I'll Get By (23 page)

His tone of voice was scathing. Reluctantly she washed her hands and picked up the scalpel.

‘Use the iodine first. Saturate the cotton wool and swab both wounds. They’re fairly clean, but a bit more won’t hurt.’

Her hands were shaking when she approach the swelling with the scalpel.

‘Take the bullet firmly between your finger and thumb. Then when the skin is taut, run the blade of the scalpel gently over it. Mind you don’t cut yourself at the same time.’

‘Eeeeek!’ She made the noise along with the cut. There was a small release of blood and she gulped back an urge to turn and run.

‘Pull yourself together. Use the hook and pull the bullet from the percussion cap end.’

‘What’s a percussion cap?’

‘The flat end. You won’t have to probe very far. If it won’t come out you’ll have to use your fingers and go a little deeper.’

‘I’d prefer it if you were willing to die of blood poisoning.’

He laughed. ‘I dare say you would, but I wouldn’t prefer to.’

With a bit of persuasion and a couple of intakes of breath from Nick, the bullet came out.

‘Thank goodness,’ she exclaimed, almost to herself. Making a pad with the lint she pressed it against the wound, then firmly bandaged it. Washing her hands she gazed at him. His face was bathed in sweat, and so was hers. ‘Are you all right, Nick?’

He nodded. ‘You?’

‘I can’t really tell, though I’m trembling.’

‘There’s half a bottle of brandy and a couple of glasses in that locker. Pour us a nip each while I get my spare shirt out from under the bench.’

‘I’ll get it, it will be quicker.’

He tore the dirty shirt from his body and threw it in a bloodied heap.

She could feel his glance on her as she got his clean shirt on and buttoned it. He slid his feet into a pair of brown Oxfords. ‘Don’t bother with the tie.’

He was tautly muscled and strong. ‘Your other shirt is ruined.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Help me on with that roll-necked sweater, if you would.’

She glanced up at him, her eyes tangling with the smoky grey of his. A chuckle escaped from him. ‘Go on then, ask me.’

‘I have no intention of asking you how you happened to get shot, if that’s what you’re talking about.’

He stopped, allowing his beautiful mouth to engage hers in a moment or two of sublime pleasure. She was growing used to his kisses, looking forward to them. ‘That’s good because I’ve got no intention of telling you.’

She reached for the brandy and glasses, handing them to him. His hands shook as he poured a small amount into each glass.

‘You’re suffering from shock.’

‘It will go in a minute or two.’

‘I’ll just get rid of this,’ she said, picking up the bowl of bloodied water.

Making her way up the ladder she tipped it over the side and lay on her front to rinse the bowl in the river. Her head felt swimmy when she went below again. The first thing she saw was Nick’s discarded shirt, which he’d picked up and thrown into a waste paper basket. Although the blood was dried, it served to remind her that she couldn’t stomach blood.

She smiled at his fading image, said weakly, ‘I can’t believe I dug a bullet out of your arm. Remember I told you the sight of blood often made me . . . feel . . . faint . . .’

He caught her before her knees completely buckled, drawing her down on to the bench and against his shoulder. ‘Here, drink this, it will help.’

The brandy fumes brought her round quickly. She spluttered and coughed when the liquor hit her stomach like a firebolt. Crossly, she said. ‘They might have killed you.’

‘Who might have?’

‘The person who shot you.’

‘Why should you care?’

‘I don’t . . . what have you been up to, Nick Cowan?’

He laughed. ‘If I told you I doubt if you’d believe it.’

‘Try me.’

‘I was shot while exiting a lady’s boudoir through her bedroom window.’

She didn’t know whether to believe him or not and stared at him. The disgruntled innocence in his expression would have disarmed her if it were not for the devilment lurking in his eyes. ‘Are you disappointed?’

‘Why should I be disappointed?’

‘Because you’d rather I was shot leaving
your
boudoir.’

Her mind scrambled with the accuracy of that thought. ‘Hah! I would have shot you before you got in. It would have served you right if her husband had killed you.’

‘It was her mother who shot me . . . she was jealous and trying to stop me from escaping her clutches.’

Meggie burst into laughter, knowing she would never get at the truth about what had happened. Feeling stronger, she straightened. ‘I’m going home. I like to spend as much time as I can with my aunt, and Judith won’t be there until later.’

His glance took her in and he made a humming noise in his throat. ‘I’ll take you.’

‘Thanks, Nick, but you should rest.’

‘I’ll take you. Well done on the sea lion thing, by the way. I bet Bethuen was fuming when he found out.’

‘Nobody likes being made a fool of. He gave Gordon Frapp a dressing down, and told him to go through you from now on. Had Gordon checked your desk he would have known you were around, but he preferred to blame it on me, rather than act on it earlier.’

‘And you didn’t tell him.’

‘I’m not going to help either of you score points off each other, especially when the security of the country is at stake. I don’t want to be part of your games. I’ve got enough to worry about.’

She picked up her bag. ‘Goodnight, Nick, I’m going. I don’t want to be caught in an air raid.’ Leaving, she jumped ashore and walked rapidly away.

He caught her up five minutes later, and placed a paper carrier bag in her hands. This is a gift for your Aunt Esmé. No doubt she’ll share it with you.’

‘What is it?’

‘This-and-that. Some smoked bacon . . . gooseberries and asparagus, cheese. Biscuits . . . a bar of chocolate perhaps. Everything that’s bad for you.’

‘You’re bad for me.’

‘Taking her hand in his he kissed her palm, and then smiled. ‘You were brave to remove that bullet.’

‘You were braver for bullying me into doing it.’

‘Aren’t you going to ask me if what I said was true?’

‘No.’

‘Aren’t you even curious?’

‘I’m not in the least bit interested.’

‘You’re a liar.’

‘I know . . . and you’re acting like a child, playing games. If you’re going to tell me, then do. If you’re not, well . . . that’s fine.’

Taking her by the shoulders he turned her round to face him. ‘Except this game is too real and deadly for children to play, Meggie. You know I can’t discuss what I do. I can’t trust anyone.’

‘I’m well aware of that.’ She touched his cheek and softened her voice. ‘There’s someone you can trust in case you ever feel the need. I’m going. There will be a bus along the Strand in a minute and I’ll take that, since it will get me nearer to where I’m going. Look after your arm.’

Meggie,
he’d called her, but not for the first time. He’d called her Meggie Elliot when he’d delivered the food hamper to the flat, and at that stage he hadn’t met any of the people who did call her that. No wonder she’d thought it odd when he’d first used it. He couldn’t have known her family nickname was Meggie then.

He sighed. ‘You certainly know how to stonewall people. I’ll make sure you get on the bus safely.’

‘As you wish.’

She really wanted to be alone, to think. Her mind was already a jumble of questions and answers.

He was left-handed. He solved cryptic crosswords. She gazed at his shoes. Oxford brogues. Brown! What more proof did she need? Her heart began to thump erratically, and then a little niggle of common sense stamped its foot. She was constructing a scenario out of something too flimsy to be true.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he said.

‘Of course I am.’ But she remembered the burglar, and felt herself falling into a deep, dark hole. She was tempted to leave it alone. What mattered was that the burglar had returned the goods he’d stolen. It showed that he had a conscience.

But no, it wasn’t all that mattered, it was the fact that he’d frightened both herself and her aunt, and just for the heck of it. She must find a way to bring this out into the open, and without involving her aunt and uncle.

He was involved in something far deeper than she’d expected if people were shooting at him. Perhaps she’d got it all wrong. ‘What if it was all a coincidence!’ she said out loud.

‘If what was a coincidence?’

She blinked. ‘Sorry, I was thinking of something else.’

‘Allow me bring your mind back to me.’ He tipped up her chin and kissed her, feathering her mouth with his so the thought of him making love to her sent darts of desire into all her most sensitive places.

Please don’t let him be the burglar, she thought.

On Monday she opened a new file. Inside, she placed the crossword and a list of what the man had taken, and when. What he’d worn. She put the date of when they were returned and the method. Also the newspaper cuttings, and copies of the statements she and Esmé had made to Constable Duffy.

She wrote a small passage to describe the effects the burglary had on herself and especially her aunt – but using different names.

Police Sergeant Benjamin Blessing, she named the file.

Nick’s filing cabinet was the only one kept locked. She found a bunch of keys in his drawer and tried each one. When none of them worked she inserted the flat blade of a penknife into the lock and juggled it around until something gave. The drawer opened an inch before it stopped, but that was enough room to slide the file inside.

She pushed the drawer shut again.

Everyone knew that the pilots of the Royal Air Force had a fight on their hands in defence of England.

The day raids increased, and it seemed that if it were not for the need to refuel, the pilots would have stayed in the air permanently.

Day after day people went to the coast to watch the battle unfold. It seemed like a high wire trapeze act. Planes fell from the sky in scribbles of vapour and exploded into the sea. Parachutes floated across the sky like mushrooms, their flimsy silk sometimes tangled in the strings, so the first instant of safety offered, sometimes degenerated into a swift, deadly plunge. Some half open, made it to earth and bumped their occupants along the ground like puppets on strings. Some stood upright afterwards. Others were driven away in ambulances, glad to be offered a rest, however short.

The Germans had a bigger air force, and it seemed that they were going to win the battle, except the British, with their facility to land, refuel and take off again almost immediately, managed to shoot more of the German planes down.

The battle was taking its toll of the pilots. Deprived of sleep they were totally exhausted . . . yet still they carried on. Planes rolled off the assembly line and young, hardly trained pilots walked out of wrecks on the runway and took to the skies in the next available aircraft. Many lost their lives.

At forty-three Queen Street, Esmé waited for her precious baby to arrive. She scanned the casualty list every day, trying to remain hopeful when she didn’t see Leo’s name there. She kept herself busy stitching small garments.

She was in the middle of reading the latest casualty list when the telephone rang. It was Leo. ‘I’ve just called to tell you that I love you.’

She burst into tears, mostly from the relief of hearing his voice.

‘Hush, my love,’ he said. ‘Everything will be all right . . . I promise.’

She sniffed back her tears. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I’m a bit emotional at the moment. I seem to cry at the slightest thing and I feel horribly hormonal. All that practical training in midwifery and the advice I dish out, and I’ve just discovered I know nothing about being the broody hen.’

‘You’ll do wonderfully well at hatching the egg. Did we decide on a name yet?’

She knew he’d said it to take her mind off the negative and give her hope for a future together. Leo was so brave, and it was agony trying to imagine what he was going through. ‘I thought Lydia Jane would be pretty for a girl.’

‘Lydia Jane Thornton it is then.’

‘You can choose a boy’s name if you like.’

‘What about John Oliver? We could call him Johnno.’

‘Perfect. He sounds like a member of parliament already.’

‘The prime minister at the very least.’

She managed a watery giggle. ‘One thing . . . he couldn’t be mistaken for anything but an Australian with a nickname like that.’

The phone call was too short, and she knew others were waiting to use the telephone so as to reassure their loved ones. She sent him a kiss down the phone. ‘Lots of love Leo, and from Meggie as well. She’s looking after me, and is turning out to be a treasure. Her superior officer said that if I need her, to phone him and he’ll send her home and she can have a few days off. He’s very nice.’

‘I’m relieved.’

They said goodbye and she put the receiver down and had a prowl round. She felt restless. Meggie usually came home straight from work. Today she was late . . . half an hour late.

She went back to the paper, and with the cat balanced on the portion of lap she had left, she went down the casualty lists in the paper. She found names of people she had known on the pleasure cruisers, who’d joined the navy and been torpedoed and drowned. How long ago that time seemed now. Sadness crept over her. Leo had advised her not to read the casualty lists.

Meggie usually attended the navy memorial services, which were happening more and more. Her natural ebullience seemed to desert her on those occasions. She was far more unselfish and thoughtful. The destruction going on had a profound effect on her, though the changes had been gradual.

Esmé hadn’t heard from her friend Minnie since before the war. Married to Leo’s brother, her best friend had achieved all she’d ever wanted in life . . . a family who loved and appreciated her. And she’d found it in Australia, as had Esmé.

Her finger hovered over a name and shock filled her.
William Denison (corporal).
Her eyes filled with tears again as she remembered the man she’d almost married and she whispered, ‘Poor Liam.’