Home Sweet Home (27 page)

His eyes narrowed as he looked into the distance where trees dotted a faraway hill.

Frances waited with baited breath for him to continue.

He made no move to explain any further, but just carried on staring at nothing.

‘What happened?'

Roused from his musings, his eyes narrowed. ‘My uncle was a senior police officer.'

He leaned forward, his fingers interlocked around his bent knees and that faraway look in his eyes.

‘Dear Uncle Chad! My aunt was a quiet woman who didn't say much and was closer to my sister than she was to me. Guys for guys, and girls for girls, I suppose. I was jealous of that. I figured it was my job to protect my sister, so sometimes I said and did things they didn't like. Then one day they weren't there any more. There was a shooting. Both my aunt and my sister got shot in a crossfire between police and the robbers. I blamed my uncle for it happening and stormed into my room, banged the door and stayed there. Later he came to my room and for the first time ever, hugged me. Then he cried on my shoulder. He explained that he'd wanted to be closer to me, but life was tough and he'd wanted to prepare me for that. I realised then just how much he'd loved us all. Later that night, he shot himself. That was when I decided to join the army and the military police. I wanted to distance myself from the other guys at the same time as being one of them. And, yeah, law and order had a lot to do with it.'

Frances said nothing, her big eyes fixed on this man who appealed to her far more than any younger man ever could. She reached out and touched his shoulder.

‘Did you mean it?'

He turned his head. His expression was unreadable.

‘About getting married?' He shook his head. ‘How stupid was that?'

‘Was it stupid?'

A sad smile came to his face. ‘Spring and winter. That's what they'll say.'

‘Possibly spring and summer, but not winter. Definitely not winter.'

His smile was slow and speculative, but the look in his eyes was decisive. He knew what would happen next and so did she.

He was gentle, just as she knew he would be, a warm tingle beginning at her lips, spreading down over her breasts with the touch of his hands. His fingers traced upwards inside her thighs, slowing at the very top, endlessly stroking before dipping into her.

She felt no apprehension, no fear of pain and no hesitation. He dipped his head between her thighs, drawing out a long exclamation of pleasure. She had never experienced anything like this. What she had done with Ed was nothing compared to this.

There was no pain. When he entered her, she was ready.

The sky seemed to spin, the earth heaved beneath her. And then she soared, feeling as though she were flying. Finally, when she could soar no higher, a shower of stars fell over her and she was swooping downwards, exhilarated, emotional and superbly satisfied.

Afterwards they lay in the grass, their bodies close and warm.

‘I could lie here for ever,' Frances whispered.

‘You mean you're no longer afraid of cows?'

Frances sat up abruptly. ‘I forgot about them.'

The cows were gathered in a corner of the field around a water trough.

‘I don't think they'll be troubling us again.'

He sat up, ran his hand along the nape of her neck and kissed her. ‘So where were we? Oh, yes. I asked you to marry me.'

After all that they'd done today, this was the first time Frances had blushed.

‘Yes. You did.'

‘So?'

Overcome with massive apprehension, she was suddenly loath to give him an answer. In the meantime, she sought an excuse and easily found one.

‘I can't give you an answer until I know that Charlie is all right. We're all very worried about him.'

His look was so intense she wondered whether he believed her. He hesitated before answering.

‘I can wait. And he will be okay. I'm sure he will.'

They strolled back down the field, their clasped hands parting just before they climbed over the gate.

‘No. I'll be the talk of the village,' said Frances when Declan suggested he would take her home.

He ran his hand down her arm. ‘It's going to happen, you know.'

Her face was bright, her voice bubbled with laughter. ‘Me becoming the talk of the village?'

‘No. Us getting married.'

He gave her a final wave when he drove off.

She'd noticed nobody and considered herself unobserved, but then found out she was not.

‘My, my. That's a fine-looking man. Just been in the field, have you? A favourite place that, for them up to no good!'

Of all the people to be observed by, it was Gertrude Powell, her face hard with malice.

‘He's a friend of my cousin.' She barely kept the guilt from her face.

There was an odd smile on Gertrude's face and a mocking look in her eyes. She glanced tellingly towards the oak tree standing in the middle of the field.

‘Seems to me that he's more of a friend to you than to your cousin. Much more than a friend!'

It was the third week in May, a lovely month that poets had often linked to dreams of Paradise.

Stan neglected his garden and that of Bettina Hicks. Instead, he got out his bicycle clips from the kitchen drawer and his bike from the shed at the bottom of the garden. He intended spending all day at the hospital.

Charlie's condition was still critical, but he was breathing easier. ‘Go home. We will keep you informed,' said the ward sister he'd met that first day.

The ward sister gave up and so did the other nurses and staff who thought Stan would be better home. Finally realising that they were fighting a losing battle, they turned a blind eye to his extended visiting hours.

Now, taking a break from watching staff and patients going to and fro, he wandered outside, found something to sit on and got out his pipe.

As he puffed away, watching the smoke curl upwards through half-closed eyes, he considered what was going on. Outside was just as busy as inside, though for some reason the staff never looked hurried. Keeping a cool head was imperative, their professionalism hiding the tension they must be feeling inside.

His eyes narrowed as he watched ambulances, staff and patients going in and out. They were a grand bunch, he thought to himself, a grand bunch, though he'd still prefer not to be here.

Ruby and Frances had offered to visit too, but he'd spurned their offer. This was something he wanted to do by himself. If his son Charlie had lived, it would have been his prerogative. As it was, Stan felt an overwhelming duty to be where his son might have stood. Better still, it would have been wonderful to have him standing here beside him at this desperate time. Mutual support, that's what it would have been.

Sometimes, he felt alone in his concern for his grandson, although he knew that Mary, Frances and Ruby were all worried for Charlie. He felt something else, something deeper. It was to do with the fact that his only son had left him a grandson. The girls would go on to have their own children. They would be theirs and theirs alone. Mary already had Beatrice. But his grandson Charlie had nobody to stake a claim on him, which to Stan's mind made him all the more special and their relationship that much closer.

Once he'd finished his pipe, he knocked it against the grey stone the building was constructed from so the detritus of warm ash fell to the ground. A quick glance at the sky and he decided the fine morning wouldn't last. Rather than getting wet even before he started for home, he might as well get back in and wait. He had to be there – whatever happened.

The smell of antiseptic met him as he swung the door open. The wooden bench in the waiting area was set against the wall. It was hardly the most comfortable of perches, but he reckoned he'd get used to it no matter how long he had to sit there. The end justified the means, though he'd never foreseen that little saying applying to wooden benches!

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes staring at, though not really seeing, the brown linoleum, smelling the pristine sharpness of disinfectant without really thinking about it. He was in a world of his own, a world where his son Charlie was alive again and enjoying the novelty of having a son.

The sound of quick footsteps in stout shoes failed to rouse him from his thoughts. Neither did the swish of a starched uniform, not until the ward sister spoke to him.

‘Mr Sweet?'

Unfolding his body, he looked up. On seeing her expression, cold fingers seemed to grab his heart, crushing the warmth and the life out of it.

He recognised her as the nurse who had ordered him to go home. Her expression had been different before; a little warmer, a little less officious.

He hoped that all she was going to tell him was that he should go home and stop getting in the way of them doing their job. Not that he was going to go home, no matter what she said.

‘I'm not going. No matter what you say, unless you want to throw me out?'

Sister Parker's nose was long, her mouth naturally downturned at each end. ‘You shouldn't be here,' she said brusquely.

‘I'm not going!' he repeated firmly. He felt tired, heard the tremble of fatigue in his voice, felt the slight shivering that pre-empts utter exhaustion.

‘I think you should, Mr Sweet. I came to tell you the antibiotics are working. Your grandson is recovering but he needs to rest. He's going to make a full recovery. I would suggest you come back tomorrow then we can discuss the prospect of him going home.'

Stan was speechless. He couldn't move. He just sat there staring up at her.

Sister Parker adopted a frosty, impatient look. ‘Did you hear what I said, Mr Sweet?'

Stan rose swiftly to his feet and before the ward sister could make a move, he grabbed her shoulders and placed a smacker of a kiss on her cheek.

With a heavy heart, Mary stared out of the window towards the airfield. That morning, she'd watched the bombers returning to base. Some were damaged, metal ripped aside as though it were not more than torn cotton or silk. She was too afraid to count them, to know for sure how many were missing. The news on the wireless had said a great blow had been dealt against the German Reich, though there had been losses. They had not said how many.

During her time living here, she'd developed a second instinct about numbers going out and how many of those aircraft had made it home. Today she knew beyond doubt that not everyone had come back – not yet, anyway.

There were always stragglers, aircraft damaged in operation, making their way back on one engine or with their fuselage so full of holes that the wind whistled in, blowing everything about – including the blood. Michael had told her how sometimes the crew got spattered with the blood of an injured colleague.

Since early morning, she'd been up, occupying herself around the house and trying not to look out of the window. The moment she heard a bomber fly over, she left what she was doing and ran to the window, and stared up at the sky. So far she hadn't seen the familiar number on Michael's aircraft. She feared that she had missed it while attending to the baby or other things. Deep inside, the fear that he had not yet returned refused to go away.

Brooding on her fear, she went on with the routine things in an efficient, though somewhat unfeeling manner: feeding Beatrice, washing dishes, getting out the Ewbank to sweep the rugs.

The Ewbank carpet sweeper clanged noisily as she pushed it to and fro. Every so often she stopped and cocked an ear, fearing its noise might drown out the sound of a returning engine. She couldn't bear to miss any of the returning planes if she could possibly avoid it.

At lunchtime she made herself a sandwich and a pot of tea. Eyeing the sandwiches with little interest, she poured herself a cup of tea. Occupying herself possessed her every waking moment. The precise way she set her cup and saucer on the table had become something of an art. No longer was it merely a case of setting them on the table. She was compelled to arrange them with nervous precision, the cup on the saucer, the saucer equidistant from the plate, the teaspoon set neatly in the saucer, the sandwiches placed spot on in the middle of the plate. Trivial things had never mattered before, but they did now.

Beatrice was sleeping after her feed. Mary checked how she was before switching on the wireless in time to catch the one o'clock news, which might give more information than the earlier bulletin.

‘This is the BBC news read by Alan Baddel. In the early hours of this morning, a number of aircraft led by Wing Commander Guy Gibson, DFC, DSO and Bar, attacked a number of dams in the heart of the industrial Ruhr valley with great success. Two of the dams were destroyed. Eight of our aircraft are missing.'

Other news, other programmes, music and the all-pervasive advisory programmes created by some government department in the heart of Whitehall followed on from that stunning announcement. Not that Mary heard them. Neither did she hear Beatrice crying for her next feed or notice the passing of time in general.

Settling herself slowly in to an armchair, she sat stunned, not really seeing anything. Without her being aware of it, she drifted off somewhere frightening in her mind. Anyone seeing her would easily have thought she was made of wax. She was sitting forward, hands on her knees, shoulders tense. Leaning forward, unhearing, unseeing, with the exception of the telephone. Soon it would ring and then she would know. He was dead. Or missing. Or a prisoner of war!

She would welcome the last if it were true; at least he would be alive. But in the meantime, she sat waiting, hardly breathing as she waited for the telephone to ring.

Beatrice continued to cry, her small hands waving in the air, her strong legs kicking into the warm bedclothes she had so recently been snuggled into.

The child's cries were as unclear to her as the fuzzy sounds of a wireless when it wasn't properly tuned in to the station.