Whisper on the Wind (44 page)

‘Good morning, Grace – and Arnie?’ Hester regarded the small boy, scowling with concentration, tongue protruding. On the newspaper-covered table top stood ornaments of copper or brass, several pieces of rag for putting-on and a bright, fluffy yellow duster. ‘My word, but you’re busy.’

Arnie glanced up, smiled broadly at his grown-up friend, then returned to his rubbing.

‘Arnie is earning himself a sixpence,’ Grace supplied, ‘on account of it soon being Poll’s birthday, aren’t you, lad?’

‘Mm. For a card. And a stamp.’

‘A special card,’ Grace confirmed. ‘A card with roses on it and what else, Arnie?’

‘A
pre-war
card, with real gold writing on it. I’ve got to buy it soon or somebody else’ll get it and I want Aunty Poll to have it. Mrs Ramsden’s going to get it for me when she goes to Helpsley on Monday.’

‘That’s a very nice thought, Arnie, and thank you for reminding me.’ Hester smiled. ‘I’ve brought the usual, Grace, though I wish I could have brought a bag of sugar, too. Raspberries aren’t the same without sugar, are they?’ Eight ounces of sugar a week went nowhere.

‘Happen not, but Mat fair loves them and he’s not all that much of a sweet-tooth, thanks be.’ Grace smiled. ‘You’ll take a cup, Mrs Fairchild?’

‘Thank you, no.’ Hester made it her habit never to accept tea, rationing being what it was, though in the old days she had dearly loved to call in at Home Farm for a cup and a chat. ‘Oh, dear. Such a state we’re in. No sugar for raspberries; no sugar for
anything.
’

‘No.’ Grace cast her mind back to peaceful times, and the squirrelling of summer’s goodness, learning to her cost that such ordinary things needed sugar and never would she take those precious white grains for granted again. ‘Do you remember the pantry at Michaelmas? Such an array. Rows and rows of jams and chutneys, jars full of bottled fruit? Such a sight it was …’

‘And now there’s nothing in pantries, nor in the shops, Grace. It took a war to put paid to unemployment, yet there’s nothing to be bought now with a man’s wages. Birthdays aren’t any fun at all.’

What should she give to Polly? What
could
she give? Not even a tablet of her favourite lavender-scented soap to be had.

‘You’re right.’ Grace nodded mournfully. Being young was no fun these days. A man couldn’t even buy his sweetheart a ring, except one with diamonds in it so small that they were no more than chippings. And as for wedding rings – now they had to be in nine-carat gold, if you please. Seemed wrong, somehow, starting out in marriage with a utility ring costing one pound, nine shillings and sixpence. And what about a bride’s trousseau? One pair of fully-fashioned stockings, two pairs of knickers and a petticoat, with hardly enough clothing coupons left for a nightie. Twenty coupons gone; six months’ allowance and nothing to show for it. And as for wedding dresses with yards and yards of satin in the skirt; well, wedding dresses were downright unpatriotic, now.

Mind, Jonty’s young lady would be all right – if ever he got around to asking one to marry him. Grandma Ramsden’s jewel box had a heavy gold wedding ring in it, aye, and one set with pearls and garnets that any lass would be proud to wear. Sad he’d not be giving it to Roz …

‘Sad,’ she murmured, hastily adding, ‘about the young ones, I mean, and nothing for them to buy …’

‘Sad,’ Hester agreed, recalling Polly’s indignation at having to queue for twenty minutes for a yard –
one
yard, mark you – of knicker-elastic only yesterday. ‘You know, Grace, since the Japs came into the war, our supply of latex has practically dried up. Most of the rubber-producing countries overrun, now.’ Knickers without elastic? It hardly bore thinking about.

‘Aye.’ It wasn’t the Far East that Grace was so bothered about; it was no further than your own doorstep that you needed to look, she thought grimly. Shops empty and people who’d lost everything in the bombing having to beseech the Board of Trade for dockets just to replace a few essentials, it’s coupons for this and dockets for that and permits for a few yards of curtaining, even, and them taking months and months to come through. My cousin’s girl has a little one who’s grown out of her cot, but can she get a bed for the bairn? Takes time, she’s been told and small comfort that is, with the little one’s feet sticking out at the end.’

‘So we just go on counting our blessings, Grace.’ Hester rose to her feet. ‘And we are luckier than most in these parts. At least we’re safe here, and can sleep nights. Ah, well – must be away.’ She smiled down at the boy who was more interested in his polishing than in the seriousness of rationing and privation. ‘Come and see me soon,’ she whispered, her hand lingering on his untidy shock of hair.

It was lonely, now, at Ridings with Roz hardly ever in. She dreaded the winter with its short days and long, closed-in nights. Some mornings, even in the kindness of summer, she dreaded getting up to face the day. She missed Martin so much, now – perhaps because all at once she’d had to face facts and facts were that Roz was no longer hers. ‘Don’t forget now – if Polly can spare you.’ Such a delight of a boy; such an inquisitive, active mind. A privilege, that’s what a son was and her son – hers and Martin’s – had died in her womb.

‘Mat shall have the rasps for his pudding tonight.’ Grace smiled, holding open the door. ‘It was kind of you to spare the time picking them …’

Time. It was something she had plenty of, Hester thought as she opened the orchard gate. Time to brood, to think, to want Martin as she hadn’t wanted him for years, now. Time to grow old without him, the husband they’d snatched from her.

‘Oh, my dear, how I need you with me now …’

It was the wrong time to see him, that man she had so far avoided; to come face to face with Marco Roselli when she was aching so for Martin, could not have been more wrong. For just the passing of a second she hesitated, off balance, then taking a gasping, steadying breath she walked, stiff-backed, toward the man she would rather never have seen.

He was tall, but then she had known that, yet she was not prepared for his slimness, for the warm, golden-brown of a body stripped to the waist, the thick, dark hair. Nor was she prepared for the slight bow of his head, the smile that was genuine, the whispered, ‘
Buon giorno, Signora.
’

How could he; how
dare
he? She clamped her lips tightly, stared at him, through him, then turned her head away as if to shut him out, ignore him, make believe he were not there; not deserving of even a passing glance. One of Martin’s enemies on Martin’s land. She could not prevent him being there; she could not, even, demand that Roz should not work with him, but she, Martin’s wife, need not and would not acknowledge him.

She tilted her chin and, shaking inside, walked on, her breathing uneven. Since January, when he had been forced upon them, she had been careful to avoid him, to go nowhere he might be, yet this morning when she had been totally unprepared for this meeting, they had come face to face in her own orchard. She quickened her step, anxious to be at Ridings, feel the comfort of its walls around her. She needed to be in Martin’s house, needed his nearness; to stand still and quiet so she might hear his voice. Because she did hear it. More and more, now, she felt his presence. All she need do was to stand beside the garden seat and he would walk down the staircase to her.

Her heart had slowed its erratic beating, had steadied to a dull thudding she could feel in her throat, and even as she placed her hand on the door knob she knew she had been wrong. A nod, no matter how slight, an acknowledging of his presence would have cost her nothing and left her with her dignity. Instead, she had over-reacted; had flounced past him like a teenaged girl so that he had had the better of the encounter.

She closed the door behind her, shutting out the morning. She felt calmer, now. She was in her own kitchen, in her own house – the house from which Martin had left the morning of his last leave. She was safe, again.

Filling the kettle, she placed it to boil, dismayed that today was Saturday and Polly would not be here; nothing to do but wait until Roz came home. She looked at the empty cigarette packet on the table, wishing that she smoked, that it hadn’t been considered fast for a woman to be seen with a cigarette between her fingers when she was young. She would have liked to light one now; inhale its smoke deeply as the young ones did. Since the war, almost everyone smoked. It was good for stress, they said, and calming. The young ones needed them.

Taking the empty packet she threw it on the fire, watching the flames take it. When she had had a cup of tea, she would go back to the garden and pick raspberries for Polly, then walk down the drive to the lodge with them. It would help rid her of this unreasonable anger; help allay this awful loneliness.

The pain of Hester’s encounter was still with her when Roz came home at midday. Sighing, she held her cheek for her granddaughter’s kiss, fighting the indignation that struggled to be brought into the open.

‘The prisoner,’ she said much, much too quietly, ‘was in the orchard and I think it has come to something that even on my own land I must put up with such – such
intrusions.
’

‘Gran?’

‘The Italian, I’m talking about. Impudent as you like he wishes me a good morning – in Italian – then smiles at me as if we’re long-lost friends. I tell you, Roz –’

‘Don’t get upset, Gran –
please
? So Marco smiled at you? There’s nothing wrong in that, surely? He’s young, Gran, like Kath and Jonty and me. He isn’t exactly enjoying this war and heaven only knows when he’ll see his family again.’

‘Then more fool him for coming here. But I never wanted him at Ridings; I said so at the time and I don’t like to hear you defend him, Rosalind. Not here, in my own home.’

‘All right. I’m sorry.’ Walking over to the sinkstone she began to scrub her hands, eyes down. She didn’t want Marco to be the cause of trouble; especially now when Kath was getting so fond of him. ‘But don’t go on, so. I don’t suppose he wanted to be in the army any more than our own boys wanted to. Don’t stoop to the level of those Helpsley women? It isn’t like you to be so unfair. Marco works very hard, and we – well, we all like him,’ she added, defiantly.

‘You may please yourself, I suppose, though it hurts me to hear you talking like that.’

‘Darling – sit down.’ Gently Roz took her shoulders, guiding her to the table. ‘I’ve only got half an hour and I don’t want to waste it talking about the prisoner. Ready for your soup? Try to eat some – please?’

Carefully, she filled two bowls; without speaking she cut bread. She could do without this upset. She had worries enough of her own.

‘You know, Roz, it’s strange to me that you’ve talked more about the Italian than ever you’ve done about your own young man.’ Hester said it softly, though her eyes were filled with reproach.

‘Paul? But I told you about him.’

‘You told me his name, Roz, and that you might bring him to meet me …’

‘Gran – I
will
bring him and before much longer, I hope.’ She hadn’t wanted to talk about Paul; not until she brought him home, until she knew it was all right for them. But her grandmother was upset, so she had little choice. ‘I want to bring Paul to meet you when he’s finished his tour of ops – that’s thirty raids
over Germany.
’ Almost without thinking she had laid stress on those words. ‘I think he’ll be flying tonight or tomorrow, and if he is he’ll only have four more to do and then he’ll be taken off flying for a time.’

There, she’d said it, now. And she hadn’t wanted to; hadn’t meant to say anything about him until she was absolutely sure it was all right.

‘But why wait? Can’t he come soon – tomorrow, Roz? I’d so like it if you’d bring him. Why must it wait?’

‘Because –’ She was crumbling her bread, making a mess on the table top and she couldn’t lift her eyes to face her grandmother fairly and squarely. ‘Because – well, we want to get married when Paul comes off flying, but you won’t let us, will you? You’ll say I’m too young and you’ll forget that you were my age when you and Grandpa got married, that our war is just as awful as yours and –’

She took a deep, despairing breath then forced her head upwards to gaze clearly into her grandmother’s eyes. She’d said it, now. She’d messed it up when she’d been so careful for so long. And all because of Gran’s hatred for an unknown sniper who had waited at the window of a ruined house for the slightest of movements; had lifted his rifle and had squeezed the trigger, gently, gently. ‘Oh, God, can’t you forget your war? Can’t you help me and Paul to fight ours?’ She covered her face with her hands, fighting back tears of sadness and pity and frustration.

‘Roz – darling child – don’t cry.’ Pushing back her chair she gathered her grandchild to her, making little hushing sounds, gently pushing back the hair that fell over her face. ‘Please don’t cry. Do you think me so awful? And how can you be so sure I won’t say yes? Don’t you think the sooner you bring your Paul home, the sooner you’ll know?’

‘Gran – you mean you’d let us?’

‘I mean that I want to meet your young man – talk to him, see for myself what he’s like. You don’t expect me to say yes, until I’ve met him?’

’No. And I don’t know a lot about him myself – only that I love him so very much. I haven’t met his parents, either. They want him to go to university, you see, so he hasn’t said anything to them about me.

‘But Pippa knows about us. She’s his twin – Philippa. She’s a sergeant in the WAAF. They aren’t a bit alike, Paul says. Pippa’s dark, like her father and Paul is fair – very fair – like his mother. He’s nearly twenty-three and he wants to be an architect, like my father was …’