After the Funeral Page 22

  Mrs Wheeldon sent me into the study to look at the books with Leonard and shepherded Ada into the sitting room. Ada gave me a black look, but even she must have seen I had no choice other than to follow our hostess’s instructions and join Leonard.

  Leonard stepped forward from behind the solid oak desk as I entered. I couldn’t help comparing Father’s study unfavourably with the Wheeldons’. Father’s chairs are old-fashioned and his carpet threadbare. Mr Wheeldon’s desk was clear except for a pile of books and a blotting pad. Father’s is always cluttered. Thinking about how often I have helped him find his reading glasses in the jumble made me smile. Leonard smiled back, no doubt thinking I was smiling because I was glad to see him. For some reason I felt I must make it clear that I was smiling at the contrast with Father’s desk.

  There was an awkward pause. Remembering what Father had said earlier, about how Leonard thought about those he had been unable to save at Dunkirk more than those he had helped to safety, I asked him if his experiences on board ship were very terrible. He said that he finds the time when nothing is happening dull, with too much time to think. He finds that worse than being engaged in battle. He murmured what a privilege it is to serve for the freedom of our country.

  I felt rather in awe of him, thinking how the war has changed the carefree boy we grew up with into this responsible young man.

  He changed the subject, remarking how pretty I looked in my dress. I was immediately embarrassed, and pointed at the pile of books, suggesting we should look at them since his mother was delaying tea. I mentioned Ada was with her in the sitting room, giving him the opportunity to go and see her and leave me with the books, but he didn’t move. I chattered on about how beautiful the top volume was, bound in its fine red leather. He said it was a book of rambles in the Wolds, and asked if I would like to go there some time. I pretended I hadn’t understood the invitation was just for me, mentioning how much Ada enjoys walking. He looked a little irritated. I was relieved that Mrs Wheeldon came in then, followed by Ada who wore a determined expression which I know well.

  Mrs Wheeldon said that Ada would also like to look at the books, exchanging a glance with Leonard which I couldn’t interpret. I quickly mentioned Leonard’s suggestion of a walk in the Wolds, and she was most enthusiastic. I couldn’t help noticing that Leonard smiled less warmly than usual, and it worried me that he had wanted me to go with him to the Wolds alone. He seemed withdrawn as we looked through the books and had tea. I was glad when it was time to return home. Now I am so tired, worn out with lack of sleep and all these emotions.

  Some planes are returning. Please God, let him have returned.

  5 a.m. 21 May 1943

  Awake very early today, but too excited to sleep again. I haven’t known this kind of anticipation since my fifth birthday when I was desperate to see if Mother and Father had bought me the doll I was longing for. They had, and I was beside myself. Annabel was my most precious possession until I was nine when one day Ada dropped her on the path and her poor head smashed beyond repair. I wept bitterly, and Father promised me a new doll, but Mother said I was getting too old. I never knew why Ada took her outside, but I still recall her half-smile when Mother told me to calm myself, sending me to my room, and saying I should forgive Ada because it was an accident.

  But I remember we had had some silly quarrel earlier that day. I never believed it was an accident.

  A long time ago. And now we are both grown up, even if I feel like an excited child this morning.

  Father told us at supper yesterday he had seen Wing Commander Brooke at the airbase when he was meeting the Padre. He said the airman was tired after his six days of duty, especially as he had been involved in the mission to destroy the German dams, but that he is very much looking forward to our visit to St Edith’s Church today. The village has been agog with news of the mission against the dams. Perhaps it will be a turning point and hurry the end of the war, so that he will be safe.

  And Leonard, too. I have been thinking about Leonard since our meeting last week. He returned to duty two days afterwards, so I didn’t see him again. I would have liked to wish him luck. I am sure the sense of awkwardness which I felt in his father’s study that afternoon arose because I was so tired and upset, fearful for Wing Commander Brooke and troubled by the conversation with Father. Nothing more. I’ve never felt ill at ease with Leonard before, I know him too well.

  I will go down for breakfast early, although I have little appetite. I can only guess how slowly the time will pass until eleven o’clock! I will wear the floral empire dress again.

  2 p.m. 21 May 1943

  How do I write about this morning? I am a different girl than the one who wrote in here just a few hours ago. Not a girl any more. A woman.

  We met Ray – I finally discovered his Christian name today – at the church at eleven o’clock as arranged. I was pleased with this arrangement, as I sensed Mother’s unhappiness with our excursion. She looked at me coldly at breakfast and suggested Father shouldn’t be taking time off with a funeral tomorrow. She also said that she could do with my help at home, since Florrie hadn’t come in again this week. Father replied that he needs a day off before tomorrow’s funeral for poor Mrs Renshaw – her sudden death on Monday affected him deeply. Father says that whatever is written on the Death Certificate, she died of a broken heart, following the loss of Michael at Dunkirk.

  I was waiting in the garden for Father by half past ten, reading a guide to local churches including St Edith’s. It was much too early for the two-minute drive to church, but I wanted to escape Mother’s pursed lips and Ada’s jealous glances.

  When Father came out he looked agitated. He hemmed and hawed, then explained Mrs Green had telephoned to say her mother had taken a turn for the worse overnight. Mrs Green hoped Father could call, and stay until the old lady passed. I was bitterly disappointed, thinking this would mean the end of the outing, even whilst I chided myself for my selfishness when an old lady lay dying.

  Then he suggested I could still go with Wing Commander Brooke, who could drive on after we dropped him off at Mrs Green’s. He said he suspected Mother wouldn’t approve, but he knew how much I had been looking forward to the trip. This time I wasn’t embarrassed by his perspicacity. ‘Life is precious, Emily,’ he said, ‘and we appreciate this most deeply in wartime. Wing Commander Brooke has endured some difficult and dangerous missions these past few days, especially over the German dams. The peace and beauty of St Edith’s will offer him the refreshment he needs before he flies again.’ His grey blue eyes twinkled. ‘So will your company.’

  My heart was full at his kindness, and at the knowledge that he understood something of my feelings for the airman. (Although I suspect if he knew how I lie awake at night longing for Wing Commander Brooke, he would be horrified.)

  The heat had intensified over the past three days and there was no breeze. My heart rose when I saw the airman from the rear seat of the Morris Minor. He was standing at the gate, his broad back to us as he contemplated the church. Hearing our car, he turned. Father leaped out quickly to explain the change of plan. I saw a flicker of doubt cross Ray’s face and my heart sank, thinking that after all he would decline to accompany me alone. He hesitated and then came forward, folding his large frame into the passenger seat. He barely glanced at me, greeting me only with a curt, ‘Good morning.’

  I spent the journey to Mrs Green’s house in a miserable silence, doubting that he had any regard for me at all, despite his words at the bazaar only a week ago. Had I read too much into his words, ‘I had to come,’ as his hand enveloped mine?

  Father took his leave of us at Mrs Green’s house and Ray settled behind the steering wheel. Father said he felt sure that Ray would find the atmosphere of the church restorative after the strain of recent days.

  That was the only allusion Father made to the war. I determined not to mention it myself. I have regretted my impulsive question to Leonard about his experiences. It was the question of
a clumsy girl, and I was resolved not to appear so naïve to the Canadian. From the sideways glance I stole at him as I climbed into the car beside him, I noticed with a pang the shadows under his eyes and a hollowness in his tanned cheeks which I hadn’t seen before.

  I waited for him to speak as we drove along, acutely aware of his physical proximity. I jammed myself against the passenger door to keep some distance between us. The sliding sensation in my stomach recurred with a new force now I was alone with him. He stared ahead at the road in front of us, as though he were concentrating carefully, though there was little traffic. Eventually I spoke, pointing out the left turn for Coates.

  We turned on to the narrow lane, the banks high with white cow parsley and hawthorn blossom. Suddenly the silence was broken by the drone of aircraft. I looked up to see three planes climbing higher and higher into the blue sky ahead of us where clouds were beginning to mass. With a gathering roar they turned and dived down together. They seemed to be swooping towards us as we bowled along the road. For one terrifying moment I thought they were going to crash, so low did they come, and so close to one another. I held my breath and sighed with relief as they separated at the last possible moment, then turned and began to climb again.

  Sensing my alarm, Captain Brooke glanced at me, smiling, telling me the pilots would be some of the new boys showing off. I smiled back, relieved at the release in the tension between us.

  Then he asked me to tell him about Saint Edith, and I explained about the two possible Saint Ediths to whom the church might have been dedicated: Saint Edith of Wiltshire or Saint Edith of Tamworth. I said that the latter is the favourite candidate since Lincolnshire had trade connections with the West Midlands at the time of her death in the tenth century.

  We began to discuss some of the less well-known saints, a subject which he knew far more about than me. He told me he is a Catholic, that his mother had been very devout, bringing him up with the stories of the saints.

  The sun disappeared behind a cloud just as I realised I had been so absorbed in our conversation that we had passed the turning for Coates. I felt foolish, but he only smiled and turned the car round in the next gateway.

  As we drove down the tree-lined farm track leading to the church which stands next to the imposing red brick farmhouse, he told me his favourite saint was Catherine of Bologna. I said I had never heard of her and he told me she is the patron saint of artists.

  I looked instinctively at his hands on the steering wheel, and saw the residue of paint under his square finger nails. He caught my glance as he pulled the car on to the grass verge before the church and told me he had been painting earlier, when he couldn’t sleep.

  He switched off the engine, still gazing at me. The question was there in my mind, ‘Could you not sleep because you were thinking about me just as I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking of you?’ But of course I didn’t ask.

  Then he said that Catherine of Bologna is also the saint to petition in order to resist temptations. He cocked his head on one side, considering me. I saw a fresh cut under his chin where he must have nicked it when shaving. He asked if I prayed to resist temptation, using my Christian name for the first time, which made my heart leap. But I was tongue-tied by the question. I felt like I was standing on shifting sand, about to sink. I didn’t answer, turning away from his searching eyes and reaching for the door handle. It was slippery beneath my damp palm.

  Outside the car all was still beneath the gathering clouds. No breath of air stirred the leaves of the horse chestnut trees which spread a canopy over the low brick wall fronting the church. A bead of sweat trickled down my spine, and my blonde braid hung heavy against my neck. I could hear him walking a few paces behind me, the swish of the grass and the snap of a twig beneath his feet. I was conscious of my hips swaying as I entered the gate into the churchyard, a conviction that his eyes were on me.

  I paused in front of the identical gravestones beside the east wall commemorating the Motley family. I have always been moved by their simplicity, preferring them to the ornate monument to the Maltby family near the south wall. I read the names in my head, trying to distract myself from my acute awareness of this man and the meaning of his question about resisting temptation. He stopped beside me and I was again struck by his bulk next to my slight frame.

  ‘Listen,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘I can’t hear anything,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly. Even the birds are silent. A storm is coming.’

  He had barely spoken when the first roll of thunder rumbled in the distance.

  ‘Are you afraid of storms?’ he asked.

  I shook my head.

  ‘I was never afraid of them either,’ he said, ‘not until I was caught flying in one for the first time.’ He reached suddenly for my hand and I let him take it. ‘It was back in Canada, near Vancouver when I was training. The aeroplane was tossed about and I was certain I wouldn’t make it back to base. The plane below was struck by lightning and fell to earth.’ He swallowed and stared into the middle distance. ‘My friend John was flying it. Every time I have seen lightning since, I see the blazing plane falling to earth.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ I said quietly. I clasped his hand more tightly.

  He returned the pressure and we walked hand in hand towards the church door as the thunder rumbled nearer. The first heavy raindrops fell as he raised the heavy latch with his free hand and drew me inside.

  I heard his intake of breath as he took in the beauty of the rood screen and loft. I was as ever spellbound by its magnificence, even though I have visited the church many times with Father. In a whisper I pointed out the Virgin Mary’s haloed head to him, and the head of St John on the right.

  A flash of lightning illuminated the Virgin’s halo, and the pressure of his hand on mine increased momentarily. I wondered if he gripped my hand more tightly because the lightning evoked the memory of his friend’s fiery descent again. I hoped that if he were tortured by that terrible image in the future, he would remember this moment as well, standing with me in that tiny ancient church, seeing the Virgin’s halo lit up.

  ‘ “For the place where you are standing is holy ground,”’ he whispered suddenly, turning to me and reaching for my other hand.

  ‘Moses at the burning bush,’ I whispered back.

  He nodded, staring down at me as another flash of lightning lit up the rood loft above us. He raised his left hand and stroked my cheek. ‘It’s true you have no fear of storms, isn’t it, Emily?’

  I shook my head without speaking, gazing back at him because I could not look away. Heavy raindrops lashed against the windows, but I knew he was not talking about the thunderstorm which raged outside.

  Then he lifted my braid and kissed my neck, gentle butterfly kisses. I closed my eyes and thought, ‘Please don’t stop,’ and the words were so loud inside my head that I was certain I must have spoken them. Then he lifted his head from my neck and I opened my eyes to meet his. I gasped at what I saw in them, those piercing blue eyes darkened with an intent I had never seen. His hand moved down to cup my breast and I gasped again. Then his lips were on mine as he struggled out of his jacket and dropped it to the stone floor, pulling me down with him, kissing me deeply now.

  I thought I would burst as everything in me rushed to meet him. I wanted it never to end.

  Later we sat wordlessly in one of the uncomfortable pews with its carved poppy heads. His arm around me, we gazed together at the rood screen and loft. I rested my head against his chest, listening to his heart slow, and to the rain outside. I longed to stay there for ever.

  Presently a shaft of sunlight stole through the nave window near the pulpit, illuminating the Virgin’s head again. To me it was a blessing.

  Together, still silent, we went out into the churchyard. The birds were singing and it seemed I heard them more clearly than I ever had before.

  We walked slowly through the wet grass hand in hand. We paused by the Motley gravestones, washed clean by the rain.
The overhanging trees dripped upon us. Beyond the gate the cow parsley along the wall gleamed white, and the sun-kissed hawthorn blossom dazzled me.

  We lingered by the gate, looking back at the simple stone church. He drew me to him and kissed me, a lingering, more gentle kiss than those he had covered me with before. ‘Promise me, whatever happens, you will remember how we have loved one another. Promise me you will know that I love you,’ he whispered.

  My eyes filled with tears, mingling an indescribable happiness and an unsurpassable sorrow. The fear that he might not return from another mission is unbearable now. ‘I promise,’ I answered, when I was capable of speech.

  He drove us back to the village. No further words passed between us. Our bodies had said everything there was to say. Outside the vicarage he reached across and took my hand. His clear blue eyes searched my face and his lips brushed mine one last time.

  Then he was gone. The car door slammed behind him. Through my tears I watched him walk away up the village street with his long easy gait. I watched him until he disappeared from my view where the road bends up the hill.

  I knew he would not look back, and he did not.

  4 a.m. 22 May 1943

  I passed the rest of yesterday in a daze, spending the afternoon looking through Mr Smithson’s books in the study. I suspect I left them more muddled than when I started. I couldn’t put him from my mind, and went over every moment we had shared together that morning. I know it will be etched in my memory for ever.

  For once I was grateful that Father was out on parish visits and didn’t join us for supper. Neither Mother nor Ada asked me about my outing. Ada was clearly bursting to divulge something she had found out from Mrs Wheeldon about Florrie but suggested it wasn’t suitable for me to hear. Mother tartly replied that if Father thought it was suitable for me to be ‘gallivanting around the countryside with unknown Canadian airmen,’ I didn’t need to be protected from news about Florrie.