Letters to the Lost (20 page)

‘I can imagine.’ He was smiling, straight into her eyes. Then he opened the door of the jeep and picked up a clipboard from the dashboard. He scribbled something quickly before handing it to her.

‘If you could sign right there, ma’am. Peaches, three crates.’ His finger tapped the paper where it said:
Trocadero 8 p.m. I’ll be waiting.
Swallowing a smile she took the pencil he held out and wrote,
I’ll be there.

15

True to tradition, the day of the fete was the best June had to offer; warm and golden and with a brisk breeze that tugged at the tablecloths of the trestles outside the hall and made the faded bunting flap and dance.

Word had got out about the peaches. Ada had told Alf at teatime, just before he went for his Friday pint of half-and-half at The Albion, which was as good as standing on the scrubby ground beside the church hall and announcing it through a megaphone. Consequently the St Crispin’s fete enjoyed a record turnout, with the queue for the tea table stretching right out of the door of the hall, ‘Like the first day of the sale at Debenham and Freebody,’ huffed Ada.

Of the three crates of peaches, two and a half had been portioned out carefully into saucers (the most elegant method of presentation the church hall kitchen could supply in such quantities) for sale alongside the teas, while half a crate’s-worth of tins had gone to provide prizes for the raffle, garden-on-a-plate, and fancy dress competition, and to add some much-needed pizzazz to the tired-looking array on the tombola table.

At least one had also been lost to Reverend Stokes. Stella, coming into the ginger-scented kitchen the previous night, had discovered him lurking in the scullery with a tin-opener and spoon. She’d retreated quickly, not wanting a confrontation, but had felt quite justified in going up to run a bath and fill it with twice as much hot water than the regulation five inches and luxuriate in it until it cooled, feeling no guilt about keeping him waiting beyond his regular and strictly-adhered-to half past ten bedtime.

Lying up to her chin in steaming water, her blissfully clean hair floating around her like pondweed, she’d gone over every detail of what had happened earlier, from the moment she’d looked up and seen Dan standing in the church, to the outwardly formal handshake beside the jeep before he’d driven off. Slipping beneath the surface and listening to the boom and echo of the underwater world, she’d relived the kiss . . . Relived it until red flowers blossomed in the darkness and the desire that had swirled quite languidly through her veins grew more urgent. She surfaced again, gasping in air, and swept the water from her face as she counted the hours until tomorrow night.

There wasn’t time to think about anything as she poured cups of tea and handed out peaches. She was so busy she didn’t see Nancy until she was standing at the table in front of her, even though she was dressed to be noticed in film-star sunglasses and scarlet lipstick. Smiling across at her Stella felt like wilted lettuce. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

‘Yes well, heard you had peaches, didn’t I? I suppose it’s only one dish each?’

‘Yes, sorry – there’s plenty of gingerbread cake though.’

Nancy slid her glasses down her nose and peered at it. ‘Hmm. Think I’ll just take the peaches, thanks.’

Stella was too preoccupied to take offence. Glancing quickly around she said quietly, ‘Listen Nancy, I need to ask you a favour. I’ve got to judge the fancy dress in a bit – meet me outside?’

Half an hour later the peaches were all gone and Stella took off her apron and gratefully handed it over to Dot Wilkins. Outside, the playing field was gratifyingly crowded, and the wind cooled the sweat on the back of her neck. The White Elephant stall was doing brisk business, and the tombola table contained only meagre pickings now. Shouts of ‘behind you!’ from the children watching the Punch and Judy competed with the baying onlookers around the tug-of-war, almost drowning out the Co-op band playing
You Are My Sunshine
. Stella was relieved to see that quite a large group of women were clustered around the coconut shy, rising to the challenge of winning a cauliflower for supper. She spotted Nancy, sitting on the grass with her face tipped up to the sun, a cigarette creating a hazy halo of smoke around her head, and sat down beside her.

‘You got a dilemma with this fancy dress, I can tell you. Been having a look while I’ve been waiting and they’re none of them much cop, apart from him.’ Nancy took a suck on the cigarette then waved it in the direction of a small boy standing solemnly by himself beside the makeshift platform where the fancy dress line-up was scheduled to take place next. He was dressed in what was clearly an older brother’s Scout uniform, with the addition of a black tie and a red armband featuring a swastika. His hair had been Brylcreemed down from a side parting and on his top lip was painted a black toothbrush moustache.

‘Blimey. That’s scary.’

‘He’s totally in character too – you should see him goosestep. So – what’s this favour you want to ask me? Bear in mind I’d do pretty much anything for a tin of peaches . . .’ Nancy gave a saucy wink and Stella had a flashback to the dark church and Nancy’s legs entwined around the waist of the GI. She quickly banished it.

‘You don’t have to do anything, really, just back me up in a bit of a lie. I was hoping . . .’ She plucked at the grass, torn between shame and excitement. ‘I was hoping it would be all right if I said I was going out with you this evening.’

With slow deliberation Nancy moved her glasses down her nose again and fixed Stella with a searching stare. ‘That sounds interesting. Do you mean to tell me, Mrs Thorne, that you are intending to escape the Vicarage this evening with the purpose of enjoying a bit of entertainment of an illicit nature? With a person or persons such as the vicar might disapprove of?’

‘Shhh . . .’ Stella was laughing now, blushing, as the excitement she’d managed to squash down all morning came bubbling up. She looked around. Luckily no one was watching them, and the noise of the band and the tug-of-war crowd made it impossible for them to be overheard, but she felt nervous even so. ‘It’s the man who found my watch, Lieu tenant Rosinski. He was the one who supplied the peaches. He’s in town tonight and he asked me if I could meet him.’

Not long ago such explanations would have been unnecessary; they’d shared every detail of their lives and the secrets of their hearts. But now there were gaps. Big gaps, that Stella couldn’t really attempt to fill.

‘And being human, female, alive and not
entirely
barmy, you said yes . . . ?’ Nancy looked impressed.

‘Being married I should have said no.’

‘Pfft.’ It was somewhere between an exclamation of disgust and an exhalation of smoke. ‘Forget that. Got to grab hold of a bit of fun wherever you can in these uncertain times. If you shut yourself away in that tomb of a vicarage, the Rev will come home and find you fossilized at the kitchen sink. You did the right thing. Course I’ll cover for you. I tell you what, I fancy a go with this Madame Anoushka.’ The matter of Stella’s marriage vows dismissed, Nancy’s butterfly mind settled on a new topic of interest and she nodded in the direction of the fortune-teller’s faded tent. ‘I wouldn’t mind knowing what fate has in store for me, so long as it’s not a direct hit in an air raid.’

‘If you knew that you could get yourself a Morrison shelter and sleep in it every night. I don’t think she’s very reliable though. Ada booked her; apparently her real name is Annie and she mostly works in a pub in Potters Bar.’

‘Spoilsport. ’Ere, she’s got no one in there now. Why don’t you nip in first, while I finish my ciggy? Punch and Judy’s not finished yet – you’ve got time before you have to judge the fancy dress.’

It was the last thing she felt like doing, but Stella didn’t have the heart to argue, not when Nancy had just agreed to help her out. Together they went over and while Nancy stood outside the shabby little tent with its faded sign she drew back the canvas flap and went in.

It smelled of fermenting grass and mildew, undercut with the sharper tang of sweat. The light was murky and the air damp. Madame Anoushka was nowhere to be seen, but just as Stella was about to go out again she appeared from behind a flimsy curtain made from a moth-eaten shawl.

‘Sit down, my child.’

Her voice was husky, a mixture of Russian and Cockney. She was wreathed in scarves and cigarette smoke – the old girl must have been having a sneaky fag out the back of the tent. Behind their layers of kohl and mascara, her eyes gleamed when they came to rest on Stella, as if she had just remembered some private joke.

She slid a small enamelled dish across the table into which, Stella realized, she was supposed to put money. She fumbled in the pocket of her dress and reluctantly put in half a crown because she had nothing smaller. It didn’t seem appropriate to ask for change.

With impressive sleight of hand Madame Anoushka whisked the money out of sight beneath the purple chenille tablecloth and busied herself pouring tea from a tarnished silver spirit kettle. Stella’s mood lifted a little – having been on her feet all afternoon serving tea to other people, the prospect of a cup for herself was very welcome. The brew was black and smelled strongly of bonfires. The woman peered at her through the steam with the beady relish of a blackbird watching a worm.

‘ We start, I think, with the ’and. I sense you will have honest ’ands. Show me.’

Blimey, thought Stella, placing them uneasily on the purple chenille. She hoped they weren’t too honest.

Madame Anoushka seized her wrist and turned her hand palm upward, bending over it so that Stella could see the seam of white at the roots of her orange hair. She looked for a long time, twisting her hand this way and that, as if reading actual print. Stella stared over her head at the potted aspidistra behind her and let her thoughts drift deliciously ahead, as the noises of the fete floated in from the other side of the canvas. The fancy dress judging was next, and then there would be prize-giving to endure, and clearing up . . . It would be six o’clock at least before she could hope to be finished. Salad for supper; Reverend Stokes could complain all he liked. Her dress was hanging up on the wardrobe door – only the navy and white spotted one she usually wore for church, but aside from the green she’d worn last time it was the best she had. She wondered if she could get away with another bath before she went out—

‘You are married.’

Stella started in alarm, almost jerking her hand from the fortune-teller’s grip. It took her a second to realize that it was a statement of fact, not a reproachful reminder.

‘Oh . . . yes! Yes, I am.’

It was hardly proof of her psychic power, since Stella was wearing her wedding ring and Ada had undoubtedly pointed her out as the vicar’s wife. ‘There is break in marriage line . . . This shows separation – living apart.’

There must be an awful lot of people with breaks in their marriage lines at the moment, Stella thought. Restlessness was building inside her. Madame Anoushka was tracing a line across her palm with a long, slightly dirty fingernail; the sensation made her shiver involuntarily.

‘I sense passion. Great passion. But caution too. You are fearful. You do not trust easily.’ She ran her nicotine-stained claw along the curving line beneath Stella’s thumb. ‘But you have much to give – this passion again, and love. Very much love you have to give. Now – drink your tea.’

Stella took a mouthful of the dark brew – it tasted like it had been made with the contents of the ashpan rather than tealeaves. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable and longed to reclaim her hand. And wash it. Madame Anoushka was pressing her thumb over her palm now, as if testing the freshness of a piece of steak at the butcher’s.

‘You have needs to meet. The needs of a woman.’ There was something lascivious in her tone, as if she was taking some kind of vicarious pleasure in saying such things. Really, it was too much, but just as Stella was about to snatch her hand away she let it go. ‘Now, let us see what is written in the leaves.’

At least she wasn’t required to finish the tea. With relief she watched Madame Anoushka swill the remaining liquid around then tip it out into the saucer. She studied the flotsam of leaves washed up around the inside of the cup and gave a crow of triumph.

‘Ha – there it is!’ The claw hovered over a nondescript clump of tealeaves by the rim of the cup. ‘The oyster! And there too, the harp! Each are symbols of love, romance . . .
Desire
. And right at the top of the cup – that is indication of the present.’ She looked up from beneath her orange floss of hair with a coquettish smirk. ‘This passion will have outlet
tonight
. . .’

How did she know? Stella got to her feet, suddenly dizzy. Her breath seemed to be stuck painfully behind her breastbone. ‘Thanks,’ she said in a strangled voice. ‘It’s been fascinating, but I—’

She stumbled towards the tent door, fumbling for the opening in the canvas and desperate to be out of the fetid atmosphere. Nancy pulled back the flap and watched her emerge with mild surprise.

‘Steady on. You all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

Stella was about to demur; to reassure her that she was fine and it was just the heat inside the tent and the voyeuristic suggestiveness in the creepy old woman’s tone. But something caught the periphery of her vision and made her turn to look across the field, to the figure standing beside the platform, surrounded by a little crowd of people. The blood left her head.

‘Oh my God . . .’ she croaked.

Nancy turned to follow her gaze.

‘Bleeding hell,’ she muttered. ‘That’s no ghost. It’s bloody Charles.’

He looked different: older, thinner, more weathered. His skin was too fair to turn brown, and it had a reddened, flayed appearance. There were new lines around his eyes, from squinting into the African sun.

‘I should have sent a telegram, but it was all so last minute, there really wasn’t the opportunity. Is it a terrible shock, darling?’

‘Well, yes, but . . . a good one, of course.’