The September Girls (34 page)

Cara leapt out of bed and took the weeping girl in her arms. ‘Oh, Fielding, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have persisted. I never realized it was such a terrible thing. What was wrong with your baby?’

‘He was too big for my womb, almost twenty-five pounds, and it was beginning to split.’

‘Twenty-five . . . Fielding, you bloody liar!’ Cara pushed her away and she fell on to the bed, helpless with laughter.

‘Well, you refused to believe the real truth,’ she said, almost choking on the words.

‘You’ve told so many lies I don’t know what the real truth is.’

‘My first answer was the true one. I was jilted, not exactly at the altar and not exactly by the love of my life, although I thought he was at the time.’ She looked briefly sad and Cara suspected it was genuine, although you could never tell with Fielding. ‘It can sometimes be a bit boring on the stage, especially if you’re in a long run, so I joined up for the excitement, just like you. And I thought it would look good on my resumé. Don’t forget the war was only supposed to last six months.’

‘You really had me fooled,’ Cara said indignantly. ‘You can be a bitch sometimes, Fielding.’

‘And you can be a nosy bugger, Caffrey.’

 

They had dinner outside in a tree-lined square situated in the very heart of Victoria. Cara could never remember what she ate, only that they all drank far too much wine and, by the time the food had gone, the world had taken on a different hue and everything appeared bigger than normal, sounds were sharper, and she felt as light as air and so much in love with Kit that it made her want to cry.

‘Are you all right, darling?’ he asked tenderly.

‘I’ve never felt more all right in me life,’ she replied.

The setting sun was melting into a sky that had suddenly turned purple with gashes of gold and looked as if it was on fire. Mac had brought a camera and took a picture with Cara and Fielding in the foreground. ‘I’ll let you have copies if it comes out OK,’ he promised. ‘I think I might have had the camera pointing the wrong way and it’s taken a photo of my nose. Either way, it won’t look up to much in black and white.’

The interior of the restaurant was darkly lit, a candle fluttering on each table, smoke rising from the inevitable cigarettes, and a pianist, hidden from view, accompanied by a violinist dressed as a gypsy, a red bandana tied around his long, black hair, a gold hoop in his ear, played familiar tunes from Hollywood films: ‘Let’s Face the Music and Dance’, ‘Change Partners’, ‘The Way You Look Tonight’. He wandered in and out, pausing at each table, his black, passionate eyes resting on the women, making them feel wanted and adorable, at least for tonight.

The pianist began to play ‘A Foggy Day in London Town’ just as the gypsy reached their table for the second time. Fielding said, ‘I sang this in a show once.’ Never backward in coming forward, and spurred on by the wine, she began to sing at full throttle and the gypsy flashed encouragement with his eyes. Fielding stood and followed him into the restaurant, a tiny, moth-like figure in her silvery dress. Cara noticed Mac’s eyes following her every move and was shocked because the look in them was anything but platonic.

Fielding’s voice wasn’t strong, but it throbbed with feeling. Everyone had stopped eating and people came from across the square, drawn by the haunting voice, although it was impossible to imagine a foggy day anywhere on such a glorious night.

‘If I was at home right now,’ Kit said in a low voice, ‘I’d be getting ready for bed. It’s Saturday and I might have been to the pictures or a concert. I might even have stayed in and read a book, never knowing that in another part of the world people were sitting under the stars listening to an angel sing.’ He looked at Cara. ‘Am I dreaming this, or is it real? Are
you
real?’

‘It’s all real,’ she assured him. ‘Really real.’

‘Me, I’d’ve been to a footy match this afternoon,’ said Mac. ‘By now, the kids’d be in bed and me and the wife would be falling asleep in our chairs and half listening to the wireless.’ He frowned and shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine going back to that life, not after this one.’

‘You’ve got no choice, mate,’ Kit said.

‘I don’t suppose I have.’ Mac stood and held the chair for Fielding, who’d finished her song to loud applause, not just from the diners, but the small and appreciative crowd that had gathered outside. From inside the restaurant, a voice shouted, ‘Jolly good show, Fielding.’

Mac’s arm rested along the back of Fielding’s chair. She took one of his cigarettes, although she didn’t normally smoke. They seemed very close tonight, not just physically.

For another hour, they sat around, until dusk had turned to darkness and half a moon had appeared in the starry, navy-blue sky. Mac began to yawn. Cara actually nodded off for a second and was glad that no one noticed.

Kit stretched. ‘It’s time we were getting back.’ For some reason he looked rather strained.

‘But the night is only young,’ Fielding cried. ‘Can’t we go to a club?’

‘It’s quarter past eleven,’ Kit said. ‘If there are clubs on Gozo, they’ll close promptly at midnight because tomorrow’s Sunday. No work and no play on the Sabbath day, that’s what I was taught at school.’

They danced back to the hotel, arms crossed, hands linked, the girls in the middle, singing ‘The Lambeth Walk’.

‘Shush!’ Mac chided when arrived.

‘Shush yourself.’ Fielding gave an extra-loud ‘Oi!’

The door had been left unlocked and they went inside, shushing each other, unable to see in the dark, windowless foyer. Cara couldn’t remember if the place had electricity. ‘Does anyone know where our room is?’ she whispered plaintively.

‘It’s here.’ She felt herself being guided through a door: it closed behind her. Here it was lighter as the curtains hadn’t been drawn and the light from the half-moon was just enough to see by. She became aware that it was Kit, not Fielding, standing by the door, leaning against it. She couldn’t make out the expression on his face, but felt extremely angry.

‘I’ll go away if you want,’ he said in a tight voice. Perhaps he could see the expression on
her
face.

‘Where are Fielding and Mac?’

‘Where do you think? The other bedroom.’

‘But . . .’ It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. Mac was married. Surely Fielding didn’t intend to sleep with a married man? ‘Did you arrange this beforehand with Mac, that you come into the room with me?’

‘I had to, didn’t I?’ Kit said tersely.

Cara backed away. ‘It seems really sordid, planning it in advance so Mac knew you wanted to sleep with me before
I
did.’

‘I’ve wanted to make love to you since the day we met. I thought you would have guessed that by now. I rather hoped you might feel the same.’

‘I do, I did. I’m not sure how I feel now.’ This wasn’t how she’d imagined it would happen. She’d wanted it to be perfect, but it had started off all wrong.

‘Cara! I’ve never done anything like this before. I had no idea how to go about it. I didn’t know whether to ask you first or . . . or what to do.’ He sounded on the verge of tears. ‘It seems I’ve made a perfect mess of everything. It doesn’t matter, I’ll spend the night somewhere else.’ He was about to open the door when she ran towards him, putting her hand on his arm.

‘Don’t go. I’m sorry, but I’m all in a muddle. I’ve spoilt things, haven’t I?’

‘No, it was me.’

‘It was
me
.’ There was silence for a moment, then they fell into each other’s arms: half laughing, half crying as they stumbled towards the bed.

‘Tell me if I do anything wrong,’ Kit murmured as he began to kiss her.

 

It hurt, badly, and wasn’t nearly as wonderful as she’d expected, although she swore to Kit that it was: she was too tense and he was nervous. Afterwards, they fell asleep in each other’s arms and that was enough for now, to feel the weight of his arm on her waist and the beat of his heart close to hers and knowing she was no longer a virgin.

It was still dark when Cara woke with the terrifying feeling that she was about to die. Shakily, she got out of bed and just managed to make it to the sink where she vomited so much that her ribs ached and her insides felt as if they were being scraped with a spoon.

‘It’s all that wine.’ She’d woken Kit and he was holding her over the sink. Despite her utter wretchedness, Cara was aware he had nothing on and neither did she. Waves of embarrassment swept over her already shuddering body and she was sick again. ‘Oh, you poor darling,’ Kit was saying.

He helped her back to bed, fetched a glass of water and mopped her brow with a wet flannel until she fell asleep again.

The next time she woke up it was broad daylight: the sun poured into the white room and all over Gozo, church bells were ringing and she remembered she’d have to go to Mass. To her surprise, Kit, looking very grave and thoughtful, was sitting up in bed. ‘Do you still love me?’ he asked the second she opened her eyes.

‘I’ll always love you,’ she said sleepily. ‘Why did you ask such a silly question when you already know the answer?’

‘I was worried you might have second thoughts after last night - as first nights go, it was pretty disastrous.’

‘It wasn’t your fault I was sick.’

‘The disaster occurred before you were sick: it might even be
why
you were sick,’ he said forlornly. ‘It happened far too quickly and I noticed you grimace more than once.’

‘Only because it hurt, but it might not hurt if we do it again.’

He slid down the bed and took her in his arms. ‘Are you sure? Do you feel up to it?’

‘I’m not sure, no,’ she said regretfully. ‘On second thoughts, I feel as weak as a kitten.’

‘Then we’ll leave it until another time.’

‘All right.’ Cara sighed contentedly.

‘You know what I think?’ he said softly in her ear.

‘What?’

‘I think we should get married: now, next week, as soon as possible. If we can survive a night like that one, we must be made for each other.’

Her heart stopped for a second. ‘Will the Army and Air Force give us permission?’

‘All we have to do is ask. What do
you
think, darling?’

‘I think we should ask.’

 

By Monday morning, the night on Gozo was already merely a memory that would linger for ever in her mind. Cara tried to think who to ask if she could marry Kit Farthing - he was setting things in motion his end that very day.

‘There’s only Allardyce,’ Fielding said glumly. They were lying underneath a lorry looking for a leak in the petrol tank. It provided a quiet place to talk. Cara still didn’t know what had gone on between her and Mac when they’d spent the night together. Perhaps they had, platonically, shared a bed, or Mac had slept on the floor, or they’d made passionate love the whole night long - it was no use asking Fielding, who wouldn’t hesitate to lie if it suited her. Any road, it was none of Cara’s business.

‘Sybil’s the last person in the world I’d want to ask for anything, let alone permission to get married.’

‘I don’t blame you, although you could always claim you were preggers, then she’d have no alternative but to say yes.’

‘I wouldn’t bank on it. I might get sent home in disgrace.’ Cara sighed. ‘I’ve got no alternative but to ask her, have I?’

‘Not really, and Caffrey, if you’re going to ask, do it quickly. I’ve never been a bridesmaid before and I’m looking forward to it.’

‘Have you two gone asleep under there?’ a voice thundered, and Corporal Culpepper’s face appeared upside down at the side of the lorry. ‘How long does it take to find a leak in a petrol tank and why does it need the two of you to do it?’

‘Ask
him
if you can get married,’ Fielding whispered. ‘He’s bound to give you permission if you promise him the first night.’

 

‘Come in,’ Sybil shouted when Cara knocked on the door of her office in Marzipan Hall.

Cara entered, stood stiffly to attention in front of the desk and saluted. Sybil looked up. She had been reading a letter and seemed rather distracted. She threw the letter down and Cara saw it was handwritten. The little office was rather soulless and hardly bigger than the box room in Shaw Street where she’d used to sleep. There were numerous charts on the wall, a large map of Malta with red pins indicating various positions and the inevitable picture of King George VI, this time in military uniform. Cara thanked the Lord she was a driver, as she would have hated being stuck in such a place without a soul to talk to for hours on end.

‘I’ve heard from Mummy,’ Sybil said in a perfectly normal voice, not the strident tone she usually used. ‘Jonathan joined up secretly, behind her back, and she’s distraught.’

‘Didn’t he turn eighteen the other week? He was likely to get his call-up papers any minute.’ Cara stood at ease, as it didn’t appear that Sybil was likely to tell her to.

‘Yes, but he’s still at school and Mummy’s been desperately trying to get him into university.’

‘Jonathan said they’d never take him at university, he’s not clever enough.’

‘When did he tell you that? Why don’t you sit down a minute, Cara?’

‘At Christmas.’ Cara pulled forward a chair. There was no need to wonder why she was suddenly Cara and not Caffrey, why she’d been asked to sit. Sybil must need someone to talk to and Cara was her only link with home.

‘I didn’t manage to get home for Christmas.’ She looked as if she wished she had. ‘I haven’t seen Jonathan since the war began. Oh, and Mummy says your mother isn’t being much help. She keeps saying it’ll be the making of him for some reason and it makes Mummy feel even more upset.’

‘It’s just Mam’s way,’ she said apologetically. It seemed odd to be making excuses for a mother who was hundreds of miles away. ‘She was dead upset when me and our Fergus joined up.’ Mam considered herself the perfect mother and had always claimed that Eleanor had never stopped treating Jonathan as a baby. ‘He’ll grow up a sissy,’ she would say warningly, as if Dad or one of her own children could do anything about it. But Jonathan had proved her wrong and gone his own way, despite all the pressure from his own mother. ‘What’s he joined?’ she asked Sybil. ‘The Army, the Navy, or the Air Force?’