My Sweet Valentine (6 page)

Still, Olive thought, ten minutes later as she said good night to Ted and Agnes, and let herself out into the dark street, at least it was Drew and not Wilder who was Tilly’s beau. Try as she might, Olive couldn’t quite take to the other young American. She was prepared to accept and understand that a young man from another country, who had come to Britain expressly to offer his help in its fight against Hitler, might be justified in feeling proud
of himself but whilst Wilder’s arrogance and the comments he sometimes made about others might boost him in his own eyes, in Olive’s they did him no favours at all.

Dulcie, though, seemed pleased that he had shown an interest in her. Whether she was pleased because she liked Wilder himself or because she liked the excitement of going out with a young American with plenty of money in his pockets, Olive didn’t know. Whilst there were plenty of young men in uniforms from other countries to be seen on the streets of London, Americans were a much rarer sight. There was quite a lot of openly expressed ill feeling in some quarters about the fact that America was remaining aloof from the war, and no doubt in Dulcie’s eyes that made Wilder and his ilk, who had volunteered to put their lives at risk, and who behaved as though they were something very special because of that, all the more potently dangerous, and challenging to a young woman. Drew might be American but Olive didn’t think she had ever met a more modest and considerate young man.

The night air was yellowy grey with what now seemed like an ever-present pall of smoke from the burned buildings. It felt gritty in the lungs and left behind an unpleasant taste. The occasional car and taxi moved slowly along the road that ran past the church and the vicarage, their dimmed lights just about picking out the white paint on the edge of the pavement, which had been put there because of the high number of road accidents in the early days of the blackout. A bus rumbled past the end of the road. The church hall and, beyond it, the church itself loomed up out of the darkness. Olive’s walking pace quickened as the cold air bit into her lungs.

Normally she would have walked to the vicarage with
Nancy, her next-door neighbour, and her husband, but they had gone down to Nancy’s daughter’s in-laws in the country to spend Christmas and the New Year with them. Olive knew that Nancy wasn’t the most popular inhabitant of Article Row, especially with the younger generation, as she was one of those people who seemed to delight in finding fault with others, but they had been neighbours for a long time.

Olive had always got on reasonably well with her, although this last year she had found herself having to bite down on her tongue a bit over some of the things Nancy had said, especially about Sergeant Dawson. Olive liked Sergeant Dawson. He was a kind man – a good man – and Nancy had gone far too far when she had tried to suggest that he might be showing too much of an interest in women without a man to protect them. Nancy had been referring to her when she had said that, warning her, Olive knew, and ever since then she had felt uncomfortable about being in the sergeant’s company on her own. Not because she felt there was any truth in Nancy’s aspersions – she didn’t – no, it was because she suspected that Nancy might be peering round her lace curtains to see if her suspicions were being confirmed.

Poor Sergeant Dawson. They hadn’t had an easy life, he and Mrs Dawson, with losing their son when he had been a young boy, and then Mrs Dawson turning into a recluse because of it.

The vicarage was in front of her now. Olive opened the gate and walked up the path to the front door. The vicarage, the church and the church hall had all been built by the same wealthy merchant who had built Article Row.

Audrey opened the door to Olive’s knock, greeting her warmly, and then taking Olive’s coat, hat and scarf from her after Olive had tucked her gloves in the pockets.

‘Oh, Olive, I do love that dress. The colour is perfect on you,’ she complimented Olive with the genuine admiration of a true and good friend.

Olive smiled her thanks and tried not to shiver in the draught that was coming into the square hallway from under the badly fitting doors. A vicar’s stipend was only modest, Audrey Windle had given Olive to understand, and had not stretched to such luxuries as new doors and window frames, even before the war when such things had been readily available.

‘Come into the sitting room,’ Audrey invited, opening a door into the large, shabbily furnished room.

Two well-worn leather sofas and two armchairs that didn’t match either each other or the sofas were pulled up close to a sullen-looking fire in the large fireplace. The Afghan and tartan rugs on the chairs and the sofas showed how the occupants of the house normally tried to keep warm. Dark red velvet curtains, which had obviously come from somewhere else originally because you could see where the original hems had been let down, were drawn over the blacked-out windows. The only piece of really good furniture in the room was the baby grand piano, which was Audrey’s pride and joy.

The vicar, a quiet, kindly man, who always seemed to have a bit of a cold, was standing talking with his curate, whilst several fellow members of Audrey’s WVA group, along with their husbands, were clustered as close to the fire as good manners would allow.

War brought people together in so many new ways,
forging friendships that would never have been possible before the war, Olive acknowledged. Now they had a common goal – to stay strong for their country and the brave men fighting for it.

‘Thank you for those sandwiches and the mince pies you brought down earlier, Olive, and for helping me set up the buffet in the dining room,’ Audrey said, adding, ‘Oh, and did I tell you that I had a letter from Mrs Long? She often mentioned how grateful she was for everything we did for her after she lost her husband.’

The Longs had lived at the last but one house on Article Row, number 49. Their son, Christopher, had at one stage attended the local St John Ambulance brigade with Tilly. As a conscientious objector Christopher had not joined any of the armed services. Initially he had been in a reserved occupation, with the Civil Service, but then he had been obliged to join the bomb disposal service, something that, according to Tilly, he hadn’t wanted to do one little bit. She was so lucky, Olive reflected. Some poor families went through such dreadful things. It was true that she had been widowed young but she had had her baby to keep her going. After she had been widowed Mrs Long had left London to return to her home town in the South of England.

‘Have you seen what the Luftwaffe did the other night?’ Anne Morrison asked Olive after the vicar had poured her a class of elderberry wine.

‘Yes. We all went down to have a look at St Paul’s,’ Olive replied.

The sitting room door opened again, bringing a fresh draught of cold damp air against Olive’s legs as she stood with her back to it.

‘Oh, it’s Sergeant Dawson. No Mrs Dawson, though,’ Anne informed Olive with a small sigh. ‘Poor woman. One does feel sorry for her.’

‘Yes,’ Olive agreed without turning round. Drat Nancy for going and making her feel so self-conscious when she had no need to feel that way. Those who said that Nancy was a bit of a troublemaker certainly had a point.

‘Good evening, ladies.’

‘Good evening, Sergeant Dawson,’ Anne acknowledged the policeman’s greeting happily. ‘I was just saying to Olive here how very lucky we were to have you teach us both to drive. My husband said so at the time although I know there were those – no names mentioned but she’s a neighbour of yours, Olive – who were inclined to disapprove of females learning to drive, despite the fact that they have benefited from us doing so.’

Anne was a large, solidly built, jovial woman, and when she laughed, as she was doing now, her whole body seemed to shake with good-natured mirth.

‘All the credit doesn’t lie with me,’ Sergeant Dawson responded with his own smile, tactfully avoiding her reference to Nancy, much to Olive’s relief. ‘I had two very able pupils.’

‘Oh, excuse me, will you, please,’ Anne stopped him. ‘Only I’ve just seen Vera Stands and I need to have a word with her about the church flower rota.’ With another smile she strode off, leaving Olive on her own with the sergeant and no ready excuse to take her own leave. She was about to ask politely if the Dawsons had had a good Christmas and then just in time she remembered that the sergeant had once told her that Christmas was naturally
a very difficult time for them both, but especially for his wife, because of the loss of their son.

Instead, she asked him, ‘Is it definitely all official now, I mean about you and Mrs Dawson taking Barney in?’

‘Yes. He had to spend Christmas in a children’s home outside the city, much to his disgust, but he’ll be coming to us in time for the new school term. Mrs Dawson’s been getting his room ready for him. She’s had me giving it a coat of distemper to freshen it up a bit.’ A rueful look crossed the sergeant’s face. ‘I just hope that she isn’t going to spoil him too much.’

Olive could tell from both his expression and the sound of his voice how much the sergeant was looking forward to Barney’s arrival.

‘Oh, and there’s something I ought to tell you,’ he continued. ‘It’s about Reg Baxter and that vacancy there was going to be at the ARP station, the one that I thought you should put your name forward for?’

Olive nodded. She’d felt both surprised and a bit overwhelmed when Sergeant Dawson had suggested that she volunteer to fill a vacancy at their local ARP unit, but the sergeant had insisted that she would be an ideal candidate.

‘It seems that Reg Baxter has decided not to retire and move after all,’ the sergeant told her, ‘and the other vacancy, the one that Mrs Morrison had applied for, that’s gone to a chap from Court Street.’

Olive was surprised to discover how unflatteringly she was thinking of the men who had turned down the opportunity to have someone as capable as her fellow WVS member join them. Before the war such a thought wouldn’t have crossed her mind. The war, though, had
shown her just how capable and resourceful her own sex was, and how proud she was of what women were doing to help with the war effort.

That neither she nor Mrs Morrison had been offered the membership of the local ARP unit wasn’t Sergeant Dawson’s fault, however, and Olive could see from his expression that he felt slightly uncomfortable about the news he had had to give her.

Even so, she couldn’t resist saying with a small smile, ‘Sergeant Dawson, the ARP unit doesn’t know what it will be missing in not taking on Mrs Morrison. She’s a first-class organiser, and she makes the best hotpot I’ve ever tasted. She regularly brings one round for our WVS suppers.’

‘Archie, please, Olive. We agreed when I was teaching you to drive that we had known one another long enough to be on first-name terms. Hearing you address me as “Sergeant Dawson” makes me feel that you think of me as someone of your late in-laws’ generation.’

‘Oh, no, I would never think that.’ Was she blushing? Her face certainly felt hot, and no wonder after such a silly gauche remark, far more suitable to someone Tilly’s age than her own. Of course she didn’t think of Sergeant D— Archie … as someone of her late in-laws’ age. How could she when it was perfectly obvious that he wasn’t? His dark hair might be greying slightly at the temples now, whilst fine lines fanned out around his eyes when he smiled, but he was still tall and lean, with a very manly bearing and …

And nothing, Olive stopped herself firmly, allowing herself to say only, ‘Somehow I don’t think that Nancy would think it proper for me to call you Archie. You know how she is about such things.’

‘Yes, I know how she is,’ he agreed, ‘but in private, when we are talking to one another, then surely it can be Olive and Archie?’

She ought to say ‘no’ but that would be rude. He didn’t know, after all, about that silly awareness of him she had developed – or those secret, dangerous, unwanted and unacceptable thoughts of envy she sometimes had for the obvious contentment of the marriage he and his wife shared.

‘Very well,’ she agreed.

Nestled in Drew’s arms, her head tucked into his shoulder, as they moved slowly together on the dance floor, Tilly gave a small sigh as the final strains of ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’ died away. The song had been one of the hits of the year and now, on New Year’s Eve, as the dancers and those sitting out broke into applause, and the band stood to take their break, she told Drew, ‘It’s such a lovely song that it always brings a lump to my throat. But it’s hard to imagine
any
kind of bird singing in any of London’s squares right now, thanks to the Blitz.’

‘It’s a song of hope for the future, for better times ahead,’ Drew reminded her, his arm round her as the lights came up over the darkened dance floor and they started to make their way towards their table – Dulcie’s favourite table, which she had bagged the minute they had arrived.

‘Dulcie’s brother seems a nice guy,’ Drew commented. ‘He was really friendly last night back at Ian’s when I was asking him about the desert campaign. Of course, there was stuff he couldn’t tell me but he gave me a real
good idea of what it’s been like for them out there. I’ve noticed that you don’t say much to him, though. Don’t you like him?’

Tilly felt a pang of guilt, her straightforward nature making it impossible not to be honest with Drew when she loved him so much.

‘It isn’t that. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with Rick, it’s just, well, I had a bit of a crush on him for a little while, when I first met him.’ She pulled a small face. ‘So silly, and I’m ashamed of myself now. I’d grown out of it even before I met you, but I was just a girl then. I wanted to tell you but I didn’t want you to think—’

‘What I think is that he’s the one who is keen on you, not the other way around,’ Drew astonished her by saying.

‘Rick, keen on me? Oh, no.’ Tilly shook her head vehemently. ‘No, he wasn’t in the least bit interested in me.’

Hearing the honesty in Tilly’s voice made Drew smile. She was the best girl any guy could want. He didn’t for a single minute doubt her, but he knew his own sex and he’d seen the looks Rick had been giving Tilly when he thought that no one was watching him.