Starlight (25 page)

‘Rusty, I understand. There's no need to say anything.'

‘Feel so bad.'

‘Look, you shouldn't. This will all sort itself out. And like you said – you survived. We both survived. That's what matters.'

‘That's what matters.'

Soon, she could tell by his breathing that he was asleep, but there seemed no prospect of sleep for her. Time passed, while she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, until she got out of bed and moved to the window.

No blackout curtains now, of course, and the street outside was plainly visible, washed by the light of the moon. For a long time, she stood, watching the night birds in the trees opposite, and the movement of the leaves, thinking about the momentous day. How things had changed, in just a few hours! Rusty was home and everything in her life had taken on a new colour, a new meaning.

But how would it all work out? She'd thought his return would bring an end to anxiety, yet she seemed to have exchanged one set of worries for another, and somehow along the line had lost confidence. The truth was, she couldn't tell how things would work out. Whether they ever would. For, if Rusty was real enough, he was not yet the Rusty who had gone away.

‘All the guys are pretty much in the same boat,' he had said, and she was sure that that was true. It was going to take time for him, and men like him, to come back to what they had been. Take up a life they'd left, while living with memories of a life no one at home could share.

She held the curtain, still looking out at the silent street. How much time, though? She must just be patient, let things take their course.

‘Jess?'

There was his voice again, and turning, she found him beside her, bony arms outstretched.

‘Jess, can't you sleep?'

‘Bit overwrought. So much happening.'

‘Poor girl. It's been too much, hasn't it? But true what I said, you know.' He put his arms around her. ‘It will be all right.'

In the pale light surrounding their two figures at the window, she looked into his face.

‘I know,' she said simply.

And as they went back to bed, arms entwined, she suddenly felt – perhaps it would be true.

Part Three

Forty-Six

On a warm June Sunday in 1946, Addie Raeburn's family – Jess and Rusty, Ben and Marguerite – had gathered for one of her famous roast lunches. (How does she do it? Ben had asked Marguerite – not in the black market, is she? And then had laughed shortly, as she only looked at him pityingly, for he'd learned long ago not to be surprised at Marguerite's own sweet-hearting of the butcher into letting her have something over the ration.) Anyway, the roast lamb was excellent, and so were the green peas provided by Derry, also a guest. And that was no surprise either, the way things were.

Addie, however, was not in a good mood, and as soon as the meal had been cleared away and the washing up done, had continued to grumble about the latest bad news to hit the British people.

‘Would you credit it?' she cried, as Jess moved around, serving cups of tea or the new instant coffee she'd found. ‘Bread rationing! Yes, it's official. Bread's to be rationed from next month, cakes, scones and flour as well. How am I going to do my baking if I canna get enough flour?'

‘You'll manage, Addie,' Derry told her proudly. ‘You always do.'

‘Aye, but think about it. We've just been through a terrible war, and put up with every shortage going, but we never ever had our bread rationed. Now we're at peace, they tell us we can have nine ounces a day! Fifteen for a manual worker, nine for the rest of us – I mean, what's gone wrong?'

‘They say there's a wheat shortage,' Ben remarked. ‘But the rumours are that there's more to it than that.'

‘Seemingly, it's all to do with negotiations with America and Canada,' Derry said. ‘Other countries in the world are in a bad way and food has to be found, so we've shown willing by offering to save grain and ration bread.'

‘Where'd you hear all this?' asked Jess, as though interested, but her eyes were only on Rusty who was taking no part in the discussion.

‘Evening paper,' Derry answered. ‘And I bet it's true. I mean, would the government make itself unpopular if they'd any choice?'

‘Canna trust governments,' Addie said darkly. ‘I heard that while we're going to have our bread rationed, some farmers abroad have been feeding too much grain to their animals. Now that's a piece of nonsense, eh?'

‘All I know is that it's going to be a nuisance, having to worry about more stupid little bits of paper,' Marguerite declared. ‘We've already got ration books and points and clothing coupons, and now we've got bread units as well. It's ridiculous.'

‘Wonder how much nine ounces of bread actually is,' Ben murmured thoughtfully. ‘How many slices, do you think?'

‘What the hell does it matter how many slices it is?' Rusty shouted, suddenly clashing down his coffee cup and jumping to his feet. ‘Who cares? When you remember what's happened in this world, haven't we got something better to think about than how many slices of bread we're going to eat, for God's sake?'

‘Rusty!' Jess cried. ‘There's no need to speak to Ben like that!'

‘Not to worry,' Ben said coolly. ‘We know Rusty's not himself.'

‘I'd like to know why,' Marguerite put in, her blue eyes glacial. ‘It's time he got over what happened in the war, like the rest of us are having to do.'

‘We weren't all in prison camps,' Derry said sharply.

‘That's right,' Jess chimed, glaring fiercely at her sister.

‘Let's all calm down,' Addie said, gathering up cups. ‘Let's no' spoil a nice day.'

‘I'm going, anyway,' Rusty muttered. ‘Sorry if I snapped, Ben.'

‘I said not to worry.'

‘And we're going, too.' Marguerite draped a pale blue cardigan around her elegant shoulders. ‘Come on, Ben, we've work to do.'

‘Work?' Addie repeated. ‘On a Sunday?'

‘I'm taking a couple of days off to paint our living room,' Ben said morosely. ‘Marguerite wants us to clear out my mother's stuff today.'

‘No need to make it sound as though I'm throwing it away!' Marguerite cried. ‘It can all go in boxes in the attic, if you want to keep it.'

‘Of course I want to keep it!' Ben's dark eyes were smouldering. ‘My mother's things – what do you think?'

‘Don't be upset, Ben,' Addie said soothingly. ‘It's natural for Marguerite to want to do the house her way. Every woman does.'

‘I've been wanting to do it for ages,' Marguerite murmured, moving to the door. ‘Only I knew Ben would make a fuss.'

‘I am not making a fuss!' he cried. ‘Just don't want to see my mother's stuff pushed out.'

‘I tell you, it's going in the attic!'

‘If you'll excuse me, I'm going for a walk.' Rusty, not looking at anyone, unhooked his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘Many thanks, Ma, for a wonderful meal. Jess, are you coming?'

‘You'll be back for a cup of tea?' Addie cried. ‘Marguerite – I thought you'd stay on, too. I've a lovely Victoria sponge and there won't be many more of them, after this bread rationing sets in!'

‘Sorry, Ma, got to get on. Ben, let's away. Lovely dinner, eh?'

‘Grand,' Ben muttered. ‘Thanks, Ma, Derry. Rusty, I'll see you.'

‘Fine,' Rusty answered, clearly desperate to get himself out of the door. ‘Come on, Jess.'

‘We might look in for tea,' Jess told her mother. ‘If you've managed to make a cake.' She let her eyes slide quickly over her sister and brother-in-law, then looked away. ‘Goodbye, Ben . . . goodbye, Marguerite.'

‘Don't get mad at me, Jess,' Marguerite said swiftly. ‘I only said what's true.'

‘Why does the truth have to be so hurtful?' Jess asked, and hurried down the stairs.

Forty-Seven

He might at least have waited for her, Jess thought, following Rusty towards the Shore, but there was his still thin figure striding ahead through the Sunday crowds, not even looking back.

‘Rusty, wait!' she called, and he did then stop until she'd reached him, but made no apology for leaving her, only pushed back his now thick, waving hair and kept his eyes looking straight ahead.

‘What's got into you this afternoon?' she asked breathlessly, though even as she put the question, knew it was pointless. The way he'd been that afternoon was the way he was so often nowadays. Spiky, thorny, difficult. Quite different from the sweet-natured Rusty she used to know and had married. Sometimes, she reminded herself, it was only what she'd expected. When he'd first returned, it had been obvious that it would take some time for him, and men like him, to adjust to life back home. What she hadn't expected was that it would take so long.

‘Got into me?' he repeated, turning his gaze on her. ‘Nothing's got into me. What I feel about folk at home nattering on about their little problems has always been with me.' He struck his chest with his hand. ‘Here.'

‘Are you talking about Ben?' Jess asked coldly. ‘He was in the war, just like you. He was also blown up, like some of the folk at home you talk about. Me, for instance.'

Colour flared on Rusty's cheekbones.

‘You know I didn't mean you,' he said quickly. ‘And I shouldn't have lost my temper with Ben.' He took her arm. ‘Come on, let's go to the Shore.'

‘You usually prefer the Links.'

He shrugged. ‘You like the Shore. I don't care where I go.'

With her husband in such a mood, maybe Jess didn't either, but it was true that she still liked strolling round the old harbour, looking out from the quay to the small boats that had replaced the graceful sailing ships of long ago. The docks were the key to Leith's prosperity now, though there was talk of post-war recession, with shipbuilding and other industries falling into decline, but on a pleasant Sunday afternoon, with people everywhere and one or two cafes open, it was possible to look on the bright side. Maybe even persuade Rusty to cheer up.

Having looked down at the famous Water of Leith that had its source here, but so often, as now, needed cleaning, they moved on past the old Custom House to find a bench where they could sit. While Rusty stretched out his long legs and took out his cigarettes, Jess cast covert glances over him.

He had put on a little weight since his return; lost the skeletal appearance of those early days, with even his face appearing not quite so gaunt. Yet he was still painfully thin, still gave the impression that he was not yet over some serious illness. An illness, Jess had finally realised, that came from within, and was the more difficult to treat.

Drawing on his cigarette, he suddenly turned and caught her gaze.

‘What are you thinking, Jess? I'm being unreasonable?'

‘I suppose I do think that. Folk have a right to complain when things seem to be going backwards.'

‘Maybe, but what they forget when they complain is that they have something a hell of a lot of people have lost.'

She stared at him, raising her eyebrows.

‘I'm talking about their lives,' he said quietly. ‘Think about it, Jess. All the people who aren't coming back. All the civilians dead in the raids. Do you know how many died in Japan when we dropped the atomic bombs?'

‘If we hadn't dropped those bombs, there would have been hundreds killed anyway, Rusty. It would have taken years to bring the war in the Far East to an end. That's what I've read.'

‘That may be true, and I've no sympathy with the Japanese army after the way they treated our prisoners, but the numbers of ordinary folk killed by the bombs were horrendous.' Rusty's fingers on his cigarette were trembling. ‘Even smaller numbers of deaths are terrible to think about. Londoners in the Blitz, the people of Coventry, Dresden, Clydebank, nearly every tenement destroyed.' He shook his head. ‘When I think of how many souls I might have killed myself in bombers, I feel sick, Jess. As though I can't look at my face in the mirror any more.'

‘Rusty – that's war. It had to be fought, we had to defeat evil. You mustn't blame yourself.'

His shadowed eyes turned to her again. ‘You know what, Jess? I was glad to be captured. I was glad to be in that camp. Cabbage soup – what the hell – I wasn't sending down death any more.'

‘And now it's over,' she said urgently. ‘Now you can forget, and get on with your life, because that's what the fighting was for. To let people live their own lives, be free.'

‘I'm not free,' he said in a low voice. ‘I can't forget.' He stood up, grinding his cigarette end with his heel. ‘Might as well be a prisoner still.'

They began to walk slowly back, each locked in thoughts so dark, the people passing by, the sunny afternoon, seemed to fade from their consciousness. But before they reached Great Junction Street, Jess took the courage to speak of something she rarely allowed to surface in her mind.

‘Rusty, you know I asked you once – when you'd first come back – how you managed . . .'

As her voice faltered and died, he gave a wry smile and finished the question for her.

‘How I managed, not drinking? Yes, I remember your asking me that. And I told you I survived. Had to.'

‘So that was good, wasn't it? I mean, you used to say you wished you could give it up, and then you did.'

Her eyes on his face, she waited for him to agree. When he said nothing, something began to beat in her head like some low menacing drum.

‘Rusty?' She waited again. ‘Rusty, that's true, isn't it? You had to give it up, and that was good?'

‘I want to be honest with you,' he said at last. ‘Honesty's what you should have.'

The drum was so loud, she almost put her hands to her ears, but her voice was a whisper.