‘Water, dear? For a bath for a weary soldier?’
‘Sorry. I was miles away, thinking about the immersion heater. I’ll pop upstairs and switch it off!’
She did just that, checking the bathroom to make sure Ness had not left her toilet bag. And she had not. Then she went into the spare bedroom, glancing around. But Ness had removed every smallest personal thing. Her sheets and pillowslips were already in the laundry basket, Lorna knew, and the blankets folded neatly and covered by the bedspread. It would be all right – just as long as no one mentioned Ness’s name during the next seventy-two hours! And why should they?
William put on the white shirt and grey flannel trousers Lorna had laid out on the bed. The bath had revived him after his overnight journey and he regarded his mirror image with not a little smugness. He had lost weight! The suspicion of a belly he’d had when he left for Wiltshire was gone. Why, dammit, he could even fasten the belt at his waist a notch tighter!
He walked to the open window, drawing in the scent of the summer afternoon, feeling pleased with himself. Nun Ainsty had not changed. To his left was the pillar box, to his right, Dickon’s Wood. And spread out below him was the village Green on which Martha Hugwitty’s two geese grazed and nibbled, and the tiny duck pond on which a lonely old duck still swam.
The midday sun was warm, the sky blue and the scent of grass and flowers was good in his nostrils. He was a lucky man, all things considered. A little upset, naturally, that Lorna had been foolish without his presence to guide her, but she was young; younger even than her years. There was nothing worldly about his wife and he knew he could trust her completely – her fidelity, that was – and never have to worry that she would give him cause to doubt her. Lorna had an air of innocence about her for all she was a married woman. He had heard only yesterday about the wife of a fellow officer who had not only gone off the rails but written a Dear John letter asking for a divorce!
He looked in the mirror, smoothing his hair, liking what he saw there; a man in his prime and fitter than ever he had been. He would have an enjoyable weekend, then on Tuesday report to his new posting; a permanent base and in England, thank God! Could have been North Africa or the Far East, but he’d been lucky and got the safe number he had all along intended, and well worth the time spent in the Territorial Reserve. He would survive this war, he knew it.
He fingered his moustache. Had Lorna seriously meant he should shave it off? Would it really make him look younger, complement his flatter stomach and slimmer waistline? He patted the one-notch-tighter belt almost smugly and decided that the moustache stayed. Dignified. Gave him an air of dependability. Clients had trusted his wholesome image. Lorna’s grandfather had felt the same way; been glad, in his last years, to give his granddaughter into the keeping of one so steady and reliable. Lorna had said yes the first time he asked her to marry him as if she already knew her acceptance would have her grandfather’s blessing.
Yes, William Hatherwood was a fortunate man. He had a compliant wife, a comfortable, well-run home in a picture postcard village. He had also been given a posting to Aldershot, which suited him very nicely. Life wasn’t all doom and despair – apart from the invasion, which was never very far from most people’s minds. And that being the case, the invasion would be declared taboo for the remainder of the weekend!
‘Butter is to be rationed even more on Monday,’ Lorna murmured as they sat at the kitchen table having supper. ‘And lard and margarine.’
‘Oh dear.’ William had not noticed a shortage of anything in the Officers’ Mess.
‘Two ounces of each per person per week …’
‘Then I suggest you collect yours every two weeks, dear. Two ounces of anything is hardly worth the time and effort weighing and wrapping it.’
‘Yes. A good idea …’ Or it would have been had there not been two people living at Ladybower and four ounces of anything seemed rather more collectable. ‘Tell me, William, are you near the awful air raids?’
The daylight raids, intended to wipe out the first line of resistance to Hitler’s invasion plans, continued with frightening ferocity. For how much longer could Hitler order the Luftwaffe into the air, twice, sometimes three times a day, at such a loss in bombers? And for how much longer could our fighter pilots stay on their feet, let alone take to the air, sortie after sortie? How did you fly Hurricanes and Spitfires when you were almost asleep standing up?
‘The raids don’t bother us a lot in Wiltshire, nor will they where I am going. Aldershot isn’t a target – yet. And I have been thinking, Lorna,’ – think about, talk about anything but the damned invasion – ‘that I shall take the car with me when I go back – my car, I mean.’
‘Why?’ Lorna laid down her knife and fork. ‘Surely the Army has enough trucks and cars of its own? Why take yours, and how would you get the petrol for it?’
‘The same way as you do – with my own petrol coupons. By the way’ – he was all at once alert – ‘you haven’t been using mine, have you?’
‘Of course not! Your coupons are where you left them in your desk drawer, but could you – would you – mind giving one of them to me? A one-gallon coupon, I mean …’
After all, she had driven to the station and back and even though the petrol ration went twice as far in her small, economical car than it did in William’s, she calculated she had used up at least half a coupon in getting to York and back. Petrol coupons were like gold dust and you didn’t get anywhere near enough.
‘I will, though I didn’t think you’d begrudge me a couple of miles.’
‘Twenty-five miles, the round trip!’ Lorna was surprised that common sense hadn’t told her to let the matter drop. ‘And you have two months’ petrol coupons unused, I know, and more due on the first of next month. Please, William – I’d be so grateful.’
‘Very well. I’ll put a gallon in the tank for you.’ He was surprised she could be so nit-picky. The Lorna he had left behind him wouldn’t have made a fuss over a couple of squirts of petrol because, and she had to admit it, that small contraption of hers went for miles on very little fuel. ‘And I’ll check my own – tyres, oil and water. Quite a lot of the chaps have their cars with them. Handy. If I can wangle the time I’ll be able to get home without a leave pass more often – if I’ve got my own transport.’
‘Then you must take yours, William. We’ll give it a clean and polish. Shall you drive it back on Monday morning?’
‘Think I will. And that was a very civilized meal, dear. I enjoyed it. Think I’ll take a turn round the village then pop into the White Hart, treat myself to a glass of decent ale. The further south you go, y’know, the worse the beer is. I’ve missed getting a northern pint.’ He pushed back his chair and the legs grated on the stone tiles of the floor. ‘Won’t be too long. Reckon I’ll have an early night. Didn’t get a lot of sleep on the train.’
He left, looking well pleased with himself. Lorna pouted; he was forgetting that when he was a civilian he had always helped with the washing-up after supper. But she mustn’t find fault. This was his first leave, however short, and he must be really glad to be home.
But an early night? Just what did that mean? Was she expected to go to bed with him, or was he genuinely tired? Friday wasn’t one of their
