A Girl in Wartime (23 page)

‘Good Lord, no!' He leaned away from her a little, gazing at her with a preposterous look on his smooth face. ‘But I'm not happy to wait until you're twenty-one. That's over two years away. Even if we wait until then, how much longer do you think you could keep our relationship a secret?'

She leaned closer to him, burying her head in his shoulder. ‘Then what can we do?'

‘We must tell them. But getting pregnant, especially deliberately, is certainly not the answer. You can't insult your own parents like that, Connie.' He gave a small derisive laugh at the thought. He paused then gently lifted her left hand on which she was wearing his ring, gazing at it for what seemed like ages, then said quietly, ‘You've not yet worn this ring at home, have you?'

‘I keep it round my neck – on a ribbon.'

He smiled, a sad smile that wrung her heart with guilt. ‘I see,' he said, laying her hand down on her lap as gently as if it might break to pieces, the action making her feel oddly ashamed of her small act of subterfuge – that she should have flourished the ring in front of them and be damned what their reaction would have been.

‘I don't want to hurt them,' she said quickly. ‘They've enough to contend with these days.'

She saw him nod and knew he understood. Almost every family in the country had someone out there fighting, fighting in Turkey too; almost every family had the constant fear of losing a loved one.

She wanted to let her body fall against him, have him kiss her again, his hands warm on her bare flesh, but all he did was put an arm around her and kiss her gently before moving away, murmuring that it was time he took her home before her parents grew worried.

So matter-of-fact after all that had happened, and now he was behaving as if nothing at all had taken place. All she wanted was to have that wonderful moment all over again, yet feelings of guilt had begun to steal over her. What would her mum and dad say if they knew their daughter was letting herself be made love to in a man's apartment? Stephen was right. She couldn't let herself get pregnant, disgracing the family she loved.

But it was more than just making love here on his sofa. It had begun to feel wrong – far from the sweet romance she'd imagined, it was beginning to contain an unhealthy quality to her mind, almost like illicit lovers taking furtive pleasure of each other in the secrecy of some dark alleyway. That bedroom of his, its door tightly shut as if it was sacrosanct, and she not cherished enough to share his bed. It had been so wonderful here on his sofa at first, but lately it was beginning not to feel right.

‘I'm sorry, Stephen, for the things I said about getting pregnant,' she said, suddenly ashamed for even thinking of it. ‘It was silly of me.'

But there was still this other thought plaguing her. If only he would take her to his bed, let her fall asleep in his arms. It would be so lovely; it would make her feel she really belonged to him.

Before she could check herself she had burst out, asking again ‘Why have you never taken me into your bedroom, Stephen?' She was becoming angry. ‘Is it because you still hold it sacred to the memory of—?'

She broke off, aware of him regarding her with an expression of sadness. She instantly read in it that she had gone too far; suddenly seeing it through his eyes without it needing to be put it into words. He and his wife had made love in that bed, she might even have passed away in it, a lasting reminder of the woman he'd loved and married, and not even she to whom he could make love on this sofa would ever be allowed near it.

Even as that thought came, she felt a twinge of rancour that despite making ardent love to her, there was a barrier between them, a barrier she felt she would never be able to tear down. All she could say was, ‘I'm so sorry, Stephen, I wasn't thinking.'

He didn't smile. ‘Taking you to bed, my dear, would be fatal, too easy to lose track of time, to wake up to find it morning, and what would your parents think, you being out all night? What excuse could you give, you who wear my engagement ring on a ribbon, hidden from them?'

It was said in such a matter-of-fact tone but she could feel the condemnation in that last question, realised how she was hurting him. Tears began to gather in her eyes – tears he had already noticed.

‘You have to be honest with them, Connie,' he said gently. ‘You have to tell them.'

She knew that now. To be honest with them was to honour him, though the thought of the possible consequences of telling them made her cringe.

Weeks had passed, and her nineteenth birthday had arrived and still she was hanging back from telling her parents about her and Stephen. He had given up asking her. He knew full well that she hadn't and it made her feel like a puppy terrified of its owner's anger; frightened too of his disappointment in her.

Her birthday fell on a Sunday. This evening he was taking her out to dinner to celebrate, somewhere very special, he'd said.

At midday she had been obliged to consume a Sunday birthday meal Mum had painstakingly cooked for the whole family and knew by the time she and Stephen had dinner, she'd hardly be able to find room for it.

Mum's offering had been a special birthday treat, a chicken she'd managed to get hold of – no one knew how. ‘Your nineteenth birthday, love,' she'd said proudly, innocent of what had been planned for the evening. She'd have to apologise to Stephen as she pushed away her sumptuous meal, saying she was full to the brim.

She was meeting him at seven thirty, and had told her mum she was going with friends to a little club they knew to dance to a jazz band. Her mum had said, ‘Well, don't let anyone lead you astray, love.' Connie knew her mother still saw her as an innocent, and was mistrustful of the effect this modern jazz music and jazz musicians might have on a young and impressionable girl like her daughter. ‘Don't to be too late home, love,' she'd warned gently.

Connie hadn't known what Stephen had planned, other than being told to wear her very best clothes and nicest hat as they were going somewhere high class.

She guessed it was to be somewhere wonderful but in her wildest dreams hadn't even thought it would be the Ritz, the huge, electric-lit hotel she'd often walked past with friends. She'd never thought that one day she'd be setting foot in its sumptuous surroundings, conducted through the huge glass doors by those imposing, liveried doormen, and actually have a meal there.

It should have been lovely, drawing up in a proper chauffeur-driven motorcar Stephen had hired instead of a taxi, having a commissionaire open the vehicle door for them and another to open the hotel door to admit them into the most opulent surroundings she had ever seen, so hushed but for distant soothing music that she felt she dared not even speak lest she shiver the expensive atmosphere.

After handing her coat and hat to the cloakroom lady, she joined Stephen to be led to the sedate dining hall, the diners there looking as if they were worth millions, and she felt dowdy in her best dress. But Stephen threaded her arm firmly through his as they were conducted to their table.

She was gratified to find that the meal, though top class, was served in small portions so that whatever her lack of hunger compelled her to leave, wouldn't seem quite so noticeable. She'd expected to be overawed, but Stephen with his confident manner put her wonderfully at ease. Yet there was still that worry threatening to dim the wonderful evening, the delicious food bland in her mouth as she thought of her parents.

‘I don't know how to tell them about us,' she said as they ate, and had him regard her across the beautifully laid table.

‘I think you should let me come with you, you introduce me and let it go on from there.' He reached out across the table and took her hand in his; it felt so warm and comforting. ‘It's got to be done sometime, my darling. It'll not get any easier by delaying it. You never know, your worries might be all for nothing, my love. When we leave here, I suggest we go straight to your parents and tell them.'

Gently she eased her hand away. ‘I can't, not yet. They're already worried about poor Ronnie, and Albert's still at the front, and there's Dorothy pining for Ron to be sent home and see his daughter. He only saw her for just over one day after she was born. He's not seen her since. She'll be a nearly year old by the time he's well enough to come home. He'll have missed all the joy of seeing her growing up. I can't add to their problems, Stephen. Let's wait just a little while longer.'

He released her hand and sat back. ‘Very well, darling,' he said like a man defeated. ‘As you wish.'

But she knew her reticence to tell her parents about them was pushing them further apart. What if he were to grow frustrated by her continually deferring the matter and told her that it was all no use, it was all off and to call it a day? She couldn't have borne that. Yes, she would have to tell them – as soon as she found the courage. But she knew what their reaction would be and that terrified her. Telling them or not telling them, either way she could lose him.

Christmas bore all the signs of being a really miserable one, not only because it was getting harder to find anything, food prices having gone sky high, but because of the bleak news of stalemate along the whole length of the Western Front, with thousands of men being lost daily. No one at home said much about it, but the tightness of Mum's lips, the anguished way she would twist her fingers together when she thought no one was watching, and her father's taut, grim face, told Connie of their fear for Albert's safety and anguish for Ronnie's future.

Dorothy was the one most noticeably affected, yearning for Ron to be finally sent home to spend the rest of his life watching his daughter grow up.

He was still in France, being treated for shell shock, they'd now been told – mild, they said, as if it were some sort of consolation – and for the ongoing treatment of his stump that wasn't healing as well as it should. Albert was still in the thick of it and who could say he wouldn't be killed at any time? How, then, could Connie burden them with news of herself and Stephen?

As for Christmas presents, it was fine for those with money who could afford any price, but ordinary people could only do their best. Everyone accepted with good grace that a kiss and a thank you for a humble gift was more precious than the gift itself, which was usually given with the comment: ‘When this damned war's over, we'll make up for it!'

Christmas dinner would no doubt be festive, the family coming round with their tiny offerings, everyone trying to put a brave face on it, other than Dorothy, who without her own mother's shoulder to cry on, was using her future mother-in-law's instead.

Connie was already seeing Christmas as holding little promise for her, knowing she couldn't ask Stephen to be with her. What sort of Christmas would he have, alone in his flat, no family to speak of, colleagues who'd probably have their own families to be with? But worse was the news hanging over her head that she'd have to tell her parents about him eventually.

Most of her time was spent going over and over what she would say, but it never seemed to come out right. She should have told them long ago and got it over with. At least she'd know by now where she stood with them.

She promised herself to tell them next week. Come what may, and have done with it, face whatever disparagement they'd aim at her.

Then came something that alarmed Connie even more deeply, making her feel certain that Stephen would be leaving her, even though it would not be his decision. She had been at work for a couple of hours when he had entered her department and came over to her desk, gazing at her as he held out an official document. ‘My calling-up papers,' he explained bleakly.

It felt as if her heart had stopped. ‘Oh, Stephen, no!'

‘I never expected this,' he was saying as if she had not spoken. ‘Perhaps they won't accept me. They didn't last time. The ear trouble, you see, I'd have thought they would have had all that on record. But that's the military for you.'

He spoke lightly enough and relief was flooding over her. ‘Then it should be all right,' she said, ‘once they've looked at your old files.'

When he spoke again it was as if to himself. ‘The last time I tried to volunteer, that was. The time before I met you, at that time I made the mistake of telling the paper, and they were dead against it – said I was too much of an asset to leave them for any reason. I never realised they held me in such high esteem. They'd never admitted that to me before, but then they wouldn't, would they, in case I got above myself and sought a post with some larger newspaper or asked for a substantial rise in salary.'

He gave a whimsical smile seeming to be directed at himself.

Connie detected the irony behind the smile but her own heart was pounding. What if this time they took him? What would she do? The newspapers, even this one, were reporting carnage at a place called the Somme. What if something should happen to him? The idea did not bear thinking about.

‘Maybe they'll reject you again because of your ear trouble,' she said hopefully. ‘They've probably got their paperwork all mixed up.' After millions of men passing through the recruiting centres, mistakes were bound to happen.

‘More likely they need men so badly,' he said, ‘that they no longer care who they take. Most likely they'd take me, half-deaf and all.'

‘They can't!' she burst out, but indeed they could. ‘The paper might never find anyone as good as you; maybe they have to take on some elderly duffer who's past his prime. You're needed here. So many are being called up, you'll just be one of thousands. Surely they wouldn't miss one man.'

He made no answer and she let her tirade ebb away, her argument futile. But so many men were being lost, the recruitments centres were eager for more human fuel to replace them. But Stephen, a single man admittedly, but one who had been more than once rejected because of partial deafness when he'd gone to volunteer, surely they wouldn't have changed their minds? Now it was certain they'd take him despite his disability and his newspaper's need of him. It was out of his hands, out of theirs, out of hers too.