The Back of Beyond (21 page)

Marge looked at her sister now with a touch of anger in her eyes. ‘I know you don't want to go, and you're older than me, but you can't boss me around like you did when we were kids. I'm going whatever you say.' Her expression softened. ‘I don't mean to be nasty, but I've been pining for something to brighten my life, and this Do's just what I need. It'll set me up for months.'

Gwen gave a resigned sigh. ‘How far's this Ardley Camp, anyway?'

‘About ten miles, Lexie said.'

‘For heaven's sake! How are you going to get there? You're not thinking of cycling as far as that, are you?'

‘God no! I'd have corns on my bum for weeks if I did. They're laying on a bus, pick up point outside the shop. I'll leave the bike there, and I'll only take one drink so I'll be all right for coming home. Say it's OK … please, Gwennie?'

‘I suppose … oh, just don't forget you've got a husband.'

Marge's spirits were effervescent now. ‘It'll be great to get the feel of a dance floor beneath my feet again, and a man's arm round my waist.'

‘But …' Gwen began, but her sister's ecstatic, yet determined, face stopped her from going on. Marge clearly didn't mean to let this opportunity slip through her fingers.

‘Nobody's got coupons to buy anything new,' Lexie had told Marge when she asked what she should wear to the Do. ‘Just a smart summer frock.'

‘I've put on a bit of weight since we came up here,' Marge moaned to her sister on New Year's Eve, when she was putting the finishing touches to her make-up. ‘I've had to wear this old dirndl dress, it's the only one I feel comfortable in.'

‘You look nice, Auntie Marge.' Leila had been watching all the proceedings with interest. ‘I wish I was old enough to go dancing.'

‘Another few years and you will be. Gwen, are you sure this hairstyle suits me?' Marge poked her finger into the upswept roll of hair at her temple.

‘Stop fussing,' Gwen ordered. ‘It's perfect.'

David, who had been looking on with a jaundiced expression, suddenly observed, ‘What a bloody fuss for a nicht oot!'

Gwen turned on him angrily. ‘David! Who did you hear saying that word?'

He knew immediately which word she meant. ‘The loons at school say it.'

She decided to let it go meantime and have a quiet word with him tomorrow about swearing and using the rough Scottish words he heard in the playground. Her mind was too taken up tonight with worrying about what the evening ahead held for her younger sister. Could Marge be trusted to behave like a married woman?

‘Be careful now,' she warned, when they all went outside to see Marge off. ‘Don't drink too much, and don't give any of the men any encouragement.'

‘No, Miss.' Marge grinned cheekily as she tucked the skirt of her tweed coat – which she hadn't wanted to wear but had been too cold not to – round her knees to keep it clear of the oily chain. Then she flung up her left hand in a wave and laughed, ‘Now, as I take off on my trusty steed …' She burst into song. ‘Goodbye, Goodbye, I wish you all a last goodbye.'

It was a song they loved to hear on the wireless, but Gwen said, sharply, ‘Don't say that, even in fun. You never know what could happen.'

With the light streaming out through the open door, they watched her until she disappeared round the bend in the track, her flowered headsquare flapping, then Leila took her mother's hand and drew her inside. ‘Don't worry about Auntie Marge, Mum. She can look after herself.'

It was wearing on for three o'clock in the morning, however, before the wanderer returned, by which time Gwen was imagining all sorts of things – her sister running off with a man she had fallen instantly in love with, or so drunk that she was lying in a ditch somewhere between the village and Benview, or worse still, the bus skidding on the icy road and all the passengers either dead or seriously injured. She had got herself in such a state that she couldn't stay in bed, and was sitting in the kitchen by the dying fire when Marge came bouncing in.

‘Where have you been?' Gwen burst out, anger taking over from anxiety. ‘I've been out of my mind with worry.'

‘Oh, Lord, Gwen, I'm sorry! Nobody told me it would go on till two, and I'd to wait for the camp bus to take us back. Actually, I landed quite lucky, because when Ken, the driver, saw me getting my bike from the side of the shop, he came off the bus and said, “Hop back in and I'll lift that thing aboard. There's no sense in you having to cycle when I can drop you right at your door.” Of course, he couldn't take a bus up the track, so he didn't manage to take me right home, but it was a big help, just the same.'

‘He wasn't … he didn't …?' Gwen couldn't quite put her fear into words.

‘No, he didn't,' Marge laughed. ‘He was too busy telling me about his wife and his two kids. Ho, hum!' She rolled her eyes expressively, then carried on, ‘It was lovely, though, Gwennie. I really enjoyed myself. The concert wasn't as bad as I expected, the meal was pretty good, and I never missed a dance. Oh, and I only had one port and lemon to start me off, and a few glasses of pop. Iron-Brew they called it, quite nice.'

‘I made a fresh pot of tea a minute ago. D'you want a cup?'

‘If you like. But d'you know what I found out? Going there on the bus, I was sitting beside one of the girls – most of them were much younger than me – and she said there's going to be a dance laid on once a month in the church hall for servicemen. It's the first I heard of it, so that's something to look forward to.'

Marge broke off long enough to accept the cup she was handed and to take one quick mouthful before she was off again, but her sister was so tired that she hardly took in the descriptions of the piper who played in the New Year, of the Highland Fling two of the squaddies had danced, of the singer who had been with a touring band before he was called up and the applause for whose rendering of ‘We'll Meet Again' had almost brought the roof down. ‘And at the finish,' Marge went on, ‘the padre stood up and said a prayer for all the loved ones who were absent, and all who were missing them. It was so moving, Gwennie, there was hardly a dry eye to be seen, and it made people more aware of what they were doing. I think even those who had intended having a little fling before they went home, or had planned an illicit assignation, thought better of it. So you see, there was absolutely nothing for you to worry about.'

Not a thing, her sister silently agreed, except what might develop at the monthly dances in the church hall. Regular doses of temptation could prove too much for Marge. She got to her feet wearily. ‘I don't know about you, but if I don't get some sleep, I'll be like a walking zombie tomorrow.'

Chapter 16

Nearing the end of March 1942, with Marge at her third dance in the church hall and the children asleep upstairs, Gwen Ritchie made a pot of tea and had just sat down to write to her husband when someone knocked at the door. With no near neighbours, this was so unusual that she wondered whether she should answer it or not, but whoever was out there would only have to turn the knob to get in, because she never locked up until her sister came home. Besides, she told herself sternly as she went to obey the summons, this place wasn't like London. There were no burglars or bad people in Forvit.

She was a little disconcerted to find a rather tall soldier on the doorstep. ‘Sorry to bother you at this time of night,' he said apologetically, ‘but I need some water.'

‘Water?' she echoed, hoping that he wasn't ill … but he looked the picture of health.

‘The old bus is blowing off steam,' he told her. ‘Somebody must have forgotten to check the radiator and it's overheating.'

An icy hand clutched at her stomach. There was no sign of any vehicle for as far as she could see, but of course, the track was too narrow for a bus, if that really was what he was driving. ‘How … how did you know there was a house up here?'

‘Well, I gave a young lady a lift home on New Year's morning, and when she told me where to drop her off, she said she and her sister were living up the track in a house called Benview.'

Light dawned. ‘Oh yes. I remember Marge telling me she'd got a lift with her bike. It was very kind of you.'

‘I'm afraid I'm here to reap the benefit of my good deed.'

His engaging grin convinced her that there was nothing sinister on his mind, no evil intentions. ‘What … um …?'

‘A jug of water's all I need … a big jug.'

‘You'd better come in till I see what we've got. You'll have a cup of tea?'

‘Thanks.' He sat down at the table and laid his forage cap on the floor beside him. ‘As I recall,' he began, watching her fill the second cup which had been set out, ‘your sister said you were evacuees from London.'

‘Well, our husbands insisted that we take the kids away from the bombing.'

‘How many kids do you have between you?' he asked, conversationally, curling his hands round the large cup she handed him.

‘Marge has nearly given up hope of having any, but I've got two, a girl and a boy.'

‘That's a coincidence,' he smiled, ‘I've got a girl and a boy, as well. Pam'll be nine in five weeks, and David's ten past.'

‘Gosh, that's another coincidence. My son's David, too, but they're the other way round – he'll be eight in August, and Leila's nine in May.'

‘Well, I'll be damned. Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs … em … Ken Partridge, by the way. At your service.' He gave her a smart salute.

‘Gwen Ritchie.' Her face had coloured at talking so freely to a man she had just met, but he didn't feel like a stranger, somehow. ‘My husband's in the Artillery.'

‘I'm Ordnance Corps attached to the Black Watch.' His smile broadened. ‘So now we're old friends, but I'll be in trouble if I'm late. I've to take the boys back to camp, and some of them get a bit rowdy if they're kept waiting.'

‘Don't forget the water,' she giggled, jumping to her feet and opening the door of the cupboard at the side of the fireplace. ‘Will this old jug hold enough?'

‘That's perfect, but let me fill it.' While they waited for the water level to rise to the brim of the ewer, he said, ‘Will it be OK if I bring this back another time? It'll take me a while – it's quite a walk from the main road, isn't it?'

‘A mile.' Gwen would have offered to walk with him and take the jug back herself, but she wasn't exactly dressed for a late-night hike. It crossed her mind, as she closed the door behind him, that it would be quite nice to see him again, but the thought made her feel guilty. She was a happily married woman, why on earth should she want to see Ken Partridge again?

Giving this due consideration, she decided that it wasn't for his good looks, anyway, though his cheeky grin was what had made her feel at ease with him. Nor was it the colour of his hair, for she had never liked red-headed men, she didn't know why, and his was the brightest ginger she'd ever seen. His eyes had been really nice, though – an unusual green, but soft and kind with an attractive twinkle – she'd felt like a young girl every time he looked directly at her. Not that she had fallen for him, nothing like that; maybe it was because he seemed a kind of kindred spirit, yet she'd only known him for, at the most, twenty minutes.

Before sitting down again, she took a good look at herself in the overmantel mirror, and was sure she could make out a glint of silver in her hair, not so blonde as it had once been, and her skin was rougher, with working outside so much. For all that, she looked fit and healthy. The open air life was doing her good. It hadn't done much good for her hands, though, she thought, studying them ruefully. Her nails were broken, her fingers and palms always ingrained with dirt, no matter how much she scrubbed them and smothered them in cold cream at nights. Still, she consoled herself, sitting down at the table again, at least the children were safe from air raids up here.

Her mother's letters didn't tell them much – she just said ‘our friends still pay us calls', which obviously meant they were still being bombed – but Peggy wrote, in her less frequent scrawls, that some weeks they were in the shelter for nights on end, and hardly any houses in their street had escaped having windows blown out … or in.

‘She's come out of her shell lately,' Marge had commented. ‘She wouldn't have said anything like that before. Thirtieth April at Caxton Hall, no big fuss.' She sniffed. ‘I wish we could see her, though.'

Remembering, Gwen heaved a prolonged sigh. Peggy had also told them not to feel bad about not being there, she knew they'd be thinking of her. She had no idea how they felt – their baby sister …

She sat up abruptly. For heaven's sake, she was getting as maudlin as if she'd been drinking! She'd have to pull herself together and finish writing to Alistair. Thank goodness she had something different to tell him tonight. Lifting the Swan fountain pen he had given her for Christmas some years before, she described the short interlude with Ken Partridge in as interesting a way as she could, telling all the facts yet studiously avoiding anything that might hint at how relaxed she had felt in his company. She didn't want to make her husband jealous of a man she may only see once more, and that only if he kept his promise to return the chipped willow-patterned ewer.

At five to twelve, she boiled the kettle for Marge coming in. The dances in the church hall did not go on until all hours like the Hogmanay Do at Ardley Camp. The Rev. James Lennox made sure that everyone had left the hall by 11.30, so that his beadle could sweep the floor and lock up while it was still Saturday, and so that he, himself, could be in bed at a decent time of night. Even in his student days, he had never been one to burn the midnight oil.

As she always did, Marge came bouncing in, stopping in her tracks when Gwen observed, with a touch of mischief in her eyes, ‘I'd a visitor while you were out.'

‘A visitor? At night?' Marge was astounded. ‘Who was it? It wasn't a man, surely, and you here on your own? Or were the kids still up?'

‘Give me a chance to tell you. It was Ken Partridge from the camp – the one who gave you a lift on New Year's morning, remember? All he wanted was a jug of water for the bus, and the kids were in bed asleep, and …'

‘You didn't take him in, did you?'

‘Of course I did. I gave him a cup of tea, as well, and he's coming back …'

‘Oh, Gwen, no!' Marge wailed. ‘After all the times you've lectured me about giving men the wrong idea, you invite back a …'

‘I didn't invite him, he has to return the jug.' She explained the circumstances in as much detail as she could.

‘Yes, yes, I understand,' Marge said, impatiently. ‘From what I remember of him, he's quite a nice chap, really – missing his wife and kids something awful, and a bus would be far too wide to come up the track. I suppose he was on the level.'

‘Of course he was! Why on earth should be walk all the way up here if he didn't have to?' Gwen paused, her eyes clouding. ‘Unless it was you he wanted to see, and the water was just an excuse.'

‘No, I don't think so. I'd say he was one hundred per cent genuine, but for goodness' sake, don't let any other strange men in. The village women would love to get their teeth into some juicy gossip about us, and if any of the men, soldiers or not, overheard them saying you were on your own here on the nights there's a dance in the church hall …'

‘You're letting your imagination run away with you,' Gwen smiled. ‘Now, drink that tea before it gets cold, and let's get to bed.'

Another horrifying thought had struck her sister, however. ‘You weren't dressed like that when Ken Thingummy was here, were you?'

Looking down at Alistair's old flannel dressing gown, which she'd taken to using because it was so cold in Forvit in the winter nights, Gwen couldn't help laughing. ‘Yes, I was, but I hadn't put my curlers in nor put on my cold cream, thank heaven, otherwise he'd have run a mile when I opened the door.'

Both young women doubled up with laughter at the thought of this, but later, before she fell asleep, it occurred to Gwen that Ken was a married man and would probably be used to seeing his wife similarly adorned … unless her hair was naturally curly and her skin smoothly perfect, and she wore a flimsy negligee instead of a man's thick robe.

Quite late on Monday afternoon, when Gwen was inside because it was her turn to make the tea, Marge heard a vehicle coming up the track, and straightened up from weeding the winter cabbage patch. It was a few moments later before the jeep came into view, negotiating the stony surface slowly and carefully. ‘Hi, there!' she greeted the tall sergeant who got out. ‘So it
was
you?'

‘It was me,' he laughed, ‘and I've brought back the jug your sister so kindly lent me. Is she anywhere about? I'd like to thank her.'

‘Inside,' Marge said, laying down the hoe and leading the way.

It was she who offered him a cup of tea, she who hogged the conversation, but quite often, Ken turned to include Gwen. He seemed to be enjoying himself, and looked up with a start and glanced at his watch when David burst in, Leila a little way behind him.

‘Good grief! Look at the time! I've been here for over an hour.'

Nevertheless, he took time to introduce himself to the boy and girl before he made his way to the door, saying, as Marge saw him out, ‘Good company doesn't half make the time fly past.'

She didn't stop to think. ‘Well, look, Ken, you're welcome here any time. We'd be glad of some more of your good company.'

‘Are you sure I won't be intruding on your privacy?'

‘I'm sick to the back teeth of privacy,' she grinned.

David, who had also taken it upon himself to see this very first visitor off the premises, now put in his tuppenceworth. ‘Auntie Marge, why can't he come to tea on Saturday, when me and Leila don't have school?'

‘That's a good idea,' she smiled, thinking that the boy needed a man around, even for an occasional afternoon. ‘That's if you can manage?' she added, turning to the sergeant.

‘Yes, I'm not on duty this Saturday … unless I'm on jankers for being late today.' Grinning, he turned to David again. ‘Would you like a run in my jeep? Just a bit down the track.'

‘Wouldn't I just?' The boy climbed aboard eagerly, and waved to his aunt as the vehicle rattled off.

She returned to the kitchen. ‘I suppose you heard all that?'

Gwen nodded wryly. ‘I certainly did, and you're the one who told me to be careful …'

‘Sshh!' warned her sister. ‘Walls have ears, remember.'

Leila gave a most unfeminine snort. ‘I know you mean me, but why are you telling Mum to be careful? Ken's a very nice man.'

‘I was only joking,' Marge assured her.

After that first Saturday, when the two women joined and enjoyed the game of rounders in the afternoon, and sat with their new friend listening companionably to the wireless after the children were in bed, Ken Partridge became a regular visitor, but never again while Gwen was on her own. He gave most of his attention to David, showing him how to dribble a football, how to hold a cricket bat (a flat piece of wood) and judge the speed of an oncoming sponge ball – all the knowledge a father might pass on to his son, Gwen thought one day, but unfortunately Alistair had been in the army before the boy was old enough to take any interest in these skills.

When Ken learned that Alistair was arriving home on leave on the last Monday in May, he said, ‘I'd better stay away till he's gone back.'

This put Gwen's mind at ease. She hadn't mentioned in any of her letters that Ken was visiting regularly, though she couldn't say why. There was nothing going on that her husband shouldn't know about.