Letters to the Lost (17 page)

He hadn’t expected her to say yes. He’d expected that little dismissive shake of the head she did, a rushed excuse that would leave him free to walk away with the satisfied feeling he’d done the right thing and to be able to enjoy the concert alone. Instead he had the responsibility for making sure she wasn’t bored and for making small talk during the interval, when his brain was so fried that even remembering his own name was an effort.

The gallery’s walls had been stripped of their paintings and the frames gaped emptily on the walls, but in Dan’s eyes their absence only served to emphasize the fine bones of the building, like a society beauty without her magnificent jewels. Like Stella Thorne, too. As they crossed an echoing hall towards the concert room he stole a glance at her. The girls he’d come across over here, at dances on the base or in the bars in London, seemed to wear the same scarlet lipstick, like it was some kind of unofficial uniform. Her lips were dusky pink and natural.
Naked
, he thought. Jesus. Did she know how much sexier that was? No, of course she didn’t.

And that was the other pain-in-the-ass thing. Not only was he too tired to come up with amusing conversation or anything even remotely resembling charm, but he wasn’t sure he was up to beating back the onslaught of desire that being this close to a woman like Stella Thorne – young, pretty, shy, married – was inevitably going to bring. He wasn’t like some of the guys on the base who rushed down to London on their furloughs with their pants on fire, but he wasn’t made of stone either. Despite the best efforts of the Eighth Army, he was still more or less human.

The concert was to be held in the octagonal gallery, and there were rows of chairs set out in three of the rooms leading off from it. It was obvious at a glance that they were mostly already taken, but Dan spotted two seats together at the far end of a row. Taking care not to touch her, he guided her towards them.

They’d just sat down when the musicians began their final tune-up, making conversation unnecessary. Around them the audience – which seemed to be made up of a complete cross-section of the London population, from office workers to soldiers on leave and elderly couples – shifted on chairs as they settled down. Latecomers were still slipping in, and the uncomfortable-looking benches along the walls were filling up too. Above the sound of the orchestra Dan heard a commotion by the door and turned to see a formidable-looking lady in a fur stole with iron-grey coils of hair sitting over her ears. Sighing with ostentatious dismay, she was extending her tortoise-like neck to search for an empty seat while people on all sides pretended not to notice.

Dan’s heart sank as the courtesy that had been bred into him fought with more recently acquired exhaustion. But twenty-two years of conditioning were impossible to deny. Lightly he touched Stella’s arm and gave her an apologetic look as he got to his feet and raised a hand to catch the woman’s eye. Looking mollified she bustled over.

‘Thank you, young man. My lumbago, you know . . .’

The bench against the wall was too narrow for comfort, but the old girl had probably done him a favour; at least now he could enjoy the music without being distracted by the nearness of Stella Thorne. But as the orchestra finished tuning up and the famous pianist took to the stage amid a burst of applause, Stella got up from her seat and slipped into the narrow space beside him.

In the second before she sat down their eyes met, and her mouth – her soft, pink mouth – curved into a shy smile.

Silence shimmered over the room, and then Myra Hess began to play the first exquisite, tentative notes of Bach’s
Art of Fugue
. Wearily Dan leaned his head back against the wall and looked up at the patch of pale blue sky through the glass dome above.

Goddammit
, he thought.

She’d never heard anything like it; had never imagined that such music existed. It bore no relation at all to the wheezy organ in St Crispin’s, or the piano Miss Mason used to play in school assemblies, or the thin notes that came out of the wireless and the gramophone. This music seemed to be all around her, inside her, not just something to be listened to, but something to
feel
. It vibrated through her, and when she closed her eyes it was almost as if she could see it too, bright showers of sound in the darkness, drowning out the sour little voice that told her she shouldn’t be here.

She wasn’t sure why she’d said yes. If she’d had time to think about it she wouldn’t have, but the invitation had come from nowhere and she’d accepted before she knew what she was doing. Because the day was bright and spring-like, perhaps, and there was a pulse of excitement beneath the noise of the city that made getting on a bus and going back to King’s Oak seem like a screaming shame. Because there was nothing waiting for her there except Reverend Stokes’s laundry and a mean piece of reeking haddock to turn into something for supper. Maybe that’s why she’d accepted his invitation, and why, steeped in shimmering music, she couldn’t be sorry.

Besides, it would give her something to tell Charles about in her next letter, she thought, resolutely averting her gaze from Dan Rosinski’s long thigh inches away from hers on the bench. Charles was so cultured and educated, and she was so often aware of how limited he must find her.
I went to one of the lunchtime concerts at the National Gallery,
she imagined herself writing.
Quite by chance and on impulse. It was Myra Hess herself, playing Bach. I adored it . . .

Shadows moved across the walls and the music swooped and gathered. Gradually she became aware of the tension leaving Dan Rosinski’s body until his leg came to rest lightly against hers. She froze. Sparks shivered along her nerves and her heart began to pound, galloping ahead of the music. Had she got it wrong again? Did he think that by agreeing to come she was—?

But then she glanced at him and the breath left her lungs. With his head tipped back against the wall and the light falling on his face, he was asleep.

There was no final, flourishing chord. The notes died away, echoing and unbearably poignant. There was a moment of pure silence as the enchantment lingered, and then a storm of clapping. Dan Rosinski’s hand twitched, his fingers straightening and stiffening, and then she felt him gather himself. He sat upright and moved his leg away from hers as he joined in the applause.

It didn’t go on for long. The spell was broken and people were already gathering their belongings and getting to their feet, in a hurry to return to offices and resume the business of the war. Stella knew she should stand too, and in her head she rehearsed a goodbye that would show gratitude without being too . . . emotional. The words eluded her. Neither of them moved, and as the seats emptied he dragged a hand through his hair and sighed.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’ She picked up her handbag from beneath the bench and pretended to look for something inside it.

‘You’re very polite. Either that or you’re used to people falling asleep in your company.’

She abandoned the pretence and smiled. ‘You must have been exhausted.’

‘It’s been a pretty long week.’ A shadow passed across his face, but then he gave his lopsided smile and chased it away. ‘I’m also absolutely starving. I think there’s someplace to eat here. Do you mind if we go find it?’

That was her chance to make her excuses and leave, but she didn’t. Instead she found herself leaning against a balustrade on the stairwell while he queued up for tea and sandwiches at a makeshift counter. She couldn’t help but notice that the two starchy, well-bred ladies behind it were vying to serve him, blushing almost girlishly as they arranged teacups and a plate of sandwiches on a tray and took his money. The accent, Stella thought. Or the smile. She braced herself against it as he carried the tray over.

There were no free tables, so they perched on the stairs in the shadow of a mammoth pillar, just like that morning on the steps of Bush House. ‘One day I’ll take you to a proper restaurant, where you can sit on a chair,’ he said with a grin, picking up a sandwich. Then his expression abruptly changed. ‘Jeez – I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I guess I’m still half asleep. Your husband – is he away fighting someplace?’

‘He’s in North Africa, but not fighting. He’s an army chaplain.’

She spoke calmly, without apology. It was a relief to bring the spectre of Charles out of the shadows, to be able to feel that she wasn’t pretending to be something she wasn’t, or playing a game. She sipped her tea.

‘He’s a minister? I guess I could have worked that out from your address. How long have you been married?’

‘Since last August.’

His eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘And when did he go away?’

‘October.’

She watched him process this; saw the question in his eyes that he opened his mouth to ask. But then he stopped himself and smiled. ‘Poor guy. Bad enough to have to leave home, but to have to leave a new wife too . . .’

He didn’t have to go. He wanted to.

She sipped her tea and said nothing.

Afterwards, they walked along the Embankment. The sun was bright but the wind whipped cottonwool clouds across it so that shadows washed over them like waves on a beach. Silvery barrage balloons floated high up above the city. The sky looked like such a serene place from down here.

Neither of them had said anything when they’d left the gallery, they’d simply walked slowly together across the square, absorbed in conversation. Something had changed while he’d slept. His guard had been lowered, but she didn’t seem to mind. He still felt pretty dazed and out of it, as though the adrenaline had drained from his body and his reflexes – usually on high alert – had been switched off. It was a feeling he only usually got these days halfway down a bottle of bourbon, but which used to be a regular thing back home. A thing called peace.

And so they walked, with no particular destination in mind and no hurry to reach it. He found himself doing most of the talking. She asked questions, and listened with apparently genuine interest as he told her all about home and Pop and Alek. About Mom, who’d died so long ago she’d become little more than a silver-framed black-and-white memory, but who came to life again as he talked.

‘Mom’s family had settled in Chicago in the ’90s, but Pop didn’t come over until 1914. He was studying to be an engineer in Warsaw when he saw how things were going to go. He didn’t want to fight under the German flag in a war he didn’t believe in, and he reckoned America was the land of the future, especially for engineers. There was a big Polish community in Chicago, so that was the obvious place to head to. He met my mom at a dance.’

She glanced sideways at him with eyes full of sunlight. ‘Love at first sight?’

‘Yeah, though it took her family a while to come around to the idea. They were Catholics and he was Jewish. He had to work pretty hard to convince them he wasn’t such a bad match . . .’ It always amused Dan to remember how spectacularly Josef Rosinski had proved himself, and he was smiling as he turned to her. ‘Sorry. As if falling asleep wasn’t bad enough, now I’m boring the life out of you by talking all about myself.’

‘It’s not about yourself, it’s about your family. And it’s certainly not boring.’

The sun shone on her hair and made it gleam like well-polished mahogany. He thought of his camera, left with the rest of his things in the dingy officers’ club in Piccadilly and wished he’d brought it.

‘What about your family?’

By some unspoken consent they’d stopped walking and leaned against the railings overlooking the river. The water was khaki-coloured, as if it too was in uniform and doing its patriotic duty. Next to his her arms looked pale and improbably slender, which made him realize how he’d grown used to being surrounded by men.

‘I don’t have one. Perhaps that’s why I like hearing about other people’s. I grew up in the charitable school, with Nancy – she’s the closest thing to family I have. And Miss Birch, I suppose. She was the headmistress and not the most maternal person, but I can see now that she was very kind.’ The wind picked up that curl again and bounced it across her cheek. ‘She gave me away at my wedding.’

‘And what about your husband’s family? The ones who gave you the watch?’

‘They’re kind too. Very proper.’ She stroked the curl behind her ear and shrugged. ‘They had higher hopes for Charles, but they try to make the best of it.’

He frowned. ‘How did you meet him?’

‘The school finds work for pupils when they’re of an age. The housekeeper at the Vicarage left at the start of the war so he needed a replacement.’

‘You went to work for him? But you must only have been—’

‘Seventeen. I knew nothing at all about keeping house, but in those days there was a lot of other work to do – organizing evacuation rotas and collecting clothing for the refugees that were arriving from Belgium and Holland. I think that was what made him think I’d make a good vicar’s wife.’

It sounded like a joyless arrangement. How did a young girl who was as beautiful and gentle and sweet as this one end up thinking that was the best life had to offer her?

‘Smart guy,’ he said blandly.

‘Not really. If I had been, he wouldn’t be in Africa now, would he?’

There was something terribly bleak about her matter-of-fact tone. Dan turned to look at her, impulsively putting a hand on her upper arm.

‘That’s Hitler’s fault, not yours.’

She stiffened and turned her head to avoid his gaze. Sensing her resistance, he let her go. Goosebumps had sprung up on her bare skin and she rubbed at them briskly. ‘I should have brought a coat. It’s colder than it looks.’

He couldn’t give her his jacket, it was strictly forbidden. He had no problem with flouting the rules himself but was deterred by the embarrassment it would cause her if they should be caught – the bastard Military Police had a habit of appearing from nowhere.

‘Let’s keep walking,’ he said, sensing again that she might be about to bolt. ‘St Paul’s is just up there – Wren’s finest work. Mind if we go and take a look?’

She was doing nothing wrong. After all, it was a church, and from the moment they stepped through the towering doors they were enveloped in its atmosphere of hushed reverence. Of holiness. It wasn’t like going to a bar or a nightclub, or the Opera House with its pulsing, sensual music and feverish heat.