Elizabeth Elgin - Windflower Wedding

She was still asking herself the same question as she skirted the wild garden on her way back to Rowangarth, and it came as a pleasant shock to hear her name being called in strong, masculine tones.

‘Miss Tewk! Wait!’

She turned to see the soldier, bearing a carrier bag of apples.

‘You forget them, miss,’ he smiled. ‘I volunteered to deliver them.’

‘Oh! That’s very – er – kind of you.’ She felt the flush of colour to her cheeks because she’d been so interested in Catchpole’s visitor she had clean forgotten the apples. ‘But you shouldn’t have gone out of your way, sergeant.’

‘Sydney,’ he corrected, smiling, ‘And I didn’t go out of my way, exactly. I offered to bring them because I wanted to ask you –’

‘Yes?’ Tilda whispered, snatching on her breath.

‘To ask if I might call on my next spot of time off.’

‘ Oooooh! ’ She felt distinctly peculiar.

‘I’d like a closer look at that grand avenue of lindens over yonder, you see. Mr Catchpole told me his grandfather planted them more than fifty years ago.’

‘Now that I couldn’t say.’ Tilda, distinctly disappointed, found her tongue. ‘You’d have to ask Mrs Sutton’s permission for that, her being in charge whilst Sir Andrew’s away at sea. I could mention it to her, though I’m sure it’ll be all right if Mr Catchpole says it will – him being head gardener.’

‘He did give me permission, Miss Tewk. I just thought it might be nice to have the pleasure of your company, you being familiar, so to speak, with the trees on the estate. He did mention that Rowangarth has some very fine English elms.’

‘We have. On the far edge of Brattocks Wood.’

A walk in the woods with a soldier – next Wednesday, weather permitting, at half-past two, she thought tremblingly as later she fretted over unaccustomed lumps in her bechamel sauce.

She wondered yet again if Sergeant Willis was married and knew, deep within her love-starved heart, that he was, which was just Tilda Tewk’s bad luck, she supposed, sighing deeply. She, who had always wanted a gentleman friend of her own, had never been lucky in love, there being so many young men taken in the last war and plain girls like herself shoved to the back of the queue. She had given her young heart to the Prince of Wales, him so boyishly handsome and with such a wistful smile. Her love for him was pure and from a great distance and she had only removed his picture from the kitchen mantel when Mrs Simpson got her claws into him.

At one time, Tilda pondered, as she squashed another lump against the side of the pan with her spoon, she had longed for a husband and children, then downgraded her hopes to perhaps just one passionate love affair. And since passion had never chanced her way, she had long since decided to settle for a dalliance, however brief. Now it seemed as if her prayers had been answered in the handsome form of Sergeant Sydney Willis and she would walk in Brattocks with him on her next afternoon off and show him the elms and the old, propped-up oak that folk said was almost as old as Rowangarth itself – if looking at trees was what interested him, that was. And if asked, she would continue their friendship until he admitted he had a wife and children when, as had happened with the Prince of Wales, she would be forced to give him up.

But until that happened, she decided with stiff-lipped determination, she would make the most of what the Fates allowed and be thankful for small mercies. And a dalliance.

‘I hoped you’d come.’ Alice dried her hands and took off her pinafore.

‘You knew I would.’ Julia pulled out a chair and leaned her elbows on the kitchen table. ‘It’s just a year now since …’ She glanced at the clock on the kitchen mantel.

‘Since we were celebrating your wedding anniversary and Mother-in-law’s birthday. And then the bombers were shot down and –’

No need for words as they clasped hands across the table top; no cause to say that Reuben, whom Alice looked upon as a father, and Mrs Shaw and Jinny Dobb had died that night. Nathan’s father, too.

‘How’s Nathan taking it?’

‘Not too badly. He asked prayers for them all at early Communion and for the two aircrews who died. He’s over Creesby way tonight. A young wife six months pregnant in need of comfort, he said. She got a telegram this morning. Husband killed in the Middle East. Should have gone myself. I know what the poor woman is going through,’ she said flatly.

‘Of course, love,’ Alice said gently. ‘I went through it as well, ’cept that Tom came back. I took flowers to the graves this morning – had a little weep. And I won’t forget Lady Helen, either.’

‘It was a swine of a week, wasn’t it? Four deaths and two of our bombers, then Mother died too, just days after. It was as if the old ones had had enough. Two wars in anyone’s lifetime is cruel.’

‘I’ll be there if you want me, Julia, like always – if Nathan won’t think I’m interfering, that is.’

‘He won’t. You and me have always remembered things together. Mother’s first anniversary isn’t the time to stop. And I’ve booked a call to Montpelier Mews; told the exchange that if no one answers at Rowangarth I’d be here – that’s okay, isn’t it? Don’t want to block your line or anything.’

‘You won’t be. Daisy got through half an hour ago to let me know she hadn’t forgotten – sent her love to you, too. And I’m glad you’re ringing London. Folk are inclined to forget Tatty and her airman. She’ll be a long time getting over that night. By the by, Daisy met Drew and Kitty; briefly, she said. They were both fine, though Drew will be back at sea now.’

‘And Kitty away to London. Well, at least she’ll be good for Tatty, and Sparrow will have two of them to fuss over.’ Julia pushed back her chair as the phone in the passage outside began to ring. ‘That’ll be my call.’

‘Then remember me to them all – and say special love from me to Tatty, won’t you?’

Alice filled the kettle and set it to boil, wondering how many times she and Julia had shared a comforting cup.

Too many to count, she thought sadly. Far, far too many.

‘There now, lovely girl!’ Lyn Carmichael was kissed and hugged. ‘Home for a week this time, is it?’

‘A week and a day, Auntie Blod. Am I welcome?’

‘As a pound of black-market butter! Of course you’re welcome, cariad. There’s foolish to ask!’

‘No butter, I’m afraid, but I’ve got a card for a week’s rations with me. Oh, it’s good to be home!’ Lyn hung up her raincoat. ‘I’ve brought some dirty shirts and collars, if you don’t mind …’

‘I’ll do all your stuff on washday. Get yourself upstairs and out of that uniform. And where on earth did you get that hat?’

‘It’s a cap, not a hat – our new, official-issue Wren-type headgear. Like it?’

‘No, I can’t say I do. The old hats were more ladylike to my way of thinking.’

‘And very fuddy-duddy. We all think the new ones are cute, sort of.’

‘Saucy! But I’ll bring you up a jug of water for a wash. Want it out of the tap, or the butt?’

‘The butt, please.’ Lyn liked to wash her face in rainwater.

‘I’m out of toilet soap, cariad. Mine’s down to a sliver.’

‘I’ve brought my own and there’s a soap coupon with the ration card. Oooh, Auntie Blod – let’s pretend the war is a million miles away? Let’s shut it out for eight nights and seven days, shall we? Let’s you and me just talk and talk?’

‘We’ll do that, merchi. Talk about everything under the sun.’

And about Kenya, too, she thought grimly, because ever since she had known the truth about, well – things , Lyn had clammed up when Kenya was mentioned, just as she went all poker-faced when Drew Sutton’s name came into the conversation.