Elizabeth Elgin - The Linden Walk

‘“Then in that case, Mrs Purvis, your husband has a fair old chance of getting one of the next new motors I get in,” he said. You see, darling, it seems his son is a bright enough lad, but had a mental blockage when it came to maths. Was making the boy’s life a misery. Then you started teaching there and his son came on in leaps and bounds, and all because of you. “Good at sums he is now,” I was told.’

‘It gets queerer by the minute,’ Keth laughed. ‘The boy isn’t called Colin Chambers, is he?’

‘Our Colin? Sounds like him.’

‘But Daisy love, schoolteachers – schoolies – don’t have the kind of money to buy new cars. At least, this one doesn’t.’

‘So are we going to get onto The Money subject?’

‘No, darling. No, of course not. But –’

‘No buts. Either you like it as much as I do, or it can go back to Creesby Motors. Keth – just think? When the better weather comes, you’ll be able to take your mother to Hampshire. She’s never seen your dad’s grave since we left there; only the photograph we took of it when we were on our honeymoon.’

‘But petrol is rationed. How am I to get to Hampshire and back?’

Keth was laughing, now. With disbelief Daisy supposed, but laughing, for all that.

‘The nice man threw in a full tank of off-the-ration petrol. In gratitude it must have been.’

‘Daisy Purvis!’ He kissed her soundly. ‘You are a witch! Mary Natasha Purvis, your mother is a witch!’

‘Mm. Mummy’s got a magic name,’ Daisy laughed. ‘And Mary is getting hungry. Go on, then. Open it! Get inside!’

‘I love you,’ Keth whispered, but already the kitchen door had banged behind her.

He ran his hand over the shiny, slippery bodywork, then said again, ‘I’ll be damned.’

His hand shook as he pushed the key in the lock, then he sat in the unfamiliar seat, sniffing the newness smell, wondering how any one man could be so lucky. And not just car-lucky. Lucky to survive the war, to get out of France. Lucky to have Daisy and Mary Natasha. And of course he would take his mother to West Welby to see his father’s grave. Hampshire was a long way away, but somehow he would get petrol; on the black market, if he had to. But he would take her there, stay overnight, make a real outing of it – if you could call a visit to a grave an outing.

He ran his hands round the steering wheel, then wiggled the gear lever. Tomorrow, he would take it on the road. He wondered what the boys at school would say on Monday when Sir arrived in a brand-new car; wondered what Drew and Bill would say. Drew would know whose money had paid for it; Bill would not. The Money. Daisy’s secret.

And there was another grave he would visit. He had thought to do it for a long time; now it had become a must. He must go to France, to Clissy-sur-Mer and find the grave of a sixteen-year-old girl – if she’d been given a decent burial, that was. But at least he would go to Tante Clara’s house, perhaps see the lilies in the back garden, ask at the bread shop for news of Madame Piccard and a girl called Hannah Kominski who had become Elise Josef on a forged passport. Codename Natasha. He had called his daughter for her and for the people in Clissy-sur-Mer who had died so he could get a package back to the stone house, in deepest Argyll. He drew in his breath, tapping his forefingers on the wheel, remembering Castle McLeish and a submarine – the Selene. And a tipsy-winged plane called a Lysander that flew him and the package to safety, the night Natasha died. Daisy knew little about France. He had not been able to tell her. Signing the Official Secrets Act made sure he did not.

‘Why Natasha?’ she asked when he had chosen it as Mary’s second name, and all he had been able to tell her was that it belonged to a sixteen-year-old girl who had died.

Well, he was going to France just as soon as the government lifted the ban on travel abroad, and if it meant telling Daisy every single word of what happened there, then he would and damn the trouble he might get himself into. Daisy would understand, once she knew. Knowing her as he did, she would insist that he make the sentimental journey that would help ease his conscience. When a man was as lucky as Keth Purvis, it was the only way he could tip his cap to Fate, and ask that he might be allowed to keep what was so precious to him. Nothing to do with the car. The car had only brought things to a head. Too much luck. He had to make amends.

He got out of the car, locked it, then opened the kitchen door. Daisy was sitting there, Mary at her breast. It was a sight he never tired of because it made Daisy even more beautiful. She looked up, and smiled.

‘All right, now? Got over the shock?’

‘I think so. Thank you, darling.’

He bent down to kiss her. Later, when Mary was asleep and they had eaten supper, would be the best time to talk.

‘Sweetheart,’ he whispered. ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you. I’m not supposed to, but I don’t care.’

‘About the war, Keth – your war?’

‘Yes. But you half knew, didn’t you, that I didn’t spend all the war code breaking.’

‘Sort of. France came into it, and someone called Natasha. That much you admitted to, and then you clammed up.’

‘I had to. I’m still bound by the Official Secrets Act. For thirty years, I was told. But let’s see Mary off to bed and have our supper. Then I’ll tell you.’

‘You don’t have to, Keth, though I would like to know; clear things up, kind of. And Mary’s finished, now. Can you get her wind up for me, then I’ll make a start on the meal.’

Keth held out his arms for his daughter, loving the milky, baby-soap smell of her, loving her so much it made him afraid.

‘The new car, darling.’ He kissed the nape of Daisy’s neck as she bent over the cooker. ‘I still can’t believe it. How do I begin to say thank you?’

‘By winding Mary and getting her to sleep for me.’ She turned, kissing him provocatively. ‘And that’s just for starters.’

‘I love you,’ he said softly. ‘But I don’t have to tell you that, do I?’

‘Yes, you do. Every day. There’ll be trouble if you ever stop. Now get from under my feet, Keth Purvis. I’m busy!’

‘You sound just like your mother,’ he laughed, then laid his daughter over his shoulder so she could snuggle her little soft face into his neck. Then he began a heel and toe rocking movement. It always got her to sleep. He laid a hand protectively over the back of her head, wondering how any woman could find the strength to give away her child.

‘I’m adopted. I don’t know anything about my mother, except that she wasn’t married and couldn’t keep me. I only know that I was born in Paris and that she was called Natasha. That’s why I took it as my codename,’ Hannah-Elise had told him.

Give his little girl to another woman then turn, and leave her? Give Mary away, never knowing that before she reached womanhood she would die, be killed?

‘I think she’s asleep,’ Keth whispered chokily.

‘Then take her up, will you? The cot’s ready. Careful, now.’

Daisy switched on the hall and landing lights, watching her husband carry their child to bed, thinking how lucky she was; always had been. And how grateful she was to be so loved.

‘That’s it, then.’ Tom Dwerryhouse unfastened his brown leather leggings, then eased off his boots. ‘No more shoots till the New Year. Can’t say I’m sorry. It’s hard work, organizing those syndicates. Most of the guns haven’t got a dog with them, and wouldn’t dream of using a loader. Not like shoots used to be, Alice. And before you say it,’ he hastened, ‘I know that leasing out the shooting keeps me in a job, but some of that lot need an eye keeping on them. Think they’re still in the war, and taking pot shots at anything that moves.’ He held his hands to the fire, then gazed at the table top and the paraphernalia of dressmaking spread there, instead of a white cloth and cutlery. ‘Supper a bit late, is it?’