The Tailor's Girl

by Fiona McIntosh

  Without warning, Tom pulled Edie down a small alley they’d paused by, which offered a cut through to the next main street. He glanced both ways before pulling her back into shadows against the cold brick; he waited a couple of heartbeats for the protest from her that didn’t come. Hidden from sight of those ever-curious window gazers and with moonlight weakly illuminating one half of Edie’s beautiful face, he saw a fire glittering in her eye and he knew she was his.

  And as Edie opened her mouth to respond to his challenge, he prevented her words by bending close to touch his lips to hers; something he had wanted to do from the moment she’d sat on the bench and smiled for only him, reigniting a fire that had known no warmth for much too long. She didn’t resist him, and although it had been a long time, Tom’s panic instantly dissipated as he realised his fear was unfounded. It seemed one never forgot how to kiss.

  And he lost himself in it. Nearly eighteen months of anguish in hospitals and three years, he was sure, of terror and despair in the trenches, all obliterated in seconds by the touch of Eden Valentine, who, tentatively at first, soon showed that her feelings for him were more than cursory or plain charity.

  She matched his passion and he helplessly closed his eyes on the world as he felt her thin arms reach up and hold him closer, clasping around his neck, pulling him into her private space. In her kiss he tasted everything he already knew about Edie: her generosity, her joy in life, her intensity, her dreams and, most of all, her hope. It passed from her to him as he caressed her warm neck, her sweet straight jawline, her expressive, welcoming mouth with his lips, wishing desperately he could kiss her with abandon and not feel worried that they might be seen.

  He pulled back finally and her breath came short and hard, the cold turning it to instant steam that drifted and curled around his breath, keeping the connection strong. Her lips were swollen slightly and all the more desirable for their soft bruising. He could see her eyes glistening moistly and as she wordlessly stepped around him, she caressed his cheek gently, allowing her gloved fingers to trace his bearded jaw before she hurried towards the gaslit street. Once again he heard Eden Valentine’s footsteps retreating from him.

  _______________

  Edie could barely breathe as she hurried away from the alley. She knew it was a freezing night and yet she worried that her cheeks were burning: with embarrassment, with guilt, with shame, but mostly with passion . . . such a new, exciting sensation. Only last night she’d been wondering what it would be like to be held close by Tom. Over dinner, with her father’s eyes closed as he spoke his blessing, she had sneaked a glance at their guest, his dark head bent in prayer, respectfully wearing the kippah of her family’s faith, and she had imagined what it would feel like to be kissed by him.

  She’d been wrong. Her imagination had lied.

  Her only experience of kissing was watching screen stars at the cinema with puckered lips or cheeks quickly pressed together after a perfunctory peck. And Benjamin’s kisses, of course – dry, brief, boyish. But Tom’s kiss! She felt both freshly excited and embarrassed just recalling it. Tom’s kiss had been deep and thrilling, like an exciting secret shared. His tongue had been soft but searching, demanding she respond . . . and she had. Such shame and yet . . . no shame at all, for kissing Tom was a thing of beauty – an experience she could neither regret nor give up. Now she’d tasted his lips, she wanted them again and again . . . and she wanted his mouth all over her. She blushed once more at her cavalier attitude even though as she dwelled on Tom’s kiss – the hardness of his body, the need she felt as he pulled her so close – she could see Ben’s house in the near distance.

  She didn’t want to arrive. Edie didn’t want anything connected with the Levi family to intrude on her surrender in an alleyway with Tom. She half gulped, half laughed at her outrageous behaviour. What would her father think of her? Truly, did she care now that she remembered how Tom’s passion had prompted flashing circles of light behind her closed lids? Being out of control was not Edie’s way but with Tom it suddenly hadn’t mattered. She was his prisoner. If she had to have a keeper, let it be Tom! If everyone around her insisted that a man was required to give a woman’s life meaning, then let it be Tom who helped to shape her future, her life. Please, please, she begged in silence, let it be this stranger, this intriguing man she was helplessly attracted to who spoke to her ambition and dreams, who made her feel talented and special, important to him, and every inch of her desirable. Please forgive me, she cast out, while trying to ignore the more dangerous notion that her worst action was yet to come.

  She put a hand to her fiery cheek – she was appalled! She was also thrilled. Kissing deeply in a dark alley, desperately wanting to feel him press himself harder against her, an aching and hot desire to disrobe and lay flesh against flesh . . .

  Stop it, Eden!

  How had she permitted it? And yet there was nothing remotely dirty or desperate about it. If anything, as she forced her breathing to calm and her mind to feel less chaotic, Edie knew what had occurred was beautiful. She had never felt so desired and had never wanted anything so badly before. Ben was filled with fervour for her, but Tom left Benjamin behind in his single kiss. If passion could become a person, it was Tom, she thought, trying not to smile at her notion and trying not to think of the remnants of the warmth he had prompted low in her body.

  Benjamin! Oh, what a traitor she was. But as she stood outside the Levi house, lurking in the shadows once again and grateful for the moon now hidden behind night clouds, she told herself this feeling was perhaps inevitable.

  Tom’s arrival into her life was meant to be. It confirmed all her reservations about her engagement to Ben. Nothing about her relationship with him could be considered as anything but sisterly. From that first mad decision to help Tom, she knew she had done so because she found herself irresistibly drawn to him, and then yielded control.

  Intuition. Instinct. Chemistry. All those primitive elements had taken over and Edie now felt slave to their mastery, although until this moment she’d tried to ignore it, dismiss it as a fanciful crush.

  She understood now, though, that she’d been deluding herself. Whenever Tom stood nearby she held her breath – had he noticed? As he slept in the room next to Daniel’s, she lay awake in hers – restless, anxious, her dreams when they finally came filled with yearning. Tom’s voice, Tom’s laugh, Tom’s touch . . . She wanted all of it.

  Ben’s kiss? She gave a choked sound of guilt as she pushed herself to approach the stairs of his home but could not climb them as she remembered Ben’s lack of ardour – cold, swift, self-conscious. He was so devoted to her and perhaps he believed devotion could become romantic. He did love her – of this she was sure – but he’d had no other girlfriends, wanted no other woman.

  Maybe he hopes I’ll learn to love him in the way he loves me? Edie thought sadly as she stared at the Levi’s front door, like a prisoner being shown the door to her cell.

  ‘It’s not going to happen,’ she whispered to the pigeons cooing softly on the rooftop of the Levi house.

  Edie touched her lips softly and the memory of Tom’s stolen kiss returned. He was such an exceptional man, a leader, with impeccable manners. Except when he’s dragging unsuspecting young women into alleyways, she thought, amused. Abba had suggested privately that Tom might have served in a hotel dining room but Edie was thinking more along the lines that he had likely belonged to a fine household.

  ‘No, Abba,’ she’d disagreed. ‘He notices too much. He is aware of expensive things. And his talk about money? He’s seen what wealth can create. A butler, perhaps?’

  They were no closer to solving the riddle of Tom.

  Edie realised she still had her fingers to her mouth and her body was still buzzing with a tingling excitement of Tom’s hands cupping her chin, before dropping to pull her body closer and harder against his —

  ‘Edie? Is that you?’

  She nearly squealed in embarrassment at the familiar sight of Ben’s na
rrow shoulders and lean body. He was wearing the jumper his mother had knitted last year. It was tight, making him look even more skinny. ‘Yes . . . yes, sorry, Ben.’

  ‘What are you doing out here in the dark?’ he asked, as he skipped down the three steps onto the pavement to meet her.

  ‘Is it Eden?’ came his mother’s familiar voice.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Ben was suddenly at her side and the moon peeped out from behind the cloud. In its spotlight she’d arrived fully onto the stage of shame. An accusatory finger of light . . . or perhaps a reassuring caress of heavenly light that understood, that gave permission, that told her to follow her heart and be happy . . .

  Ben repeated his question, the moonlight painting the top of his short, wiry hair with silver, and she shook her head, forcing a smile. ‘Of course. I suddenly remembered something I’d forgotten. I’m sorry, I was just thinking it through.’

  His brow knitted but she saw relief ghost across his expression. ‘That’s not like you.’

  ‘Edie, dear, whatever are you doing standing out there in the shadows . . . in the freezing cold?’ his mother admonished.

  ‘Pardon?’ she said to Benjamin, buying time. Could they tell she’d been kissing another man? Then her mind snapped into cold fear. Had Tom kissed her neck? Yes, he had, briefly. It had felt amazingly seductive. She was sure it wouldn’t take much on her sensitive skin to draw the kind of bruise she’d seen on others. Edie touched her neck self-consciously, and as Ben helped her with her overcoat she loosened her scarf, terrified, trying to glimpse her neck in the mirror. Not a trace to be seen. Of course there wasn’t. There was nothing vulgar about Tom.

  She threw a look over her shoulder and out the open front door as Mrs Levi bustled back into the sitting room from the hallway, while Ben was hanging up her coat. He turned to close the door but in that moment Edie glimpsed a familiar shape across the road, standing on the common, and she knew Tom was watching her.

  She closed her eyes fleetingly and took a breath to steady herself. Oh, Tom, whatever do we do now?

  6

  Tom turned as the door of the Levi house closed and shut Edie off from him; he had seen that shy glance over her shoulder, though, and he sensed she knew he was out here, wishing he could steal her away from the family that was drawing her ever closer to its bosom. Was she thinking of their kiss and wanting more? His injured mind scrambled with fresh distress while his nerves still trilled the message of pent desire. Edie! If he never got his memory back and all he had was Edie, she would be enough. Ben could not have her!

  A lone nightingale sang above him and somewhere, for a few dazed moments, he was lost in a fraction of a memory of identical birdsong. The whizzing, horrific bang of bombs that took lives and shattered families suddenly echoed loudly in his thoughts and his head hurt. In his mind’s eye he saw the brave fall, smashed backwards, picked off like metal targets at a funfair, but these were men with families, with loves and dreams; these were men showing the ultimate courage, prepared to make the greatest sacrifice – and they were dead before they felt the cold hard ground of foreign soil. The nightingale sang harder as though it alone had the power to conjure his memories and he saw other soldiers staggering, bleeding, some having lost a limb, stupefied, and the images became far worse until he thought his head might explode. Then the vision dissolved and he was back in a quiet park of Golders Green and the nightingale was still singing, but only to impress a female, not to punish him.

  Nightingales . . . that’s right! One of the nurses had told him other soldiers had remembered the call of these birds, seemingly unfazed by the shocking sounds of war, and how in the rare, overwhelming silences they would stun the soldiers by suddenly breaking into beautiful and haunting song. If he could remember that small detail, why not the rest?

  ‘I know it’s in there,’ he murmured as he threw a final glance at the cosy light glowing out of the windows of the Levi house and forced himself to turn away. Before long he found himself sitting at a pub bar and counting his sorrows over a shot of whisky he afforded from the little coin that Edie had lent him. The smoky caramel vapour hit his taste sensors before the liquor burned on its way past his gullet, and reminded him of the fire that kissing Edie had stoked. While the spicy aftermath hummed in his mouth, he could still taste Edie, still smell her perfume on him, still feel her touch. He wanted to close his eyes and live through the kiss again but people in the bar would likely think him strange as well as lonely.

  No, Benjamin could not have her. Benjamin would smother her, crush her dreams and control her . . .

  ‘Fight him for her, matey,’ an older bloke with silver sideburns urged. He was sitting nearby and Tom realised he had been speaking aloud.

  He gave a small shrug. ‘Maybe I will.’

  ‘Twenty-fourth battalion,’ his companion said, holding out a hand. Tom aged him at around forty.

  He shook hands firmly. ‘No idea which battalion.’ Tom grinned. ‘The Boche stole my memory.’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe you’re the lucky one.’

  ‘It’s what I tell myself when I can’t remember my childhood, or my friends in the trenches.’

  ‘I saw you limp.’

  He nodded. ‘Ypres, I think. Third battle, or so I’ve been told. I came home in mid-1918 with no notion of who I was or where I’d been.’

  ‘Ah, Passchendaele.’

  Tom sank the contents of his glass and it burned again like a fiery meteorite as it descended. He winced. ‘You?’ he groaned out.

  ‘A hellhole called Beaumont-Hamel. The Somme.’

  ‘You look well for it.’

  ‘I’m a good actor,’ the man said, drawing circles on the counter in the beer that had frothed over and down the side of his tankard. He dragged hard on a cigarette and blew the smoke into the dense cloud of nicotine fog that hung above their heads.

  Tom understood. ‘Aren’t we all?’

  The older man sighed. ‘I’m Alfred . . . Alf. I used to be a bookmaker.’

  ‘Used to be?’

  He shrugged. ‘I still keep an eye on the gee-gees,’ he said with a wink. ‘I just don’t make a business out of it. I bet just for myself . . . beer money and chips, you could say.’

  ‘Have you family?’

  Alf nodded. ‘I did. Lost my wife and daughter to the influenza.’

  Tom’s expression clouded in sorrow. ‘I’m sorry for you.’

  ‘How ruddy stupid is that? You come home from the Western Front, having survived bombs, machine guns, mustard gas . . . and watch your wife struggling to breathe, your little girl wasting away in a matter of days. Both dead within a fortnight. Me, the great hero, able to stay alive, but can’t save the ones I love.’

  Tom didn’t know what to say. There were no words of comfort that could possibly be meaningful. Instead he caught the barman’s eye and gestured for another shot. It was poured and Tom slid the glass along the bar. ‘Toss that in your beer.’

  ‘I usually stay away from the hard stuff. Long story. But thank you. Drink it yourself instead with me.’

  Tom hadn’t planned on another, but he took the glass back and raised it to clink against Alf’s tankard. ‘Cheers then, Alf. I’m Tom . . . I think.’

  This caught Alf’s sense of humour and he spluttered a laugh into his beer. ‘Silly sod. Now look what you’ve done.’ He licked the froth from his lips. ‘What about you?’

  Tom explained his situation and told Alf a lot more than he meant to, except he sensibly withheld names and occupations as he figured these neighbourhoods were small enough that Alf could know the Valentine family. He realised he must have spoken for a while because when he looked again at his glass his whisky was finished and Alf’s tankard was dry. He felt horribly sober . . . and could still feel Edie’s arms around his neck.

  ‘Oh . . . I see,’ Alf was saying. ‘So you think if you can provide the means, then this beautiful young woman might agree to be your girl?’

  Tom raised and dropped his shoulders the
atrically. ‘I want her to be more than my girl, Alf. I want to marry her.’

  ‘Cor, blimey, you’re moving fast, lad.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Just like Pretty Penny,’ Alf said and winked again, clearly a habit.

  Tom stared at him, flummoxed. ‘Pretty Penny?’

  ‘Cheltenham on Saturday. She’s primed and ready to win big, though no one is rating her.’ Alf tapped his nose this time in a new conspiratorial gesture. ‘Long odds, money to be won, lad.’

  Tom’s gaze narrowed. ‘How much?’

  Alf laughed, pushed his glass forward towards the barman. ‘How long is a piece of string?’

  ‘How much if I give you half a sovereign?’

  His companion’s expression changed, eyes widening to reveal faded blue eyes that had been hooded until now. ‘That’s a lot of money to wager, lad.’

  ‘I want to win a lot of money.’

  Alf dithered, looking uncomfortable.

  ‘Come on, Alf. You said yourself she’s primed. You’re betting on Pretty Penny. I trust you.’

  Tom watched Alf stub out his cigarette in the nearby ashtray and blow the last fetid lungful of smoke into the room. The older man rubbed his chin and Tom noticed his fingers drumming on the counter. ‘The odds are fifteen to one presently.’ He smiled. ‘Odds against.’

  Tom shook his head in puzzlement.

  ‘That means the bookie will pay you your earnings plus your stake back. Fifteen to one is a huge return, odds against.’

  Tom caught on fast and was aware that anything connected with commercial gain made easy sense to him. Was this a clue to his past? ‘I’ll take thirteen to one. You take anything you can earn off the top.’

  ‘What? You’re mad, matey. You’re giving me a pile if we win.’

  ‘If we win. If we don’t, I’m losing a half sovereign. Besides, if she wins, I won’t be criticising the fellow who gave me the tip.’