by K. J. Frost
Chapter One
End of January 1940
“So, what do you think?”
He glances up at me, blinking a few times and doing his best to look innocent. He’s still wearing his work clothes, although he’s taken off his shoes, his slippered feet stretched out towards the roaring fire. And as I gaze at him, I can’t help thinking to myself that there are two things wrong with this scene. Firstly, I really do wish he’d change when he comes home from work. Not only does he look really silly, sitting there in smart trousers and slippers, but I can’t help thinking he’s about to go out again, at any moment. And secondly? That’s the fact that my husband is anything but innocent, no matter how much he might like to pretend.
“Hmm? What’s that, dear?”
“I said, what do you think? Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”
“Sorry, I was just reading this article about George Gershwin in the Radio Times. There’s going to be a programme on about him next Tuesday evening, which looks like it might be quite interesting. A ‘musical biography’, they’re calling it. We could try and listen to that, couldn’t we? It doesn’t finish until quarter past ten, but I think it’ll be worth staying up for. I’ve always been quite partial to George Gershwin.” His voice fades and he puts the magazine down on the arm of the chair beside him, raising his eyebrows at me, expectantly, and I sigh in exasperation.
“I know you’ve always liked George Gershwin, not that I can see the fascination myself, but can I assume that you haven’t been listening to me at all, given your preoccupation?”
“Sorry, dear.”
“Honestly, you really are very irritating sometimes. I’ve just spent the last ten minutes talking to you – or rather, talking to myself – about decorating the spare bedroom.”
“The spare bedroom?” He frowns, as though I’m the one not making sense here, when in reality, he’s got his head in the clouds, as usual.
“Yes. The one next to ours,” I clarify, because we live in a four bedroomed house – well, five, if you count the attic room, which I don’t – and I feel the need to be precise about this.
“Decorating it? Whatever for?” he yawns, which vexes me still further, being as it seems he can’t take anything to do with me, or our marriage, seriously.
“Because it would make a good nursery,” I snap, wondering why I have to explain everything in triplicate. Not only have I mentioned my reasons this evening, while his mind was evidently otherwise occupied – with George Gershwin, of all things – but we’ve discussed this before, several times in the last two years at least.
“Y—You’re not pregnant, are you?” He sits forward, startled, which isn’t that surprising, being as a conception at this point in time would be nothing short of a miracle, of Biblical proportions. He hasn’t been near me in months, after all.
“No. Of course I’m not. But I’ll be thirty in the summer, and we always said we’d have a child – or children – one day. We can’t wait too much longer, can we? Especially if we want to have more than one…”
I notice his face fall, assuming that the prospect of impregnating me doesn’t exactly inspire him, or fill him with any enthusiasm.
“Babies cost a lot of money, dear,” he says, his eyes darting around the living room, as though he’s looking for excuses in the floral wallpaper, or the oak sideboard, or the landscape paintings. “And I’m not sure we can afford any redecorations at the moment. And besides, with the war and everything, perhaps it would be better to wait…”
“I don’t see how the war really affects us. It’s not as though you’re going to have to go and fight, is it?”
“Well, no. But there’s still the financial consideration.”
“Are we short of money then?” I ask him, because if we are, it’s news to me.
“Not ‘short’ exactly,” he replies. “But we’re not overflowing either. We need to be careful and not rush into things.”
He smiles, then picks up the Radio Times again, dismissing both me and the topic of conversation. I stare at him for a while, uncertain whether his lack of enthusiasm is related to a genuine shortage of funds, about which he has chosen, for some reason, to keep me in the dark. Or whether he’s truly so appalled at the prospect of physical intimacy with me, that he’ll use any excuse to avoid it.
I’m tempted to ask him whether his carnal appetites are being satisfied elsewhere, but I bite my tongue. Although I suppose it would explain his abstinence in the bedroom over the last few months, I can’t believe he’d do that to me again. Not when he promised so faithfully that he wouldn’t…
***
“Congratulations!”
“Good luck!”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
That last comment rings out from Harry Thompson, my sergeant, and oldest friend, his arm around his pregnant wife, Julia, and I smile in his direction, as the crowd of well-wishers gathers on the driveway. And then I climb into my car, beside my bride and turn to face her, unable to wipe away the smile that’s adorned my face all day, from the moment I awoke at just after six this morning, and realised that today was the day I would become the happiest of men.
“Ready?” I ask Amelie and she nods her head in agreement as I start the engine and pull out onto the road, relieved that we’re finally alone.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s been a magnificent day, filled with smiles, and laughter – and the odd tear, from my mother and Aunt Dotty – and plenty of good cheer all round. But in spite of all of that, this is the moment I’ve been waiting for all day… some quiet solitude with the woman I love. And the freedom to be ourselves, because we’re married now, so no-one can tell us what to do… or, perhaps more importantly, what not to do.
“Are you sure you’re going to be all right to drive?” Amelie asks, resting her hand gently on my leg.
“I’m positive.”
“We can still catch the train, if you’d rather,” she suggests, leaning closer to me.
“And risk having to share you with other people? I don’t think so. Besides, we deliberately chose somewhere that wasn’t too far away, so that we could drive.” It’s true. We chose our honeymoon destination entirely around the practicalities of petrol rationing and the fact that my arm has only been out of plaster for just under four weeks, making a long drive out of the question. Not if I want to be fit for anything when we reach our destination, which I most certainly do. Scenic views and romance didn’t really enter into our decision making at all. But then, I think we were both in agreement that, providing we could have some time together, we didn’t really mind where we were. Totnes, or Timbuktu, it matters not, providing we’re alone, with each other. As it is, we’ve chosen an inn at Bury, in the South Downs, just over an hour away from home, and I’ve been driving as much as I can over the last couple of weeks, just to get ready for the journey and to acclimatise to my new vehicle; a beautiful British racing green, MG T drop head coupé, which my mother bought for me after I crashed my last car… breaking my arm in the process.
“You really don’t mind?” Amelie asks.
“I really don’t mind. There’s no way I’m sharing you with anyone for the next seven days… not unless I absolutely have to. And at the moment, I don’t absolutely have to.”
She giggles, removes her hat, placing it on her lap, and rests her head on my shoulder. “It was a lovely reception, wasn’t it?” she muses. “And I was so pleased Aunt Millicent came downstairs and joined in.”
“She quite surprised me, actually,” I reply, still paying attention to the road, although it feels very comfortable having Amelie nestling against me. “She didn’t seem nearly as mad as the last time I spoke to her.”
“She’s not mad.” Amelie slaps my knee play
fully.
“Well, she’s still convinced I’m Errol Flynn, so I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
“You do bear a remarkable resemblance, Rufus… so it’s not really her fault.”
“It is when she actually starts calling me ‘Mr Flynn’.”
“She didn’t, did she?”
“Yes. Twice. Still think she’s not mad?”
“Let’s say she’s touched, shall we?”
I shrug and smile down at her briefly, before returning my gaze to the road ahead. “If you insist, darling… if you insist.”
“I thought Julia looked much more pregnant than when I last saw her, and extremely beautiful with it, didn’t you?” she asks.
“She looked lovely, but nowhere near as beautiful as you.”
“Hmm…” she sighs wistfully, as she gazes out of the window, and a thought crosses my mind.
Instinctively I slow the car, my foot easing off the accelerator, and I turn to look at her.
“Are you trying to tell me something, darling?”
“Like what?”
“Like that maybe you’d rather not wait to start a family?” I voice my thoughts, wondering if she’s had a change of heart since we first discussed this, a few weeks ago.
“No.” She sounds surprised. “We agreed to wait.”
“And you’re still happy about that? Because if you’ve changed your mind…”
“I’m not ready for motherhood yet,” she interrupts. “And besides, I think I’d like us to have some time to ourselves first…” Her voice fades.
“I couldn’t have put that better myself. I mean, obviously, if you’d wanted to do things differently, I’d have…”
“Well, I don’t,” she says firmly. “This is our time, Rufus. And I think we’ve earned it.”
She’s not wrong. From the moment of our first meeting, which came about over the brutal murder of her sister – or at least the girl she’d grown up with as a sister – our brief relationship has been filled with incident, and no small amount of trauma… including a threat to her life and two attempts on mine. She’s quite right. We need some time to ourselves… even if only to draw breath.
“That’s about the best thing I’ve heard all day… apart from when you said, ‘I do’, of course.”
She leans over and kisses me briefly on the cheek. “Well, I meant every word.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Mrs Stone.”
She giggles and I slowly accelerate again.
“Was everything all right with Harry?” she asks, after a brief pause. “He seemed a bit quieter than usual.”
I glance across at her, feeling a cloud descending over us. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but now you’ve mentioned it… his mother telephoned him last night, just before he and I were due to go out to the pub, to tell him that his youngest brother, Vic, has just shipped out to France. He’d been training up in Yorkshire, or somewhere, since before Christmas, but he sailed yesterday morning. They only gave him twenty-four hours’ leave, so he had time to visit their mother, but not to come and see Harry. His other brother, Fred, is already out there, so…”
“Harry must be worried sick.” Amelie finishes my sentence for me, showing her customary understanding.
“He is.”
“Did you still go out?” she asks.
“I wasn’t sure we should, but Julia said she thought it would take Harry’s mind off things, and in the end she was probably right, although we didn’t stay out late. I was tucked up in bed and sound asleep by ten-thirty.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Amelie says, and I glance at her, noticing her smile.
“And would there be a reason that you want me well rested?” I ask, teasing her, because I can.
“N—No,” she stutters, and even though I can’t look at her, because I’m approaching a roundabout, I’d be willing to bet she’s blushing. “Do you think your mother will have stopped crying yet?” she asks, once I’ve made the required turn and we’re on a nice straight section of road again.
“I expect so. Aunt Dotty’s probably plied her with alcohol. Between her and Aunt Issa, I dread to think what mischief they’ll be getting up to, without me.” My aunts and my mother living under one roof is a recipe for disaster at the best of times, and is something that’s usually best handled in small doses. But with my mother having come to stay at Aunt Dotty’s back in November, when I was injured and in need of her care, and Issa coming for Christmas, and then deciding to stay on for the wedding, it’s beginning to feel like a permanent state of affairs. “I’m rather relieved to be absent for the next seven days. At least I won’t have to pick up the pieces… or arrest any of them.”
“They’re not that bad,” Amelie says, chuckling. “They’ve been really helpful with arranging the wedding, you know? Without them, I don’t think we could have got everything done in time.”
I take her hand in mine and give it a gentle squeeze, because I know she’s not exaggerating. Amelie and I set ourselves a ludicrously tight schedule, by announcing our engagement just before Christmas, and then setting the date for our wedding just over five weeks later. Most of the pressure fell on Amelie though, and I know how deeply it affected her, being as she came to me at Aunt Dotty’s one evening, just over two weeks ago, in floods of tears and told me we couldn’t possibly get married. My initial reaction was fear – naturally – accompanied by confusion, because I thought I must have done something to upset her, but had no idea what that might be. She made her tearful announcement and then turned to leave, without so much as an explanation. But I wasn’t having that, so I took her hand in mine and pulled her into the dining room, sat her down at the table, knelt before her, and begged her to tell me what was wrong. To start with, she just sat and cried, and every so often, looked up at me and just said, “Sorry.” But then, between sobs and sighs, she revealed that, in her words, ‘everything was going wrong’. In this instance, ‘everything’ turned out to include the flowers, because she’d heard from the florist, who couldn’t get hold of the particular roses Amelie had asked for. Then there was her aunt, who was making a fuss about the decorations for the reception. And to top it all off, there was fact that she still hadn’t found anything to wear. Once she’d finished telling me all of that, she broke down completely, falling into my arms and wailing that we may as well call the whole thing off. It took me a while to calm her, but when I did, and she was able to focus on me properly, without crying, I suggested that she ask Aunt Issa to speak to the florist, not because she’s an expert on the matter, but because few people will dare to argue with her. I pointed out that Aunt Dotty could be relied upon to deal with Millicent Templeton, and the decorations. Not only does my aunt’s natural artistic flare make her the perfect candidate for anything decorative, but she was married to a diplomat for years, and some of his capabilities definitely rubbed off. My aunt is a dab hand at knowing just what to say, and how to say it, in almost any situation. And as for something to wear… I was brave enough to suggest Amelie enlist my mother’s help, because while Mother can be a bit fanciful and flighty, she’ll always do what’s right. Once Amelie had agreed to my suggestions, I kissed away her tears, and then I kissed her. Very thoroughly. And when I’d finished doing that, I asked her if she’d mind not scaring me like that again, for which she apologised, quite unnecessarily… and finally, we agreed that being married was more important than anything else. And we were right. We’ve got our whole lives to prove it, too. But first, we’ve got seven days of honeymoon to while away.
And I intend to make the most of them.
We arrive at the inn, a beautiful sixteenth century thatched building on the main road, at just before six o’clock, and the landlord welcomes us warmly, showing us to our room. Rotund and jovial, with a smattering of silver-grey hair, and a ruddy complexion, he points out the adjoining bathroom, and informs us that dinner is served in the restaurant downstairs until eight o’clock. I thank him profusely, depositing our small suitcases by the
wardrobe, and informing him that we’ll be down shortly, before he leaves, a beaming smile on his face.
Once we’re alone, Amelie starts moving around the room, opening drawers and cupboard doors, peering inside, and I sense her uneasiness, taking pity on her.
“Shall we unpack?” I suggest to break the ice and she nods enthusiastically, coming back to the bed. I lift up the cases, putting them on the mattress and, lying them flat, she opens them, before we both unpack our own clothes, placing them in the chest of drawers, having first agreed on the division of space. As I’m squeezing my thick blue jumper into the bottom drawer, I notice that Amelie is laying a very appealing-looking white nightdress on the bed, straightening it out, and she catches my eye, flushing, as I smile at her.
“You’re sleeping on that side, are you?” I ask, amused.
“I—I don’t have to,” she replies, snatching up her nightgown again and holding it to her chest.
I stand, walking around the bed and and take the soft, silky garment from her, before placing it back down on the mattress again. “It’s fine, Amelie. I don’t mind where I sleep, as long as you’re beside me.”
She blushes, biting her bottom lip, and I reach out, freeing it with my thumb and kissing her briefly, aware that if I intensify the moment, in the way that I usually would, the nightdress is likely to prove superfluous and we’ll almost certainly miss dinner.
I pull away from her and return to my own unpacking, my final task being to unwrap my new pyjamas, leaving the bottoms on the bed, by the pillow, and placing the top on the chair in the corner of the room, next to the wardrobe.
“What are you doing?” Amelie asks, staring at me from her side of the bed.
“Unwrapping my pyjamas,” I explain.
“But why have you put the top half over there?” She nods towards the chair.
“Because I won’t be needing it.”
“You won’t?”
“No. I don’t wear the top half of pyjamas… only the bottoms. Haven’t I told you that before?”
