Authors: Merryn Allingham
‘But how are
you
, Connie? What’s been happening?’
‘Quite a bit and I’m feeling nervous,’ the girl confessed. ‘It’s tomorrow I meet Colin’s parents and I do so want them to like me.’
‘You’ve no reason to feel worried. You’ll go down a storm.’
‘I think it may be an extra special occasion.’ Daisy saw her friend’s plump cheeks flush a bright pink. ‘Colin wants me to fix a wedding date and make it soon.’
‘And will you? Set the date, I mean.’
‘Of course. I want to marry him as soon as possible. I really love him, Daisy.’
‘That’s wonderful.’ And it was, she thought. She was delighted for her friend but finding it difficult to keep the fatigue from her voice.
‘You need to get more sleep,’ Connie said quickly. ‘And I need to get back to the ward.’
‘How is everything there …?’ Her voice trailed off. She should be going with Connie, returning to the ward herself. But she was so very tired.
‘Everything is fine, but we want you back as soon as possible. Fit and raring to go!’
Despite her fatigue, she didn’t sleep. Her mind refused to rest, so she simply closed her eyes and tried to remember. Talking to Connie, she had seen the whole of that last scene unwind in slow motion. The stone hitting Sweetman at the back of the head, the gun firing uselessly into the air. Grayson silhouetted in the doorway, the dark drive she’d followed. But now her mind wandered back even further: along the drive, along the walk she’d taken, the endless walk, and before that … a cemetery filled with gothic terror. Tall, white walls floated hazily into a corner of her mind and she recoiled instantly. She had reached the mausoleum, reached the moment of her imprisonment and her mind closed down. She could not bear to relive those hours of cold desperation and the horrifying risks she had taken to escape. How had her body stood up to such an onslaught? But it had. Somehow she’d reached Pitt House and done what she had to. She knew what had driven her—love, pure and simple. Love for Grayson and the dread she would lose him forever. But he was safe, and so was she. She could relax.
Or could she? What would she say to him when he returned? What could she say? It was clear he was concerned for her. He’d been here hours, Connie said, watching and waiting. When he came back, he’d want to check she was feeling better, want to thank her for her part in the night’s doings. But there would be nothing more, nothing deeper. She remembered how tight-lipped he’d been when she’d
last seen him. How lacking in warmth as they’d stood together by the ruined house in Ellen Street. He’d sent her away with Michael Corrigan, refusing to offer one jot of sympathy for Gerald’s brutal death. He had been cold and unforgiving, and she understood why. They had loved each other passionately, and then she’d walked out of his life. Curtly, refusing to talk, refusing to explain. That would be uppermost in his mind. And why would it not?
It wasn’t the first time she’d rejected him. Not the first time she’d behaved unreasonably, or so it must seem. For so long her feelings had been in conflict, missing him when he’d gone back to India, waiting eagerly for his letters to arrive, yet when he’d returned, unable to relax, to enjoy his company. And why was that? He was an attractive man, very attractive; he was interesting and intelligent, and he’d made it plain how much he liked her. But there had been a bar of ice where her heart should be and it had refused to melt, a bar that had
the past
running through its very centre like a seaside stick of rock.
Until the Ritz, when, for one glorious night, she’d broken free of her bonds. But guilt, as always, had been waiting in the wings and it proved a short-lived freedom. It was only when Grayson was threatened, when she knew she was about to lose him forever, that her heart had found its truth again. Without a doubt, she loved him. Perhaps she always had, from those very first moments in India. But Gerald had been her husband and she’d not allowed herself to feel more than friendship. Gerald had got in the
way of anything deeper. And when a month ago he’d come back from the dead and sent her life haywire, he’d got in the way again. But not any longer. Once the post-mortem was over, she would sever the last link in a chain that for years had held her fast. She would stand by his grave as she had by Willa’s, and send him on his journey with as much dignity and respect as she could muster.
He came bearing flowers, an enormous bouquet of early summer blooms. Passers-by stared at him as he walked from his car, but it was the moment he entered the hospital that he felt most awkward. Here he was, bringing a surfeit of flowers to a woman who’d made clear that she wanted no part of him. But she was a patient, he reasoned, and that’s what you did for patients—you brought them flowers.
Cautiously, he put his head around the open door. She was propped up against what seemed a hundred pillows, and her face had still not regained its lovely colour.
‘Where on earth did you get those?’
It wasn’t the greeting he’d expected, but it broke the ice.
‘Don’t ask. They’re strictly off ration.’ He walked up to her bedside and deposited the flowers on a nearby table. There was barely room to accommodate them.
‘From someone’s garden?’
‘Something like that, but a very important someone.’ He wouldn’t tell her that the blooms had been hand-picked
that morning from the Palace gardens. ‘You’re the nation’s heroine right now, and nothing is too good for you.’
She gave a weak laugh. ‘It’s not kind to make fun of me when I’m feeling so feeble.’
‘I’m not, on my honour.’ He took the seat by the bed and looked at her closely. ‘You’re the David who slew Goliath, although a very pasty David, it has to be said. How are you feeling, or is that a foolish question?’
‘I keep telling everybody I feel fine, and I do. A few cuts and bruises, that’s all. I could get out of bed this minute and go back to work.’
‘Don’t even think of it. David needed to rest after his momentous victory, and so do you.’
‘Sweetman wasn’t much of a Goliath.’
She slithered down the bed as she spoke. She’s tired already, he thought. God knows what she’d had to contend with before she’d appeared on the drive of Pitt House.
‘Sweetman is a very dangerous man,’ he remonstrated. ‘He holds the most extreme views and isn’t afraid to act on them.’
‘Have you discovered who sent him to England? I imagine he must have supporters back home.’
‘He’s still being interrogated. But you’re right. It looks as though he was sent undercover to sabotage any attempt to bring India into the war on our side. There’ll be a group or several groups somewhere in the homeland, rooting for the Germans to win this war, and that’s who we need to get to.’
‘And his colleague? Do you know who he was?’
‘His name was Hari Mishra and from what we’ve managed to piece together from contacts in India, he seems to have been as much a dupe as a conspirator. He’s currently lying in the morgue awaiting a post-mortem.’
‘What will happen to him?’
‘He’ll be cremated as soon as the coroner releases his body. Then his ashes will be scattered at sea.’
‘And Sweetman?’
‘Once we’ve finished with him, he’ll be handed to the police and charged with Mishra’s and Gerald’s murders.’
She said nothing and he could see the mention of her husband had disturbed her. He wished he’d kept quiet. ‘But for you, it would have been three deaths,’ he said, as lightly as he could.
‘That must mean Michael Corrigan is still alive. I didn’t like to ask. I know he’s a close friend of yours.’
‘He’s alive all right, though the car is a complete writeoff.’ Grayson pulled a wry face. ‘He’s suffering from concussion and a lot of nasty bruises, but he’ll be back on duty in no time.’
He leaned forward and fixed his eyes on her face. He had something to say and he didn’t want to be deflected. ‘You’re adept at changing the subject, Daisy. I’m not sure how you do it, but you’re very good. Before Mike intruded into our conversation, I was trying to say thank you—awkwardly, I know—but thank you for saving my life.’
‘There’s really no need. Consider it a fair exchange.’ She
sunk deeper into the bedclothes, as though trying to hide from the spectre of her own rescue in Jasirapur.
‘But there is. Most definitely. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d be lying alongside Mishra in the morgue at this very moment. What an aim you’ve got. And I thought girls couldn’t throw straight. Doesn’t that just show me!’
Without warning, she began to cry. The small, clear teardrops gathered and spilled onto her wounded cheeks and she made no attempt to brush them away.
He reached for her hand and drew it from the bedclothes. ‘My poor girl. What you must have been through. One day I want a full account of your adventures, but I won’t press you to talk right now.’ He took out a large white handkerchief and gently wiped away the tears. ‘We’ve plenty of time for that. At least I hope so. We
are
speaking now?’
She looked as though she might begin crying again, but instead she gave a very loud sniff. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured brokenly, ‘I’m sorry for what I said when we met in the square. I was so stupid.’
He shushed her. ‘I was the stupid one, not to realise how devastating these last few weeks have been for you.’
She balled his handkerchief tightly between her hands. ‘I felt so guilty about Willa, you see … I went to pieces. And that made me unjust. I hope you’ll forget what I said.’
‘There’s nothing to forget.’
Her confession was unexpected but comforting. It didn’t mean she was any nearer loving him, but at least he was
no longer the enemy. And it could be worth trying his luck with an idea that had been gathering pace.
‘There is something I don’t want to forget,’ he said softly. ‘I mentioned a trip to Brighton some weeks ago. Do you recall?’
‘I do, but didn’t we agree it would have to wait until the war was over? The south coast has been out of bounds to visitors since March, hasn’t it?’
He fished around in his pocket for a small white card. ‘It has, but take a look at this.’ He waved the paper in the air. ‘A special pass. And, as soon as you’re on your feet again, we’re going—with your agreement, of course. I can requisition a car and I’ve been saving petrol for just this kind of jaunt.’ He wondered if he should make a decisive strike and decided to risk it. ‘If you felt able to travel the Saturday after next …’
She didn’t immediately reject the proposal as he thought she might. Instead, she prevaricated. ‘But the hospital … If I’m well enough to gallivant to Brighton, I’m well enough to be back on the ward.’
‘Not so. You’re signed off work for the next two weeks. By no less a personage than Matron herself.’
She pulled herself upright and he saw her cheeks grow pink and her eyes begin to sparkle. It was the first time she’d looked like the old Daisy for what seemed a long time.
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘“Yes” is the word you’re looking for.’
‘Thank you, Grayson.’ Her voice still sounded unsure, but her smile was genuine. ‘Thank you for thinking of it.’
‘It’s Connie Telford you need to thank. It was her suggestion. At least, she suggested taking you away for a few days out of this crazy city, and the trip to Brighton slotted in nicely. So are we on?’
‘Yes, we’re on. Let’s go.’ She seemed as enthusiastic as he could wish.
Brighton, early May, 1941
T
hey were lucky with the weather. May had dawned wet and miserable, but for the two days they were by the sea, the sun shone for them. As soon as Daisy was shown to her bedroom, she opened its shutters—to the lapping of water and the glitter of sunlight on waves. The hotel Grayson had booked was situated between the town’s two piers and only a roadway separated it from the beach. But the beach was no longer for enjoyment. Thousands of yards of barbed wire had been draped along the seafront and large cubes of concrete—anti-tank traps, she presumed—were set up at every stairway or ramp. If she craned her neck left and right she could see searchlight batteries at points along the coast, and a phalanx of anti-aircraft guns. Brighton might not be suffering the terrors of the Blitz, but the outcome of the war was as uncertain here as anywhere else in Britain. And given the town’s position, its people must be in constant fear of invasion, since the enemy sat waiting just the other side of the Channel.
They had lunch in the hotel restaurant, a skimpy affair of minced beef with greens and potatoes. The rhubarb pudding and custard that followed was even skimpier and the coffee had certainly never seen an original bean. But neither of them minded. It was sufficient to be young and alive, to breathe the fresh air and feel the sun warming their skin.
‘Shall we try the seafront?’ Grayson offered her his arm. ‘We won’t be able to walk there after six. There’s a curfew in place.’
She was more than happy to saunter along the once beautiful promenade. She had never visited the English seaside before and everything she saw was newly fascinating.
‘What a pity we can’t walk on the beach. I’d love to crunch over those pebbles, but all that barbed wire.’
‘All that barbed wire is keeping us safe. The beaches are mined.’
‘How on earth do you mine pebbles?’ It was a novel idea. ‘Has that been mined, too?’ She pointed towards a long jetty that marched seawards some way ahead. It was the smaller of the piers, a delicate construction of Victorian ironwork, but now pummelled and war weary.
‘It’s not looking too wonderful, is it?’ he agreed. ‘When you went to fetch your jacket, I had a chat with the girl on Reception. She tells me they’ve removed whole sections of decking from both piers to prevent them being used as a landing stage. On a clear day, you can see the German lines across the water.’
‘I had no idea,’ she confessed. ‘That’s truly frightening. In London, you’re convinced you’re the centre of the world. You think you’re doing the suffering for the whole of Britain. But it’s not so. Brighton is hurting too, and plenty of other towns, I guess. It can’t be much safer here.’