A Song At Twilight (43 page)

‘It’s all right.’ May took her flailing hands and held them tightly. ‘It’s all right, flower. Just try to breathe slowly, one breath at a time. That’s it – that’s lovely. Now another one. Slowly, now, there’s no rush. There, that’s better. Lean against me. Let yourself go soft. Now just breathe gently, that’s all you’ve got to do. There.’

Gradually, Alison relaxed and her breathing became easier. The tears still flowed down her cheeks but the terrible, painful sobbing had ceased and after a few more minutes May laid her gently back against the pillows and wrapped the blanket more closely about her. As she drew away, she saw that Alison’s eyes were closing.

Tired out, poor soul, she thought compassionately. I dare say she didn’t sleep at all last night, and she’d have had to be feeding the baby as well. Us’ll have to be careful she don’t lose her milk. Well, she can sleep now for a bit. I’ll get Hughie up and give him his breakfast in the garden, he’ll like that, and there’ll be no need to disturb her until the baby wakes up. She should get another hour or so, at least. And I’ll run down to the phone box and let them know at the Barton. I can’t leave her by herself today.

She crept out of the room, closing the door softly behind her, and went quietly up the stairs. But before she went into Hughie’s room, she stood for a moment on the landing, looking out of the window and trying to take in the news she had just been given.

Andrew Knight, gone. And Alison, like so many other young women, a widow. It was enough to break your heart – if it hadn’t been broken already.

Andrew’s Group Captain came to see Alison later that day. They sat in the garden, where Hughie was playing on the scrap of lawn old Mr Prettyjohn had left when he had dug it over for vegetables. The lettuces were growing well, and the young tomatoes were neatly tied against twigs gathered from the hedges. Beetroot and radishes were showing leaf, and there was a patch of fresh earth where Alison had dug out some new potatoes only yesterday. She’d been going to cook them for Andrew’s supper.

Alison’s tears had dried now and she felt a strange, icy calm as she sat in the old garden chair watching the officer’s face. She knew that when he was gone she would probably weep again, but for now she was determined to maintain her dignity. Tears were only for friends to see, and then only at the very worst moments.

‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am,’ Group Captain Stanton said. ‘Andrew was a fine pilot and an excellent Squadron Leader. He’ll be very much missed. But we mustn’t give up hope. I’m sure Dabrowski told you that nobody actually saw him go down. We don’t know that he was killed. He may well have escaped – it’s not unknown, not unknown at all. And if he did …’

‘If he did,’ Alison said tonelessly, ‘the Germans will probably catch him. And they’ll kill him.’

‘Not at all. They’re far more likely to take him prisoner.’

‘Do you really think so?’ she demanded with sudden vigour. ‘I’ve heard the stories – parachutists shot as they come down, pilots killed in their burning aircraft, or just left there, struggling to get out. And suppose he was injured again? Are they really going to treat him properly, with our soldiers driving them back? Are they really going to give him a bed in one of their field hospitals, when they must have hundreds of their own men wounded? And even if they do, we’ll probably bomb it,’ she added forlornly. ‘It would be better for Andrew if he
were
killed when the plane went down.’

‘My dear,’ Stanton said helplessly, ‘you mustn’t talk like this. You mustn’t even think it. We must always keep up hope.’

‘I know.’ The baby, asleep nearby, stirred and whimpered, and Alison leaned over to rock the cradle. ‘I’m sorry to behave like this,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I do know what happens. And I know how unhappy Andrew was in the past few weeks.’ She lifted her eyes to his. ‘He never saw his baby, Group Captain Stanton. She’s almost a month old and he never saw her. It was cruel, doing that to him.’

‘There was nothing we could do about it. Orders—’

‘Oh, I know all about
orders
!’ she exclaimed. ‘My father was a Colonel in the Army. He served in the First World War. I grew up knowing about
orders
.’ She stood up and lifted the baby into her arms. ‘There – isn’t she beautiful? Our little Caroline. At least I shall have photographs of her daddy to show her as she grows up. And now she’s due for her feed, so …’

‘Yes, of course.’ The man got to his feet and stood awkwardly for a moment. ‘I really am sorry, Mrs Knight. And I’m afraid there will be a few formalities, once we’re certain … But as I say, there’s no certainty at all at the moment, and I myself feel sure that Andrew will come back. People do, under the most extraordinary circumstances.’

‘I know. Through Spain. I’ve even met one or two.’ She settled the baby securely in the crook of her left arm and held out her right hand. ‘Thank you for coming, Group Captain. It was kind of you to take the trouble.’

He bowed his head and left. Alison stood for a few more minutes holding her baby against her, looking down at the face that was so like Andrew’s, with the furrowed brow of babyhood beneath the black curls. As she gazed down, the blue-tinged eyelids lifted and Andrew’s eyes seemed to stare back at her, almost as if they were trying to tell her something.

‘What is it, my sweetheart?’ she whispered. ‘What is it you want to say to me? What is it that you know?’ And then, feeling even more strongly that it was Andrew himself who was trying to speak to her: ‘Where are you now, my darling? What happened to you?’

But there was no reply. The eyes squeezed tightly shut and Caroline opened her mouth instead and began to cry, and the moment that had seemed almost like a strange, brief flash of communication had passed.

Feeling more alone than she had ever felt in her life, Alison sat down to give the baby her feed.

The roses that Olivia had insisted on keeping, when the rest of the garden was dug over for vegetables, were at their best as John Hazelwood took the path that led to the church. The apple tree was covered in tiny fruits and had begun to drop them on the patch of grass where Hope had been born, and the path was bordered by lavender and rosemary which brushed against the skirt of his cassock and sent their aroma into the soft morning air. He felt the sun on his bare head and looked up into a blue sky with just a few small clouds hovering anxiously around the edges, and wished that the world were really as peaceful as it seemed at this moment.

He had written to May Prettyjohn three days ago, pouring out his sympathy and compassion for her in their shared loss. Trying his hardest to see her as the girl Ben had loved, a girl who would have shared his and Olivia’s lives as well as Ben’s and would have been the mother of his grandchildren, he had known a deep feeling of shame that it had taken Jeanie to show him the way. As he posted the letter, he couldn’t help wondering if he would ever hear from her again. Perhaps, having lost Ben, she would think his family had no more interest in her; perhaps she would read the letter he had written and then simply throw it away.

Well, it was done. And he needed to tell Olivia about it.

He opened the door to the church and stood for a moment letting his eyes get used to the shadowy dimness and the cool air on his face. A shaft of coloured light streamed through the east window and flung its rainbow pattern on the stone floor, and a vase of white roses glowed on the altar. Their scent wafted through the little church and as he breathed it in, he realised that there was someone else already here. A bowed figure, sitting in the front pew, hunched as if in prayer.

John stepped back, not wishing to disturb the person, and made his way quietly round the side of the church towards the vestry. As he came level with the front pew he glanced sideways, wondering who it was who had come so early to pray and, to his astonishment, saw that it was his wife.

He stopped abruptly, half-inclined to go to her, and then reminded himself that she was as entitled as anyone else to worship privately and undisturbed. But as he started forward again, she raised her head and their eyes met.

‘Olivia,’ he said quietly, and she got up and came towards him. ‘Olivia, what are you doing here?’

‘What
should
I be doing in a church?’ she asked, and he shook his head a little, feeling bemused.

‘It’s just that you haven’t been here for so long. I was surprised – but very pleased, my dear.’ He took her hand. ‘I hope this means that you’re feeling better.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if I’ll ever feel better. Perhaps I feel different, though. Changed in some way.’ She sat down again and he took his place beside her, looking into her face. Her eyes were fixed on the coloured window above the altar and some of its light fell on her cheeks, touching them with iridescence. Her grey eyes were steadier than he had seen them for some time, and her lips firmer. He felt a sense of relief, yet reminded himself that her sadness must still be there. Nothing could change the fact of their loss of two sons.

‘How do you feel changed?’ he asked gently.

‘I don’t know, quite. As if I’ve come out of a thick fog, perhaps. There are still misty patches but I’m beginning to see again.’ She turned to him. ‘You’ve changed, too. I can feel it. Something’s happened in the past few days and you’re different. And that’s made me different too.’

He stared at her in shock. ‘
I’ve
made you change?’

‘It’s not quite like that,’ she said, ‘but we’ve always been so close, haven’t we? Our feelings have always been shared in some way. Do you remember when I was expecting the children, and you were the one who was sick in the mornings? And how you felt my labour pains? I think it’s been the same now. We’ve been feeling each other’s pain. As long as neither of us could break free of it, the other one was trapped as well. But in the past few days, I’ve felt almost as though a knot has been untied inside me. And I know it’s partly to do with you – your face is different. A few wrinkles have been smoothed out.’ She shrugged a little and looked up at the brilliant colours of the window again. ‘Or maybe I’m finding my way back to my faith, as you said I would.’

‘I hope you are,’ he said, and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. ‘And you’re right – something has changed.’ He paused, weighing it up in his mind. Once he had told her, there would be no going back; they would have to discuss the whole thing. And he didn’t know if Olivia were yet strong enough. Then he saw her face and knew that he had already gone too far to draw back. He took a deep breath and said quietly, ‘I wrote to May Prettyjohn.’

There was a brief silence. She looked away from him, towards the altar and its gleaming vase of roses. She lifted her chin a little and stared up at the stained glass of the window with its image of Jesus with a small white lamb carried over His shoulder. Then she turned back.

‘The girl Ben told us about?’

‘Yes. She wrote to me, you know. I didn’t show you the letter – I didn’t wish to upset you. She wanted us to know that she was thinking of us, and to tell us how upset she was. And there was something else.’

Olivia prompted him to go on. ‘What else, John? What did you think might upset me so much?’

‘She told me they were engaged,’ he said. ‘Ben asked her father the night before he was killed. They were going to buy the ring the next day.’

In the dim light, he could see the colour drain from her face. She swayed a little and he tightened his arm around her. ‘Engaged!’ she breathed.

‘Yes. They weren’t going to get married yet, though. Not until you were happy about it. She made that very clear. They wanted everyone to know that they planned to marry, that they belonged to each other, but that was all. They were going to wait for you – for us.’

‘And suppose I never agreed?’ she asked. ‘Would they have waited for ever?’

‘I think, in time, you would have come round,’ he said gently. ‘You’ve always wanted our children to be happy. And perhaps once we’d met her …’

Olivia interrupted him. ‘There wasn’t any reason why they
should
have married, was there, John? They hadn’t done anything foolish?’

‘I’m sure they hadn’t. And the girl isn’t in any kind of trouble, I’m convinced of that. Just sorrowing and grieving, and wanting to share it with us. She seems a very nice girl, Olivia. And Ben loved her.’

His wife sat silently for a while, then she said, ‘I always hoped that he and Jeanie …’

‘I know, my dear. And I think Jeanie hoped that a little, too. But there’s a wise head on those young shoulders. She made me realise that I was wrong not to write back to May, and—’

‘
Jeanie
did? You talked about it with Jeanie?’

‘She came to me. She confessed that she’d come across May’s letter in my cassock pocket, when she was mending the hem, and had read it. She offered to write back herself, or even go to see her once the travel restrictions were lifted. I knew then that I had no choice. We can’t ignore this poor girl, my dear. She would have been our daughter-in-law. She would have been mother to Ben’s children. We can’t pretend that she doesn’t exist.’

‘No, we can’t.’ Olivia was quiet again, then she said, ‘I’d like to be on my own again for a while now, John, if you don’t mind. I hadn’t quite finished what I was doing here.’

He paused, his hand on her shoulder, then got slowly to his feet. He had no idea now why he had come to the church; perhaps it was simply to ask for guidance for himself. In any case, he had found far more than he had been searching for, and his heart swelled with gratitude and relief. After a moment, he turned and walked slowly out of the church, leaving his wife with her head bowed again in the darkness.

Outside, the brightness and the heat came almost as a shock. He stood for a moment or two feeling the warmth of the sunshine on his face, and then he went back to the house.

When the letter arrived at the Prettyjohns’ cottage, May took it out into the garden to read.

She didn’t open it at once. She sat on the old bench her grandfather had made, hidden from the house by the raspberry canes, and turned it over and over between her fingers. It was in a white envelope and felt thick and bulky, as if it contained several sheets of paper. She knew that it must be from John Hazelwood, although she hadn’t expected to hear from him again. She felt half afraid to open it, sure that once she had done so, her life would change in some way, with no going back.