Letters to the Lost (19 page)

I got a letter from my dad a couple days ago. My brother Alek has finished training and is waiting to hear where he’s going to be posted. Pop wrote two places where it was most likely to be but the censors blanked them. I guess if I don’t know I can’t worry for him . . .

Dear Stella

I co-piloted one of the new crews today. It was supposed to be an easy one, a milk run to help them find their feet. It ended up as a bloodbath. Two of their men didn’t make it through their first mission and two forts didn’t come back. Things are pretty quiet here tonight . . .

Stella, I wanted to say thanks for keeping on writing and let you know that it makes a difference. I like to hear about the fete and the kids in the nursery, and I feel like I know Ada and Marjorie Walsh and the others. I can picture you, sitting under your beautiful apple tree in the dusk, and it makes things easier. The way you wrote it was so vivid I can almost smell the scent of the blossom myself. And in my head I can hear the song ‘Apple Blossom Time’.

Look after yourself, remember? For me.

D.

There were pins and needles in Jess’s legs and her neck was stiff. Her eyes smarted, letting her know that she’d been so busy reading she’d forgotten to blink. Or eat. As she straightened her shoulders and arched her aching back she realized that it was long past lunchtime.

Carefully she put the letter she was holding back into its envelope, and slotted it back in the box with the others, on its end to show where she’d got up to. Then, sucking in a sharp breath as the blood flowed back into her cramped feet, she went downstairs to make a sandwich.

She sliced the last of the cheese mechanically, not noticing the smattering of mould on the edges of the bread. Dan Rosinski’s voice was clear in her head; so clear she could almost hear it and imagine he was in the room with her. But what about Stella? Even now she was as elusive, as mysterious as ever.

I don’t think I like her very much, Jess thought, mindlessly chewing on the dry sandwich and staring out into the wrecked garden. She seems like a piece of work, starting an affair with an American airman when her husband was away and – what? – just shoving him aside like yesterday’s chip paper when her man came back. What kind of woman would do that? She remembered the letter that had arrived here just a week ago; the one marked ‘Personal and Urgent’.
I never
stopped loving you . . . I tried, for the sake of my own sanity, but I never even got close.

Jess swallowed the sandwich with difficulty, frowning at the pain in the back of her throat and the loose ends of logic in her head. Stella Thorne had broken his heart, but she had kept his letters. Kept them carefully, like they meant something. Given them to her friend so they’d be safe.

Did that mean that maybe, just maybe, she had loved him too?

14

1943

Local legend had it that the weather was always good for the St Crispin’s church fete. Even Jacob Fletcher, King’s Oak’s oldest resident, couldn’t remember a single year when it had rained. Fortunately 1943 didn’t look like being any exception to this rule, which was a matter of some relief to the Fete Committee; after such an astonishing run of luck, rain on fete day would seem like failure on the part of the organizers.

‘Well, I think that’s just about all of it,’ Ada said brightly, checking down her list at the final meeting on the eve of the big day. ‘The teacups have been given a wash and Mr Crabtree is delivering the milk to the church hall in the morning. Tables and bunting to be put up first thing. Ooh – and I must tell my Alf to get the bits for the coconut shy out from under the stage in the hall. He’s managed to collect quite a nice little pile of cauliflowers from down the allotments.’

From around the table in the vestry the response to this last remark was muted and neutral, since the argument over the cauliflower/coconut shy still rankled. The committee had been divided between those who thought Stella’s suggestion an amusing improvisation, and those who considered it a shameful waste of good food as the cauliflowers were bound to get smashed up by the hard wooden balls.

‘And I trust Mrs Thorne is on top of all the preparations for the teas?’ Marjorie Walsh enquired with frosty nonchalance. ‘Not that it’s any of my concern this year, of course; only nobody knows better than me how much work there is to do beforehand. I’m always up into the small hours making my scones . . .’

Caught in the act of stifling a yawn, Stella could say nothing for a moment. The argument over the teas made the cauliflowers look like small beer, and she still wasn’t sure if finding herself in charge was a victory or a punishment. Attending her first committee meeting she’d offered to help out with the teas, and naïvely suggested gingerbread cake instead of scones, to save on margarine. Marjorie had seen this as a hostile takeover bid and dramatically removed herself from both the meeting and her long-standing position behind the tea urn. According to Ada she expected to be wooed back. ‘But she can forget that,’ Ada said shortly. ‘ We can manage perfectly well without her.’

Stella wasn’t so sure about that. Sunlight filtered down through the high windows, casting criss-cross patterns on the table, around which everyone was now looking at her expectantly – everyone except Reverend Stokes who was peacefully dozing. She cleared her throat and nodded, not daring to admit that in spite of practically offering up her body to Mr Castle at the grocer’s she hadn’t been able to get her hands on enough golden syrup to make even half the quantity of gingerbread cake needed to feed the hordes. The whole thing had seemed funny when she’d written about it to Dan, but less so now.

‘All under control,’ she said, trying to sound confident, and like someone who was wide awake and had been paying full attention. ‘I thought I’d make some coconut ice, to go with the gingerbread . . .’ although Mr Castle had only been able to give her the most meagre amount of desiccated coconut too.

Marjorie gave a strangulated little laugh, but whatever she was about to say was interrupted by a knock on the wooden screen that divided the vestry from the body of the church. Heads turned. An American serviceman stood beneath the carved gothic arch, a piece of paper in his hand. Stella’s heart jumped into her throat and she almost let out a scream as she realized that it wasn’t just any American serviceman, but the one whose face had haunted her dreams for weeks and whose voice she heard in her head just about every waking moment.

‘Excuse me? I’m looking for a . . .’ Dan squinted down at the paper. ‘A . . . Mrs Thorne?’

In the moment before she leapt from her chair and went to him Stella understood that he was up to something. Ignoring her completely, he was looking at Ada.

‘Oh, that’s me . . .’ Shakily she got to her feet, cheeks crimson, mind racing, her whole body awash with adrenaline. ‘Sorry – you are . . . ?’

‘Lieutenant Rosinski, ma’am, USAAF. You applied to us under the Special Allocation of Supplies Scheme? For the,’ he looked down at the paper again, ‘St Crispin’s Church Fete? Well ma’am, I’m pleased to tell you your application was successful. Where would you like your tinned peaches?’

A frisson of excitement went around the table, though whether at the words
tinned peaches
or the exotic accent in which they were spoken and the handsomeness of the man who’d said them, it was impossible to say. In the general excitement Dan gave her the ghost of a wink.

‘That’s wonderful news, Lieutenant – thank you so much.’ Walking towards him she could barely keep herself from smiling like a loon. ‘Why, I’d almost forgotten that I’d written to you. I suppose they ought to go in the kitchen at the church hall. I’ll show you.’

‘Tinned peaches?’ Reverend Stokes had woken with a start and was clearly afraid that he might have dreamed it, or misheard. ‘What the Dickens?’

‘From the Yanks – I mean, the Americans,’ Ada explained excitedly. ‘Under some supplies scheme clever Mrs T. found out about. What was it again?’

‘The Special Allocation of Supplies Scheme, ma’am. Or, as we call it for short, “Allies’ Supplies”. It’s our way of thanking you for your hospitality over here, and making sure that items that are hard to get hold of are spread around a little.’

Stella had to bite the inside of her cheeks to stop herself from laughing. God, he was convincing. He could have told them the tinned peaches had been specially delivered by schools of dolphins that had swum across from California and she felt sure they’d all believe him. Even Marjorie couldn’t maintain her sour-lemon face at the prospect of tinned peaches.

‘Ah – but there is a Judas in our midst,’ Reverend Stokes announced darkly, making the laugh die inside Stella’s mouth and jerking her heart back into her throat. ‘Remember the stolen light bulbs? I’m afraid it would be foolish to put such bounty in the church hall. The kitchen at the Vicarage would be more secure.’

‘And more convenient for him to help himself to a tin after his tea,’ Ada muttered.

Stella expelled her pent-up breath in a sigh of relief. ‘Yes, of course. Good idea. Follow me, Lieutenant and I’ll show you where to go.’

After the sunlight outside, the kitchen was cool and dim. Wordlessly she led him into the small, square scullery with the slate shelves that would once have been laden with provisions but were now deplorably empty. The window, set high up in the wall, was covered with a metal mesh to keep out the flies, giving the room a greenish, underwater feel. Dan set the crate of tins down on the floor and straightened up, and they looked at each other properly for the first time.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, as they drank each other in with their eyes. They were both smiling, breathless, laughing a little at the craziness of what had just happened; at the audacity of his idea and the completeness of its success. And then somehow the laughter had faded and they were moving together, reaching out. His hands cupped her face, her fists closed around handfuls of his shirt as their mouths met and their bodies slammed together.

The first time he’d kissed her – on the street outside the restaurant on the night he’d taken her out for dinner – it had been tentative and infinitely gentle, as if he’d been afraid of breaking her or frightening her away. This was different. There was no hesitation now, and no fear, just a joyful, hungry urgency. Over the previous weeks their letters had removed any strangeness between them. She had heard his voice so often in her head, encouraging and reassuring her, that it felt like he was almost a part of herself. The clean scent of him made her senses reel. Her lips burned beneath his. Dazed, they pulled apart and laughed again, quietly.

‘The Special Allocation of Supplies Scheme?’ she whispered. ‘Does that actually exist?’

‘Nope. Made it up in the jeep on the way in. The Allies’ Supplies bit I made up right there on the spot.’

This sparked off another convulsion of laughter. They clung together, shaking with private mirth.

‘How did you do it?’

‘Natural genius, I guess.’

‘Not the name, silly,’ she swiped at his arm, ‘the whole thing. Coming to my rescue with tinned peaches. How did you know?’

‘Your letters.’ He took her face in his hands again, stroking his thumbs across her cheeks. In the green gloom his face was suddenly serious, his eyes shadowed. A crease had appeared between them. ‘Reading them, hearing about all of this just about keeps me sane.’

‘Do you have to go back today?’

‘Nope. I’m officially on D.S. – detached service. I’m on stand-down until Sunday and was given the jeep to take some other stuff over to HQ. I’ll do that now then head back into town and see if I can get a room in the officers’ club. Can you come in later?’

She thought about the gingerbread cakes she still had to make, and the coconut ice – though maybe that wouldn’t be necessary now, thanks to the tinned peaches. But she didn’t know what plausible excuse she could give for going out the night before the fete, and – more importantly – her hair was badly in need of a wash. Suddenly she was terribly aware of what she must look like, in a greyish aertex shirt she’d had since school and a maroon skirt of singular ugliness.

‘I’m not sure . . .’

He kissed her. ‘No problem. It’s fine.’

‘Tomorrow. I’ll come tomorrow, after the fete. I’ll say I’m going out with Nancy.’

The sound of footsteps on the front path made them spring apart. Over the pounding of blood in her ears Stella heard Ada’s voice.

‘Hello-o? Just came to see if you need a hand?’

Completely unruffled Dan went out of the scullery. ‘That’s very kind of you, ma’am,’ Stella heard him say, ‘but I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble. There’s another couple crates in the jeep, but I can manage.’

‘Very kind of
you
, more like. Tinned peaches! I can hardly believe it!’

Ada’s voice got more distant as she followed Dan to the jeep. Stella could hardly believe it herself; Dan,
here
. Straightening the hideous skirt she left the scullery and went out of the kitchen door. As she went down the side of the house she saw Ada standing by the jeep, looking at it as if it were the golden coach used for the King’s coronation. Dan was coming back up the path carrying the two remaining crates, which were obviously very heavy.

‘In the same place, Mrs Thorne?’

‘Yes please, Lieutenant.’

‘Well, I must say, you done us proud,’ Ada said admiringly as Stella went to join her. ‘Marjorie’s face! No one’s going to miss ’er scones now, are they?’

Dan came down the side of the house and Stella’s heart cartwheeled in her chest. The sleeves of his khaki shirt were rolled back to show tanned forearms and the sun made gold lights glint in his tawny hair.

‘Is that an apple tree in the yard back there, Mrs Thorne?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s a beauty. Going to be a fine crop this year.’

‘You should have seen it a couple of weeks ago,’ she said softly. ‘A mass of blossom it was, like a cloud.’