Cousins at War (27 page)

They arrived at her house in a fit of the giggles at a rather risque story she had been telling but she held out her hand and said, more seriously, ‘It was good fun tonight, Neil, thanks
for taking me. Have a safe journey back.’

He kept hold of her hand. ‘I don’t have to go back till next Tuesday. You’ll come out with me again, won’t you?’

There was no coyness, no self-satisfied smirk. ‘OK.’

‘Saturday, then?’

‘Fine. Goodnight, Neil.’

When he went home, only Joe was still up. ‘How did you get on with Olive?’

‘Great! We’re going out on Saturday again.’

Joe scratched his ear lobe. ‘Your mother’s not too pleased about you taking her out. It’s not that long since you were saying you couldn’t stand the sight of
her.’

‘I used to call her everything, but she’s different now, no stupid nonsense. I think she’s grown up at long last.’

‘Maybe it’ll be all right, but . . . I’d watch myself if I was you. She’s got a . . . what’s the word? . . . voluptuous, that’s it, a voluptuous figure, and
the best of men could be tempted.’

Neil laughed loudly. ‘Freda’s the only one I want. Olive doesn’t appeal to me, not even her big tits.’ He looked at his father and grinned. ‘Sorry, Dad, it just
slipped out.’

Joe shook his head. ‘I see you’ve learned men’s talk?’

‘I bet if you heard some of the things we speak about, it would make your hair curl.’

Stroking his balding pate, Joe observed ruefully, ‘That’d take a bit of doing, these days.’

When he went home on Saturday night, Neil was thankful that both his parents were in bed. He couldn’t have faced them, not after what he had done. God, he’d been a bloody fool! It
hadn’t been entirely his fault but that was no excuse. His mind jumped back a few hours.

When he met Olive, she’d said, ‘It’s far too nice a night to be in a stuffy hall.’ That should have warned him but he had thought nothing of it. It was a nice night, warm
and balmy although it was still March, and he fell in with the idea quite happily. They took the tram to Hazlehead and found that the park closed at sunset but they went past the locked gates and
carried on along the rather rough road between the trees.

After a few minutes, Olive said, ‘This road’s making my feet sore. I can feel the stones through my shoes.’

Neil’s own feet were uncomfortable, so they moved on to the grass verge and when they saw a gap in the dyke, they went through on to the golf course, the springy turf feeling like a
thick-piled carpet. They walked for perhaps half an hour, Olive sometimes running ahead and dodging behind one of the trees, waiting to jump out on him when he caught her up, the twigs snapping
under their feet, the fallen needles sending up the fresh fragrance of pine as they capered about in the darkness like fauns.

Neil couldn’t recall which of them had suggested having a rest but he was almost sure it was Olive. They had lain down side by side under the gnarled old trees, still breathless, and
looked up at the scattering of tiny stars winking in the black sky. After a few minutes, when they got a second wind, they had exchanged more stories and their laughter turned to teasing, the
teasing became fun-wrestling, until . . . his hands had accidentally brushed against her breasts and his long-suppressed urges had erupted. Not that she had objected. It was probably what
she’d been leading up to from the minute he met her. She had returned his kisses with a passion that drove him wild, pushing him beyond control, encouraging him, helping him, towards the
release that was his sole concern.

Instead of the memory setting him aflame again, it made him feel worse than ever. Olive, of all people! It had been her first experience of sex, his first with a virgin, and he groaned now with
the bitter shame of it. She had clung to him after it was over, whispering, ‘I always knew you loved me, Neil darling,’ and he had jumped up, too angry to argue with her. He had felt
like walking away and leaving her but he couldn’t let her go home alone in the blackout and he’d waited until she made herself respectable.

As they walked back the way they had come, she had crowed, ‘You’ll have to break off your engagement now,’ and had been astonished when he shouted, ‘You’re a stupid
bitch, Olive Potter, do you know that? I love Freda, with all my being.’

‘But I thought . . . oh, Neil, you must love me, after that.’

‘I’ve never loved you, and I never will. I’m sorry for what I did and it’ll never happen again. A man doesn’t have to love a girl to make love to her, though it
makes it more satisfying. It’s a need he gets and Freda respects her body, so I’ve never . . .’

‘You mean she won’t let you?’ Olive gave a coarse laugh. ‘God, Neil, I credited you with more gumption.’

When they arrived at her door, he snapped, ‘Don’t write to me again, because I won’t answer any of your letters.’

‘Are you going to tell Freda about . . .?’

‘What do you think?’

He had left her and hadn’t even turned his head when she called after him, ‘Come back, Neil darling.’ He was up to his neck in boiling water and he couldn’t tell Freda
what he had done. She would be shocked, hurt, and so angry that she wouldn’t marry him. A tremor of stark fear ran through him. Surely Olive wouldn’t be as vindictive as to tell her?
Maybe it would be a wise move to get in first, to tell his fiancée everything and throw himself on her mercy, though it was unlikely that she would forgive him. It might be best if he
arranged to see Olive again, to reason with her, to make her understand that nothing she could do would make him love her and to make her promise that she would never tell Freda by letter or by
word-of-mouth. He would phone her tomorrow.

Olive, too, was recalling what had happened. How could Neil deny that he loved her when he had whispered beautiful words of love all the time they were . . .? But possibly he wanted to wait
until he broke his engagement before he told her? He might think that was the decent thing to do and she would have to be patient. Yes, she decided, it would all work out in the long run. Having
thus convinced herself, she settled down to relive the most wonderful moments she had ever spent . . . so far. Her whole life would be even more wonderful, once Neil was free of Freda Cuthbert.

She was dressing in the morning when her mother called to her that Neil was on the phone, so she ran downstairs in her petticoat. ‘Hello?’ she said breathlessly.

‘Can I see you tomorrow night? I promised an old pal I ran into the other day that I’d go for a drink with him tonight and I go back on Tuesday morning.’

Triumph surged through her. She had prayed he wouldn’t go without seeing her again. ‘Tomorrow’s OK. Same place?’

‘Same place, same time.’

Worrying about what he would say to Olive, Neil didn’t much enjoy his old pal’s company and they did not have much in common now anyway as Paul was in the Air Force and thought
himself better than a REME. When he went home, just after quarter to nine, he was surprised to find his father on his own again. ‘Is Mum all right?’

‘She hasn’t been feeling great these past few days,’ Joe told him, ‘but she won’t go to the doctor.’

‘She should. I’ll have a word with her in the morning. She might listen to me.’

They sat for about twenty minutes discussing the war, then Joe said, ‘I believe you’re seeing Olive tomorrow again?’

‘Did Mum hear me on the phone?’

‘Aye.’ Joe looked pensive. ‘I told you before, it’s not a good thing. That’s three times you’ll have been with her and she could start thinking things, you
know.’

Neil would have liked to reassure him but couldn’t. It was even worse than his father thought. ‘She knows I’m engaged,’ he muttered, a rush of guilty colour flooding his
face.

‘That wouldn’t mean much to her. Go canny, lad.’

Even though Neil had slept little the night before, he lay awake for some time thinking about the coming confrontation, but he was shaken awake by his father just before two in the morning.
‘Neil, phone the doctor . . . it’s your mother.’

By the time the doctor arrived, Gracie was doubled up with pain. ‘It’s worse than being in labour,’ she gasped. A few questions and a brief examination resulted in the
diagnosis, ‘A stone in the kidney. I’ll ring for an ambulance.’

Joe accompanied his wife to hospital, holding her hand as they sped across the city to Foresterhill and Neil dressed himself, amazed that Queenie hadn’t heard all the commotion, but it was
probably just as well. He’d have been left alone with her, both of them worried sick; that would be fatal. He had already blotted his copybook with Olive, and it would be so much easier to
make a slip with Queenie. Back in the kitchen, he made a pot of tea, but it was after four when his father returned, grey-faced with anxiety. ‘They’re going to operate on her and I
wanted to wait but they wouldn’t let me. They told me not to phone for a few hours.’

‘She’ll be all right, Dad, don’t worry. I’ll make a fresh pot of tea. This’ll be stewed.’

‘Don’t bother, I couldn’t drink it anyway.’

Joe paced the floor like a man demented until Neil pulled him to a halt. ‘You should go and lie down for a while, Dad, and I’ll give you a shout about six.’

‘I’ll not sleep.’

‘You’ll be resting, though.’

‘Aye, that’s right.’ Joe went out, his shoulders drooping.

Neil stretched his legs out across the fireplace. He had kept the fire going, and it was warmer in the kitchen than it was in his room. It was better not to go back to bed, in any case, because
he might fall asleep. It crossed his mind that he had scarcely seen Queenie apart from mealtimes, and he wondered if she had kept out of his way or if she really went out every night, like his
mother had said.

Poor Mum. What would they be doing to her at this minute? He had told his father not to worry, but he was every bit as worried himself. What would they do if anything happened to her? Dad would
go to pieces, for Mum did everything for him and if Queenie ever left – a lovely girl like her was bound to marry some day – he wouldn’t know where to begin as far as housework
was concerned. Dad likely hadn’t the faintest idea where the sweeping brush was kept, never mind anything else. As for cooking, he couldn’t even boil an egg.

But nothing was going to happen. The operation would be a success and Mum would be back home again in a week or two, as fit as a fiddle.

Startled by the click of the letter box, Neil looked at the clock in disbelief. Five past seven? He had fallen asleep after all. Stretching his arms, he stood up stiffly and
went to take in the post. There were two letters, one from Flo in Wanganui – that would cheer Mum – and the other addressed to him in Freda’s neat writing. He tore it open.

A warmth had spread through Neil’s chilled body, and he read the love note again. He would be seeing Freda again the day after tomorrow! Laying the letter down, he filled
the kettle and was setting it on the cooker when Joe came through, his sparse, uncombed, grey hair straggling on to his brow, his chin dark and bristly with stubble, his hand stifling a big yawn.
‘I fell asleep after all.’

‘So did I.’ Neil lit the gas ring and laid the matches back on the ledge. ‘We’d better wash and shave first before we phone the hospital.’ He felt surprisingly
reluctant about that now that the time had come. He wanted to know how his mother was but he didn’t want to hear . . . if it was bad news.

Lifting yesterday’s newspaper from Joe’s chair, he knelt on the rug to remove the ashpan from the fire, then tipped the contents onto a double page. Next, he twisted the other pages
individually in the way he had seen his mother doing, criss-crossed some kindling sticks over them and was placing coal on top when the kettle came to the boil. Raising his head, he saw that his
father was gazing vacantly into space.

‘You shave first, Dad,’ he ordered. ‘Leave some water for me and I’ll put the kettle on again for the tea. I’ll make the toast once I’ve washed. Will you be
going to the shop?’

‘I think I will, I can’t sit doing nothing.’ Joe lifted the kettle and poured some boiling water into the basin in the sink then, with soap lathered over his face, he turned
round again. ‘I can’t wait, Neil. I’m going to phone now.’

He disappeared into the tiny lobby and Neil crossed his fingers superstitiously until he came back. ‘They just gave me the usual pap. “She’s as well as can be
expected.”’ Joe imitated the impersonal voice that had answered him. ‘What kind of thing’s that to tell a husband? They won’t let me in to see her till seven at night,
for it’s only on Wednesdays and Saturdays and Sundays you get in in the afternoons.’

‘Mum must be doing fine, or else they’d have told you.’

‘I suppose so.’ Joe pulled off his shirt and ran some cold water into the basin to cool it down.

Standing up, Neil took a taper from a jar on the mantelpiece, lit it from the gas ring then held it to the paper in the grate. He was still blowing life into the flame when Joe looked round,
‘You’ll come with me tonight?’

‘Of course I’ll come with you . . . oh, hell’s bells! I said I’d meet Olive tonight. I’ll have to phone her.’

‘You’d better wait till they’re up. It’s early yet.’

‘OK, Dad. I’ll leave it till about eight.’

Queenie came through then – she normally waited until Joe had shaved – and had to be told what had happened during the night. ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ she
cried.

‘You couldn’t have done anything,’ Neil soothed.