A Place for Us (42 page)

But she didn’t want to be part of that family, not in that way. She wanted her own family. She wanted her own life. She wanted him. She wanted them, together. She wanted his baby inside her, his food, his life; she wanted to make him feel so safe and secure he never got that look of desolate loneliness that puckered his brow; she wanted him to have a home that Jamie felt was as much his as anyone’s.

I want our life. Our family. Our home.

What if it was too late?

“Karen, tell them I’ll be back later, will you? I have to—I have to collect Luke.”

“Yes,” Karen said, and she nodded. “Of course.”

“I’m—fine,” Cat told her, unnecessarily. “I need to go now.”

It might be too late already.

She knew what she needed to do now, but what if it
was
too late, what if in one of the infinitesimal ways that the earth moves and millions of tiny changes happen, the world had altered and the path they were on could now never be reversed? What if she had missed her chance? She ran, feet thudding so hard on the bone-dry road her body juddered in time, one foot in front of the other, each stride longer than the last, longer, faster than she had ever run before.

•   •   •

Cat turned off through the woods, taking the shortcuts, the old paths she knew so well. She jumped across the stream and kept on running, as though someone were chasing her.

She saw him at the edge of the wood, at the bottom of the lane. Right by the bridge that crossed over into the village.

“Hey!” he shouted. She could see Jamie and Luke in Zach’s front garden, swinging on a rope hanging from a tree. Joe gestured back toward them with his thumb. “Luke’s there! He’s okay.”

“Joe!” she yelled back, almost terrified he might vanish, disappear into thin air before her eyes. She saw his boots on the ground, the sandwiches sticking out of his pocket, the sticks poking out of the bucket he was carrying. His eyes, so warm when he looked at her, and he was smiling; he smiled all the time now. He came forward to meet her at the foot of the hill.

“What’s the hurry?” he said, clutching her arms to make her halt as she ran toward him, almost unable to stop. “Hey! Are you okay?”

She looked around, panting, unable to speak. The boys were paying no attention. A car wound round the corner, and they stood to one side.

Cat took Joe’s hand. She stood close to him. Her finger stroked his palm. She smiled into his eyes.

“I had to come back,” she said, her breath short, her cheeks flushed, mouth dry. “I had to tell you, before it was too late.”

“Cat,” he said, his voice low. He knew, she could tell. She had to say it.

And she was still so scared, fear and adrenaline pumping through her body. She was terrified, in fact, because this was life, falling in love, loving your children, fearing the worst, wanting the best. She had been away from it for so long. She had kept Luke away from it, too.

“I have to say it,” she said. He put his hand up to her cheek, his fingers stroking her face, palm to skin. They were inches apart. “Let me say it.”

They stayed there, fixed together, smiling at each other.

One of the boys called out from the garden, but they ignored him.

“It’s like home, with you,” Cat said. “Just like home. For the first time. Ever.”

He nodded. “I know,” he said.

“I don’t want us to be friends,” Cat said urgently. “Please, can we not be friends?”

His face clouded over, and then he relaxed. “Yes.”

“I want you,” she said, and she leaned toward him, across that final gap that separated them, and she kissed him, feeling how warm he was, how solid, how well she knew him, then broke away. “I’ve been so scared, of stupid things,” she said.

“No, they were real. And you’re not stupid.” He pulled her closer, cupping her face. “Cat, I’ve been in love with you since November, you know. I didn’t know what to do about it. I tried to pretend it wasn’t really real.”

“Me too,” she said. The release of emotion, of tension, of the buildup of years and years of running away from this, and here she was, and she was holding him, kissing him, and he loved her, though she didn’t believe he could love her nearly as much as she loved him. “We can’t do this now,” she told him eventually. “Not out here, can we?”

“We can if it’s for the rest of our lives,” Joe said, and he untangled their fingers, put his hands gently on her cheeks again, and kissed her.

The sky above them was clear, no clouds, nothing, the woods beyond dark green, the last burst of summer. She knew the house would be there behind them, if she turned. Over toward the vicarage garden the boys carried on playing, oblivious, and she kissed him again, laughing. It was just them, the two of them.

EPILOGUE

August 1948

T
HAT MORNING WHEN
he woke, the stench of shit and something else, something rotting, hung in the stale air. He realized a noise outside had woken him and kneeled up to open the window. There was his father, slowly descending the steps. He stopped and looked up as if he knew he was being watched. David hid behind the moth-eaten green curtain, praying he wouldn’t see him, praying it wouldn’t move.

After his father had disappeared around the corner, David sat up and looked around him. The bare room with two mattresses, a chest that the local church had provided, a jug filled with water, a bowl. Flies gathered around the bowl, and he saw that his father had, once again, used it as a chamber pot. When he was drunk, he couldn’t be bothered to go outside to the privy.

As he was pulling his filthy trousers on, David caught sight of a childish scribble of green pencil on the wallpaper, and remembered the last time he’d seen Cassie. It was the previous summer, three months after she’d gone to live with Jem. He’d caught a train out to Leigh-on-Sea and gone to the beach with them. Cassie was three, as she kept telling him, a lovely little thing, bouncing curly hair, a wide smile, just like his mum. In three months she’d already changed. She still knew who he was, but Jem was her favorite person now. It killed him, just a little bit, to see her curling into Jem’s lap, running to her when a tiny crab got in her bucket, shouting information at her at the top of her voice. But that was the choice he’d made, and he knew it was the right one.

“She’s the spit of Emily, isn’t she, love?” Aunt Jem stretched out on the sand, pulling her cotton dress demurely over her shins.

David had nodded. He couldn’t yet talk about his mother. He’d stared
at his little sister determinedly hacking at some seaweed, laughing with some children, and felt more alone than he’d ever been. He knew it wouldn’t do any good to see more of her. It’d just hurt him. He knew she couldn’t ever come back to London with him. Time would move on and he had to as well. The Blitz had taught thousands of London children that. Things got broken, destroyed. You lost your friends, your parents, your siblings. But you got on with it. You played in the ruins, you got a new house, maybe a new baby brother or sister, maybe not. That had been a year ago. Jem sent a postcard now and then to keep in touch, but that was it and that was how he’d wanted it, wasn’t it? His plan had worked. He just had to keep on reminding himself: Cassie was all right. She was out of there.

Suddenly David felt a lightness steal over him. He looked out the window again, to make sure his father wasn’t coming back; then he scrambled into a shirt and grabbed his sketchbook, his photo of his mother, the locket she’d been wearing the night she was killed, and he checked under the brick for his father’s cash, and took it, all of it. He didn’t write a note. His father couldn’t read. And he didn’t want to leave any trace. He might come and find him.

He wasn’t really sure where he was going; he just wanted to go away, somewhere unlike here, unlike this little patch of London that was all he really knew. At first he got on a bus thinking he’d head toward Buckingham Palace, but he fell asleep and ended up at Paddington Station and they turfed him out. He thought about walking down to Hyde Park, but that wasn’t far enough. He told himself that now he’d started, he had to keep going. It was still early, not even nine thirty. He didn’t want to go home.

And then suddenly it occurred to him that he didn’t ever have to go back, if he didn’t want to. He had his scholarship, he had a room near the school from September. That was two weeks away now. The same teacher who’d sent his stuff off to the Slade, Mr. Wilson, he’d given him a spare room in his house, down toward the Cally Road, and the rent was subsidized by the council. He had the money he’d stolen from his father, and he’d the promise of a couple of weeks’ work from Billy from school’s dad down at Covent Garden, moving veg around. He didn’t ever have to go back, did he? Did he?

The knowledge wasn’t frightening. It was the most glorious feeling
he’d felt for a long time. He could sleep in hedgerows. He could draw wherever he wanted. He could even get the boat train from Victoria, go to France!

But no, he wasn’t going to do that, not just yet. But he was going to go away from here, today.

A loud, piercing whistle shrieked right beside him, and David jumped. He turned to see the train behind, its engine puffing gentle balls of steam into the smoggy station.

“Where’s it going?” he said.

The guard jerked his head. “West,” he said gnomically.

West. Well, he had to go somewhere, didn’t he? This wonderful feeling of freedom was still with him, and he didn’t want to think about it, just enjoy it. David climbed onto the train with the vague idea he might go to Bath, see the bombsites there and do some more drawings to add to his collection. Maybe he’d have some lunch at a pub in the country. Maybe he’d do all sorts of things. The day, and indeed time, stretched out ahead of him, splendid, never-ending, like the perfect blue sky.

•   •   •

He sat on the train watching the buildings stream past, the rows of houses with bombed-out gaps, the men at work rebuilding the city. The empty warehouses, the vanished streets. All those stories in their spaces, of loss and sadness and sometimes hope and happiness. He didn’t feel jingoistic; he didn’t feel pride in his country. He only felt numbness, a quiet sense of gladness that he and Cassie had survived. When he disembarked at Bath Spa Station he looked around him, wondering what the noise was, a little engine bolt clanging against something, an organ? And then he realized it was birds singing, so beautifully it made tears spring to his eyes. You didn’t heard birdsong these days in London.

David stood outside the iron-girdered ticket hall, looking this way and that, at the empty square of land where buildings had once stood. He crossed through a tunnel, over a road, not really caring where he was going. And he walked.

He walked and walked, up a hill lined with gracious villas and leafy gardens, until he could see countryside sweeping away from him. And he carried on walking. At the top of the highest hill the land leveled out, and he stopped for a drink at a quiet pub, the Cross Keys. The landlady
gave him some bread and cheese and told him, in a broad accent he’d hardly heard before, that he was in the most beautiful part of the world. He’d forgotten his hat, so before he continued he rolled up his trouser legs and put his handkerchief, tied in knots, on his scorched head, bid her farewell, and set off again.

He could see the Georgian town curved like a gold and cream seashell, tucked into the wide valley below. Perfect puffs of cloud now drifted above him, but otherwise the sky was still a deep, kind blue. So David kept walking, as the road swooped down again into another fold of land, until he came to a river, and fields, and long-distant woodland. He looked at the watch Mr. Wilson had given him when he got into the Slade—he had been walking for nearly two hours, and it occurred to him only now that he would have to walk back to the station, unless he didn’t go back at all, just stayed here in this beautiful place. Who would miss him? He was a half person, that was what you became if no one else cared whether you came home at night. Living in the shadows of other people’s lives.

So he lay down on the grass that had only just emerged from the shadow cast by the dark woods and was deliciously cool and damp. And he chewed a ripe stalk of wheat, staring up above him at the sky, at nothing whatsoever at all.

•   •   •

When he got up to walk again, the hill above him was steep this time, the going arduous, and he began to regret the absence of a hat more and more. But he fell into an easy rhythm. His limbs were strong, his heart was light; and, when he found two apples the landlady must have sneaked into the bottom of his knapsack, he ate one, grateful, smiling. After walking uphill again for half an hour he reached the crest of the valley, turning toward the north again, and then he saw it. A dark driveway, framed by heavy oaks, and a bench in front.

“Seek rest, weary traveler.”

He sat down on the bench, panting, and ate the second apple, staring out at the view. The still, heavy trees. The curling road, leading to the river. Homes dotted here and there in the plush landscape, a line of white rising up from some. Swallows swooping wildly about his head, darting in and out of hedgerows. The scent of wild roses and wood smoke.

When he’d finished, he wandered down the drive, ready to run if need be—his months of clambering around the ruined capital had given him a quick eye and a fleet foot, as well as a sense of danger.

There was a house behind a circular driveway. Low, quiet, tucked against the hill. Toffee-colored stone and leaded windows on the first floor, soaring giant wooden clapboard gables on the second, a moss-tiled roof. Purple flowers scrambling along the golden exterior, the windows glinting in the late afternoon sun. A riot of pink, red, yellow flowers—Jem would know their names—hugging either side of the house, and behind to the right side he could see rows of vegetables. Like Peter Rabbit, then, he thought he might die if he didn’t taste one of the lettuces, cool and green in the black earth. He could hear laughter, shouts of glee inside the house.

David did not know why, but he kept on walking toward the front door. He lifted the knocker. It was a great big owl. It made him smile; he knocked, hard.

A lady answered, gray hair dressed in a bun, a lace-covered blouse, a stiff back, and a battered straw hat. She stared at him inquiringly.

“May I help you?” Her hazel eyes were huge, flecked with blue and brown.

“Ma’am, I apologize for disturbing you,” said David. “I’ve walked all day and I’m afraid I’m extremely thirsty. Could I trouble you for some water?”

She opened the door wide. “Of course. That hill does tire one out, I know. I’m Violet Heron.” She held out her hand and he shook it, a little stunned. “Please, come in.”

He followed her into the hall. Someone was screaming with pleasure, and he looked to his left to see two children wrestling on the floor, one a young girl in a torn pinafore, the other a boy whose shorts were covered in some kind of black creosote-like substance.

“Is that Em?” one of them yelled. “Where is she? She said she’d come and play with us!”

“Ignore my embarrassing grandchildren. I do apologize,” said the lady, but she didn’t look embarrassed.

“Where is Em, do you know, Grandmother?” the girl asked.

“She’s upstairs, reading. She said she’d be down soon. Don’t be so loud.” She turned to David. “One of our old evacuees from London has been visiting us.”

She opened a door, which led into the kitchen. A red-faced woman stood tackling something in a brown earthenware bowl. “Dorcas,” said Mrs. Heron, “this young man wants some water.”

Dorcas heaved a mound of glistening, rubbery dough onto the marble surface and pushed her hands down on it. She glanced him over appraisingly. “From the looks of him, he’ll be needing a lot more than water. You want some bread and stew?”

David nodded mutely. He stared out the kitchen window at the valley. He’d never been anywhere so beautiful in his life.

“They say on a clear night, when the bombs were coming down over Bath, you could hear the bells over at Wells Cathedral in the opposite direction, in the silence.” Mrs. Heron shrugged. “I don’t believe it, but it’s comforting to think it, somehow.” She watched him for a moment, then stood up again. “Dorcas, bring the tray out onto the terrace, would you?” She gestured to David. “Follow me.”

As they opened the door, the afternoon sun hit them in the eyes, and Violet put her hat on. She gestured to a stone terrace, beyond which the garden ran riot, turning into woods. “Sit down.”

David sat. The sun seemed to be bleaching his bones, and a great feeling of peace stole over him. Time seemed to stand still. The only noise was the hum of bees, birds singing in the woods ahead, and occasionally, the screams of children echoing inside the house. It was like being in a dream. He still didn’t really know why he was here. He couldn’t explain why he’d walked down that drive.

“Their father went missing at Monte Cassino,” Mrs. Heron said suddenly. “They still believe he’s coming back.”

David sat up. “I am so sorry. Where—where’s their mother?”

Mrs. Heron looked across the valley. She said flatly, “She died in London. One of the last bombing raids.”

David wanted to say,
Mine too
, but the words wouldn’t come. Dorcas appeared with a tray of bread, cold stew, and water, and he thanked her, resisting the urge to gulp it all down. The stew was thin and more like soup—meat was scarce still—but to David it was the most delicious meal he’d ever had. He felt as though he’d been away from London for months. With every step out of the train station, he had walked away from the war, from the sound of his father’s threats, his sister’s howls, his mother’s dying scream.

Mrs. Heron crossed her hands neatly in her lap while he ate, and when he had finished she said, “So what do you do?”

“Nothing, at the moment,” said David. “But I’m going to art school next month. The Slade,” he added proudly.

“Goodness, you look older than that. Where are your people from?”

“Islington.” David didn’t elaborate.

“I grew up in Bloomsbury, very near the Slade,” she said. “I miss the shops. And the buildings.”

He gave her a big smile. “How can you miss anything, in a place like this?”

“Oh, you miss some things.” She smiled at him. “But you’re probably right. I don’t, really.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Fifty years. As long as the house.”

David scooped up the last of the stew with his bread. “You . . . you built this?”

“My husband built it for me. Winterfold was my wedding present. He died ten years ago. I’m glad he didn’t live through the war, it would have broken him. He’d fought in the Great War and . . .” She trailed off and looked away, and David saw that the beautiful hazel eyes were brimming with tears. “Everything must go on.”

He changed the subject. “Winterfold? That’s the name of the house?”