Into the Darkest Day: An emotional and totally gripping WW2 historical novel

by Kate Hewitt

  Matthew opened the gate and started walking towards her. Lily found she couldn’t move.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you. I wanted to thank you for the hamper…” The words came thoughtlessly, her voice high and thin.

  Matthew stood before her, frowning slightly, his dark brows drawn together, his eyes so fathomless. She’d once thought his dark looks handsome, but now they almost frightened her. He seemed utterly unknowable.

  “You’ve already thanked me for the hamper, Lily. You didn’t need to do it again.”

  Oh heaven help her, did he sound as if he knew? Surely he must suspect.

  Lily shook her head, a mechanical back and forth. “And… I wanted to ask if you’d like to take a walk on the Common. Before you’re sent away. You’d said something before.”

  Matthew’s eyebrow rose as the smallest of smiles quirked his mouth. “Yes, I did and that would indeed be very pleasant, but it is a bit dark, yes?”

  That precise voice… the very careful way he spoke every word… was he hiding an accent, a German one? It suddenly seemed almost obvious. No one spoke the way he did, choosing each word with such deliberate care.

  “Yes, it is dark. I meant on the weekend, perhaps, if you have the time off.”

  “I’m afraid I do not.” He studied her while Lily tried to look normal, friendly even, a smile skirting her lips and then sliding away. “You’re bleeding,” Matthew said, gesturing to her hand.

  Lily glanced down to see where she’d scraped her wrist against the brick. A few drops of blood had welled up and started to drip towards her cuff. “It’s nothing—”

  “You should have a dressing.” His tone brooked no argument. “If you come inside, I can see to it.”

  “Really, you don’t have to—” she began, but Matthew shook his head.

  “Nonsense. It is no trouble.” He moved towards the door and, after a tense second of awful indecision, she followed, not knowing what else she could do. To refuse would invite suspicion.

  And really, Lily told herself as Matthew unlocked the door, perhaps she was overreacting, because of all the posters and paranoia. There had to be some explanation for the pigeons, the message in German. He was in the army, after all, the U.S. Army. How could he possibly be a spy? It seemed ridiculous, and yet…

  Matthew opened the door and stepped aside so she could enter first. The hallway was dark and smelled a bit musty, a bit unlived in. There were no coats on the stand, no umbrellas leaning by the door.

  Matthew closed the door and gestured towards the kitchen in the back of the house. “Why don’t you come through?”

  Lily walked back towards the kitchen she’d glimpsed in shadowy darkness from the back door. She stood in the entrance of the small room while Matthew moved past her to draw the blackout curtains across and then turn on the lights.

  “You’re shivering,” he remarked. “You must be freezing.”

  “It’s so cold out.”

  “Why don’t I make you a cup of tea? Or would you rather have coffee?”

  Lily stared at him miserably. He looked so concerned, an almost tender look in his dark eyes—or was she imagining it? Had she imagined everything—the brief intimacy she’d felt with him, the connection, the kindness? The danger? “Tea, please,” she managed.

  Matthew stoked the fire in the range and then went to the sink to fill the kettle. Lily watched his brisk, efficient movements, too overwhelmed even to think.

  “Why is the house so empty?” she finally asked. “Who lives here?”

  “Just me, I’m afraid.” He gave her a small, fleeting smile. “The family who lived here evacuated to Somerset, to be with the wife’s sister. The husband is fighting. The British army requisitioned it, and then gave it to us.”

  “Oh.” So he lived here on his own, free to do as he liked. She slipped her hand into her coat pocket and fingered the piece of paper.

  Matthew put the kettle on top of the range.

  “Let’s see to your wrist,” he said as he turned to her.

  Wordlessly, Lily held her arm out.

  Matthew turned her wrist over with gentle hands and inspected the scratch. It wasn’t deep, but it had drawn enough blood to need to be dressed. His fingers were lean and long as they moved over her wrist. Piano player’s hands, she thought irrelevantly.

  Carol had insisted both she and Sophie have lessons when they were children. Sophie hadn’t practiced and Lily had been as good as tone-deaf, banging diligently on the keys until Carol had put a stop to the whole thing.

  Now Lily wondered if Matthew played the piano. She imagined him seated in front of one, his long fingers rippling over the keys. He’d told her how he’d danced with his mother, and she thought he must like music. But what sort of man was he? The sort who could be a spy? What else was she meant to think? Who would have a message in German, attached to the leg of a carrier pigeon?

  “It’s not too bad,” Matthew said. “But I’ll put some salve on it.”

  He was still holding her hand in his own as she looked up at him. His face was close, and his dark eyes seemed liquid, as if she could drown in them. For a second, Lily felt as if the whole world had fallen away, and she didn’t know whether it was from fear or longing.

  “I’ll fetch it,” Matthew murmured and, releasing her hand, he left the room.

  Lily let out a shuddering breath and clutched her wrist with her other hand, as if it were broken. She had half a mind to run out of the house, and yet the other half was telling herself not to be so utterly ridiculous.

  What would Sophie do, if she were here? Lily knew the answer immediately. She would flirt and laugh and try to winkle out information from Matthew, just in case he really was a spy. She would find it all the most tremendous fun, thrilled that she was finally doing something exciting for the war, that something interesting was happening to her. She might even be disappointed if Matthew turned out not to be a spy.

  Why couldn’t Lily be like her?

  “Here we are.” Matthew came back into the kitchen, brandishing a bottle of brown glass. He smiled, his eyes crinkling, his expression so very gentle. It made Lily feel like bursting into tears. She couldn’t stand him being kind right now. She really couldn’t, not when she thought he might be a spy, and she should hate him for it.

  “Thank you,” she managed in little more than a hoarse whisper, and she held her arm out again, as Matthew took the stopper out and then dipped a finger into the salve before holding Lily’s hand and rubbing the cream gently into the abrasion.

  It was such a simple act, and yet it made Lily catch her breath. The feel of his fingers on her skin was mesmerizing, electrifying. She felt as if she could curl up and go to sleep, and yet at the same time she was more awake than she’d ever been. How was that possible? How could he be a spy?

  “Does it hurt?” Matthew asked, and she looked up, only to find his face close to hers once more, his gaze seeming to pull her in. His fingers tensed on her wrist and for a second—a lifetime—everything felt suspended, endless, the world slowing down and speeding up at the same time, so Lily was aware of the beat of her blood, the tick of the clock, the catch of Matthew’s breath—

  Then he released her hand and stepped away.

  “The tea,” he said, and Lily realized the kettle had started to whistle.

  She closed her eyes.

  Matthew made the tea while Lily simply stood there. She knew she should make some chitchat, or at least herself useful, but simply standing there and breathing felt like all she was capable of. Her wrist had started to throb, and she didn’t know whether it was from the graze or Matthew’s gentle attentions.

  “I forgot the dressing,” he said, and left the kitchen for a moment, to return with a length of gauze.

  “Where did you get that?” Lily asked. “We haven’t seen gauze dressings since the start of the war.”

  “There’s plenty, at the base.” He gestu
red for her to hold out her hand yet again, and then wrapped the dressing around it, tucking it neatly. “There you go. Now come and warm up with a cup of tea.”

  Lily sat down at the table, wrapping her hands around the cup Matthew gave her for warmth. He sat opposite her, smiling faintly.

  “Better?”

  She smiled back, the curve of her lips taking effort. “Yes.”

  The quiet kitchen felt like a world away from everything else—the Casualties Section, Holmside Road, the war. Right now, the night still and silent all around them, the only sound the occasional clank or crackle from the range, Lily felt as if they could be the only two people alive. The only ones left.

  “You remind me of my little sister,” Matthew said unexpectedly. He cocked his head to one side, his smile still faint but in place.

  “Do I?”

  “Yes. She was quiet and shy, until you came to know her. Then she could be very playful, a little performer. I think perhaps you are a little like that.”

  Lily’s gaze swept downwards as pleasure unfurled inside her. “I think I’ve always been a bit shy.”

  “Compared to some, perhaps.” She knew he was talking about Sophie. “But when it matters… I think you would not be. I think you would be bold. Brave.”

  It was a compliment, but for some reason it didn’t feel right to say thank you. “What is your sister’s name?” she asked instead.

  The slightest of pauses, like a held breath. “Gertie.”

  “And she is back in America? In New York?”

  “Not in New York. Only I went there.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  Another pause, this one slightly longer. “November 10th,” he finally said. “1938.”

  She looked at him, startled. “Before you left for New York?”

  “It took me a while to get there.”

  “And you haven’t been back home?”

  “No, alas. It was not possible, and then I enlisted in 1942.”

  1942? Then why hadn’t he joined the regiment earlier? Lily knew she wouldn’t ask. She didn’t want to pry, and was afraid a question might reveal something she didn’t want to know. “You must miss her, then,” she said. She pictured a young girl, dark like Matthew, with quiet eyes and a playful smile.

  “Yes. I miss all my family.”

  “You haven’t seen any of them?”

  “My father is dead, but, no, I have not seen the rest. Not my mother, not my sister, not my two little brothers.” He let out a little sigh, as if he were laying a burden down. “But one day, I hope I will. When we win this war.”

  He wasn’t a spy, Lily thought with a rush of relieved conviction as she looked at him, saw the grief in his eyes, in the grim set of both his lips and shoulders. He couldn’t be. Not with the way he talked about his family, the war.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I can’t imagine not seeing my family for so long.”

  “But you can, I think.” He smiled sadly at her. “I think you can imagine too much, perhaps.”

  Lily stared at him, both moved and discomfited. It was as if he could see into her head, as if he knew all the terrible thoughts she had about the dead seamen she wrote about, how she pictured their deaths and their families and the lives that would now never go on, their little moments of joy, their last ones of agony. “How…” she began, and then couldn’t finish.

  “You feel things,” Matthew said. “I see it in your eyes.” He let out a little, embarrassed laugh and shook his head. “I’m being sent up north in a few days,” he said. “Perhaps that is why I am allowing myself to say such sentimental things.”

  “Up north?” She stared at him in surprise, even though it wasn’t unexpected.

  “Yes. So we will not be able to take that walk, I am afraid.” He smiled wryly. “But perhaps I could walk you home?”

  Lily stared at him, unable to make sense of the whole, strange evening. The pigeons… the message still in her pocket… Matthew’s smile. None of it made sense. A few minutes ago she’d had the absurd notion that if she followed him into this house he might actually hurt her. Now she was near tears at the thought he was leaving.

  “Lily?” he prompted gently.

  “Y-y—yes, of course.” She rose from the table. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “Please, call me Matthew.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said again. “Matthew.”

  Lily waited while Matthew locked the house, and then they were walking in silence down Keildon Road, towards home. The street was near-empty, the only light from the sliver of moon. Neither of them spoke, but it didn’t matter.

  Then, out of nowhere, the sound of the air-raid siren split the still air, rising in a familiar moan. Lily froze; she’d never been caught out on the street like this before. She’d always been at home, or at work, where everyone could pile in to the purpose-built shelter. A few times she’d been close to the Underground and gone there, but now they were in the middle of a residential street, with nowhere at all to hide. Lily met the panicked gaze of a woman across the road; she was holding the hand of a boy who couldn’t be more than six, both of them frozen in place.

  “What do we do?” Lily asked, as much of herself as to Matthew.

  Before he could reply, the air was full of droning, louder than the siren, louder than Lily had ever heard before. It filled her head and throbbed in her ears; she felt it thrum through her chest. It was as if she was being consumed by the noise, as if it had taken over her body.

  She looked up, her mouth dropping open at the sight of a German Messerschmitt flying so low she could see the markings on its side, and the silhouette of the pilot in the cockpit. It took her breath away; it was all so real, so tangible, far more than a distant sound or far-off speck that the planes usually were, when she was safe in a shelter or the Underground.

  She watched as the bomb was released elegantly from the plane’s underbelly and then Matthew yanked on her arm hard enough to make her cry out as he pulled her towards the only possible shelter nearby, the doorway of a house with a small porch overhang.

  Lily fell against the doorway as Matthew completely covered her body with his. The air was full of noise and smoke—crackles and thuds, the whine of the plane and the breaking of glass, all of it loud enough to make her eardrums throb and her chest hurt.

  Matthew had pressed his body closely against hers, so even through their heavy coats she could feel the joining of his limbs, the beating of his heart. It was the most intimate she’d ever been with anyone, his arms wrapped around her, her face buried in the curve of his neck, her eyes tightly closed as the world dissolved into a destructive whirlwind around them.

  His body jolted and she realized he must have been hit by some flying debris—she prayed it was no more than that.

  The raid seemed to go on and on, the screaming of the planes and the awful thuds of the bombs, until Lily thought they would surely die, they would have to die, because no one could endure this and live.

  Then, suddenly, it was silent, as if the planes had simply disappeared, as if it had been a nightmare and she’d woken up.

  Lily lifted her head from Matthew’s shoulder, blinking in the red-hazed gloom of a shattered world.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked, and her voice sounded muted and faraway, as if she were talking underwater, the way she and Sophie used to do on those seaside holidays, having tea parties as they sat cross-legged on the sandy bottom. She realized the noise of the bombing must have damaged her hearing, hopefully only temporarily.

  “I’m fine.” He eased away from her, his face grave. There was plaster dust sprinkled through his hair, and a bloody cut on one cheek. His coat was torn.

  “Are you sure—”

  “It’s nothing.” He turned to survey the street, and that’s when Lily saw the extent of the damage. The house immediately opposite had suffered a direct hit; it was nothing but wreckage now, practically flattened, timbers protruding from the rubble like giant matchsticks, it
ems visible amidst the rubble—the leg of a chair, the door of a wardrobe, a single cup.

  Lily had seen plenty of bomb damage before; she walked past bombed-out buildings every day, had delivered cups of tea to neighbors who had suffered some damage. Yet she’d never seen anything as immediate, as overwhelming, as this, with the stench of it still in her nostrils, a haze of smoke hovering over the destruction.

  Then her gaze moved from the destroyed house to the woman she’d locked gazes with before Matthew had pulled her into the doorway. She was standing in the middle of the street, staring sightlessly at her son, who was sprawled at her feet.

  Lily caught sight of his head first; his eyes closed, his lips slightly pursed, like a baby sleeping. Then her gaze moved lower and she saw that beneath his middle he was nothing but a mess of blood and guts and bone. Her stomach heaved at the sight. He was most certainly dead.

  “She needs help,” she said, nodding to the woman. Her voice still sounded faraway.

  Somehow, she found the strength to walk across the street on wobbly legs; the air was thick was smoke and her chest hurt every time she breathed in, and her ears were ringing painfully.

  “Let me help you,” she said to the woman, who turned her blank gaze towards Lily. “Come with me to get warm, have a cup of tea.” As if such things would make a difference, but what more could she offer? The woman couldn’t stay here. It wasn’t safe. At any moment more buildings could collapse, another raid could start.

  “My son… Teddy…” The woman swallowed convulsively. “I can’t just leave him here.”

  Lily glanced at Matthew, who had followed her into the street, and a silent conversation passed between them, as clear as if they’d both spoken out loud and come to an agreement. He would take care of the boy; she would help the woman.

  “I’ll get someone,” he said. “The police, or an ambulance. He’ll be taken care of, I promise.”

  The poor boy didn’t need an ambulance, but Lily knew Matthew would find someone to take his broken body from the street. She put her arm around the woman’s shoulders and drew her away from her son. The woman moved stiffly, jerkily, clearly still in shock.