was making. ‘Shall I fetch the doctor? Shall I call Dr Collins?’
There was a sudden silence in the kitchen as the screaming stopped abruptly. But then Betsy began to laugh – a hysterical sound that was more chilling than her crying.
‘Oh yes, oh yes. Call Dr Collins – and his wife. Let them all come. Let them all meet. I’m sure Dr Collins would like to meet his—’
To Fleur’s horror, Jake suddenly clamped his hand across Betsy’s runaway mouth. ‘That’s enough,’ he bellowed in a tone that brooked no argument.
Four
Middleditch Farm lay five miles from the small town of South Monkford amidst gently rolling countryside. Robbie – and his mother, if she came – would have to take the Nottingham to Lincoln train, get off at the Junction and catch the little train that the locals called ‘the Paddy’ out to South Monkford. Fleur hadn’t dared to ask her father to meet the train. Not now. So, from the town railway station they would have to hitch a lift out to the farm. That afternoon Fleur walked down the lane some distance from the farmyard gate to waylay Robbie and – more importantly – his mother. Fleur frowned as she went over in her mind every little detail of her own mother’s frenzied outburst. Her father was tight-lipped about it all. He would explain nothing.
Jake had released his hold on his wife, glared at her for a moment, then turned on his heel and gone outside into the yard, slamming the back door behind him. Betsy had stared after him, pressing trembling fingers to her mouth.
Fleur had stepped towards her, holding out her arms. ‘Mum—?’ But Betsy had let out a sob, turned her back on her daughter and run upstairs to her bedroom, slamming the door just as Jake had done.
Fleur had winced and stood alone in the kitchen, biting her lip. After a moment, she’d followed her father outside and found him leaning on the gate, staring with unseeing eyes at the spread of land before him that was now all his. She’d stood beside him, resting her arms on the top of the gate.
‘Dad—?’
‘Leave it, Fleur.’ He’d sighed heavily, his anger dying as swiftly as it had come. ‘It all happened a long time ago and it’s best left buried. It’s over and done with.’
‘It doesn’t sound like it as far as Mum’s concerned,’ she’d retorted. Immediately she regretted her words when she saw the bleak expression that flitted across her father’s face.
‘Oh, Dad,’ she’d said, putting her hand on his arm and trying her most cajoling tone. ‘Won’t you tell me what it’s all about?’
His hand had covered hers as he’d replied softly, ‘I … I can’t, love. They’re not my secrets to tell.’ And he’d refused to say any more.
For mid-April, it was surprisingly hot and still in the lane, sheltered from the light breeze by hedges on either side. Fleur spread her greatcoat on the grass and sat down beneath the shade of two huge trees, the branches rustling gently above her. She leant back against one of the trunks, her gaze still on the corner of the lane. She wanted to see him again – even wanted to see his mother again. She’d liked her. But part of her wanted them to stay away. For, if they did come, how was she going to explain that they weren’t welcome at Middleditch Farm? She certainly couldn’t risk taking them home. She didn’t want her mother throwing another fit. Nor did she want to see that terrible haunted look on her dad’s face.
Fleur loved her dad – loved both her parents, of course, but she was fiercely protective of her father. She didn’t really understand why – couldn’t have put it into words – but for as long as she could remember she’d sometimes seen a strange, sad, faraway look in his eyes and, even as a little girl, she’d felt the instinctive desire to shield him from hurt. Only the touch of her tiny hand in his had brought him back to his happy present, as he’d hugged her to him or ruffled her hair affectionately. As she’d grown older she’d thought his moments of melancholy were because of Betsy’s preoccupation with Kenny, believing her father felt neglected and excluded. It had drawn her even closer to him.
But now, she wondered, was that sadness, buried deep, to do with Robbie’s mother? If it was, the reminder of it had made her own mother hysterical …
There was something tickling her nose. Drowsily, she brushed it away, and then she heard his soft chuckle and opened her eyes.
‘Sleeping Beauty,’ he teased. He was lying beside her, leaning on one elbow and tickling her with a piece of grass.
She gave a startled cry and sat up. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’ She blinked and rubbed her eyes as she looked around her. ‘Where’s your mother?’
‘She hasn’t come.’ For a moment, his eyes clouded. ‘Said it wouldn’t be right.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t understand why though.’
‘I do,’ Fleur said promptly. ‘At least, part of it. I think I know why she hasn’t come.’
She lay down, leaning on her elbow so that they were facing each other. ‘There’s something gone on in the past between them all. I don’t know what it is – they won’t tell me – but it must be something pretty awful ’cos my mum threw a ducky fit.’
‘A what?’ He was laughing in spite of himself.
Now Fleur grinned too. ‘Sorry. It’s something one of the girls I met while training was always saying. It must be catching.’
‘I take it your mother wasn’t best pleased?’
‘That’s an understatement if ever there was one. I’ve never – in my whole life – seen her act like that. Oh, she gets a bit het up about things. Fusses and flaps about anything and everything – usually about our Kenny – but this morning she was screaming and shouting and hitting out at my dad when he tried to calm her down.’
‘Good Lord!’ Robbie frowned thoughtfully for a moment and then said slowly, ‘My mother was sort of – well – odd. Not hysterical or anything, but you saw how shocked she was when she heard your surname.’
Fleur nodded. ‘Did she explain why?’
Robbie shook his head. ‘No. Shut up like a clam. She went very quiet and seemed lost in a world of her own. I couldn’t reach her, if you know what I mean.’
‘Oh, I know exactly what you mean. I bet it’s the same sort of look my dad sometimes has. As if he’s lost in the past.’
‘That’s it. That’s it exactly.’ They stared at each other for a moment before Robbie said slowly, ‘You … you don’t think there was – well – something between them, do you? Between your dad and my mother? Years ago?’
Fleur nodded. ‘There must have been because . . . because in amongst all my mum’s shouting and hysterical crying she said, “All these years, you’ve never stopped loving her.”’
‘And you think she meant my mother?’
Again, Fleur nodded, but now she said no more. She couldn’t for the heavy feeling growing within her chest, a feeling of ominous foreboding.
Robbie blew out his cheeks as he let out a long sigh. ‘Crikey! Now I see why Ma wouldn’t come with me today and why you’re waiting for me in the lane.’ His blue eyes were dark with disappointment. ‘I take it I’m not welcome at your home?’
She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak for the lump in her throat.
He sighed again and sat up, resting his arms on his knees and linking his fingers. His back was towards her as he said flatly, ‘So, you don’t want to see me again?’
Fleur sat up too and touched his arm. Slowly, he turned to face her. They gazed at each other for a long moment before she said, ‘I do want to see you again. I mean – that is – if you want to see me.’
‘Of course I do.’
She smiled and felt a warm glow at the swiftness of his reply. ‘But,’ she went on, ‘we’ve just got to realize what we might be getting ourselves into. We won’t be able to visit each other’s homes.’
‘You can come to mine. Ma won’t mind.’
‘Are you really sure about that?’
‘Well. . .’ She could see the sudden doubt on his face.
‘She was very kind to me last night,’ Fleur went on, ‘and even after she knew who I was, but that doesn’t mean she’ll want to see me again. Have me visiting, reminding her . . .’ There was a long silence before Fleur said, ‘So do you see why I say, “as long as we realize what we’re getting ourselves into”?’
‘Yeah,’ Robbie’s mouth tightened. ‘Right into the middle of a Shakespeare play by the sound of it.’
Fleur laughed, stood up and held out her hand to pull him up. ‘Just so long as you know I’ve no intention of committing suicide over you like Juliet.’
He stood close to her, still holding her hand and looking down into her dark brown eyes. ‘And that’s another thing.’
‘What is?’ she whispered, suddenly frightened by the serious look in his eyes.
‘Death. Not by suicide, of course. But I face it every time we take off on a bombing run. And you’re not in exactly the safest job there is, are you? Airfields are constant targets for the enemy.’
‘I know,’ she said quietly. ‘But we’re only in the same boat as thousands of others. We . . . we’ve all got to take our happiness when we can, haven’t we?’
Robbie nodded. ‘Damn right we have. And damn the past and all its secrets. We’re living in the present.’ Though he didn’t speak the words aloud, as he took her into his arms and bent his head to kiss her
Robbie was praying silently: Dear Lord, grant me a future with this lovely girl. Don’t let me end my days in a burning plane, or her buried beneath a pile of rubble on a bombed-out airfield. Let us grow old together, with our grandchildren at our knees . . .
Five
‘There’s something else I want to ask you.’
‘Fire away,’ Robbie said, resting his elbows on the small table in the cafe where they were sitting. They were determined to spend the afternoon together, even if they were not welcome at Middleditch Farm, and had walked back to South Monkford, hitching a ride on a farm cart for part of the way.
‘Who’s the old gentleman who lives with you?’
‘Pops?’
Fleur nodded.
‘My grandfather.’ There was a pause before Robbie asked. ‘Why?’
Fleur stirred her tea, even though, with wartime rationing, she had stopped taking sugar in it. She avoided meeting his gaze. ‘Your mother’s father?’
Robbie nodded.
‘Has he always lived with you?’
Robbie wrinkled his forehead. ‘No. I must have been about eight or nine when he arrived out of the blue. I think – no, I’m sure – before that there was just me and Ma. My father died before I was born. I told you that, didn’t I?’
‘Mm.’
Slowly, as if he was reliving a memory he’d not thought about in years, Robbie went on, ‘There was a knock at the door one day and I ran to answer it. You know how when you’re a kid, you love to be the one to answer the door?’
Fleur nodded but did not speak. She didn’t want to break his train of thought.
‘This chap was standing there. I thought it was an old tramp asking for food. He was wearing scruffy clothes, had a full straggly beard and long greasy-looking hair.’ He grinned. ‘Mind you, it wasn’t the first time I’d seen a gentleman of the road knocking at our door or sitting in our kitchen being fed.’ He laughed. ‘They reckon tramps leave signs for one another pointing the way to a house where they’ll likely get a meal.’ The smile faded and the thoughtful frown returned. ‘But when Ma saw this particular chap, I thought she was going to faint. I do remember that. Then she hustled me away – sent me to my bedroom. Next morning the old boy was still there. Clean clothes, shaved, hair neatly trimmed. Ma’s a dab hand with her scissors around hair as well as material. He was sitting in the chair by the fire just as if he’d taken up residence.’ Robbie laughed again. ‘And he had. He patted my head and said, “I’m your grandad, son.”’
Wish Me Luck Page 3
