Apple Blossom Time (9 page)

Those precious eight hours. Like water through sand, they were dwindling away and there was nothing we could do to bring them back. The knowledge of how few were left made James tense and irritable. A bolder man might have taken a room in a hotel for the little time remaining, and a bolder woman might have accompanied him there. But we were not bold. Not at all.

A car full of raucous young men and women was weaving in and out of the traffic. There were squeals of excitement and shouts of indignation as hands grabbed tarbooshes worn by passing Egyptians. James’s arm moved me in from the edge of the pavement, with a protective, possessive gesture. His face was grim. There’d be more carloads around somewhere, playing the ‘tarboosh game’ – how many tarbooshes could be grabbed in twenty minutes. What fun; what a pointless insult to the population.

Exhausted by the exuberance of the streets, we found our way back to Shepheard’s. In the Moorish Hall, under a coloured glass dome, we sat in plump, antimacassared chairs set by a little, octagonal table. It might have been Torquay.

The trio on the terrace was still hard at work and their music reached us faintly. They had been joined by a singer for the evening. A couple of hussars were trying to hang their berets on the opulent breasts of the two ebony caryatids which flanked the staircase. They seemed to find their failure hilarious.

‘Trouble is,’ said one in a penetrating voice, ‘the nipples aren’t big enough. Need to stick out more to make a decent hat rack. We should speak to the manager about it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said James quietly, leaning forward. ‘This hasn’t been a great success, has it?’

His hand lay palm upwards on the table, thin, brown and supplicating.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I answered. But it did matter and we both knew it.

‘The time was so short and I wanted to do so much in it. Will you let me get you a taxi back to Maadi? I haven’t time to go with you.’

I nodded, dumb with misery. We wasted the last few minutes left, sitting in silence. James was half asleep. Once or twice his head dipped forward and he jerked it back, trying not to show how tired he was. He’d come straight out of the desert and was leading a convoy back before daybreak. He’d used on me the time he ought to have been sleeping.

Had it been worth it? I could almost have snapped at him for disturbing my peace of mind, upsetting my balance, when time was so short. Better not to have come at all, than this rushed and inadequate meeting, that had promised so much and given so little. So little time. In every way, so little.

Then I saw his gentle and unhappy face and knew that I was wrong. He looked across at me as though I had spoken my thoughts aloud and he had heard every one of them. Don’t listen to my thoughts. Don’t listen. I didn’t mean it, James, I didn’t mean it. It’s been worth every frustrating moment, if it’s given something to you that you wanted. I had an urgent longing to cradle his head against my breast, to stroke his hair, to make it all better.

The voice of the singer, a plump Lebanese, came through clearly from the terrace, a little shrill, not quite in key, singing an old song that my mother would have recognized, now popular again, but giving it a plangent, oriental unfamiliarity that turned it into a lament.

Sweet and simple words. Apple blossom and sunshine. All the things we missed amongst the sand and flies and sweat and day-and-night hubbub, muezzins’ calls and drill sergeants’ shrieks, the things we didn’t even notice we missed until suddenly their absence was too painful to bear.

Apple blossom, pink and white on grass that was too lush for the ponies to eat, and pale English spring sunshine, chased by showers across sky the colour of a thrush’s egg, and church bells.

And wedding rings.

James suddenly smiled, heartbreakingly brilliant. ‘That’s it, an omen – a wonderful idea – I’ve wanted to say it and haven’t dared…’

St Michael and All Angels in Whit Sunday white and gold. Hedgerows starred with tiny, scarcely-valued flowers. The comforting drip-drip of rain from a catslide roof. I was sick with longing.

‘Will you marry me, Laura? Please?’

Then I was back and the hussars were still braying and the Lebanese was still singing and the street smells of patchouli and dung were more nauseous than before.

‘James, I … I can’t…’

‘Why not? It’s the answer to everything. Give me a good reason why you won’t.’

‘It’s so sudden. We hardly know each other.’ I’d have laughed to hear myself if he hadn’t been so earnest. Heavens, weren’t these the selfsame weak excuses I’d read in romances? Kate bought magazines that offered versions of these words almost every week. And the heroine always ended up marrying the hero in the end. But somehow, I didn’t see James and me in those roles. I was too ordinary and he was too young for happy ever after.

‘I said a
good
reason,’ he teased. He was so confident. No-one had ever said ‘No’ to him before and meant it. He knew I’d agree in the end.

‘Well, then…’ I ticked them off on my fingers. ‘Number one – I’m older than you…’

‘Not much – a year, two years at the most. Can’t be more. Don’t treat me like a schoolboy. What difference does age make?’ he broke in, impatiently.

‘It just does, somehow. Number two – we really don’t know each other…’

‘Enough. How long do we need? I know all I need to know about you and I know that I love you.’

‘Let me finish. You asked for my reasons, so listen. Number three – there’s a war on…’

‘All the more reason. Listen, Laura…’ He picked up my hands, both of them, and cradled them between his own, holding them against his chest. He bent his head and kissed my counting fingers as though he could kiss away my doubts. So young. So eager. So innocent. ‘This is the answer. We’re right for each other. I know it.’

I looked back on how I’d felt earlier in the evening. I remembered the sudden surge of joy at the sight of him, weary and dirty. I remembered the flare of passion at his kiss, the way a hollow within me had opened and been filled at his touch. Was this loving him? It must be. What else could there be? How would I recognize it? How else would I feel? How does anyone know?

And yet the doubts remained, no larger than a piece of grit, but as irritating, rubbing and rubbing until, one day, they might make a desert sore.

But if this wasn’t love, what was it?

‘Laura, I love you,’ he pleaded. ‘And we don’t know how much time we’ll have.’

I’d known he was going to say that, right from the beginning I’d known. If I’d been more experienced, I’d have recognized that plea for the emotional blackmail it was. The ultimate pressure. Turn me down now and if anything happens to me, you’ll always regret it. If I die, it’ll be your fault.

Not that James meant to force my feelings to match his own. He didn’t mean it. He didn’t know what he was saying. But once the words had been said, they couldn’t be unsaid. We both knew.

In a day, a week, a month he could be dead.

So little time. So little time left. Our lives were running out, sand through the hourglass. Why shouldn’t we take what we could, while we could? Hold out your hands and take what life gives. Don’t fool yourself that you’ll be allowed to keep it. In a little while, it will be snatched back again.

I looked at James, wondering at his youth, his beauty, his innocence. And he loved me. I was certain of that.

‘You’ll be something worth coming back for,’ he said.

How could I say no?

*   *   *

It’s odd the way you don’t notice quite obvious things when you ought to.

I came back to the hut late that evening in a strange, lighthearted, exhilarated mood. I had put my fingers into the fire, snatched out a treasure and got away with it. For now. I wanted to hug my joy to myself and yet I wanted to jump up and tell everyone within earshot – the guard on the gate, the duty NCO, my friends, everyone.

James and I are going to be married.

Grace and Vee were sitting on Pansy’s bed, one on each side of her. Vee had an arm around Pansy’s shoulders.

Just for a moment, I thought she’d had bad news about her father. Poor Pansy. How would she cope? I wondered however we’d manage to comfort her. Then, I realized … And all the things I should have noticed before, but didn’t – how often Pansy was sick, the way she’d sit sometimes, just staring, withdrawn – suddenly became blindingly clear.

And I was supposed to be her friend. I was supposed to look after her. Mr Millport would never have let her leave home to join the ATS if I hadn’t been joining up, too. He hadn’t exactly entrusted his daughter to me, but near enough. She was all he had and he’d let her go. She could have been safe at home in Ansty Parva, helping him to run the parish. She should have been. She’d have done it so well.

‘Pansy – oh, no.’

Pansy had had more than her fair share of gyppy tummy, but none of the rest of us had. And now we all knew why.

She lifted her tear-stained face, greenish beneath her tan. ‘Oh, Laura – what will Daddy say?’

Then she burst into fresh tears. Grace and Vee budged up on the bed to make space for me. We sat in a tight, miserable huddle, our arms around each other, and cried together for a while.

After a bit, Pansy struggled free and blew her nose. ‘It’s all right. I feel a bit better now.’

‘That’s the whole point, love, it isn’t all right,’ said Vee. ‘So what’re we going to do about it?’

‘Pansy, you mustn’t mind my asking – Miss Carstairs will ask you anyway – was it…’ Grace seemed to have lost some of her confidence. If this could happen to Pansy, of all people, what might be lying in wait for her? ‘… is it someone you like very much? Could you get married?’

I knew the answer, even if Grace didn’t. What a silly question. When had Pansy ever had the chance even to get to know someone? She’d scarcely been out of the sight of one or other of us, except to go to work. And Pansy wasn’t the sort of girl to form an illicit liaison in the cookhouse store cupboard. Unbelievable though the alternative was, I was quite certain Pansy hadn’t fallen in love. Then how?

‘No,’ answered Pansy, quite firmly. ‘I’m not getting married.’

‘But who…?’ Grace persisted.

‘We don’t need to know,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s none of our business.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Pansy replied, ‘because we’re friends. And the answer is that I don’t know.’

It was such a shock, more of a shock, even, than the fact of her pregnancy. Pansy pregnant was terrible. Pansy pregnant by some unknown man was even worse, somehow. Pansy raped was … too awful to bear.

‘Oh God, Pansy love,’ cried Vee. ‘Who was he – the bastard? You should have reported it. They might have got him for it. You should have told us.’

‘I don’t know,’ Pansy went on in a thin, determined voice, ‘because I was too drunk to know what was happening.’

And then I knew. I looked over at Grace and saw that she, too, had understood what Pansy was trying to tell us at the very same moment.

Grace said slowly, ‘It was that night, wasn’t it, that we all went out with George and the three others?’

Pansy nodded.

Grace went on. ‘Pansy, was it George? Please don’t let it be George. He’s married and has three children. No, it couldn’t have been – we talked all evening. At least, I think we did. I can’t remember … Perhaps … Pansy – who was it?’

‘I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.’

It mattered to me. I knew it hadn’t been Andrew, because he’d been too occupied trying to do the same thing to me, trying to win the bet. Who’d be first to get into the knickers of an ATS girl. Bob? He looked too drunk to manage a willing and cooperative woman, let alone one who didn’t know what she was doing. James … Oh, God, please. Not James. Don’t let it be James …

Impossible. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Hadn’t he come to make a mass apology the next day? He hadn’t had to do that. He could just have ignored an unsavoury little episode, written it down to experience and written us off as convenient sluts. But he didn’t and I had respected him for his courage.

I wouldn’t believe it. It wasn’t James. I would shut the thought away, tight and secure, and never, never let it out again.

‘Pansy, you weren’t drunk,’ I protested. ‘Perhaps you were just a bit…’

‘Tiddly? Squiffy? Is that what you were going to say? Nicer words than drunk? What’s the difference? I’d had too much to drink to know what I was doing. Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging.’

‘It’s my fault,’ Grace said quietly. ‘I shouldn’t have let George order all that champagne. You’re not used to it.’

‘It’s no-one’s fault but my own,’ replied Pansy in that soft, strong voice. ‘I’m not a child. I’m a grown woman and responsible for my own actions. No-one
made
me drink anything. I just did. But, Laura…’ Her protective shell cracked. ‘Oh, Laura, what will Daddy say?’

It didn’t seem the right time to tell them all that I was going to marry James.

*   *   *

Pansy and I had our interviews with Miss Carstairs and then with Junior Commander Cranfield on the same afternoon, one after the other. They were formal interviews, hats on, ushered in by the CSM, with more salutes and foot-stamping than usual and every other word seemed to be ‘ma’am’.

‘What are you going to say?’ I asked Pansy.

‘What do you think?’

‘No, I mean – they’ll ask all sorts of questions.’

‘Well, I can’t answer them. Anyway, I wouldn’t if I could. It’s my business. It’s my baby. No-one else’s. I’m the one who has to carry the can.’

Funny – all those years I’d known Pansy, nineteen, twenty, longer than we could both really remember, and I’d never known what a tough streak she had. I’d have thought she’d have turned to jelly. I would.

I went first and told them that I was going to get married, would like to continue to serve and requested permission to live out of barracks. I was told to put my request in writing and that was that. Oh yes – and I was congratulated, by way of an afterthought.

Major Prosser had been very straightforward. ‘Jolly good,’ he’d said, ‘but don’t get any silly ideas about babies, will you? Lots of time later for babies. I need you here. There’s work to do.’