Tomorrow, Jerusalem

by Tomorrow, Jerusalem (retail) (epub)

  Kate stepped back, but made no move to go. ‘And Mr Peter and Miss Charlotte?’ she asked, smiling knowingly. ‘Are they going to be here for supper? Or are they off gallivanting again? Making hay while the sun shines, eh?’

  ‘Will you stop that talk! You should be ashamed of yourself, that’s what! Gossiping like an old woman – coming round here trying to make trouble!’

  Kate’s face tightened; she lifted a shoulder. ‘Please yourself.’ She moved towards the door. ‘But I know what I saw, so there! Holding hands they were! An’ not like brother and sister, either – oh, no – not by a long chalk.’

  ‘Out!’ said Bron.

  ‘I’m going. Keep your hair on.’ Kate flounced to the door and left with no further word, leaving the door open behind her.

  Bron stood for a long moment, looking after her, sucking her lower lip thoughtfully, her brows drawn together in a faint, worried frown.

  * * *

  ‘So. Six down, one to go – where shall we go tonight?’

  Charlotte looked up. ‘Oh, Peter – I can’t – I’m on duty at the Club tonight.’

  ‘Then I shall come with you and persuade the charming Polly to cover for you. You can’t leave me on my own on my last evening. There’s no knowing what mischief I might get into!’

  She laughed a little. ‘We-ell—’

  ‘Vanity Fair’s on at the Palace – fancy it? Or we could go to the Ritz—’

  ‘Peter! You really mustn’t be so extravagant!’

  ‘Why ever not? Eat drink and be merry and all that – oh, come on – I’m joking—’ he said gently, seeing the sudden shock of fear in her face, ‘joking!’

  She looked down at her clasped hands. ‘Not a very funny joke.’ The past week had been one of the happiest of her life. She could not remember when last she had laughed so much, enjoyed herself so well, felt so young, so utterly carefree. As the week had passed, she had pushed to the back of her mind the knowledge that he would have to go back – to danger, to the possibility of death. As the days had passed she had spent them like golden guineas, recklessly and with no thought of the future. They had dined and danced, been to the theatre; he had come to the Club on the two occasions she had been on duty. It had been a week of frivolity and laughter, of silly jokes and chattered nonsense; they had hardly said a serious word to each other. ‘You’re like a couple of children,’ Doctor Will had said of them indulgently at breakfast that morning as they had dissolved into helpless giggles over Bron’s lumpy porridge. And so they had been – children, playing, with no thought for tomorrow.

  Or had they?

  She lifted her head, to find his eyes upon her. There was a moment’s oddly tense silence. Then the familiar grin gleamed upon his face. ‘Well? What’s it to be? The Palace or the Ritzy Ritz?’

  She could not somehow bring herself to smile back. ‘Whichever you prefer.’

  ‘The Ritz it is, then. We’ll dine and dance and drink damnation to the enemy. Meanwhile,’ he flung his jacket about his shoulders, ‘I promised to go and see young Toby’s corps on parade. See you later.’

  She sat for a long time after he had gone, hands folded in her lap, staring pensively into space. Her husband’s brother. She couldn’t love him. No – more than that – she mustn’t love him.

  But she did. She knew it with a certainty that left no room for doubt. She did.

  And he?

  She had no idea. He was affectionate, certainly – but then Peter was affectionate to everyone. He had spent a lot of time with her – but then, who else was there, with almost everyone away? He had held her hand – but then, after champagne, it had seemed a perfectly natural thing to do. And he was Ben’s brother. She knew the bond between them, knew he would never break trust with his brother. If he felt anything for her he would surely never acknowledge it, for that in his mind would be to betray Ben, and that she was sure he would never do.

  But yet – she loved him. For the first time in the twenty-eight years of her life, suddenly she understood the meaning of the word. She loved him. And tomorrow she would kiss him lightly and send him back to the Front. And, if they all survived and this poisonous war ever ended, Ben would come home and they would settle again to a marriage that was no marriage—

  With a quick movement she stood up and strode to the window, stood looking bleakly out into the dirty street that was lit with May sunshine. ‘Damn it!’ she muttered ferociously under her breath, ‘damn and blast it!’

  * * *

  They were in Piccadilly when the bomb dropped. They had, as Peter had promised, wined and dined at the Ritz. They had danced their feet off, and come out into a night of rising wind and scudding cloud. As they stepped through the doors into the darkened street the guns were sounding. Charlotte stiffened, lifted her head to the sky. A searchlight beam swept the swift-moving clouds. Somewhere close a whistle blasted. ‘Zepp raid!’ someone shouted. ‘Get off the street!’

  Charlotte’s stomach churned in cold terror. ‘Peter!’ She clutched at Peter’s arm. She was trembling.

  ‘It’s all right, love—’ Soothingly he had put an arm about her. ‘They won’t—’ He stopped. In the silence they heard it; the droning sound of an engine, high above them. The guns boomed again. Charlotte turned her face into Peter’s chest, her hands over her ears, all but paralysed with fear. She was truly terrified of these monsters and their bombs; they haunted her dreams.

  ‘Come on. The station—’ Peter caught her hand, trying to make her move.

  ‘I can’t,’ her teeth were chattering. ‘I can’t!’

  ‘Come on, sweetheart – you’ll be safe in the station—’

  She began to move jerkily, her legs trembling so badly she could barely stand upright. Peter held her, talking, coaxing, drawing her towards the station and safety. The explosion nearly deafened them. Dirt and debris flew around them. ‘Down!’ Peter threw her to the ground, his body on top of her, shielding her. She was sobbing uncontrollably. The guns roared. The street was lit with a livid flicker of flame. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right, my little love. I’m here. I’ll take care of you – don’t be frightened.’ Peter’s voice in her ear was gentle, his hands held her, firm and strong. ‘There – you see? It’s over. All over. And you’re all right – come on, my love. Sit up. Show me that pretty face.’

  She struggled to a sitting position. The building that had been hit further down the street blazed, blossoms of flame curling around the upstairs windows. A bell jangled. Men shouted. She was sitting on the kerb, Peter beside her, his arm firm about her shoulders. Her stockings and her frock were torn and dirty. One of her shoes had come off. Tears still ran down her face. ‘I’m s-sorry. I’m s-such a coward!’

  She saw the shine of his smile in the firelight. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course you aren’t.’ She looked like a fragile, terrified child huddled beside him, her hair full of dirt, her face smeared with tears.

  ‘It’s just – I c-can’t s-stand them – the airships – and the bombs – they frighten me so – I try to be brave but—’ Pathetically the tears began to roll again. She was still trembling.

  The fire had taken hold. People stood watching. She shuddered and turned away. With no words he gathered her into his arms and held her, held her as she wept, her head upon his shoulder, her slender body shaking as if with a fever. ‘They frighten me so!’ she said again between the sobs.

  He laid his cheek against her dirty hair, letting her cry, waiting for the terror to subside. After a few minutes the sobbing eased, and though she still shuddered every now and again the awful trembling had stopped. She sighed a little, like a child, snuggled closer to him, her breath still catching in her throat. He tightened his arms about her.

  She sniffed. Smiling a little he reached for his handkerchief, tucked it into her hand. Still sheltered by his arm she wiped her eyes, blew her nose. Lifted her head. His face, lit by the flicker of the flames, was inches from hers. ‘I’m – sorry,’ she whispered. ‘You must think me such a co
ward. I just—’ she stopped. For a long moment neither of them moved, a small island of silence in the chaos around them. Then he bent his head. Their lips touched, very gently. She pulled away a little, watching him, her eyes enormous. Then with a small gasp she leaned to him, lifting her lips to his, clinging, murmuring, her hand behind his head, drawing him to her.

  He had wanted to kiss her ever since that moment a week ago when she had appeared at the parlour door, slender and womanly in her pale silk. Had wanted to and had resisted it. She was Ben’s wife. She was not – could not be – for him. He had teased her and laughed with her, he had watched her, taken pleasure in her pretty ways, her lovely face, her graceful body. But he had known, oh yes, all along he had known that the fruit was forbidden; and perhaps the more tantalizingly desirable for that. He had not touched her, had resisted the tasting; until now. And now, as they kissed and clung, as his hands slipped from her supple waist to her small breasts, thumbs rubbing gently at the nipples, as he felt her mouth open in a gasp beneath his, a small grim voice somewhere in his mind spoke of betrayal and disaster. But louder, much louder, spoke the urgent need of his body, the joy of touching her, the wonder of her desire that so obviously matched his. She broke away from him, buried her head in his chest, would not look at him. He was whispering – whispering – small endearments, loving words – in God’s name what was he doing? ‘Darling Charlotte – darling, darling Charlotte – I love you—’

  And then she pulled away from him, sharply; sat hunched upon the kerb, watching him with enormous eyes that were full of fear, her hands to her cheeks. ‘No,’ she said, her voice very low. ‘No – Peter – we can’t – he’d – he’d kill us—’

  She saw him flinch from that, saw the pain flicker in his eyes at mention of Ben. Stiffly he scrambled to his feet, extended a hand to help her up. Her lower lip was trembling. She looked like a lovely, dirty little girl, terrified that the grown ups would discover she had been naughty. He wanted to grab her, crush her, hold her; protect her. Jesus! He was out of his mind.

  ‘Well—’ He bent, picked up his cap from the pavement and fixed it at a jaunty angle on his head. ‘Good old Fritz, eh? You can always trust him to whip up a bit of excitement when things get dull. Come on, old bean – time for home, I think?’

  * * *

  She did not, as they had originally planned, go with him to the station the next day. They said their goodbyes in full view of the gathered inmates of the Bear, Doctor Will gruff, Bron sniffing into her handkerchief. The lips that brushed his cheek were cool; the hands that held his trembled very slightly.

  Sitting on the train, staring moodily from the window at the peaceful countryside that sped past, he decided that it was no bad thing after all to be going back to France; the war might be bloody, but at least you knew where you were with Fritz, and the basic business of staying alive was comparatively uncomplicated – he leaned his head to the back of the seat and closed his eyes, trying with more determination than success to erase from his mind the blue eyes and delicately pretty face, the sweetly curving body of his brother’s wife.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I

  ‘Got five minutes, Miss? Fancy a cup of tea?’

  Sally jumped. Curled into the driving seat of the Talbot, the June sun streaming on to her face, she had propped her chin on the arm that rested along the open window and, taking advantage of a habit she had acquired very rapidly since coming to France, dozed off. The voice that had woken her was oddly and faintly familiar; it belonged to a dark silhouette that moved and turned as she squinted into the sunlight, and resolved itself into a dark-skinned, dark-eyed face with a quizzical lift to one eyebrow and a grin like a schoolboy’s bent upon mischief. ‘Remember me?’

  For the moment she did not. Bemused by sleep, she stared blankly.

  The grin widened. ‘Eddie Browne. Bloody London in the fog, remember?’

  She pushed herself upright embarrassed, straightening her cap which had slipped to the side of her head. ‘Oh, of course, I’m sorry – I dozed off – we were up the line last night and Fritz decided it was party time. We spent best part of the night sitting it out in a shelter, and there wasn’t much sleep to be had.’ She rubbed her eyes. Her face felt uncomfortably warm in the sun.

  ‘You made it, then?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  He smiled again at her sleep-induced confusion. ‘You made it – to France.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Look, I’m sorry. I’m an absolute idiot when I first wake up. Can we start again?’

  ‘Happen so. I said, “Got five minutes, Miss – fancy a cup of tea?”’

  She laughed at that, remembering. ‘There’s no Lyons Corner House with a steamed-up window here. No tea worth drinking either, that I’ve found!’

  ‘That’s true. But there’s a bar across the road.’

  She shook her head. ‘I really can’t this time, Sergeant. I’m on duty—’ She stopped, seeing his grin, then her eyes flicked to his sleeve, and stifling laughter she corrected herself. ‘I beg your pardon – I really can’t this time, Corporal. I really am on duty. What did you do?’

  He sketched a disinterested shrug. ‘The usual sort of thing. Does being on duty mean you can’t talk to me?’

  ‘No. It means I can’t nip off to the nearest bar.’

  ‘Ah. Well that’s all right then. Fag?’ He took a battered pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered her one.

  She shook her head, said, ‘Go ahead,’ as he cocked an enquiring brow, watched him as he lit up and drew a deep, satisfied breath. She had carried his hastily scribbled address for weeks, honestly intending to write but somehow in the whirl of departure never getting round to it. She had remembered their brief meeting with affection and amusement; something about this brash young man had appealed to her then, and did again now as he rested a foot on the running board and leaned with relaxed and easy stance upon his lifted knee, the cigarette held between long, nicotine-stained fingers. ‘What a coincidence’, she said, ‘to meet again like this. After all it isn’t as if—’ She hesitated, quick to see the flicker of amusement in the dark eyes, the faintest negative shake of the head. ‘Not a coincidence?’ she asked, just a little warily.

  He shook his head. ‘Happen I don’t believe in coincidences, lass. Happen I think life’s too short to wait for ’em.’

  ‘But – how?’

  He shrugged a little, smiled blandly. ‘I’ve got a few contacts, here an’ there. Got a few friends, like, who owe me a few favours – you know? Couldn’t forget a name like van Damme, now, could I? And when it began to look as if you weren’t going to write – well – as they say in some parts – I put a few enquiries in hand.’

  She chuckled at that, amused despite herself at the beguiling cheek of the man. ‘Supposing I’d registered under my maiden name?’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Smith.’

  His grin was appreciative. ‘Happen I’d have had to rely on coincidence after all.’ He let the grin die, watched her narrowly, the dark eyes direct. ‘Why didn’t you write? I’d the feeling that you would?’

  She flushed a little, abashed by the directness of the question. ‘I was going to. Honestly, I was. But – well the posting came through, and there was so much to do.’

  He nodded.

  ‘So – how did you find me? Today I mean?’

  ‘We’re out of the line for four days. Rest camp a few miles away. Rumour from HQ mentioned your name.’ He grinned a little, ‘Whatever you like to say there aren’t all that many “lady drivers” about – thought I’d come and see for myself.’

  ‘Been in the thick of it all, I suppose?’

  ‘You could say so. Armentières and Houplines mostly.’

  ‘Tough?’

  He made a small, deprecating gesture with the hand that held the cigarette. Nodded. ‘Tough enough. You?’

  She ran her fingers about the steering wheel pensively. ‘The colonel tries to keep me out of it – away from the li
ne – if he can. But we’re up at the Front quite a bit and the bullets have flown once or twice. And of course there’s always the barrage. And when I’m off duty I quite often help with the running of personnel and supplies to the clearing stations or the dressing huts. That can be a bit hairy at times. But it’s not like being in the front line.’

  He grinned. ‘Not far off it, I reckon.’ It occurred to her that, exactly as had happened before, they were within minutes of meeting talking like old friends. ‘How did you lose your stripe?’ she asked.

  For a moment she thought he would not reply. He took his foot from the running board, straightened, squinting in the sun, took a long drag on his cigarette. Then the grin reappeared. ‘Same way I lost the others – found meself outside of a couple of glasses of non-issue rum – told some short-arsed toffee-nosed captain what I thought of his imperialists’ war – an’ told him for good measure what the working classes would do to his kind once we’d fought his sodding battles for him and saved his upper-crust skin – told him I’d got a sight more in common with poor old exploited Private Fritz over there than I had with him.’

  ‘Eddie! They don’t take your stripes away for that sort of talk! They shoot you!’

  He leaned back to the window, tapping the side of his lean nose knowingly, his dark eyes full of laughter. ‘I told you, van Damme – I’ve got friends.’

  She was laughing outright. ‘But they still take your stripes away.’

  ‘Only because they enjoy watching me get them back again. Bloody hell,’ he added mildly, straightening again, ‘I reckon I could have been a brigadier at least by now if I’d kept trying.’