Читать книгу Bloody Right - Georgia Evans - Страница 7

Brytewood

“Here you are, Nurse, with Lady Gregory’s compliments,” Edith Aubin, the cook from Wharton Lacey, said as she handed Gloria a large hamper.

“This is so incredibly generous,” Gloria Prewitt replied, as she lifted the lid and saw two roasted chickens, a good-sized ham and an almost complete Cheddar cheese. No wonder Miss Aubin had needed the driver’s help to carry it into the village hall from the car.

Miss Aubin nodded in agreement. “Not too much for a returning hero,” she replied. “Lady Gregory said to let me know if you’re short on bread or tea.”

“We should be alright, Mr. Whorleigh has donated tea.” From under the counter, Gloria suspected, but she wasn’t going to quibble over that. “Bread, someone is fetching from Leatherhead.”

“Of course,” Miss Aubin nodded. “Your baker disappeared, didn’t he?”

He’d disintegrated at Gloria’s hand, or rather under her teeth, when she’d been in fox shape, with a little help from Andrew Barron, her intended. Not that she was ever mentioning that to anyone who didn’t know already. “We certainly miss having fresh bread.” But disposing of a Vampire of nefarious intent made the whole of England safer.

“Would you believe it, he did a moonlight flit?” Mrs. Chivers, mainstay of the Women’s Institute and Mrs. Burrows’s knitting circle, added her ha’pennorth. “Shocking, just walked out and left. Obviously forgot there’s a war on.”

No, he certainly hadn’t. He’d been a very real part of the war but that, too, Gloria kept to herself. She was keeping a lot to herself these days.

But despite the war, the heavy black curtains that covered the windows and doors, and the scrimping and saving to put together the wartime equivalent of a groaning board, Brytewood was ready for a party.

No doubt the women in ancient Greece or Babylon put on feasts to welcome home returning warriors. And here they were, following the ways of countless women who waited and wept and wondered if their sons and brothers and lovers would return from the wars.

She was getting positively maudlin. Her lover, fiancé and light of her heart, was brushing aside the blackout curtain that covered the door.

“Andrew!” She restrained the urge to rush across the hall and wrap her arms around him. Didn’t need to really, just meeting his eyes and knowing that smile was hers was enough.

“Hello, Gloria.” And that was a smile and a half. “Brought you something.” He placed a battered cardboard box on the table.

She lifted the top and peered inside. “Corned beef?”

He grinned and a sexy grin it was. “Best I could manage.”

“Purloining government stocks?” Mary LaPrioux, the evacuated schoolteacher, asked.

“What a suggestion!” Andrew managed to look shocked whilst grinning. “It fell off the back of a lorry.”

“Never mind where it came from,” Gloria said. “We can use it to make shepherd’s pies. Someone brought in a couple of sacks of potatoes, or we could try that rissole recipe from Lord Woolaton.”

“Stick to shepherd’s pie. You know what’s in that,” Andrew said. “Or better still, what’s wrong with bully beef sandwiches?”

A lot easier too. “Pity we can’t make chips with the potatoes.”

“Have Mrs. Burrows organize a dripping drive around the village. Bet you’d have enough to fry several hundredweight of potatoes.”

Behind Gloria, Mary laughed. Andrew was right. Mrs. Burrows was a force of nature—of course few people knew the doctor’s grandmother was a Devon Pixie. It rather gave her the edge over mere mortals.

“How about…” Andrew went on, but broke off at the crash of a breaking window.

Miss Willows, one of the schoolteachers, looked up from counting out cups and saucers at another table. Her eyes met Mary’s.

“Bet it’s one of mine,” Mary muttered, and ran out of the door.

The cold, damp, night air hit her immediately, but she wasn’t going back for her coat. She ran forward, looking around as her eyes adjusted to the dark. She caught sight of two boys running, and set off after them, knowing she hadn’t a hope of catching them unless one or both of them tripped. Until a tall man stepped out of the shadows and grabbed them both, hauling them, squalling and wriggling, back to the village hall.

He set them both on their feet a few yards from Mary. “Here you are, Miss LaPrioux. What do you want done with them? Should I boil them in oil? Send them to the coal mines? Or would the galleys do better?”

She had never appreciated Tom Longhurst’s wit, and most likely never would. “Thank you for nabbing them, Mr. Longhurst,” she said, eyeing the pair of them and noting, with a wave of relief, that they were village boys. She shouldn’t be pleased, but she was. Seemed her Guernsey evacuees and the few remaining London ones got blamed for almost everything. “What are your names?”

They hesitated, looking at each other, obviously debating silently the wisdom of answering. “Well?” she asked, tapping her foot. “You do have names, don’t you?”

“Jim Polson.”

“Mike Polson.”

Brothers, or maybe cousins of some sort. “So Messrs Polson. Who broke the window?”

“Didn’t mean to, miss,” said Mike, the taller of the two. “I was aiming at the drainpipe.”

“And you had a good reason to throw stones at the drainpipe?” The scuffed toes of their shoes became of paramount interest to the boys. “Trying to get a stone to rattle all the way down, were you?” Mary suggested.

Two pairs of eyes snapped open. She’d almost swear she heard them gulp with surprise. Did they never realize that teachers had once been nine years old too? The trick of getting a small stone over the top and into the drainpipe so it rattled all the way down wasn’t exactly their personal invention. “Besides, shouldn’t you be home after dark?”

“Mum’s in the hall, helping,” Jim said. “She told us to play quietly.”

So they weren’t even June Willows’s responsibility. “Then I suggest you go right into the village hall and explain to your mother what happened.”

They didn’t exactly rush to follow that direction.

“Better get a broom and clean up the broken glass too,” Tom Longhurst added.

Good point. Mary watched the two boys drag themselves toward maternal retribution. It was getting downright chilly. She wrapped her arms around her chest as she followed the boys back inside.

“Take my coat,” Tom Longhurst said, unbuttoning his tweed jacket.

“No, don’t bother. Thank you, but I’ll be inside in a jiffy.” She darted forward and grabbed the door. “Were you heading here?” She hoped not. On his way to the Pig and Whistle most likely.

“Yes, I was. Mother wanted me to check numbers. She’s baking apple pies.”

As if Mrs. Longhurst couldn’t guess how many pies might be needed. Honestly! Flimsy excuse wasn’t the word. “How kind of her. She’s a wonderful baker.” He’d nipped ahead of her and had the door open and was lifting the blackout curtain. Would be downright rude and silly to not go in. “Better tell Gloria or Mrs. Chivers,” she said quickly. “They’re organizing this shindig. I’ll keep an eye on those boys.”

She darted across the hall, full steam ahead as the irate teacher, to find that Mrs. Polson had done the job for her. The two boys were fairly quivering under the scolding. “And now you’ll clean up the mess and cover the broken pane and on top of that, pay for the new glass out of your pocket money.”

Mary almost began to feel sorry for the pair of them, heads hung and shoulders slumped under the weight of guilt. “Clean up and find a piece of cardboard to cover the hole and I expect Mr. Simmons could fix it,” she said. The school caretaker was pretty adept at replacing panes broken by cricket balls, and other flying missiles.

“He’s expert. Mended a couple my brother and I broke over the years.”

Darn, it was Tom Longhurst. Right at her shoulder.

“You think he would, sir?” Jim Polson asked, eyes aglow with relief.

“Best ask him in the morning and cover the pane for now. There’s a gale blowing through.”

Mary tamped down her irritation. She and Mrs. Polson made the same request and the boys stood there. Tom Longhurst tells them and they hop to it. Alright, she was being unfair. There were precious few men left in the village and Tom was a favorite of most of the boys. And a good many of the women as well. She darn well wished they’d get his attention instead of her.

“One good thing,” Tom went on, giving her his most appealing smile. “They proved that the paper strips on the glass really do hold the pane glass together.”

“Yes,” she replied. It certainly did. When Jim lifted the curtain the shattered fragments hung on the strips of tape that crisscrossed the window pane.

“Put that curtain back down!” a voice called across the hall. “Or we’ll have the air raid wardens down on us.”

“No point in inviting Jerry to the party,” someone else added.

Nothing more she could do here. Might as well head back to the table where Gloria and Mrs. Chivers sorted food donations.

Only Tom tagged along. “You know Peter Wills is playing the piano for tomorrow night.”

Of course she knew. She and Gloria had been in on the planning for Gryffyth Pendragon’s return since the very beginning. “Should be fun.” Although she rather questioned the tactlessness of dancing at a party for a returning amputee. But it seemed no one else had any qualms.

“So,” Tom went on, with another too charming smile, “will you promise me a dance?”

Damn! She was not a swearing woman, but really. She’d gone to the pictures with him once (grave error of judgment that had been) and now he laid claim to her. “I’ll give you one dance, Tom.”

“Just one? I’m being rationed?”

Heaven help her! She’d turned him down twice already. Maybe she was too tactful. “Tom, I’d better let the other women have a look in. Can’t monopolize you, can I?”

He actually paused to ponder that, which gave her a moment to get back to the table by the door. Once she was behind that…

“Wouldn’t mind,” he said, grabbing her hand.

She would. “One dance, Tom,” she repeated, taking her hand from his and feeling the eyes of half the assembled company on her. “Why don’t you check with Mrs. Chivers and see how many pies we need?”

“Excuse me,” a voice, to her left, said. “Sorry to interrupt.”

Thrilled to be interrupted, Mary smiled at the speaker, the cook from Wharton Lacey. “Yes?”

“Just wanted a quick word. If you don’t mind.”

“By all means. Miss Aubin, isn’t it?” Mary stepped to the side and Tom moved away. To ask someone else for a dance, no doubt. “Can I help you?”

“Just wanted to introduce myself properly. You’re the Guernsey girl, am I right?”

“Yes, I’m Mary LaPrioux. Evacuated here with my class.”

The woman held out her hand. “Edith Aubin. From St. Clement’s Parish on Jersey.”

Mary clasped her hand. “I’m from St. Martins. It’s good to meet someone else from the Islands.” Even if she was from Jersey.

“Just wanted to say hello.”

“I’m glad you did. Home seems a long way away these days. Have you been here long?”

“Fifteen years. Used to be I went home every holiday, but now…”

Who knew when they’d be home? If ever. “I alternate between homesickness, being glad I’m safe, and worrying about everyone left behind.”

“You get news?”

“Yes,” Mary replied. “But how much can they say on those Red Cross forms? We set up a code before I was evacuated, so we could let each other know if anything dire happened.”

“I’ve an old mother, I worry about her,” Edith Aubin said. “Didn’t have much schooling so she never did write much. I’ve a married brother and sister but seldom hear from them.”

Worrying. Had to be. “I think there’s a limit how many of those letters they can send.”

“I know,” Miss Aubin replied. “I tell myself he uses them to write to his wife. She and the children went back to her family in Devon. But I can’t help but worry.”

She looked more than worried. She looked downright haggard. “Do you know where in Devon? The doctor’s family are from that way and so’s her new husband. Perhaps if you ask them.”

“Miss LaPrioux!” a voice called across the hall.

“Sorry, I’d better go,” Mary said. “I’ll talk to Alice.”

“Come up and have tea one day. I’d enjoy talking to someone from home, or at least close to home.”

“Thank you, I will. I’ll stop next time I’m over your way.”

“Please do.” With a nod, the older woman buttoned up her coat and left.

Mary went over to see what Mrs. Chivers wanted.

“I think you’re breaking Tom Longhurst’s heart,” Gloria said, as she and Mary walked home, their shaded torches lighting the way.

Mary assumed she was teasing. “He’ll survive.”

“You really don’t fancy him, do you?”

Good question. “He’s a nice enough chap.” And, she had to admit, one of the few single men left in the village, now that Gloria and Alice Watson, the doctor, had snagged the nicest two. “But he’s just not my type.”

“He’s smitten, sexy, intelligent. If you gave him just the weeniest come-hither he’d be yours for the taking.”

Maybe. But he was clearly and unmistakably human, and Mary wasn’t about to tangle with him. Going out to the flicks once had been an error in judgment she was not likely to repeat. He might have a hammerpond on the edge of his land, where she bathed when the need for water overwhelmed her. But she could just imagine the look on his nice, human face if she said Oh, by the way. I’m a Water Sprite. You don’t mind if I go off in the moonlight and swim in all weathers, do you?

Might almost be worth it to see the shock in his big blue eyes, but no. She’d been trained from childhood to keep her nature a secret, and a secret it would remain. Unless she met another of her kind, and the odds of meeting another in landlocked Surrey was about as likely as the Germans deciding they didn’t want to invade her home after all.

“A penny for them?” Gloria asked. “Tom on your mind?”

“Gloria, he’s just not my sort. He really isn’t.”

“I didn’t say he was your Mr. Right, but how about a Mr. Right Now?”

Mary shook her head. “No. Someone else can have him.” They were practically lining up after all. Of course, there was still the problem of the damn dance she’d promised him.

Maybe she’d stay home tomorrow night. Fat chance of that. Sensible, oh-so-human Gloria would nag her into going. There was no way out, short of breaking a leg or developing some contagious disease. She was going to have to brace herself to dance with the most eligible bachelor for miles around.