Читать книгу All the Sweet Promises - Elizabeth Elgin - Страница 11

When she awoke that morning, there had been nothing, Jane considered, to indicate that the coming day was to be so completely unforgettable. It had started with an early call, as it always did, and progressed by bleary-eyed stages to the breakfast queue and the realization that this was Monday; tomatoes on toast was always Monday.

Jane glared at her plate. ‘When this war is over, I will never, ever, eat another tinned tomato.’

‘Nor me. It’d do a whole lot more for the war effort,’ Fenny Cole sighed, ‘if they were to leave them in their tins and drop them on Berlin!’

‘If there is anything more revolting than tinned tomatoes on toast,’ Lucinda fervently agreed, ‘it is tinned tomatoes on toast gone cold and soggy. What a way to start the day. Ah, well, it can only get better, can’t it?’

So they had called a goodbye to Vi, who was scraping the uneaten breakfasts into the pig-swill-for-victory bucket, and hurried down the jetty, as they always did, to the launch that always waited there.

‘It’s going to be hot again.’ Lucinda lifted her face to the sun. Indeed, there had never, the locals said, been a June like it. For the entire month the sun had shone from a near-cloudless sky. The good weather had come with the new moon and would last, they predicted, until the next one.

Jane eased a finger round the neck of her shirt. This was not a day for the wearing of starched collars and ties and itchy wool stockings, and she thought with envy of the off-duty Wrens who would roll bathing costumes in towels and make for the head of the loch and the cool, shallow water that lapped the shore.

‘We’re in for another scorcher,’ she said to Jock. That was all she had said, but it had been the start of something wonderful, something unbelievable, almost; the day on which despair vanished and the pain and hopelessness that had wrapped her round since that May night dropped from her in the speaking of a word.

‘You could be right, lassie. I was talking to an old body in the pub last night and he told me it was the hottest summer in his remembering; in eighty-three years, he said.’

‘I’d agree with every word.’ Jane used a signal pad as a fan. ‘But don’t you think the old ones remember only what they want to remember? My mother does it all the time. The summers were different when she was a girl. They could always be sure of a good haytime and corn harvest, and summer began on the first day of June and ended when the apples were picked and stored safely in the loft and not one day before. Or so she said.’

‘I mind fine just what your mother means. I do it myself all the time. Nostalgia, I suppose.’ Jock smiled. ‘Now when Flora and I were married there was nothing so certain but that we were on our way up in the world. The Glasgow tenements we’d both been reared in weren’t half good enough and we found ourselves a little house in a better district and thought we were doing just fine.

‘Yet now we often think back to our courting days. Happy days, Jane, spent mostly in the picture house. All red plush seats and red silk curtains, it was. It seemed like a palace, though, to us. And I think fondly of the room and kitchen I was brought up in and the street-corner gangs, yet I suppose that tenement is a slum now, and the old Pavilion little better than a flea-pit. I –’

‘Jock! The Pavilion, you said?’

‘Aye. The local picture house. Flora and me saw our first talkie there. Now, that was something to remember.’

‘And are there many Pavilions in Glasgow?’ Her heart thudded dully, her mouth was suddenly dry.

‘Aye. It’s a popular name for picture houses and dance halls. But why d’you ask?’

‘Oh, it’s just that someone I knew – I know – had a Pavilion near where he lived. You see’ – she took a deep, steadying breath – ‘it was someone I was close to, but I never knew where he lived – well, not his actual address.’

‘But he mentioned the Pavilion?’

‘Yes, Jock, and he lived in a tenement, too.’

‘So do a lot of bodies in Glasgow. If there’s one thing that place is no’ short of, it’s tenements.’

‘I know,’ Jane shrugged. ‘It was just a thought. I do so want to find where he lives, though. I want desperately to see his mother.’

‘Sounds important, lassie.’

‘It is. He flew from the aerodrome near our village and he went missing, you see, and it’ll be his mother they write to when there’s news of him.’

‘And was he special, this young man?’

‘Is, Jock. Very special. I’d give anything to know he was safe.’

‘But shouldn’t you have heard something by now? A letter, maybe?’

‘I don’t think so. My parents didn’t approve of him. Sometimes I think they’d even hold back a letter if they thought it had come from him. It’s terrible of me to think my own mother and father would do such a thing, but I’m an only child and we’ve never seen eye to eye over Rob.

‘Oh, I don’t mean there was something wrong with him. They didn’t really have anything against him. But he was a pilot, you see, and they thought no good would come of my seeing him. Aircrews don’t have an easy time. So many of them get killed or go missing. They were only thinking of me, I suppose.’

‘Poor wee Jane.’ Jock thought with sadness of his own daughter, very little younger, and wondered for how much longer they could protect her from the taint of war. ‘Did this laddie no’ mention anything at all that might have helped? His school, or his church, perhaps?’

‘No, Jock. I’ve thought and thought but there’s only one other thing, though you’ll not have heard of it. Glasgow’s a big place, after all …’

‘Try me.’

‘If I said Jimmy McFadden’s, would it mean anything to you?’

‘The bakery on the corner?’

‘Oh, Jock! It does! You know where it is!’

‘Whisht now, will ye?’ Jock had whispered as heads turned. ‘Don’t let Chiefie hear ye! Try to look busy, hen, even if we aren’t.’

‘But I can’t believe it,’ Jane hissed, picking up a pad and writing in the date. ‘The Pavilion and Jimmy McFadden’s bakery. It’s got to be where Rob lived. You don’t know him, or his mother? Rob MacDonald? His mother is a widow and he’s got two brothers in the army.’

‘No, I don’t know the family, but there’s an awful lot o’ they MacDonalds about, remember.’

‘I suppose there must be, but it seems you might well have grown up in the same tenement.’

‘I doubt it. That area is all tenement blocks. Finding someone among that lot is like looking for a needle in a haystack, though some of the buildings have been knocked about in the bombing and there’s bound to be a lot of them boarded up now. That might narrow down the field a wee bit, but you’d still have one hell of a job finding where he lived. I’ll give you that for nothing.’

‘I’ll find it.’ She was light-headed with joy. One minute they had been talking about the weather, the next she had discovered the picture house and the bakery, the only places Rob had ever mentioned. ‘It all seemed so hopeless, but now – well, I’ve at least found the haystack.’

‘You’re no’ intending looking? That area’s no place for a young girl like yourself.’

‘It was good enough for Rob.’

There was no answer to that, Jock Menzies conceded, but even so, he felt obliged to warn the silly wee thing of the hopelessness of it all. ‘Maybe it was, but they’ll no’ let you go to Glasgow. No’ without a pass.’

‘Then I’ll stick in a request for one.’

‘An’ you’ll no’ get it. Glasgow’s out of bounds unless you live by there or need to travel through it. There’s been a lot of trouble in some parts.’

‘What sort of trouble?’

‘Well, like razor fights and beatings-up and sailors getting their pockets dipped. And there’s the street women, Jane.’

‘Jock! I wouldn’t be looking for a prostitute, would I? But if I can’t get a pass then I’ll have to think of some other way, won’t I? I’ll get there, though. I will.’

‘… and away round the corner to Jimmy McFadden’s with the loaves for baking,’ Rob had said. Find that baker’s shop and she had pinpointed the tenement block. Oh, glory be! Just as she had been giving up it had happened. This morning the outlook had been bleak, then with one small word it had changed. For the first time since that awful May morning she was free to hope again. An ordinary conversation had yielded the words she most wanted to hear and had become special and was meant to be. Somewhere in Europe, Rob was alive. It was as certain as day following night.

‘Oh, Jock,’ she whispered. ‘Isn’t everything wonderful?’

For the rest of the watch her head was full of cotton wool, her thoughts far away across the Clyde, and Jock said thank goodness he wasn’t young and in love or there’d be no work done at all, and didn’t she know there was a war on and couldn’t she at least try to get one subtraction right?

‘And just what,’ Lucinda demanded as they waited on the quarterdeck for the Ardneavie-bound launch, ‘has got into you? You’ve had a silly look on your face all day, you knocked over a mug of tea and called Chiefie Wetherby ducky, and now you look as if you’re going to go off pop at any minute. You haven’t been at Jock’s rum, have you?’

‘No, but I do have something to tell you,’ Jane exulted, ‘though it’s going to have to wait till everybody’s here.’

‘Meanie. Not just a tiny hint?’

‘Well, it’s about Rob, but I’m not saying any more till Vi and Lilith’s lot are all here. You’ll never believe it, though. I can hardly believe it myself!’

She was first off the launch and first up the jetty, with Lucinda almost running to keep pace with her.

‘Kendal dear, do slow down.’

But such news could wait no longer. Good news was for sharing. And when she told them, they would help her to get to Glasgow, with or without a pass.

‘Oh, Lucinda, do hurry,’ she laughed.

Life was good again and nothing was so certain but that all would go well for her. Of course it would.

‘… so you see, that’s how it happened.’ Jane laughed, as they sat at supper. ‘Now all I’ve got to do is get there. The rest will be a piece of cake.’

‘But Glasgow’s a big city and Jock was right,’ Lilith cautioned. ‘One or two parts are a bit rough.’

‘I’ll be all right. You’re worse than my mother, Lilith. And I’ll find my way easily. Jock used to live there and he told me exactly where McFadden’s shop is and how to get there – even the number of the tram and the stop I’m to get off at.’

‘I suppose you know how Ma’am feels about it?’ Fenny added her doubts to the rest. ‘And if you got there, where would you sleep, Jane. You can’t get to Glasgow and back in a day.’

‘I’d get a bed at the YWCA. Or why shouldn’t I stay with Rob’s mother? Who’s to say she won’t put me up?’

‘I still think you shouldn’t go alone,’ Vi insisted. ‘Glasgow has been bombed the same as Liverpool has. I know what it’ll be like. There could be whole streets without a soul in them. You’d be scared rotten on your own after dark.’

‘Why should I be? And it’s light until ten o’clock, now.’ What harm could come to her? Hadn’t Rob lived there, tenements, bomb damage and all. What then could be so wrong with it? ‘Please don’t spoil it,’ she pleaded. ‘Please be glad for me.’

‘We are glad for you, queen; all of us. We’re all real chuffed. But promise you’ll be careful. And don’t expect too much,’ Vi begged. What could she say? How was she to tell her that the news could be bad, that all Rob’s mother might be able to tell her could be exactly what Jane didn’t want to hear. ‘Promise you’ll not build your hopes too high.’

Mother of God, don’t let her be hurt any more. She’s so excited, so happy. Don’t take it away from her.

‘Of course I’ll take care.’ Jane jumped to her feet. ‘Look, I’m sorry but I’m just not hungry. See you all later, uh?’

‘Oh, dear.’ Lilith shook her head. ‘What’s it going to do to her if she hears something that isn’t good? What if she finds he’s not just missing but dead? It would destroy her.’

‘D’you suppose I haven’t been thinking that?’ Vi retorted. ‘But I’ll bet you anything you like she won’t get a pass, and then what’ll we do? There’ll be no living with her if that happens.’

‘Then we’ll have to find another way,’ Fenny said quietly. ‘We’ve got to help her. It’d be too cruel if we didn’t.’

‘And I agree.’ Lucinda spoke up clearly. ‘Jane could do it without a pass. Once she was off duty she could catch the late-afternoon ferry and be in Glasgow before it got too dark. Surely between us we could cover for her.’

‘And what about when she’s adrift in the morning, when she doesn’t turn up for her watch?’

‘Then she’ll have to fix it first with her opposite number. If nothing went wrong she could be back here in time to go on late duty.’

Lilith frowned. ‘If nothing went wrong.’

‘Well, I say we leave it,’ Fenny insisted. ‘After all, we don’t need to worry until Ma’am says no to the pass. We don’t have to think of anything till then, do we?’

They agreed, all of them, that they did not. Only when Jane’s request was refused need they puzzle over ways and means, they said. And after all, there was a chance that Miss St John just might give Jane a pass.

‘Do you think it would do any good to set up the table?’ Lilith asked.

‘I don’t think so.’ Vi remembered that not so very long ago the glass had given Jane the answer she had least wanted to hear. ‘The way things have turned out, it might be best to leave well alone.’

‘You could be right. The state she’s in at the moment wouldn’t help any. She’s so charged up, the glass would take off like a rocket. I’ve never seen anyone so excited. The change in her is amazing. Kendal’s a different girl.’

And let’s all hope, Vi brooded, that nothing happens to spoil that sudden singing happiness, though one thing above all was certain. If recent events were anything to go by, life at Ardneavie House would never be dull.

From the top of the street that ran down to the jetty, Mike Farrow saw Lucinda waiting and quickened his step.

‘Hi, honey! Sorry I’m late.’

‘You’re not. The transport was early.’

She was glad he had come. There had been times when she had expected him not to, and to see him hurrying down the hill made her suddenly happy.

‘Everything all right last night, Lucy? You didn’t get caught, or anything?’

‘No. Everything was fine. I crept up the back stairs and straight into a telling-off from Vi. But it was all right. They’d fixed the duty Wren for me.’ Lucinda laughed. ‘I’m not in the rattle, or anything. But how about you, Mike? I worried about your leg.’

He shouldn’t have walked her home to Ardneavie, but he’d insisted, choosing to ignore the three miles back.

‘Then you needn’t have. I managed just great. It was a lovely night and every so often I stopped and stood and stared a bit. Y’know, Lucy, everything was so beautiful in the half-light. My granny once stayed in Craigiebur, would you believe? She worked for a family who always packed the kids off to Craigiebur for the summer. That’s why I decided to spend a weekend here. Must remember to take a couple of snaps before I go back and send them to her.

‘Snaps? Where on earth did you get a film?’ Such things had become non-existent from almost the first day of the war. Nowadays the few available went immediately under the counter and only the lucky few ever managed to get one. ‘They’re like gold dust here.’

‘Oh, parcels from home; comforts for the troops, I guess,’ he grinned. ‘But let’s walk a way, first. It’s such a swell night.’

It seemed natural that he should take her hand, and because it felt rather nice, she entwined her fingers in his and smiled happily up at him.

‘Why don’t we walk down to the mouth of the loch, Mike? Someone told me there’s a boom net right across it, to keep the Germans out. I’d like to know how it works.’

‘I’ve seen it. As a matter of fact it’s two huge nets made of steel links and there’s a couple of tugs that drag them backward and forward when something wants to get in or out of the loch. Nothing could get through it or under it. Reckon you’re all pretty safe in there, honey.’

‘I suppose we are.’ Until now, though, she had never thought what sitting ducks those ships could have been. ‘And how do you know all this?’

‘Because I watched a submarine and a frigate go through last night, while I was waiting for Mavis,’ he laughed, his eyes teasing her. ‘C’mon, Lucy Bainbridge. Let’s go.’

Lucinda’s answering smile radiated pure joy. She felt so easy with Mike and not in the least bit guilty about having dates with a man she hardly knew, though Vi had half-implied that she should. Serve Charlie right, in fact. She had sent him her new address a week ago and this morning there really should have been a letter from him. But Nanny had written, bless her, even though it had mostly been a discourse upon the treacherous Scottish climate and the need to wear her warm knickers when the nights began to draw in – and was she remembering to take her syrup of figs every Friday night as she had promised?

‘Penny for them.’

‘I was thinking about Nanny’s letter.’

‘You had a nurse?’

‘A nanny. There’s a difference. She’s in Lincolnshire now, at Lady Mead.’

‘Looking after your brothers and sisters?’

‘No. I’m afraid I don’t have either. But when I went to boarding school she stayed on with us. She’ll look after my children, I suppose.’

‘I see. So you’re going to have kids, Lucy?’

‘Of course.’

‘And have you figured how many?’

‘Three or four, I suppose.’

‘All planned out, eh? You got a father for them in mind?’ He needed to know. For no reason at all it was suddenly important that he should.

‘A father? No.’ She was amazed how easily the lie fell from her lips. ‘But all women want babies, don’t they?’

‘Guess they do. A lot of guys want them as well. Take me, for instance. Reckon I’d like three or four, too.’ He tucked her arm in his and they took the tree-lined path to the mouth of the loch. Three or four kids? It was a new one on him but it sure would please the folks back home. It would please Granny too, especially if those kids had an English mother. ‘C’mon, honey. Let’s take a look at this boom thing.’

She smiled again and the corners of her mouth darted upward into the sudden, sunny grin that so intrigued him, and her dimples deepened into fascinating little hollows.

Lucy Bainbridge was a real doll. She was, come to think of it, exactly the mother he would choose for the children that up until two minutes ago he hadn’t realized he wanted.

Lucinda took off her hat and ran her fingers through her hair. The night was warm and balmy and the sheltering trees screened out any sights of war, and where the path ended abruptly at the meeting of loch and river there was neither ship nor submarine nor coil of rusting barbed wire within their vision. A still bright sun rested on deep purple hilltops, and below them, seabirds, clean, brilliantly white seabirds, dipped and drifted and called.

‘Isn’t it peaceful?’ Lucinda murmured. ‘It’s as if the war hasn’t found this little corner yet.’

‘Probably once the whole of Craigiebur was like this; maybe it was a swell little place and that’s why Granny remembers it. I’m glad she can’t see it now. It’s a pity that war kind of cheapens things, if you get my meaning.’

‘I do. Not cheapens, exactly, but demeans. I saw it at Lady Mead. When we left it, the old house had a pained expression. I know it sounds silly, but it looked so lost, as if it was never meant to be a billet and barrack room, and was hurting inside.’

‘You said the RAF had taken it. You’ve seen it since?’

‘Only once. But we are allowed access if we ask them first and give them plenty of notice. They left us a few rooms to store things in so we’re entitled, occasionally, to take a look at them. It’s all in a terrible jumble because Pa had to get everything out of the attics as well – war regulations, you know. No one must have things in attics now, because of the risk of fire bombs. But all in all, the Air Force has been pretty good. The lawns get cut – after a fashion – though Nanny says that the roses and clematis on the south wall have got out of hand and Pa would have a fit if he saw the rose beds. We were able to keep the kitchen garden because it’s a good way from the house and we’ve a gardener there, still, though he’s very old and can’t do a lot.’

‘And how come your nanny is still there, too? Did she sit tight and refuse to budge?’

‘Oh, no! One simply couldn’t do that, Mike. When Authority wants a house, Authority takes it, and no arguing. But they realized our predicament. After all, the family has been there since 1605 and they’ve accumulated an awful lot of rubbish – it all had to be put somewhere. So, as I said, they let us keep three rooms and the Dower House, too. That’s where Nanny is now. The more valuable things are there, and the paintings. Nanny has two bedrooms and the big kitchen and the rest of the Dower is all storage. Pa’s agent goes there twice a year to check it over, and for the rest, Nanny sits guardian over it as if it was her own. I wish I could spend one of my leaves there, just to see the old place and let it know it isn’t forgotten. And to see Nanny too,’ she added.

‘You love that old Lady Mead, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Mike. Too much, I think. But Lady Mead seemed always to be there, unchanging. All the time I was away at school I’d long for it; and when we went to London for the season I couldn’t wait to get back to it.

‘Christmases there were unbelievable. The great hall goes up through two storeys and we’d have an enormous tree. And there were log fires everywhere so no one noticed the cold and damp – well, not at Christmas, anyway. Christmas was the only time it was really warm. And – oh, Mike, I’m sorry for going on and on. Terrible bore, aren’t I? It’s just that I do miss it so.’

‘You’re not boring me, honey.’ He liked to listen to her talking with that crazy English accent. ‘But how come you could ever give it up? Well, an Englishman’s home is his castle, they say. Why didn’t your old man tell them to push off when they said they wanted the house?’

‘But he couldn’t have! There is a war on. It would’ve been unpatriotic even to think of refusing. And they’d have taken it, anyway. So Pa co-operated fully and got a few concessions out of it. At least Nanny is still around there.’

‘Gee, you Brits.’ Mike shook his head in bewilderment. They sure took some understanding. They could take over half the globe without as much as a by-your-leave, yet surrender their homes without a whimper. ‘Seems you’d endure anything for King and Country.’

‘Don’t be so sure about that! Mama played merry old hell, even though she’d rather be in London, and Pa kept on and on about the game rights and managed to get a couple of weeks’ shooting out of them. Mind, he’s always careful to invite the RAF commanding officer when a shoot is on, the cunning old devil. But don’t get us wrong, Mike. We Bainbridges don’t give up without a bit of a scrap.’

‘Reckon you don’t,’ Mike acknowledged, ‘else how have you managed to hang on there all that time – four and a half centuries, almost?’

Had those four hundred-odd years made Lucy what she was, frank and uncomplicated and so very polite? Mike liked her politeness and the way she smiled a lot. That smile made a guy feel good, just being with her.

‘How indeed? But what about you, Mike? Tell me about Vermont, New England, and about your family. And what do you do, in civvy street?’

‘I’m an engineer. And you know about my granny who’s eighty-six and about my aunt who has a parrot. The rest will keep.’

Keep? For when? Lucinda demanded silently. Certainly not until next time because there wouldn’t be one, there really wouldn’t.

‘Look. It seems we aren’t going to see the boom nets working and it isn’t any use waiting because there isn’t a ship in sight. Hadn’t we better be making our way to the dance? And Mike, tonight I must catch the last transport back.’

‘Okay, honey. But just one thing. I don’t suppose you’ve got a photo on you? Or maybe you could send me one?’

‘Now why would you want a picture of me?’ she asked him, surprised and pleased.

‘To remind me of the classy English girl I met in Craigiebur, I guess.’ His face was solemn now, and his eyes no longer teased her. They still walked arm in arm and so close that she had only to move her face a little to her right and her lips would be very easy to kiss. But not yet, he decided. Later, maybe, when they said goodnight. ‘Do I have to have a reason, Lucy?’

‘No. Not really. And as it happens I do have a snap with me.’ One with Charlie on it. One she had placed inside her paybook to remind her, dutifully, of the man she was to marry and of Lady Mead and of Nanny, who had taken it; a photograph that would give her the opportunity to say, ‘Who’s the man? Oh, that’s my fiancé. He’s in the Army and we’ll probably be married on his next leave.’ That would put the record straight, wouldn’t it? Mike would have to know about Charlie, and giving him the snapshot would be the best way to do it. ‘At least, I think I have.’ She thrust her hand into the right-hand inside pocket of her jacket; a pocket specifically sized and situated for the safekeeping of paybooks. ‘Yes, here it is.’

It was a good likeness of them both. Charlie’s shirt was open almost to his waist, his sleeves rolled up beyond his elbows. His hair was slightly untidy and his smile made his teeth look nicer than they really were.

‘Say, Lucy, your hair was long, then.’

‘Yes. Afraid I had to have it all chopped off when I joined the Wrens. Regulations. Hair mustn’t touch the collar.’

‘Hmm. Think I’d rather have it the way it is now. And what’s that place in the background?’

‘That’s Lady Mead. Part of the south wing and the orangery. It was taken last year when we were all down there, helping clear everything out.’

‘Looks a swell old place. What are you wearing, Lucy?’

‘What d’you mean, what am I wearing?’ For God’s sake, why didn’t he ask about Charlie?

‘Your clothes. I want to know exactly.’

‘Okay, then. I’m wearing an old pair of jodhpurs and a pale blue Aertex shirt – my school hockey shirt, actually.’ Now ask about the man beside me with his arm on my shoulders. Go on, Mike. Ask.

‘Y’know, Lucy, I don’t think you should ever let your hair get that long again.’ He was studying the snapshot intently, as if it were a valuable painting, hung, well-lighted, in some exhibition. ‘Short hair, like you’ve got it now, frames your face, shows your bones better. Who’s the guy, by the way?’

‘Him? Oh, that’s Charlie, my cousin. He’s Pa’s younger brother’s boy. Charlie’s older than me because Pa married late, you see. Late, and somewhat unproductively.’

Dear Lord! Did she have to go on like this? All she had to do was say, ‘That’s the man I’m engaged to.’ Simple enough, so why was it such an effort?

‘In the Navy, is he?’

‘The Army.’ Her reply was brief because she was angry; angry with herself for not being straight and honest, and angrier still because suddenly and inexplicably she did not want to be straight and honest, and had never, she realized, had the slightest intention of being so. At least, not where Charlie was concerned.

‘Oh, Lucinda, how could you?’

‘Ar, hey, queen. It’s nothin’ to do with me, but wasn’t that a bit naughty, eh?’

Nanny and Vi were sitting like prim little consciences, one on either shoulder, and they could both mind their own business because tonight Lucy Bainbridge was out dancing with an American. And after tonight their ships would have passed and sailed in opposite directions, so what the hell?

She watched him place the snapshot in his wallet, then taking her arm again he said, ‘Right, honey, let’s get weaving. We’ll be there in time for the first dance, if we get a move on.’

When they reached the Rialto dance hall there was already a queue outside. Dammit, Mike frowned, everybody formed queues these days. Queues for food, for cigarettes, for beer, even. They did it automatically and without a murmur of complaint; most unlike the usual run of Brits. One thing was certain, though. Granny Farrow wouldn’t stand in a queue for anybody, bet your bottom dollar she wouldn’t!

But maybe, he thought, the British were still a bit bemused after Dunkirk, still licking their wounds and wondering how it had happened to them, the lords of empire. And maybe soon they’d jerk themselves out of their beleaguered apathy and start snapping back at the Krauts and be their old, arrogant British selves again. Didn’t they always land on their feet, in the end?

The queue began to move. At the cashier’s window Mike asked, ‘How much, honey?’

‘Two shillings.’ She smiled broadly. ‘And if the young lady is with you, that’ll be four.’

He handed her a ten-shilling note and received change of three florins.

They parted company at the cloakrooms, and Lucinda handed in her hat, respirator and jacket, placing the receipt carefully in her belt pocket. Then, running her fingers through her hair and placing a threepenny-piece in the attendant’s saucer, she walked to the dance floor and Mike, who waited beside the open glass doors.

Her heart raced with excitement. She would dance every dance, if Mike’s leg stood up to it, of course. She would slide and glide and twirl with never a hint of a beeline or marching turn.

They chose seats halfway down the hall, not too near the band, having mind to their eardrums.

Lucinda looked around. The hall was large, with a well-polished floor. It was airy, too, but only because the heavy blackout curtains did not need to be drawn yet and the windows were open wide to the summer night.

At the end of the hall, on a dais decorated with dusty potted plants, members of the dance band sorted their music.

The drummer was young, his short hair obviously cut by an Army barber. To his left sat a middle-aged civilian lady saxophonist and an accordion player wearing naval uniform. They chatted easily, that strange assortment of musicians, handing round cigarettes, checking the beer glasses beneath their chairs.

To the far left of the group, the pianist in RAF uniform sat at the ready, his hands relaxed on his knees, taking occasional sips from the nearest of the three pints of beer standing in readiness on the piano top, smiling at a giggle of young girls who sat beside the dais.

‘I wonder what they’re going to be like.’ Mike nodded in the direction of the band.

‘Don’t know. They’re a bit of a hotchpotch, aren’t they? But some of them might have been musicians in civvy street, so they might be quite good.’

The hotchpotch dance band was very good, swinging into the first quickstep with style and in perfect dancing rhythm.

‘Care to dance, lady?’ Mike rose to his feet, holding open his arms.

Unspeaking, Lucinda went to him, and before they had covered a circuit of the floor she knew she had been right. Mike was a good dancer, his hand, light on her back, exacted just the right pressure to make following him easy.

‘This is going to be good, Mike.’

He squeezed her hand in reply. Good? It would be better than he had ever imagined. And hadn’t he been right? Didn’t those ridiculous curls of hers reach exactly to his chin?

The floor was uncrowded and they glided and turned and slid and spun. Mike sang softly in tune to the music.

Lucinda pushed a little way from him, smiling up into his eyes. Strange, how his touch pleased her, how right his nearness felt. Mike Farrow was a very attractive man and it was just as well, she thought, half in sorrow, half with relief, that this meeting was destined to be their last. A girl could fall heavily for a man like Mike; a girl who wasn’t engaged, that was.

‘Why didn’t you tell me,’ she laughed when the quickstep came to an end, ‘that you were a marvellous dancer?’

‘Modesty forbids,’ he teased, lifting an eyebrow. ‘And anyway, you never asked.’

Lucy was easy to dance with and so light in his arms that he had felt she would float from him should he move his hand from her. Her hair smelled sweet and newly washed and it had been a distinct effort not to pull her closer and rest his cheek on her head.

Lucinda gazed around her with rapt interest. This was the first ‘hop’ she had ever attended. Every other dance had been a formal gold-printed invitation affair, usually with Charlie and always amongst acquaintances of long standing. Now, one of the delights of leaving home would be going to informal hops and dancing with whomever she pleased. And, what was more, there would be no need to hold an inquest at the end of hops, no Mama wanting to know who had been there, who danced with someone he or she shouldn’t have danced with and was that dreadful Maudie Thingummy there again hawking around that unmarriageable daughter of hers? Ah yes, from this night on, dances would be fun!

The hall was beginning to fill now; the seats around the perimeter of the floor were all occupied. Land girls and ATS girls in Army uniform and Wrens stood around in groups. There were even a few men in civilian dress, though not so many, for civvies were completely out of favour. Men in the armed forces now had the pick of the unattached female population, all of whom turned up pert noses at civilians, wondering why they were not in uniform, wondering, even, if they were conchies, for to speak to a conscientious objector, let alone dance with one, was completely unthinkable.

From the far corner of the floor a group of sailors eyed girls who sat alone, whilst from another, soldiers did the same, doubtless determined to beat the Navy to the best of the pickings. The civilian girls, Lucinda thought, looked pretty and cool in cotton dresses; last year’s, without a doubt, for since the strict rationing of all clothing, coupons had to be spent frugally and hoarded against the cold of winter and used for thick coats and shoes. Not one of them wore stockings, she noticed, though not so long ago it would have been unthinkable. But now there was a war on, wasn’t there, and the unnecessary wearing of silk stockings had become a sinful luxury.

The pianist announced a waltz, and without speaking, Lucinda went into Mike’s arms. When he rested his cheek on her head, she moved closer, unprotesting.

He moved his head so that his lips touched her cheek, and whispered the words of the song ‘If I Should Fall in Love Again’ in her ear.

This was all wrong, Lucinda thought, eyes closed blissfully. Here she was, unfaithful in thought if not in deed, and glad, glad, glad she had not told Mike about Charlie.

At the end of the waltz, Mike released her abruptly and they walked back to their seats without speaking. Lucinda sat down diffidently, aware of the change of mood and the unaccountable silence between them. It was almost a relief when a quickstep was called, the drummer reminding the dancers that those who wished to jitterbug should keep to the centre of the floor.

‘Can you jitterbug, Lucy?’ The band had crashed into action.

‘No, but I’ve a feeling I’m about to learn.’

The strangeness had gone and whatever had so briefly happened was forgotten.

‘Okay, then. Just relax. And anything goes just as long as you keep your feet moving to the beat of the music. And try to relax your shoulders, too – okay?’

The jitterbug had not been a part of the dancing curriculum at Lucinda’s finishing school in Lucerne nor was it like anything she had ever experienced. In this wild, New World dance, partners did not dance close; only hands touched, and after the heady suffocation of the previous dance it was good to have time to get things back on an even footing again, to be twisted and twirled, to be pulled and pushed, to kick her feet and stamp and sway.

‘Mike!’ she gasped when the music ended. ‘That was like nothing I’ve ever known!’

‘Sure it was, but did you like it?’

‘You bet I did,’ she choked, quickly checking the laugh that rose in her throat because she had had a vivid picture image of Charlie dancing the jitterbug – and she couldn’t tell Mike why it was so very funny.

Near-exhausted, they sat out the silly dances that followed; the Lambeth walk, the palais glide and the chestnut tree, laughing at the antics of those who risked dancing the boomps-a-daisy, without doubt the silliest dance of them all. With every boomps! bottoms were banged together, not at all daintily, and everybody roared with delight.

Only in this summer of 1941, Lucinda thought fondly, could a man ask a perfect stranger to dance with him, then proceed to bump her bottom with his own until she cried for mercy. But in the strange state of siege in which they had all been compelled to live, people were losing their stuffiness and becoming more relaxed. Well, almost everyone.

‘Oh, my goodness!’ Lucinda burst into peals of laughter.

‘What’s so funny?’ Mike grinned. ‘Come on. Give.’

‘Too stupid, really. Actually, I was imagining McNair in his kilt and sporran, boomps-a-daisying with my mother.’

‘And who, for Pete’s sake, is McNair?’

‘He’s Pa’s gillie from Cromlech, further north. He’s caretaking there at the moment, but he’s so dour you’d have to know both him and Mama to realize how really funny it is.’

‘Cromlech? Another house? Listen, honey, how many places can one family live in at the same time?’

‘Cromlech is very tiny, Mike, and I’m afraid that three houses is just about all we do have.’

She really must be more careful. Tonight was to be just for the two of them and no one must be allowed to intrude, certainly not Mama. And Mike must never know about her title. Some Americans, she had found, were over-impressed by such things, though most went quite Bolshie if one was even mentioned, and she wanted Mike to like her for herself and not dislike her because Pa was an earl. She wondered fleetingly about Mike’s family in Vermont and what they were like. But that, she sighed, she could probably never know.

The girls who had sat alone were beginning to pair off with soldiers and sailors, sitting close now, shoulders touching, talking earnestly, for war allowed no one the luxury of time. Women, Lucinda realized, came to public dance halls for many reasons. Some came simply to dance, some to revel in odds stacked in their favour by the heady influx of uniformed men into Craigiebur and to flirt and tease and enjoy what little was certain in an uncertain world. And some came here because they were lonely; because they ached for the feel and touch of a man. Women too young to be brides, thrown into brief, unnatural marriages in the haste of war, had learned that the pitifully few nights of wifehood were little recompense for the enforced celibacy that stretched unending ahead of them, the occasional censored letter their only comfort. Embarkation-leave wives they were called, the women who tonight stood a little apart, trying not to be noticed yet hoping to be asked to dance, to be held, however briefly, in the arms of a man.

It was a sad state of affairs but it simply did not do, Nanny had counselled, to love too well, for passion that flamed hotly died in the flames of its own creating. Fine words indeed, though how Nanny had become an authority on flaming passion, Lucinda had never dared enquire. But she was probably right. Passion, Lucinda had recently realized, could be embarrassing and thoroughly uncomfortable. Charlie’s attempt to put paid to her virginity had convinced her of that, though the three-minute episode on the sofa at Bruton Street had been Charlie’s only fall from grace. Most times he was charming and friendly and fun to be with, which was a firmer foundation on which to build a marriage – or so Nanny had said – than the doubtful emotion that invariably followed love at first sight.

‘Hey, Lucy!’ Mike’s fingers snapped an inch from her nose. ‘Where were you?’

‘Oh! Miles away. Sorry, Mike.’

‘You looked troubled. Want to talk about it?’

‘No, thanks. It wasn’t all that important. Just something someone once said about – er – hasty marriages.’

‘And repenting at leisure?’

‘Something like that. But what about you, Mike? When will you be leaving Craigiebur?’

‘Tomorrow morning, first ferry out. Which reminds me that I’ve no way of getting in touch with you. Guess you’d better give me your phone number – if you’re allowed calls, that is.’

She should have told him she was not, but ‘Ardneavie 358,’ she said at once, ‘and if I’m not there, ask for Vi. She’ll take a message. She works in quarters, you see, so she’s usually around. Three-five-eight, Mike. Write it down.’

‘Don’t need to. It’s easy to remember.’

Like you, Lucy Bainbridge. But then, he could never forget her because he didn’t intend to. Last night had been the start of it, and how far it would go between them or where it might end, he had no way of knowing. Only one thing was certain. Right now he wanted her as he’d never wanted any woman. ‘Ardneavie 358,’ he repeated. No, sir. He wouldn’t forget it.

The silly dances were over now, and newly met couples were more relaxed and easy in each other’s company. The pianist looked at his empty beer mugs then announced the last dance before the interval.

Lucinda jumped eagerly to her feet. Mike gathered her to him. They fitted so well, moved as a whole; it was as if they had always danced together.

Lucinda sighed and moved a little so their cheeks could touch; Mike’s hand pressed her back and she moved still nearer.

The sound of applause caused her to open her eyes briefly. An ATS girl stood at the microphone and, tilting it towards her, began to sing the familiar strains of‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’.

Lucinda was a tall, slender girl, and not even the khaki masculinity of her uniform could take away from her striking beauty.

As the words of the song drifted over the heads of the dances, Lucinda tilted her head and smiled up at Mike. ‘Only sparrows,’ she teased softly. ‘Honestly, it’s all I’ve ever heard in Berkeley Square.’

He pulled her against him again, settling his chin on her head. ‘Wait until we’re there together, honey. I’ll guarantee nightingales.’

The singer’s eyes were focused on a spot high at the back of the hall; a spot that was Alexandria, maybe, or Iceland or Hong Kong, but only she who sang for a faraway lover could know.

‘The girl who’s singing has heard nightingales,’ Lucinda whispered, ‘I can tell …’

‘Sure, honey, I know. Love songs are best sung by people in love. Wonder when she last saw her guy.’

Suddenly Lucinda felt wretched. But wasn’t that what this war was good at: drawing people together then tearing them apart again? Wasn’t it happening to her and Mike? Last night had been a whim of Fate, the great puppet-master. Fate had caused them to meet, manipulated them closer. Yet in so short a time he would tire of his game and let the slender strings slacken and sag, and it would all be over for them.

‘Mike, I know all dances have a last waltz,’ she whispered, ‘but I’m afraid the very next one will have to be ours. I couldn’t get a late pass so I’ll have to get the ten o’clock transport back to Ardneavie. Late passes take twenty-four hours, so I couldn’t manage one for tonight. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I suppose it’d be pushing your luck to try the pantry window again?’

‘I’d better not …’

‘What time do you normally have to report in?’

‘Ten thirty, but we are allowed two late passes till eleven.’

‘Ten thirty? Holy cow! That Ardneavie House must be worse’n a convent!’

‘It isn’t, Mike. Not a bit like one,’ Lucinda giggled. ‘It’s very nice, really. And I’ve got two lovely friends. That’s why, I suppose, I don’t want them to have to stick their necks out for me again. You do understand?’

‘Sure I do.’ He tweaked her nose playfully then gathered her into his arms as the waltz began – and as the words reached her – of loving you always, with a love that's true – they couldn’t, Lucinda thought vehemently, have played anything more unsuitable had they searched through their music all night.

Mike sang softly with the sad-eyed ATS girl, his lips murmuring against Lucinda’s ear.

This was not right, Lucinda fretted. Mike was not playing fair, and thank goodness that after tonight he’d be out of her life. Pushing him away she choked, ‘Mike! Don’t do that, please. Singing in my ear gives me a very peculiar feeling.’

‘Sorry, honey.’ He drew her close again. ‘Won’t happen again,’ he said comfortably, returning his lips to exactly the same position, breathing slowly and deeply so that with luck the peculiar feeling would return.

‘Mike,’ Lucinda warned, but she did not push him away again because, what the hell, this was their last dance and, anyway, it was a rather pleasant peculiar feeling.

How disturbing songs seemed to be, these days; how evocative and suggestive and sensuous, Lucinda thought from the safety of Mike’s arms. And wasn’t it nice how everybody now seemed to sing as they danced, as if it were possible to sing the war away.

The waltz ended, the pianist called a twenty-minute interval and the musicians picked up their empty glasses and left for the nearest public house.

Immediately a replacement band took the stage. An army sergeant carrying a violin case took the lady saxophonist’s seat, a Wren draped her jacket over a chair, then, rolling up her sleeves, sat down at the piano; a flaxen-haired soldier wearing trews of the Black Watch tartan claimed the drum kit.

‘What a free-for-all it’s going to be,’ Mike grinned. ‘Sure wish we could stay behind and listen.’

They left, reluctantly, by the door at which a small elderly man with an indelible purple ink pad and a rubber stamp marked the back of each outstretched hand with a star.

Lucinda received her stamp. ‘Thanks, but what’s it for?’

‘That’s your pass-out, Jenny. You’ll no’ get back in here without it, unless you want to pay again, that is.’

The dancers were hurrying to favourite pubs, hoping for a glass or two of best Scottish mild before the night’s ration ran out and the landlord was forced to call that the beer was finished, and that was all till tomorrow. The deprived drinkers would mutter then, and grumble and ill-wish the cause of their privation. Being conscripted into the armed forces most men reluctantly accepted; having their children evacuated to the countryside even made some kind of sense; putting up with food rationing and clothes rationing and shortages of absolutely everything could be endured in the name of Victory, but to tamper with a man’s rightful supply of ale was altogether a different matter and one for which Hitler could never be forgiven.

‘Want to try and grab a quick glass?’ Mike was developing a shuddering affection for British beer.

‘Don’t think we’ll have time.’ Lucinda was enjoying the cool night air and the beauty of the sunset. ‘Look, Mike, it won’t be long till blackout time. Keep your eyes on the bay; it’s fascinating to watch …’

Arms linked, they leaned on the rusting promenade rail. There were no street lights, but to their left and right, strung out along the sweep of the bay like low, bright stars, house lights shone bravely. Then, almost as if an alarm bell had been rung, the lights disappeared one by one as blackouts were placed in position and curtains reluctantly drawn. In less than three minutes the bay was totally dark, the houses barely discernible against the wooded hills.

‘There now. Wasn’t it amazing? It always gives me a strange feeling to see the lights go out so completely. I think the blackout is the most unnatural thing about this war. Oh, Mike, won’t it be lovely having lights again!’ But when, when, when?

Duty steward Vi McKeown also had reason to resent the blackout. It was her responsibility to darken ship, and tonight there had been complications. The exact cause of her discomfort was the pantry window, which was left, by unspoken consent, until all latecomers were safely accounted for. Only then, its purpose served, could the catch be slipped and the wooden shutters folded over. And there would have been no bother at all had not Leading Cook Kathy MacAlister gone in search of a tin of marmalade and switched on the pantry light.

That one unthinking act brought the pier patrol to Ardneavie House with uncanny speed, and banging on the front door they ordered, ‘Get that bloody light out!’

Anyone would have thought, Vi grumbled, that it was a searchlight MacAlister had switched on and not the insignificant glow a sixty-watt bulb gave to a window measuring two feet by three.

‘Watch it,’ the leader of the naval patrol warned, ‘or somebody here’ll get slapped in the rattle!’

Whereupon Chief Wren Pillmoor, attracted to the scene by the noise and upset, quickly ascertained that her own rank was superior to that of the aggressive petty officer and archly advised him that if anybody at Ardneavie House was going in the rattle, she would put them there, thank you very much, and wouldn’t the pier patrol be better employed getting the drunks back on board Omega and leaving the Wrennery blackout to someone more suited to deal with it?

‘Damn that window!’ she hissed. ‘I’m sick and tired of it, McKeown! But any more nonsense and I’ll have it nailed up, so help me, and that’ll be the end of it,’ she added darkly, leaving Vi in no doubt at all that the pantry window and its after-hours use was no mystery to Chief Wren Pillmoor.

That was when Vi walked down the path, looking up and back towards the house, making sure that not one pinpoint of light showed. And that was when the camouflaged Army truck pulled up at the gate and an officer, pushing down the window, demanded her attention with a snapping of his fingers.

‘You, there! Over here, at the double!’

‘Me?’ Vi gazed at the blackened face and the slightly comic wilting greenery stuck in the webbing of his steel helmet.

‘Of course you! Is this Ardneavie?’

‘Who’s askin’?’ She had to be sure. They could be a truckload of Germans, for all she knew, come down by parachute. ‘I mean, how do I know where you’ve come from?’

She gazed up at him, unblinking. His hair was cut short, his face inclined to roundness and his mouth she disliked at once, as it was too much on the big side and drooped at the corners. Gormless-looking, Vi would have called him, had it not been for his undoubted arrogance and the unspoken proclamation of birth and breeding and his divine right to be heard and obeyed.

‘Where we’ve come from, sir!’ He reminded her of the three pips at his shoulder. ‘And if this is the Wrens’ quarters at Ardneavie, please find Lady Lucinda Bainbridge for me and be sharp about it. I haven’t got all night.’

Shocked, Vi stood very still. Lady Lucinda? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Lucinda had a handle, and her never saying a word about it!

‘Sorry, but she’s not in. She – she’s watch aboard and she’ll not be ashore till past midnight.’ Instinct put the lie on Vi’s lips. ‘Who shall I tell her was askin’?’

‘Tell her Captain Charles Bainbridge called. Bainbridge.’ He said the name slowly, mouthing it as if she were deaf or stupid, or both. ‘Tell her I was passing on manoeuvres – got it?’

‘Sir.’ The corporal at the driving wheel coughed loudly, looking pointedly at his watch. ‘With respect, sir, we are overdue. We’re going to be in lumber if we don’t make it back to HQ by 2300 hours and –’

‘All right, all right.’ Testily Charles Bainbridge returned his attention to Vi. ‘Be sure Lady Lucinda gets my message.’

Vi looked him straight in the eye. Malevolently, defiantly. She had perfected it at the training depot, that non-speaking and-the-same-to-you-mate stare. Its official name was dumb insolence.

‘Did you hear what I said?’

‘I heard, sir,’ Vi ground. And three bags full, sir!

She stood as the truck reversed awkwardly in the narrow lane then watched until it disappeared into the darkness of the Craigiebur road.

Flamin’ Norah, but what was she supposed to make of that? Lucinda a lady! Lovely, scatty Lucinda, who was always as broke as the rest of them, one of the upper crust!

But she should have guessed, Vi acknowledged. What with Lady Mead and Nanny and that lovely, plummy accent, it should have been there for anyone to see. Yet Lucinda hadn’t told a soul, and what was worse, the snotty so and so with three pips up was Charlie, Lucinda’s intended. Mother of God, it didn’t bear thinking about.

In that instant Vi was filled with overwhelming satisfaction that Lucinda was out with her American. Instantly all opposition to Lucinda’s infidelity was completely withdrawn, because Charlie Bainbridge was pig-ignorant, and nasty with it, too.

Good on yer, Lucinda – Vi sent her new-found thoughts winging – I don’t know what you’re doin’ right now, queen, but do it a bit more, eh?

Charlie was a toe rag, Vi brooded darkly. He was worse than a toe rag, in fact. Charlie, she was forced to admit it, was a right little twerp!

With difficulty, she returned her attention to the blackout, brooding on the unjustness of life, wondering what a girl as nice as Lucinda could be thinking about.

She glanced down at her watch. Ten o’clock and time to riddle the ashes from the boiler then fill it to the brim with coke. And after that she would sit at the table outside the regulating office and tick off the late passes as they came in. Would Lucinda, she wondered, be adrift again and come in by way of the pantry window? Oh, but she hoped so!

That’s my girl. Vi, grinned, making a mental note to check the pantry-window catch. You’re goin’ to be a long time married to that Charlie. Have fun while you can, queen!

Lucinda came in through the front door at 2228 hours.

‘You’re early, love.’ Vi smiled. ‘Had a good time then?’

‘Oh, yes, Vi. Mike’s a marvellous dancer and he can jitterbug, too. But you needn’t worry. He didn’t ask me for another date.’

‘Worry? Listen, queen, you’re a big girl now. What you do is your own affair. What really bothers me is’ – she dropped her voice dramatically – ‘well, I wonder why you never told us you’d got a title?’

‘Me? You mean – oh, Vi, who told you? Did Charlie phone?’

‘No, Charlie didn’t phone.’ Vi waited pointedly for an explanation.

‘Look, Vi, I’m sorry, but why should I tell anyone?’ Lucinda’s face flushed bright red. ‘I mean, I like it better being just me. I don’t suppose you’d keep it to yourself? Having a title can be a bit of an embarrassment, actually, especially when it’s just about all one has. We aren’t rich, you know, or eccentric. It just so happens that in my case my father’s an earl. Nothing at all to do with me, really. But how did you find out, Vi? Who phoned?’

‘Nobody phoned. Someone told me, though.’ The bad news could wait no longer. ‘Your Charlie’s been.’

‘Charlie! Here? Oh, my God, and I was out! What was he doing at Ardneavie? What did he say?’ Lucinda seemed near to tears.

‘Not a lot. He was on manoeuvres, he said. He was only here a couple of minutes. Time was a bit short, I think.’

‘Vi! I’ve just thought!’ Lucinda’s cheeks flushed scarlet. ‘Where did you say I was?’

‘Out with an American, of course.’ Vi grinned. ‘What did you think I’d tell him – that you were watch aboard and wouldn’t be ashore till midnight?’

‘You told him I was on watch? Oh, Vi, what a darling you are. I suppose that’s why I haven’t heard from him. He hates it, but every so often he has to go on manoeuvres. Poor Charlie. And I was thinking awful things because he hadn’t written. Now I know you’re angry with me, and you’ve every reason to be, but don’t go on about it, there’s a dear. I’ll write him a letter before I go to sleep. I promise I will.’

‘Me, angry? Away with your bother! And I wouldn’t write that letter tonight. Leave it till tomorrow. You won’t feel half so guilty about things in the mornin’. Now off you go upstairs, queen. I’ve just got to make a hot drink for Ma’am, then I’ll be up. Fancy a cup, do you?’

‘Yes, please. That would be lovely.’ For a moment Lucinda hesitated, her eyes troubled, then brushing Vi’s cheek with her lips she whispered, ‘You are an old love, Vi. Thanks.’

Eyebrows raised, Vi watched Lucinda’s retreating back. No more dates, eh? My word, but she wouldn’t like to bet on it.

She shook her head dolefully. Mike Farrow wasn’t going to fade into the sunset, Vi knew it for sure, for when Lucinda Bainbridge walked in her eyes had borne the dazed, delighted expression of someone who had just been kissed goodnight, very thoroughly kissed goodnight. Oh, not even with somebody else’s money would Vi be betting on it. Sighing, she placed the kettle to boil.

Lucinda lay wide awake, staring up into the darkness until it broke into shifting, swimming shapes, thinking about Mike, remembering their goodbye …

She had not expected him to kiss her and was pleased when he placed a forefinger beneath her chin and, tilting it gently, placed his lips on hers. She was glad of the blackout because she knew she was blushing furiously, yet she felt cheated too, because she had wanted it to last just a little bit longer.

‘Goodbye,’ she whispered, the palms of her hands flat on his jacket lapels. ‘Tonight was fun and it’s been great knowing you. Good luck, Mike. Take care of yourself, won’t you?’ On tiptoe she returned his kiss, this time without embarrassment. ‘And I hope it won’t be too long before you see Vermont again.’

She stood quite still, making no effort to pull away, to walk towards the waiting transport.

‘Darling,’ he whispered. His arms tightened around her and their lips met again. And because she didn’t want that kiss to end she moved closer so that she felt the unyielding hardness of his body against hers and she lifted her arms and clasped them tightly around his neck. Then she closed her eyes, and the peculiar feeling she had felt on the dance floor returned to shiver and shake through her. When his hands slid down to her thighs and pulled her still closer, she was too bemused to think of anything but the sofa in the sitting room at Bruton Street and wonder how it would have been with Mike.

Shocked into mobility, she shook her head clear of such thoughts. ‘Mike!’ she gasped, pushing him away.

For a moment she stood, seeing only his outline against the darkness, then she turned from him.

‘Goodnight, Lucy,’ she heard him whisper as she ran towards the transport.

‘Goodbye, Mike,’ she called. Oh, God, goodbye …

Petulantly she thumped and turned her pillow, throwing off her blanket. It was hot tonight; far too hot. This heatwave had gone on long enough.

She directed her thoughts to Charlie. Poor old love, where was he now? Bivouacking beneath an army lorry, maybe not too many miles away and hating every minute of it, she shouldn’t wonder. But she would make it up to him, she really would.

And what was Mike doing? Was he asleep yet or packing his bag, maybe? Would he remember that earth-shattering clinch or did he kiss all his girlfriends that way? She wished she could be a fly on the wall of his hotel room, watch him undress, stretch and yawn then tumble into bed. She knew intuitively that he slept in the nude.

Damn! She closed her eyes tightly. Whatever Mike Farrow was doing now was no business of hers; not even if he had the chambermaid in his bed. They’d had a date, that was all, and in the morning all that remained would be a purple star on the back of her right hand. Funny that she hadn’t wanted to wash it completely away …

Flight Lieutenant Michael Farrow was not making love to the chambermaid, though he was feeling extremely contented and pleased to have got things clear in his mind now.

The feeling of wellbeing had been with him since he had kissed Lucinda goodnight and noted her reactions, and it had continued when the desk clerk had nodded in the direction of the residents’ lounge then presented him with a glass of whisky. Not firewater whisky, but treasured malt from under the counter, hoarded jealously since the outbreak of war and rarely offered to Sassenachs or foreigners.