War Orphans (20 page)

‘Where the bloody hell do you think you've been? I've a good mind to throw your dinner in the bin.'

‘Now, now,' said the man, patting her stepmother's hand. ‘Don't be a cow, Elspeth. It's Christmas. Goodwill and all that. Anyway, did you tell 'er about the bird? Come on. Get 'er some dinner.'

The man had a fleshy face and a scar running down one cheek. His lips were almost non-existent, as though at some point he'd sucked them in and swallowed them.

The way he looked her up and down made Joanna feel uncomfortable.

‘Pretty little thing, ain't she. How about coming and sitting on my lap, Joanna? You can pretend I'm Father Christmas!'

The look Elspeth gave him was unreadable. She slapped his arm.

‘Jack, leave her alone. The girl wants her dinner, don't you, Joanna? And we've got pudding afterwards.'

‘You're just jealous,' he said, his wet lips grazing Elspeth's cheek, his eyes fixed on her stepdaughter.

Joanna sat down at the table, barely able to believe that her stepmother was setting down a plateful of food in front of her. There were roast potatoes, vegetables and slices of chicken all swimming in thick gravy.

Although she was very hungry, Joanna couldn't stop staring at the fleshy faced man sitting next to her stepmother. She knew her well enough to realise she was being affable only in order to impress Jack. Whoever Jack was, Joanna didn't like him and certainly didn't like the way he looked at her.

Her stepmother noticed her wary gaze. ‘Joanna!' she snapped. ‘Stop staring and eat your bloody dinner!'

Jack intervened. ‘Hang on, hang on. Elspeth, where's yer manners? You ain't properly introduced me.'

Elspeth was all nervous laughter, determined to make a good impression. ‘Jack Smith, you're big enough to introduce yourself.' She slapped his arm playfully.

Jack's expression seemed to freeze after she did that. ‘Less of a heavy hand, if you don't mind, Elspeth.'

His voice had turned surly and although it lightened when he looked at Joanna, he still frightened her. The way he leered at her made Joanna feel slightly sick.

‘So there you are, little lady. Me name's Jack Smith and you're Joanna Ryan. Now we've got that out of the way, we can all get on with our dinner. Then perhaps you can sit on me lap afterwards!'

Elspeth was about to slap his shoulder again, but on seeing his warning expression instead stroked his arm.

Both the chicken and the pudding went down well. Joanna was doubly surprised when her stepmother helped her take the dishes into the kitchen.

‘There,' she said resolutely. ‘Wasn't that nice of Jack to bring us that chicken? I bet there aren't that many people hereabouts having chicken for their Christmas dinner. Make sure you thank Jack for his present. Right? If you do sit on his lap, remember to give him a Christmas kiss. In fact, make sure you do.'

Joanna didn't like her stepmother's tone of voice. Neither did she like Jack Smith or the prospect of sitting on his lap and kissing him.

‘I don't think Dad would like me to do that. So I won't.'

‘You will do as you're told.'

‘No. If you make me, I'll tell Dad as soon as he gets home.'

Alarmed by her defiance, Elspeth Ryan grabbed her arm. Joanna yelped at the pain of her fingers digging into her arms. Her stepmother's flushed face was inches from her own. ‘He's my cousin. All right? You remember to tell your father that. It'll be the worse for you if you don't,' she hissed.

She straightened suddenly, her voice returning to uncharacteristic sweetness.

‘Now. You be all right washing the dishes by yourself, will you?'

Joanna nodded and kept her head down. Anything was better than sitting on Jack Smith's lap and kissing him.

Elspeth seemed satisfied enough. ‘I'm going in to have a drink and a chat about old times with Jack. I'll close the door so we can't hear the dishes. That's a good girl. Oh, and do what you can with the remains of the chicken. But tell no one,' she said in a conspiratory whisper. ‘It has to be a secret.'

Joanna winced as her stepmother patted her head a little more heavily than was necessary. Once the door was closed she washed the dishes as quickly as she could, one eye on the remains of the chicken. There was some flesh left plus the cooked entrails and neck along with pieces of crisp skin.

Once the dishes were washed, dried and put away, she divided the chicken into flesh, bones, skin and entrails. The latter two items were wrapped up in newspaper along with the gizzard, the parson's nose and the neck. Harry would have his Christmas dinner and once he had, she would take him for a walk.

‘Are you sure you don't need any help with the planting? I mean, you don't need to go down there today, do you? It is Christmas.'

It was the third time Sally had asked her father if he needed her assistance and pointed out to him that it was Christmas Day. His response on this third occasion was even brusquer than on the previous two.

‘Do you think I'm infirm or something? I do know how to plant a few carrots and vegetables, you know!'

‘I only asked,' she said, raising her hands in submission. ‘I was only offering.'

‘You've got your own work to do, running this house.'

‘Pierre is willing to help.'

His face darkened. ‘No need. I can manage and, anyway, I like a bit of time to myself.'

Sally sighed and gave up. It had taken her some time to get her father to snap out of the melancholia he'd suffered ever since her mother had died. She'd lost count of the times she'd attempted to get him to take an interest in something – anything – that would help him become yet again the father she'd known. Things had improved, though he still had his moments.

It hadn't been their habit to buy each other presents at Christmas so it came as something of a surprise when her father handed her a set of embroidered handkerchiefs, blue forget-me-nots in each corner.

‘It was the last they had,' he said, somewhat shyly.

‘Oh, Dad.' All her reservations fell away.

He looked bashful when she kissed his cheek.

‘I bought you socks,' she said handing him a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. ‘It was the last they had too. I think I'll be knitting them from now on.'

Secretly she was glad he didn't want her to accompany him and she knew he was all right down at the allotment by himself. In the meantime she had her own life to lead.

‘Dinner smells good,' he commented as he reached for his old army greatcoat.

‘Stuffed bullock's heart, roast potatoes, cabbage and carrots. I had to queue for all of it. Must say I'm looking forward to the day when you're bringing vegetables up from the allotment.'

‘They don't grow overnight, you know.'

‘Pierre's aunt was in the same queue. She was expecting a chicken, but somebody broke in and stole the lot.'

‘I had heard. Don Stone down at the allotment told me.'

She smiled. Her father was beginning to mix with people again.

So much had happened since the outbreak of war and she'd been looking forward to Christmas Day. She had hoped that Pierre would be dining with them, but he'd promised to eat with his aunt. She'd been invited too but had declined.

‘I can't leave Dad by himself.'

‘He can come too,' Pierre had offered.

‘No. I think he might in time, but not yet. He's only just coming out of himself since Mum died and I don't want to upset him. Forcing him to do something out of the normal routine might do that.'

Pierre said that he understood, but deep down she knew he wanted to be with her; she certainly wanted to be with him.

Instead he agreed to call round for her mid-afternoon.

‘We will go for a walk. I need to talk to you.'

Her heart had flipped, but she thought she knew what he was going to talk to her about. Would it be too early to be a spring bride? She loved the blossoms that appeared on the trees after a
long winter, and though she could make a bouquet out of them, perhaps wear some in her hair.

Blushing at her thoughts, she forced herself to concentrate on getting dinner ready, including the pudding she'd made weeks ago adding a little sherry from their meagre supply.

After her father had returned from the allotment for his Christmas lunch and they'd listened to the King's speech on the wireless, he told her he would deal with the washing up.

Sally clamped her lips tightly together so she wouldn't say out loud what was on her mind.
Goodness! That's the second time this year!

Pierre arrived about an hour after they'd finished lunch and he'd brought presents: a bottle of French brandy for her father and French perfume for her. He also brought his aunt's best wishes. ‘She sent you these.' He handed over half a dozen eggs.

‘Eggs and perfume! What a lucky girl I am.' She kissed him on the cheek. Her father set his tea towel to one side and shook his hand. ‘And I have something for you.' She handed him a copy of
The Three Musketeers
by Alexander Dumas. ‘It was a bit presumptuous of me, but for some reason I didn't think you had a copy – not in English anyway.'

He laughed. ‘Sally, I confess I do not own a copy in English or French!'

She blushed when he kissed her cheek. His accent, his looks and his chivalrous manner all contributed to make her blush like a girl.

‘It seems so poor compared to this,' she said, holding up the bottle of perfume. ‘I'm a really lucky girl.'

A secretive look clouded his eyes. ‘It was touch and go whether it got here. I've just discovered a hole in my pocket. It was quite small but it's getting bigger.'

‘Give it to me. I'll mend it for you.

‘That's very kind.'

‘You're very kind too.' She frowned as a thought occurred to her. ‘You didn't even know me before coming over from France, so how come . . .?'

He stood close to her. ‘I've already told you. I just knew I was going to meet someone like you. It's Chanel. The very best.'

Sally took a deep breath. Never in her whole life had she owned such an expensive perfume. She planted a second kiss on his cheek. She would have kissed him more deeply but her father was in the room.

‘This is so wonderful. Give me a minute and I'll put it upstairs. I don't intend wasting a drop.'

Eyes sparkling, she brushed his arm with her hand.

‘She'll be ages,' Seb grumbled. ‘Might as well take a seat and I'll make you a cup of tea.'

Pierre grinned. ‘It is cold outside. Tea is very English, but as a Frenchman I would prefer brandy.'

Seb flashed an amiable expression and fetched the glasses. ‘You fill them while I get my things ready to go back down to the allotment.'

Seb hadn't wanted Sally to go out with Pierre, not at first. Not because he was French but purely because the young man would undoubtedly come between them. At that point in his life he hadn't wanted anyone to intrude upon his relationship with his daughter. She was all he had left. Now, since coming across the four-legged friend living in his shed, he regretted behaving in such a selfish manner.

Seb folded his coat over the back of the chair, his boots to the side. The right-hand pocket of his coat sagged close to the floor.

Pierre poured the amber fluid into each glass. ‘To a very happy Christmas,' he said.

‘And here's to a more peaceful New Year,' returned Seb.

They clinked glasses in a toast and as their eyes met Seb wondered what it was he sensed about the man. It wasn't so much that he was a bad lot or anything, just that the Frenchman struck him as a man who kept secrets.

‘What is this?' Pierre said, reaching over to the floor at the side of Seb's chair.

He held up a parcel wrapped in newspaper that had fallen out of his coat pocket.

‘That's private,' said Seb snatching it back.

Pierre watched as he stuffed it back into his coat pocket.

‘Is it a secret?'

‘Yes,' snapped Seb. ‘It is.'

‘Is it for Sally?'

Seb shook his head. ‘No. It is not.'

‘I see,' said Pierre, smiling and nodding as though he understood perfectly well who the present was for.

Sally had told him about her mother dying and her father drowning in sadness. She'd also told him about how he had changed in the last couple of months. He was happier than he had been. To Pierre's mind it could mean only one thing.

‘Your father has a lady friend,' he had told her.

Sally had burst out laughing and shaken her head vehemently. ‘I can't believe that.'

‘But you say he is changed.'

‘There is no sign of him being friendly with a woman. Mrs Evans two doors along invites him in for tea and a piece of cake now and again. But that's all.'

Pierre prided himself on reading people. He wasn't always right, but judging by Seb's manner and the way he had shoved the package back into his pocket, he was convinced that he did indeed have a lady friend.

‘I would prefer if you said nothing of this to my daughter,' said Seb.

‘You have my word,' Pierre said. In fact, he felt a sneaking regard for the old man. A love affair! At his age! He could almost be French!

The moment and the suspicion were swiftly placed aside. He had made a decision on which both his future and Sally's depended. Today was not the ideal time to tell Sally of his
intentions, but if he didn't declare his feelings today his courage might fail him. It had to be today and going for a walk together would be the best time to tell her he was leaving.

Victoria Park was oddly desolate. A white mist had descended, trailing between the bare branches of trees like a bride's veil. The air was chill but Sally felt warm. Pierre's hand held hers and their upper arms brushed against each other as they walked.