Page 49 of Last Letter Home
‘Oh don’t, both of you,’ Sarah cried in distress.
‘You and I must say goodbye, Sarah,’ Paul said, taking one of her hands and kissing it in a daring gesture. ‘There may not be an opportunity to see you in the morning. I think Captain Richards here will want to be sure I’m gone.’
‘Goodbye then, Hartmann.’ Ivor spoke quietly, then they watched Paul swing his bag onto his shoulder once more and set off round the corner of the walled garden in the direction of Westbury Lodge.
Sarah surveyed Ivor coolly until his face reddened. ‘You’ve disappointed me, Ivor. I expected better of you. Why are you so hard on him? Are you jealous because he and I are friends?’
‘I don’t like him being around you, that’s all. He’s not good enough for you. I can’t think your mother would approve. He’s German and he’s the under-gardener. Or rather, he was.’
‘And what about me, in this? I’m a land girl. Paul’s better educated than I am. His father was a university lecturer and his mother is related to Lady Kelling. But why do I bother to say all this? All you see him as is a humble gardener.’
‘A humble German gardener. Without even the decency to go back and fight for his country.’
‘So now you’re accusing him of cowardice?’
‘Sarah, please, I don’t wish to quarrel with you over Hartmann. He’s not worth it.’
‘Well, he’ll be gone tomorrow, so we won’t need to quarrel about him. I’m off home, Ivor. I’m tired, dead tired.’ Wearily she rescued her trowel and fork from the ground, wiped them dry with a rag and shut them with the other tools in the shed.
Ivor waited for her. ‘When will I see you next?’
‘At the moment, Ivor, I honestly don’t know.’ She pulled on her coat, tied her scarf round her hair and mounted her bicycle. Only when she reached the bottom of the drive did she look back at him. Ivor was standing legs apart, hands on hips, watching her with the pride of some mountain chieftain, she thought. As though he owned her. Crossly, she turned her face from him and set off in the direction of home.
Her mother was pleased to hear that Paul had been released, but otherwise not more than politely interested. Sarah did not hear from him that evening, though she was alert to any knock on the door or rattle of the letter box. In bed she lay awake for a long time imagining his lonely vigil. The morning brought only the usual post, gathered from the mat by Derek, who bore it proudly to the table before taking his seat. She noticed he was being careful not to slurp his porridge and thereby bring the cold eye of Mrs Bailey upon him, but he relaxed when her critical gaze fell instead upon Sarah.
‘What’s the matter with you today? You’re jumpy and it’s getting on my nerves.’
‘There’s nothing wrong, Mummy, except a headache. I didn’t sleep well. Is that really a letter from Diane? What does she say?’
‘The food is good, but her stockings are all dying, and she wants her pale-coloured nail varnish. Here, you can read it yourself.’ Diane was as poor a letter writer as Ivor, her missives full of requests.
Sarah’s mind was in turmoil. Seeing Paul again, yesterday’s conflict with Ivor, both had struck deep at the roots of her happiness. Each of the men was important to her, she recognized that, but each disturbed her in different ways. Ivor, with his fair good looks and definite position in the world, made her body thrill to his touch, but his sense of his manhood could be fragile, as though some fault line ran through his psyche. She was aware of this sensitivity when he was with his father, or with Paul, which was worse, for Paul, despite his greater height and physical strength, was in a weaker position than Ivor was. Yet, for some reason, Ivor could not be generous to him, an exile from his homeland, a landless, lordless man. Was it this lack of status that Ivor despised, as well as Paul being German? Or was it jealousy of a potential rival in love that drove him? She didn’t know and wondered whether Ivor did either.
As for how she felt about Paul, she knew she cared for him very much, but something held her back. His vulnerability unsettled her, his lack of confidence in himself. His loyalty, she felt, had been to his mother, and without Mrs Hartmann his ties to his life in England might be loosened. Perhaps this was why he needed Sarah. Well, she would be his steadfast friend. Part of her wanted to put her arms around him and hold him close, but would this be right? Did she, Sarah, need him?
She wished, not for the first time, that her parents’ marriage had been happy, that from it she might have learned what to do. Her father had never made her mother content. He had adored her, but she remained aloof. Sometimes she wondered if her mother was capable of deep love. Diane seemed sadly to be the same. But I am, she told herself. If I can’t love deeply then I will never marry. I’m perfectly happy to be by myself.
These thoughts went round and round in her head like howling devils in the depths of the night. This morning, nothing was any clearer to her.
‘Perhaps the fresh air will blow the headache away. Goodbye, Mummy. Don’t be late for school, Derek.’
The garden’s looking sad, so much straggly or dead, Sarah noted, as she wheeled her bicycle to the gate. Well, it matched her mood.
Round each corner on the way to Westbury Hall she expected to meet someone, Paul or Ivor, Ivor or Paul, but she reached the walled garden without even seeing Sam, who was late for the second time that week. She leaned her bicycle against the tool shed and walked along the lane to the Hartmanns’ cottage and knocked on the door.
Nobody came. She tried the door but it was locked. He’d gone then, she thought dismally as she returned to the garden and surveyed the day’s work. The apple trees were heavy with fruit. It was time to prepare the crates for picking.
At home that evening there was still no word from Ivor and, feeling guilty, Sarah wrote him a letter, saying that she was sorry that they’d quarrelled and suggesting that they meet for tea at the weekend.
Initially, there was no reply. The following day a note arrived. It was cool to the point of formality. He was very sorry, but he was required to leave on Saturday to rejoin his battalion. He accepted her apology and considered the matter closed.
How hurtful and bemusing, she thought angrily, rereading the letter. Despite the coolness, there was pain between the lines. The only concession he granted her was that he would write. Very piously he asked her to pray for his safety. She sat on her bed for a long time after this, trying not to feel hurt. Was he withdrawing from her for good, or simply being cruel and playing with her?
Twenty-six
Her best jeans with the pearl-buttoned ivory shirt, or a pale green cotton dress with flared skirt? Briony surveyed the heap of discarded clothes on the bed and wished she’d brought something smart with her. She was only meeting Greg at The Dragon, but if he was driving straight from London he might still be in his city suit, so it wouldn’t do to appear too casual. The dress was badly crumpled, however, and when she put on the shirt and inspected herself in the mirror it showed signs of strain at the bust. Jeans and a loose top it was, then. She pulled them on then hooked silver drops into her ears and fitted strappy sandals on her feet; a modest heel or she would be taller than him, though did that matter? After all, it wasn’t a date, was it? As she twisted her hair into its habitual knot and painted on lipstick, she asked herself why, in that case, did she feel so nervous?
The pub down by the old stone bridge was pretty with its hanging baskets and a glimpse of lush back lawn running down to the river. Inside all was old beams and polished brass. Briony followed signs to the bar through a series of tiny rooms opening into one another until she reached a large main lounge. There she saw Greg, thankfully not too formally dressed in navy cords and a soft blue open-necked shirt. He was standing talking to an elfin-looking youth with a bright flame of magenta hair serving behind the bar. She crossed the wooden floor and touched his arm.
