Daughter of Riches (29 page)

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Authors: Janet Tanner

BOOK: Daughter of Riches
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‘No, you're not Nicky,' she said in a small wry voice.

‘So what did he do that I didn't? How did I fail?' He was turning the hurt and anger in on himself instead of venting it on Viv.

‘You didn't fail, Paul. It's not your fault …' She had stopped crying now and was looking at him sadly.

‘Don't try to make it right, Viv. Don't spare my feelings. I know compared with him I must seem like a blundering …'

‘At least you didn't make me pregnant,' she said. ‘At least, I hope you didn't.'

It took a moment for her words to sink in through the haze of misery and self-condemnation. He stared at her, open-mouthed, and she laughed suddenly, a small, harsh tearing sound.

‘Oh dear. I didn't mean to say that. Well, the cat's out of the bag now, isn't it?'

‘Nicky … made you pregnant?' He was fumbling for the words. They seemed to elude him. ‘When? How?'

‘I should think the how was pretty obvious.' The old, wry Viv was emerging. ‘As to the when, just before he went away.'

‘Did he know?'

She shook her head. ‘No, I told you. It was just before he went away.'

‘So – what happened? If you were … what happened to the baby?'

‘I had an abortion. Oh, don't look at me like that, Paul, there really wasn't any choice, was there? I'm not proud of what I did but there it is.'

‘But I thought abortion was illegal.'

‘It is. But money will buy you most things, you know. And they didn't call it abortion. They called it appendicitis, or grumbling appendix, or something. Look, really don't want to talk about it. I shouldn't have told you. It doesn't seem right when Nicky doesn't know.'

Paul brought his fist down hard on the floor. ‘Nicky – Nicky – Nicky! Nicky's not here – I am!'

‘I know. And I said I'm sorry.' She got up, matter-of-fact suddenly. ‘Look, I've got to see what's happening to the stew. And I'll put the boiler on so we can have a bath.'

She went out to the kitchen. Paul finished dressing in a state of shock. He felt as if he had been bludgeoned with a ten-ton hammer. He had had such hopes of this weekend and it had all gone dreadfully wrong. And not only on a personal level either. Two of his icons had been torn down – the brother he hero-worshipped had gone off leaving his girl pregnant, his goddess had had an abortion. Paul felt sick to his stomach. He did not know how he was going to stay here now. It crossed his mind that perhaps he might go home. It was after curfew but he didn't mind running a few risks if it meant he could get some fresh air into his lungs and then shut himself away in his attic room where he could at least be alone with his thoughts. But he knew there would be questions to be answered if he did that. Charles and Lola would be bound to be suspicious if he suddenly turned up at the door.

Afterwards Paul was to wish with all his heart that he had followed his instincts that night and gone home. He couldn't have saved Lola and Charles, but at least he would have been there. Instead he had stayed with Viv though the atmosphere between them was strained and awkward. They bathed, one after the other, in the big cast iron bath that had been installed in one of the bedrooms, they ate as much as they could of the unappetising stew, and they slept one in each of the twin beds in Viv's room without so much as a goodnight kiss. Next day Paul went home, the misery still like a lead weight inside him, to find that his parents had been arrested and the guilt came rushing in, swamping him, drowning him. He felt as if he personally had condemned them by his deceit and at the same time condemned himself.

On the day that Charles and Lola were sentenced to deportation to a concentration camp in Germany, Paul demolished the entire bottle of brandy that the Russian prisoner had had just one sip of; it did nothing to make him feel better but at least for a time it gave him blessed oblivion. When he had recovered from his hangover he drank the bottle of whisky. And when there was none left he mooched around in morose silence feeling utterly, totally trapped.

When the idea first came to him he rejected it but it kept returning to haunt him and each time he thought about it, it seemed a little more possible and desirable. Jersey had become an island prison where he was trapped with his guilt and his misery; even being within a few square miles of Viv was torture to him now. Paul thought of his father's little boat which had managed the voyage to Dunkirk and knew it could provide him with an escape. If he could get away, if he could get to England, at least he would be able to join the forces and do something positive to help the war effort. It would be better than sitting out die war here, helpless and impotent, and it might do something to ease the terrible weight of guilt and make him feel a little easier with himself.

One dark moonless night Paul crept out of the cottage whilst his sisters were asleep and made for the boathouse. The thought of the voyage held no terrors for him; he had been brought up with the sea in his blood, and he did not allow himself to think of what might happen to him if he was caught trying to escape. Besides, he told himself, it would be poetic justice if he too faced deportation or even a firing squad.

But he was not caught. By the time Sophia got up next morning and found the brief note explaining what he had done, Paul was well away from Jersey and heading for England. And for the first time since that terrible day when he had left Viv and returned to find his parents had been arrested, Paul experienced a measure of peace.

When Bernard heard that Paul had escaped from Jersey he was incensed. Under normal circumstances, he supposed, he would have applauded the courage it must have taken, but these were not normal circumstances. It was only a matter of weeks since Lola and Charles had been deported. Now Sophia and Catherine were quite alone.

Since the August night when he had taken her to the theatre Bernard and Sophia had seen a good deal of one another. They went for walks, they went to the cinema, where the films were mostly German with English sub-titles, they even attended dances in the Forum's Golden Lounge, and if the romantic side of their relationship had not progressed as fast as Bernard might have hoped, he told himself he must be patient. The last thing he wanted to do was rush things and frighten her off. At least as it was he saw her two or three times a week and she seemed to enjoy his company. As long as he could sustain the relationship there was always the chance that friendship would deepen to love. She might even love him now, he thought in moments of optimism, and be too shy to let her feelings show. Yes, that must be it, otherwise why would she continue seeing him to the exclusion of any other boyfriends? But still he trod carefully because his fear of losing her was so acute. He couldn't bear it, he thought, if she should tell him she did not want to see him again. Without Sophia life would simply not be worth living.

Bernard had done his best to be supportive through the terrible days that followed Lola and Charles's arrest and deportation though he had wondered just how much help he had been. There was really nothing anyone could do or say to make it any less dreadful, and sometimes he had the feeling that she wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Just so long as she knew he was there and that he cared, that was really the extent of what he could do. Anything else seemed like an intrusion on the family grief.

On the morning that Paul sailed away from Jersey however Bernard felt he could stand on the sidelines no longer. Paul's departure changed everything.

The news was relayed to him by a roundabout source – someone from the Electricity Company had been to the bank and the whole place had been alive with it – Jersey had a brand new hero and everyone wanted to talk about him. Bernard, however, was shocked and indignant to think Paul could behave so irresponsibly towards his sisters. He informed his immediate superior that he was going out for an hour whether he was given permission or not and went round to the dentist's surgery to see Sophia. She was not there – she had taken the day off, the senior receptionist told Bernard. He got back on to his bicycle and pedalled over to St Peter only to find no one in there either.

Bernard walked right round the cottage looking in through the windows and feeling utterly helpless. Sophia would be in a terrible state, he guessed, being left all alone with Catherine, and she would not know which way to turn. Besides this she must be very worried – the fact that Paul had managed to sail out of Jersey in a little boat without being caught did not necessarily mean he had got very far. He could have been apprehended by a patrol and shot, or he could have run into bad weather – at this time of year the Channel could be very treacherous. And who was to say that he had not been bombed or machine gunned from the air or blasted back out to sea from the land when he arrived unannounced in England? Any number of things could have happened to him and Sophia, who was no fool, must be aware of that and be going out of her mind with worry.

Bernard returned to the front of the cottage, looking up at the upstairs windows and wondering what to do. Should he go looking for Sophia? But he had no idea where she might be.

As he stood there, pacing anxiously, a figure on a bicycle turned the corner, wobbling slightly on the uneven track, and dismounted at the gate.

‘Hello, Bernard. What are you doing here?' asked Sophia.

Unaccountably Bernard felt slightly annoyed.

‘Where have you been?' he asked. ‘I've been worried about you.'

‘Whatever for? I've been to the shops to get our rations, that's all. And I wasn't expecting you, was I? Shouldn't you be at work?'

‘Yes, actually I should,' Bernard said, even more annoyed by what appeared to be her perfect composure, ‘I took some time off because I thought you'd be in a state. It seems I was wrong.'

‘Oh Bernard!' Sophia looked contrite, ‘I'm sorry if I've let you down somehow. Come in and I'll put the kettle on. I've just been lucky enough to get hold of a quarter of real tea. I think Mrs Phillips at the shop felt sorry for me.'

Bernard followed her into the pokey kitchen.

‘Where is Catherine?'

‘At school. Oh, for heaven's sake don't look like that, Bernard. What did you expect, that we'd go to pieces just because Paul has gone off and left us? I assure you, if that had been going to happen it would have been when Mama and Papa were deported. At least Paul has gone of his own free will.'

There was a hard little note in her voice; Bernard looked at her, puzzled. This wasn't his Sophia, this strangely self-possessed young woman, getting on with running her life in the midst of terrifying adversity. It just wasn't
like
her.

She moved about the kitchen, putting away the groceries she had brought home in her bicycle basket, and boiling the kettle.

‘Did you know Paul was going?' Bernard asked.

She shook her head. ‘No. It was a complete shock to me, but I suppose I am getting used to shocks. I should be – I've had enough of them.'

‘So … what will you do?'

‘What do you mean, what will I do?'

‘Now you're all by yourself …'

She laughed shortly. ‘ What would you expect me to do? Carry on working, I suppose, and look after myself and Catherine.'

Bernard swallowed at a lump in his throat. ‘ You
do
have a choice.'

She looked up at him, the kettle in her hand. ‘Such as?'

‘You could marry me.'

He could feel the sweat on the palms of his hands; he could scarcely believe he had actually said it. He had wanted to ask her for weeks, dreamed of it, planned for it, but been afraid to take the bull by the horns.

Now with Paul gone too he wanted nothing more than to take care of her, and the intensity of his longing somehow totally obscured all fear of rejection. Surely she wouldn't turn him down now? She had no one else; she needed him. Even the hard little note in her voice and the cold distance in her eyes did not put him off. It was a cover-up, he thought, a defence against all that had happened to her. Bernard's heart contracted with love. God alone knew what the future held for any of them. But at least he could look after Sophia and Catherine to the best of his ability. Somehow he would make certain they were all right.

Sophia was looking at him with an almost puzzled expression.

‘Marry you?'

‘Yes. Oh – I know we haven't been going out together very long, but I do love you, Sophia, very much, and I can't bear to think of you stuck out here all alone, responsible for Catherine, whilst the Germans … I could make you happy, Sophia, I'm sure … as happy as you could ever be with all this hanging over you.'

‘No,' she said, almost inaudibly. Unexpectedly the tears had come; they were filling her eyes now and running down her cheeks. She set down the kettle and raised both hands to wipe them away with her fingers, but still they were there, choking her voice and making her whole body shake. ‘Bernard, it's so good of you – I don't deserve you, really I don't. But I can't marry you, not like this. It wouldn't be fair.'

‘Not fair? Who wouldn't it be fair on – me? Sophia, I don't care about fair. Don't you understand – I love you and I want to take care of you. That's really all that matters to me.'

‘No, no – it's not. You deserve better than I could give you. I'm all wrung out, like a rag. I have no emotions left – nothing. It's sweet of you to ask, but I'll be all right, really.'

Bernard was beginning to feel sick. It was all going wrong.

‘Sophia …'

‘Please, Bernard, don't press me. I appreciate your offer but I don't want it. Not now.'

He turned for the door. ‘All right. I can see I'd better go.'

‘No – please, don't go. I don't want you to feel … Oh God, I don't know what I mean. I'd be really sorry, Bernard, if you didn't come to see me again. I'd miss you. But I can't marry you. Not just now. Oh, please, you must understand …'

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