Page 54 of Last Letter Home
She angled the metal pin towards her. ‘It’s a spade!’ She laughed. ‘Very suitable for a gardener.’
‘A shovel is what they call it, Sarah. There will be plenty of digging, but it may be trenches for soldiers and guns, not spuds.’
‘Strange produce indeed,’ she said, fingering the sharp edges of the badge. ‘At least you won’t be fighting like so many Westbury men.’
‘What news is there?’ Paul asked as he forked up the final crust of mash from his plate and the hovering waitress bore their plates away.
‘Nothing really. That’s the trouble. Young Sam has joined the army, I think I wrote to you about that. Jennifer Bulldock says she’s heard a rumour that Ivor and Harry’s battalion are preparing for action, but who knows where. Diane’s still in Dundee. Still hasn’t set foot on a ship, but is enjoying the attentions of some Dutch naval officers who’ve arrived. That’s put the wind up Mummy all right.’
‘Excuse me, but will there be anything else?’ the waitress broke in. ‘There’s a nice bit of sponge pudding with custard.’
When it came it was glutinous and not very sweet, but they ate it without complaint.
‘I often think of your mother, Paul. It’s sad that the little cottage stands empty. I’ve been visiting her grave as you asked. There are daffodils coming out in the hedges and I’ve dug some up and planted them there.’
‘Thank you, that’s so kind. Is it marked still?’
‘With the wooden cross. One day I’ll help you choose a proper stone.’
‘I cannot believe that she has gone. It is difficult to grieve for her properly. Does that make me a bad son?’
‘No. Of course not. You’ve been separated from her for so long. And it was cruel that you could not attend her funeral.’
‘I prefer to remember the happy times. When I was a child in Hamburg she would dress me in my best suit and take me to the English tea rooms. She said that’s what her mother did in London, have tea in a hotel as a treat, so that it made me feel that a part of me was truly English. And here I am in an English restaurant, but it’s not like I thought it would be.’
‘I must take you to Brown’s sometime. Or what about the Ritz!’
‘I’d like that.’ Again Paul’s face lit up with that bright smile and Sarah’s heart went out to him. He might have become more confident, but there was still an air of vulnerability about him. She had to remember that he’d lost everything, was having to start again, remake himself. But perhaps she was wrong to pity him. He was a good man, honest, straight and true. There was nothing of the mercurial in his nature, that shadowy depth that made Ivor so attractive to her. Paul was someone to rely on. He would always be her friend.
They pooled their change to pay for the meal, she insisting, he protesting, then nodded their thanks to the waitress. As they walked out, Sarah noticed one of the shop assistants staring and realized with a spread of delicious warmth that it was envy she read in her glance. She did not resist, therefore, when Paul took her arm and tucked it into his own. It felt that it belonged there, safe and secure.
‘I must catch a train at four,’ he explained. ‘I have only a twelve-hour pass.’
‘I’ll come and see you off if you like,’ she said and he smiled his thanks.
‘But first I’d like to buy you a present,’ he said. ‘What would you like?’
‘Oh, Paul, I don’t need anything. You must keep your money.’
‘No, I insist. Something pretty, a scarf, maybe.’
They were near the Charing Cross Road now. ‘Perhaps a book,’ Sarah said, pleased with the idea now it had occurred to her. ‘A book you think I might like.’
They ducked through the entrance of a tiny second-hand bookshop in St Martin’s Court, where an earnest old gentleman with large spectacles sat with his nose in a thick tome amid tottering piles of books, hardly noticing that he had customers. They browsed in silence, each thinking their own thoughts, then Paul pounced on a large, slim volume. ‘These are beautiful,’ he said, showing her as he turned the pages. It was a collection of botanical drawings. Sarah loved the chalky feel of the paper and the delicate colours of the flowers and fruit, so he distracted the shopkeeper from his reading and paid for the book, which the old man wrapped in brown paper as wrinkled and faded as he was.
On the bus to Paddington, Paul wrote in it and presented it to her. She read what he’d written: To meine leibe Sarah with my true affection, Paul, and whispered her thanks, then spent the rest of the journey poring over it, examining the captions until he nudged her gently and said, ‘hey’ and she looked up to find him smiling tenderly at her. ‘I’m still here, you know!’ She’d not seen his face so closely before, the dark stubble beneath the smooth skin, the gentle curve of his brows and the sweep of his smoky lashes, and something melted within her.
‘Of course you are!’ She took his hand in hers and they sat together in companionable silence. Her heart beat in her chest as though to a new rhythm. She didn’t want this journey to end and nor, she sensed, did he.
The station concourse echoed with the shriek of whistles, the huff of steam and the slamming of doors, each one like a blow. On the platform, Paul turned to her, took her into his arms and hugged her. ‘You will write?’ he said into her ear.
‘Of course I will. And you, too.’
‘As often as I can. Don’t forget me, Sarah.’
She held him from her. ‘How could I, silly?’ and for a second they were frozen, staring into one another’s eyes, she astonished at this transition, stirred almost to tears.
‘May I?’ he whispered, leaning in, and her lips met his in a kiss that was light at first, then more urgent as he crushed her to him. ‘Oh, my liebchen,’ he murmured, ‘my darling’ and, pressed against his breast, she felt the beat of his heart against her own. He must have sensed she was trying not to cry for he asked, ‘What’s the matter?’
