A Song At Twilight (22 page)

‘Oh yes. I’m just a bit tired. You’ve heard about the bombing, I expect?’

‘Ah, had it on the news this morning. Bad job, but I can’t say it’s a surprise. We been giving they Germans such a hammering, they were bound to hit back sometime. Tell you the truth, maid, and I don’t want you to be upset about this, but I wonder if all this bombing really works. I mean, look at it. Look at the way they blitzed London and Coventry and Plymouth and the rest – all those big cities, smashed to bits. But has it stopped us? No. We’ve just gone over there and done the same to them. And it hasn’t stopped them, neither. They’m coming here again. Seems to me nobody’s going to stop till there’s nothing left at all, and what good’s that going to do, eh?’

‘I don’t know,’ Alison said wearily. ‘I don’t know at all.’

‘I’ll tell you summat else,’ he said. ‘What our boys have been doing – and I’m not saying a word against them, mind, not a single word, brave lads every last one of them and deserve every medal going – but what they been doing, bombing factories and such – well, that’s not working either. We’re supposed to be going for their production – stop them building planes and making ammunition, but from what I heard this morning on the wireless, they’ve got plenty of planes and plenty of bombs too. We haven’t stopped them at all. So what’s the point of us sending our boys over there to be killed? I can’t see it meself.’

Alison felt a cloud of dread settle over her. He was saying what she had been thinking, or trying not to think, for months. Perhaps ever since the war had begun. Was Andrew risking his life every day, every night, for something that had no end, no achievement but the destruction of the world they were actually fighting for? The warmth she had felt seemed to recede, leaving her cold and shivering as if she had come out of the sea to find the weather changed and an icy wind blowing.

Mabel came out of the kitchen, bearing two steaming cups of cocoa.

‘Now, what are you doing, Will? I heard you, frightening the poor girl and making her all moithered and miserable. That’s unpatriotic, talking that way, and you know it. I’m ashamed of you, I am really. You ought to know better.’

Alison opened her eyes. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Prettyjohn. I often think that way myself. Sometimes it seems as if this war’s been going on all my life. It doesn’t seem as if it’ll ever end.’

‘Well, it will,’ the countrywoman said stoutly. ‘They Germans aren’t going to have things their way much longer. Look at how they’m being driven out of Russia, and Italy. I know it’s awful, the fighting there, same as everywhere else, but they can’t hold out much longer. We’m winning, you mark my words. Things are getting better.’ She picked up that morning’s copy of the
Western Morning News
and flipped through the pages. ‘Look at this. Men’s suits can have turn-ups and pockets again, and us ladies can have all the pleats we wants in our skirts. If that’s not good news, I don’t know what is!’

Alison stared at her and then began to laugh. ‘Pleats in skirts? Turn-ups and pockets? Oh, Mrs Prettyjohn!’

‘There, that’s better,’ the plump little woman said comfortably. ‘Now, don’t you go talking like that no more, Will. Alison didn’t come here to be made miserable.’ She went back to the kitchen, leaving the door open so that they could chat through it. ‘May’ll be sorry to have missed you. She’ve gone over to the Leg o’ Mutton to do a few hours as Betty’s been took poorly.’

‘The pub isn’t open this early, surely?’

‘No, bless you, they’m not open, but they asked May to go in and do a bit o’ cleaning before dinner-time. Then she’ll be behind the bar, ready for all they airmen. Talking of airmen …’ She came back into the living room, holding a swede that she was peeling. ‘Have you seen much of that young Ben Hazelwood? He’m in your man’s squadron, so I understand.’

‘Ben? Yes, he pops in sometimes during the evening. He’s a nice boy. Why?’

‘It’s just that I think he’s a bit sweet on our May, that’s all. He came round on Christmas night – not deliberate, he were just walking past when May went outside for a breath of air and she asked him in for a bite of supper. He seemed a bit low – upset about his brother – ’tis only natural. He’s been a few times since then and he took her to the picture show at the garrison theatre, up at Buckstone, and they’ve been to a dance or two together in the village. I wondered if she’d said anything to you about him.’

‘No, she’s never mentioned him. It’s not serious, is it? He
is
a nice boy,’ Alison repeated. ‘His father’s a vicar. You don’t need to worry that he’d take advantage of her, or anything like that.’

‘No, I don’t think he would. It’s just – well, like you said, he’s a vicar’s boy, and we’m just plain, ordinary folk. And May’s two or three years older than he. To tell you the truth, I think she’m just sorry for him, what with losing his brother and all. I don’t think she’m likely to let her head get turned, but as I said, he’m just a young chap, and you know what it’s like in wartime – folk gets muddled up a bit, specially the young ones, away from home and all.’

Alison thought about this, then said, ‘Well, if you want my opinion, I’d say May was good enough for any man. But I don’t suppose it’s serious anyway. I expect you’re right, she’s just being kind to him.’

The door opened and Hughie and the old man came in, carrying armfuls of shoes and boots. Mabel Prettyjohn went back to the kitchen to make more cocoa and Hughie dumped his load on the floor.

‘Look, Mummy, we’ve mended all these. Grandpa’s got a foot in his shed, all made of iron, and he puts the shoes on them and takes off the old sole and he makes a new one out of leather, and nails it on with a hammer, and there it is, all mended. Isn’t he clever?’

‘He is indeed.’ Alison picked up one of the shoes and examined it. The workmanship was neat, the shoe as good as new. ‘Would you have time to mend mine as well?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got a pair of old shoes with holes in. I was going to take them in to Tavistock to the cobbler there.’

‘You bring ’em to me, my pretty,’ the old man said. ‘You don’t want to go to no cobbler – charge you the earth, he will.’

‘Oh, I’d want to pay you, though. I can’t ask you to do it for nothing.’

‘Us’ll see about that when ’tis done,’ the old man said easily, but Alison shook her head.

‘No, you’ve got to say a fair price and let me pay it, or I won’t bring them. You all do far too much for us as it is.’ She lifted her chin and Mabel, coming in with more cocoa, laughed at her determination.

‘Met your match there, you have, Father. Now, here’s me been chattering on about us and never asked you how you were. How you’m feeling in yourself, maid? Keeping well, are you? Feeding yourself right? Eating for two now, you be.’

‘I think I’m eating for three or four,’ she said, smiling. ‘Poor Andrew would be starved if he didn’t get fed in the mess.’

She stayed for a while longer, drinking cocoa and talking to William about the books they were reading, and then she wrapped herself and Hughie up in their coats and scarves again and set off for home. The clouds had lifted a little and the air felt milder. Suddenly, it seemed as if there were a touch of spring in the air.

‘Look, Hughie,’ she said. ‘Some of the leaves are starting to come out along the hedge. And there are some snowdrops – see those little white flowers? And the birds are starting to sing as well.’

‘Will summer come back?’ he asked, trudging along beside her. ‘Does it come every year?’

‘Every year,’ she said, and felt her heart lift. ‘Spring comes every year and so does summer.’

Now that she had seen the first signs of spring, there were others – the bright colours of some early crocuses along the edge of someone’s vegetable garden, a few primroses like golden coins on a bank. A blackbird sang from the corner of a roof. It all seemed to add up to hope.

She thought of Ben, mourning his brother, and Stefan who didn’t even know if his family were still alive, and wondered whether spring would bring them such comfort.

In all these weeks, Stefan had not come near Alison. It was, she thought, as if he regretted their conversation; she wondered a little sadly if he wished he had not opened his heart to her.

He came at last, on a bright, windy afternoon with shreds of clouds flying like clean white washing across a pale blue sky.

Alison and Hughie were just about to step out of the front door when he opened the garden gate. They stood staring at each other for a moment, then she began to unwind her scarf.

‘Stefan! How nice to see you. Come in.’

‘No.’ He hesitated, his hand still on the gate. ‘You’re just going out.’

‘Only for a walk. Come with us if you like.’ She smiled, feeling unexpectedly glad to see him. ‘Then we’ll come back here and have some tea. Please.’ She held out her hand.

‘Yes,’ he said after another hesitation. ‘I’d like that.’ He stepped back and she and Hughie followed him. They walked along the road, passing the entrance to Buckland Abbey where once Sir Francis Drake had lived, and then turned down a lane that curved between high Devon banks. The lane was as deep as if it had been trodden for centuries, with hedges growing from the tops of the banks, sprinkled thickly now with primroses and tiny wild daffodils. Looking up through the branches of the trees, still waiting for their canopy of new leaves, Alison could see the wide blue sky and hear the sound of birdsong.

‘It’s very beautiful here,’ Stefan said. ‘And very peaceful too, when the planes aren’t flying.’

‘I know. But it must have been very noisy once. There were mines all around here, you know. I’ve seen some of the adits in the woods.’

‘Adits?’

‘The openings of the shafts. Not big ones, going straight down like coal mines. Just like small tunnels, going into the sides of the hills. They used to mine tin and copper, I think, and arsenic as well. Oh, and someone told me there were silver mines not far away.’

He nodded. ‘It would have been very busy. We have mines in Poland as well. Coal, mostly. They’re not pleasant areas to live in.’

‘Like South Wales, I suppose, and the English Midlands. I heard the other day that some of the boys being called up now are going to work in the mines instead of going into the Forces. They don’t have any choice – it’s being decided by ballot. The luck of the draw.’ She shivered. ‘It would be bad luck for me. I’d hate to work underground.’

‘I’ve never really thought about it, but I think I would, too,’ Stefan said. ‘Perhaps that’s why I like flying.’ He looked up at the feathery white clouds. ‘To be up there, all alone in the blue, is a very wonderful thing. To ride your aeroplane like a horse amongst the clouds; to play between the thunderheads; to dance with the stars. It’s like a miracle.’

Alison stared at him. ‘You make it sound like poetry.’

‘It is like a poem,’ he said simply.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, with Hughie running ahead along the quiet lane. The February air was mild, the rawness of the winter softened for the time being. No doubt it would come back, Alison thought. There was still the rest of this month and most of March to get through before you could really say it was spring. But today, here in this sheltered lane with only the softest of breezes blowing, you could almost imagine that summer itself was around the corner.

Another summer of war.

After a moment, she asked, ‘Have you heard any news of your family?’

‘No.’ His tone was abrupt and she stole a glance at him, hoping that he wasn’t offended. ‘Nothing.’

‘I didn’t mean to pry. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.’

‘It’s all right.’ He paused for a moment and then went on, ‘I would like to talk to you. I haven’t come before, because I felt it was wrong to burden you with my troubles. But I keep thinking about it. I keep thinking about you. I feel that you would understand. I feel that I can tell you what is in my heart.’

‘Oh.’ Alison was a little startled by his intensity. Then she reminded herself of his words about flying. He was different from the Englishmen she knew, more passionate, more poetic, quite unlike the practical, pragmatic Andrew. And he had kept whatever memories he had to himself all this time. He must be burning up inside.

‘You can tell me whatever you like,’ she said.

‘We lived in the city of Warsaw,’ he began. They had come back to the house and Alison had lit the fire and made some tea. Hughie was curled up in the corner of the sofa, looking at the Rupert Bear annual he’d been given for Christmas. He loved the stories of Rupert and firmly believed that he lived nearby and that one day he would be lucky enough to meet him.

Alison waited. She knew it wasn’t easy for Stefan to begin his own tale and she could only let him tell it at his own pace and in his own way. He had fallen silent already, his eyes full of memories as he gazed into the fire, and she wondered what had happened that made it so painful for him to talk about. Even now, she wasn’t sure that he would be able to tell her.

‘My father was a music teacher,’ he went on, breaking the silence. ‘He taught in one of the big schools and he also played in the city orchestra. The violin was his main instrument but of course he could play many others – the piano, the harp, all the stringed instruments. He taught us all to play. It was as natural as learning to read.’

‘Did your mother play too?’

He nodded. ‘The flute. Our house was always full of music. My father, learning a new melody on the violin. Or the sound of my mother’s flute, like the silver water of a cascade. And every day was a party in our house. My mother was so full of life, always inviting people in, and she’d make little sweetmeats and biscuits to serve with their wine, and we children would have to give little concerts.’ He smiled. ‘It was how I imagined our life would always be, with more children coming along and learning their own instruments until we had enough for an orchestra of our own!’

‘It sounds wonderful,’ Alison said, and he nodded.

‘We did not know how wonderful until it came to an end.’

He fell silent again, and Alison refilled his cup. Hughie asked for another biscuit and she looked in the tin to find one he liked. Stefan reached down to the log basket and put another piece of wood on the fire, which crackled and flared as the flames caught the slivers of bark.