Eva Ibbotson - A Song For Summer

“Ellen, I don’t understand this,” he said, gathering her into his arms. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Nora said… that’s why I didn’t come… Not because of Kendrick-he can go to the devil-but because of you.”

“Nora,” said Ellen, bewildered. “How does Nora know?”’

“She came up to see you.” But he could not go on. Nora’s description of Ellen in her fruit-filled orchard still had the power to sear him. “She was like that girl in the Mille Fleurs tapestry,” she had said. “The one with the unicorn. You must let her be, Marek. You must promise me to let her be.” Forcing himself, he tried to put into words what Nora had told him. “That’s why I didn’t come; because of the child.”

Ellen stared at him; a searchlight fingering the sky passed over her face and he saw the huge, bewildered eyes.

“Oh God!”

The bleakness in her voice made him overcome his own misery. Somehow he must enter into what now seemed her reason for living.

“What is it, the baby? A boy or a girl?”’

She lay back against the pillows. “I don’t know,” she said wearily. “It might have been Tyrone or Errol or Gary… there are so many of them and they’re all named after film stars.”

He pulled her up, grasping her shoulders. “Explain,” he said urgently. “Don’t play games with me.”

She tried to smile. “I told you about sanctuaries; you can’t choose. The billeting people asked me if I’d take unmarried mothers-the idea is they help with light housework in exchange for their keep and then when they’ve had their babies, after a month, they go away and put their babies in a crèche and find work. The first part works all right-they’re nice enough girls; they’ve mostly been made pregnant by some soldier who’s posted overseas. It’s when they’re supposed to go away that it’s not so good.”

But he was scarcely listening. “You mean you haven’t got a child; you’re not even expecting one?”’

She gave a forlorn shake of the head. “Nor likely to,” she could have said, but did not, for it seemed important to protect Kendrick. The move from the master bedroom to the old nursery had not made much difference. Kendrick continued to stammer out his adoration and to beg her night after night not to leave him alone, but that was as far as it went. At first the knowledge that his talentless fumblings were unlikely to produce a child had devastated Ellen, but the endless infants produced by her unmarried mothers had calmed her distress. There would be plenty of children after the war in need of homes. She would adopt one then.

But Marek was transfigured. He would not have taken her from her child, or deprived a man of his flesh and blood, but now there was no obstacle.

“Thank God,” he said. “You’re mine then”-and reached for her again.

The second time is better than the first; more certainty and already that touch of recognition that is one of the most precious elements of love. Marek now was a conqueror; the relief, the joy he felt transmitted in every gesture, and Ellen followed him movement for movement… remembering as if her life depended on it the feel of his skin, the muscles of his shoulder, the touch of his hair.

So that when morning came and she said she must go back, he did not believe it.

“You’re mad. You’re absolutely mad.

Do you think you’re making that poor devil happy with your pity? Surely he deserves better than that?”’

But he was not frightened yet. He was still certain of victory.

“I promised,” she kept repeating. “I promised I wouldn’t leave him alone. Night after night, I promised. He’s always been alone. His brothers bullied him and his mother despises him. The whole house is full of photos of Roland and William and not one of Kendrick—”’

“For God’s sake, Ellen, do you suppose I care about any of that? I remember him from school-he was always by a radiator. You can’t help people like that.”

She shook her head. “I promised,” she kept repeating. “He’s so afraid; he follows me about all day and tells me how much he loves me. You can’t take your happiness by trampling on other people.” And then, very quietly, “What will happen to the world, Marek, if people don’t keep their promises?”’

She saw his jaw tighten and waited almost with relief for him to give way to one of his rages. A man who defenestrated Nazis and threw children into the lake would surely lose his temper and make it easier for her.

But at the last minute he understood, and held her very quietly and very closely, and that was almost more than she could bear.

“If you change your mind I’ll be at the Czech Club in Bedford Place till I sail.”

But she only shook her head, and opened one of his hands and held the palm for a moment against her cheek, and then she said: “It’s time to go.”

The train was exactly what she needed; it was freezing cold, the toilet did not flush, someone had been sick in the corridor. In such a train one could let the tears come, and opposite her in the evil-smelling frowsty compartment, an old woman leant forward and touched her knee and said: “Aye, there’s always something to cry about these days.”

Kendrick would not be expecting her; she had intended to stay away three days. She left the taxi at the gates and walked to the house on foot; the night air might undo some of the ravages of her tears. For a moment she halted, tipping her head back at the moon just freeing itself from the scudding clouds.

“I’m trying to do what’s right, Henny,” she said. “I’m trying to be good. You said that mattered, so help me, please!”

But Henny had never been a nocturnal person; she flourished in sunlight among pats of yellow butter and golden buttercups, and there was no rift in the wild and stormy sky.

By the back door she put down her case and let herself in silently. Everything was dark; Kendrick would be in bed on the top floor.

She crept upstairs, careful not to wake the other occupants of the house. On the second-floor landing she paused. Surely that was music coming from the master bedroom which she and Kendrick had vacated-music both so unexpected and yet so familiar that she could not at first think what it was.

Puzzled, she made her way along the corridor; and silently she opened the door…

Marek’s orders to report for embarkation at Liverpool came a day later. He spent his last afternoon in London alone in his room in the Czech Club, trying to overcome his wretchedness sufficiently to join his friends drinking down below-and watching through the window the procession of girls who were not Ellen which had haunted him since he left her. Girls with her way of walking, except that no one walked with her lightness and grace; girls whose burnished heads turned as they passed to show him a completely different face.

There was one crossing the garden square now, a girl with raindrops in her hair, carrying a suitcase…

Only she did not go past as the others had done; she did not show him a completely different face as she came closer. She made her way up the steps and when she saw him at the window she collapsed, helpless, against the rails.

“What is it, my darling?”’ he said, running down and gathering her in his arms. “For God’s sake, Ellen, what’s happened?”’

She turned her face to his; and he saw her tears.

“The Polovtsian Dances is what’s happened! Oh Marek, you won’t believe it,” she gasped, and he saw that she was helpless with laughter. “The Polovtsian Dances and the Bessarabian Body Oil and the undulating- all of it. Only I can’t tell you here, it’s too indelicate.”

But even when they retreated to the privacy of his room, she was too convulsed to speak.