A Song At Twilight (19 page)

‘I know. Thanks.’ He laid his hand on the top of the stile, looking down at it. ‘I know there are a lot of people who’ve lost relatives. It ought to make it easier, somehow, but it doesn’t. I just can’t seem to get it into my head.’

‘Of course that doesn’t make it easier,’ May said. ‘He was your brother. Everyone who loses someone feels just as bad. Why should you be any different?’ She thought for a minute and then added, ‘If you ask me, I think it makes it harder, knowing there’s all these people been killed already, and still being killed. Thousands of them – millions, even. And what for, eh? What’s it all about?’

Ben gave a short laugh. ‘You ought to ask Stefan Dabrowksi that. You know, the Polish pilot. It was because Hitler invaded Poland that we went into it in the first place. I don’t suppose anyone thought it would spread the way it has.’

‘It’s like a horrible disease,’ she said. ‘Spreading all over the world, breaking out like sores. All we’re doing is treating the sores – cutting them out or cauterising them. But that doesn’t do any good to the disease itself. The germs still go on underneath.’

‘Yes,’ Ben said, ‘that’s just what it’s like. But what else can we do? We’ve got to try to stop it spreading. And we’ll win in the end. We must.’

‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘I really do hope so.’

They stood quietly for a moment. Then May curled her fingers in his, and lifted her face. Looking down, he could see the dark pools of her eyes and the pale glimmer of her teeth as she smiled at him.

‘’Tis Christmas night,’ she said softly. ‘Let’s just think about that, shall us?’

Ben looked into the dark eyes. The gleam of the moon was reflected in them like twin stars. Her full lips were parted slightly over the glistening white teeth and he caught his breath and bent towards her. He felt her fingers curl into his palm, and he slid his other arm around her waist and drew her against him as she raised her face to his and their lips met, softly, in a kiss that was no more than a whisper in the breeze.

They stood together for a moment without speaking. Then, very quietly, Ben said, ‘Happy Christmas, May …’

By the time they returned to the cottage, Mabel Prettyjohn had laid out a supper of cold chicken and ham, with some home-made pickles and bread and cheese. Her father had set a second bottle of elderberry wine on the table, the fire glowed and the cottage was a cosy fortress against the winter’s night and all the sorrows of the war.

‘There you be!’ she welcomed them, her face wreathed in smiles. ‘My, you do look all bright and glowing – that’s the cold air, I dare say.’ She drew them inside and held out her arms for Ben’s coat. ‘Come and sit by the fire, my handsome, and get warm.’

‘It’s lovely out, Mother,’ May said, taking off her own coat and hanging it behind the door. ‘The brightest moon you ever saw, and the fields are all white with frost. It’s like fairyland.’

‘At least there’s been no snow this year – so far.’ Mrs Prettyjohn took Ben’s cold hands between her warm ones and rubbed them gently, something nobody had done for him since he was a small child. After a moment, she held her hand out to the fire to warm the palm again, then rubbed his hands once more. It was strangely comforting and he remembered how he had been feeling like a frightened little boy, and then took himself severely to task. I’m not a little boy! he thought crossly. I’m a grown man, fighting a grown man’s war, and I’m fighting it for my brother now as well as my King and country. And for these people, too – who hardly know me, yet welcome me into their home on Christmas night because they know I’m fighting for them.

All the same, it couldn’t do any harm to let go for a little while, to relax in this cosy living room with its stone walls and warm fire, and let these strangers envelop him with their kindness. And there was May, as well, and the kiss they had shared by the stile. It wasn’t Ben’s first kiss, yet it had somehow seemed like it. Somehow special …

May’s mother let go of his hands and moved over to the table. ‘Now, my lover, you’ll help yourself to whatever you fancy. There’s plenty here and us’ve got plenty for tomorrow’s dinner, so you needn’t worry that you’m taking our rations.’

‘Well, I had dinner in the mess,’ he began, but the sight of the simple, homely meal laid out on the table with the best lace cloth and willow pattern china because it was Christmas, woke a fresh hunger in him and he was pleased to take some of the crusty, home-made bread and the mellow cheese and a slice or two of meat with some of Mrs Prettyjohn’s pickles.

‘That’s good to see, a healthy young appetite,’ William Prettyjohn said. He was sitting up in a makeshift bed along one wall, wearing a proper shirt and tie instead of his pyjama jacket, and already had a plate on his lap. He was rather pale but didn’t seem ill otherwise, and Ben remembered that May had told him that he had had an accident which had left his legs paralysed, and spent most of his time upstairs.

‘He needs to keep his strength up,’ Mabel said, heaping some more cold meat on to Ben’s plate and waving away his protests. ‘I told you, it’s not taking our rations. Our own cock bird, this was, fattened up for Christmas. Horace, we called him,’ she added.

‘Horace?’ Ben looked at the meat which had once been so much part of the family that it had had a name. ‘Er …’

‘Oh, ’tis all right,’ Mrs Prettyjohn assured him. ‘He had a happy life.’

Old Mr Prettyjohn lifted the dark brown bottle of wine and tilted it over Ben’s glass. ‘Try this, my handsome. My own elderberry, this is. Or I’ve got a drop of rowan, four years old and ready to drink. And there be cider as well, made of apples from our own orchard. Try them all!’

Ben scarcely knew where to start. ‘Maybe some cider first, to go with the cheese,’ he suggested, and a large glass was poured out and handed to him. He took a sip and felt his face screw up at the dryness. The others laughed.

‘You’ve not tried home-made Devon scrumpy before,’ William Prettyjohn said. ‘Takes you by surprise, doesn’t it. Better not drink too much, specially if you’m going to try Dad’s wines as well. He’s a master at winemaking, is Dad.’

They sat round the fire, their plates on their laps, and the talk passed to old times, before the war. ‘Many’s the winter’s night us’ve spent sitting round this very fire, roasting chestnuts and telling stories,’ William went on. ‘Good times, they’ve been.’ He turned to the old man. ‘Father, tell this young chap a few of your old Dartmoor tales. I dare say he’ll not have heard them.’

‘He’ll be the only one in the world who hasn’t, then,’ May remarked and her mother shook her head at her. She grinned unrepentantly.

Ben looked at the grandfather, sitting in his wheelback chair by the fire. He had finished eating and was filling his pipe. ‘I’d like to hear them.’

Old Mr Prettyjohn sucked hard on his pipe to get it going, then took it from his mouth. ‘Well, now, which shall I start with? Have you heard the tale of the Hairy Hands? Or the lady who drives out from the gatehouse down by Fitzford Bridge at midnight with her carriage? Or old Dewer – the Devil hisself – driving his hounds over the Dewerstone Rocks one dark, stormy night? Or—’

‘I haven’t heard any of them,’ Ben said eagerly, and the old man sucked his pipe again and began.

‘Well, I’ll tell ‘ee about the Hairy Hands first.’ He lowered his voice and they all leaned forwards, even those who had heard the story so many times before. ‘’Tis out on the road across the moor, between Princetown and Two Bridges that it happens. Mostly motorbikes, the Hairy Hands go for. They appear out of nowhere and grip hold of the handlebars and drive the bike off the road. The prison doctor from Princetown was killed there, twenty years or so ago, and there were another feller too, thrown to the side of the road. He didn’t live neither, but he had a pillion passenger who said he’d seen the hands hisself, just before the crash. And then there was a couple once sleeping in a caravan – around the same time, it were, give or take a year or two – and the young woman woke up sudden-like, sensing danger, and saw these two huge hands, all covered with thick hair, crawling up the window, which was open at the top. Her knowed at once ’twas her man they were after but she made the sign of the Cross and prayed, and they slipped down again and disappeared.’ He looked gravely at Ben and added, ‘Take my word for it, young chap, don’t ’ee go roaming over the moor at night, now. There’s stranger things happen on Dartymoor than ever was told.’

Ben felt a shiver run down his spine. He glanced at May and she gave him a small smile and moved a little closer on the settee. He could feel her warmth against him.

‘Then there’s the ghosts of prisoners,’ the old man went on. ‘There’s a little man with long dark hair, been seen many a time, running through the grounds of the prison. Even one of the Governors saw un once. And then there’s another, David Davis he were called, spent fifty years behind bars there and looked after the prison sheep. When it came to un being turned loose, he didn’t want to go – couldn’t stand the thought of living outside – and he begged the Governor to let un stay but Governor said he had to go. So poor old David Davis, he said, “Well, keep the job open for me, will ee, because I’ll be back for certain,” and sure enough not a fortnight later un was back again and stopped there for the rest of his life. Folk’ve seen un since, driving his sheep about, happy as a sandboy.’

‘Well, that’s not quite so frightening,’ Ben said, but the old man shook his head.

‘’Tis never good luck to see a ghost. But the worst one of all be only a few miles from here, down by Meavy. That’s where the Devil drives his black Hounds of Hell over the rock – the Whistle Hounds, they’m called hereabouts. Old Dewer, he is, though some call him the Midnight Hunter, and he rides a huge black horse with fire breathing out of its nostrils. Every hound has eyes of fire as well, and great slavering jaws, and to see them means you’ll die within the year. Some say they’ll hound you off the rock there and then, and leave you dead at the bottom. On a stormy night, you can hear them howling … howling …’ He paused dramatically. ‘Come you hear that, boy, you don’t want to be outside. Better to stay indoors.’

‘Grandpa!’ May protested, half-laughing. ‘Ben’ll be afraid to go back to the airfield if you go on like that.’

‘Oh, I’m not scared of ghosts,’ Ben declared. ‘Anyway, I’m not going that way tonight. The airfield’s only just up the road. Mind you,’ he added, ‘there are a few tales of haunted airfields. I knew a man who swore that at one station he was at, there was a ghost of an airman who used to appear in the officers’ mess.’

‘Ah,’ old Mr Prettyjohn nodded. ‘There’s nowhere safe from ghosts.’

There was a short silence, then Mrs Prettyjohn got up briskly. ‘Time for a cup of cocoa, I think. And maybe while I’m making it we could have a song or two, to help cheer us up. Ghosts are all very well, but they do leave you a bit gloomy.’

The others laughed and William began to sing. He had a good voice and they listened in silence as he sang ‘Where E’er You Walk’ and one or two Edwardian ballads, then joining in as he went on to some of the popular wartime songs like ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ and ‘We’ll Meet Again’. By the time Mrs Prettyjohn brought in the cocoa they were roaring their way through ‘Daisy, Daisy’, ‘My Old Man Said Follow the Van’ and ‘Waiting at the Church’.

‘That sounds better,’ she said, setting down the old tin tray with the cups of cocoa steaming on it. ‘I’ve brought in a few biscuits as well.’

‘I’ll be too full to move after all this,’ Ben said, but she shook her head.

‘You need something inside you for the walk back. It’s a good two mile or more, that is, back to Ravenscroft. Now, help yourself. I won’t take no for an answer, mind.’

As Ben looked at her warm, homely face, he thought of his mother, sitting at home grieving over her lost son and unable to find comfort anywhere, even in her faith, and felt a sudden twinge of guilt. This had been such a pleasant, cheerful evening, so different from the way it had started. It doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten, he thought. It doesn’t mean I’m not still grieving myself. It’s just that life has to go on, and would Peter want us to mourn him for the rest of our lives?

‘Thank you,’ he said to Mrs Prettyjohn. He finished his cocoa and stood up. ‘I really ought to go now. Thank you all so much. You’ve made it a wonderful Christmas for me.’

May’s mother gave him an understanding smile, as if she knew just what thoughts had passed through his mind. ‘You’m always welcome here, my handsome. Just you remember that. Come in any time you’m passing. Us’ll all be glad to see you.’

May came outside with him to the gate. They stood together for a moment, watching the moon slide slowly across the sky, and then she said, ‘I hope you’ll do what Mother said, Ben. Come and visit us again. It’s been lovely to see you.’

‘It’s been lovely to see you too, May.’ Shyly, he touched her cheek with his fingers. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’ And then he bent and kissed her again.

As he made his way back to the airfield, he had the sensation that he was walking on the moonlight itself.

As the New Year opened, Alison read the papers with a sinking feeling that the war was never going to end.

‘It’s not all bad news,’ Andrew said, trying to comfort her. ‘Look how the Russians are kicking the Germans out. They’ve chased them all the way back to Poland. Hitler must be wishing he’d never gone into the country. It was far too much for him to take on.’

‘Poland,’ she said. ‘Poor Stefan – he must be so worried. He has family still there.’

‘I know. He doesn’t say much in the mess, though. Talk about the British stiff upper lip – I think some of these Poles starch and iron theirs! Well, I have to admit I’d be worried too, in his position. God knows what the Germans have been doing in Poland, but it’s not going to get much better with the Russians chasing them back there as well.’

‘I thought you said that was the good news,’ Alison said sombrely, and he made a wry face.

‘I did, didn’t I. Well, it is when you realise that the Germans are losing something. It’s just a pity that a lot of other people have to lose as well. I’m sorry, darling. I don’t always think of it like that. Can’t really afford to, I’m afraid,’ he added ruefully.