Page 67 of Last Letter Home
A waiter arrived bearing plates, and the food was good, too, vegetable soup served with the freshest bread Paul had tasted for ages. The plat du jour was a rich stew described as alla romana, then for dessert there was some sort of creamy ‘shape’ that was several miles away from the insipid powdered egg version served up in the mess.
Paul laughed as Sarah’s eyes narrowed with pleasure at the taste. The dusty bottle of red wine the proprietor had decanted proved to be extremely decent, too, sweet and heady. He hoped he had enough money to pay for it.
They talked about Westbury. ‘There’s another land girl now,’ Sarah told him. ‘Rita. She’s only nineteen, very sweet, but she’s from the East End and doesn’t know one end of a cow from the other. I had to explain to her which was the bull.’
‘That could be dangerous for her. But I didn’t know there were cows now as well as the pigs.’
‘Yes, didn’t I write? Only a dozen. They’re dairy cattle. It was Major Richards’ idea. Harry Andrews’ father is helping us with them.’
‘Is there any news of Harry?’ Paul had liked what he’d seen of Harry. A good sort with none of what the English called ‘side’.
‘He’s with the regiment roaming the Scottish Highlands, I believe. Training new bugs. I don’t think he’s seen action since Dunkirk. Not from what his father says. I say, Ivor is in the same company; yes, I’m sure of it.’
‘I wish that I was with them,’ Paul growled, spooning up the last sweet scrapes of dessert before pouring more wine. ‘This really is very good.’
Sarah nodded, taking a sip from her glass. ‘And I’m glad you’re not with them, Paul. I couldn’t bear it if you were sent into danger.’
‘I know, my love, but I cannot help what I feel. Useless, a lesser man. I have written to the adjutant, you know, but all I received was an acknowledgement of my letter. It wasn’t even signed by him.’
‘Write again if you must, Paul. Though I wish you wouldn’t.’
‘I will. Do you think it would help if I wrote to Sir Henry too, asking him to provide a reference?’
‘I’m sure it couldn’t do any harm. Though if there are rules in place that debar you from fighting I don’t see how they would be able to accept you even with his support.’ Sarah spoke bitterly, as though such a rule was her last hope.
‘I am half-English, remember. It might make the difference.’
‘After all that you’ve gone through you say that?’
‘Yes, I know it hasn’t so far, but I am sure it was Sir Henry who put in a word for my release from internment and his word may carry weight in this, too. And if my letter to the regiment is eloquent enough.’
‘Let’s not talk about it any more,’ she cried, with distress. ‘I know it’s important to you, but I can’t bear it tonight.’
He reached for her hands and held them in both of his, kissed her fingers. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m being selfish, I know, but I’m so tired of being second class. And I want to be a man worthy of you, Sarah.’
‘Fiddlesticks,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t care about all that.’
‘Well, I do.’ Paul signalled for the bill and was relieved to see how reasonable it was, even the wine. In gratitude he left a large tip.
Outside, as they picked their way through the jostling crowds in the moonless darkness, Sarah walked ahead, Paul stumbling clumsily behind. She was angry with him, he knew, but he also knew that there was nothing he could do about it. He was who he was and was determined on his course. He sensed, too, that she understood and she was principally angry with the situation, with the whole war, if you like.
After a few minutes they arrived at the Underground and Sarah fell back and took his arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. He hugged her and she buried her face in his neck and for a moment there was only the two of them, swaying gently in their own private dance. For a sweet moment, the bustling world around them fell away.
The hotel was in a shabby white stucco terrace behind South Kensington station. The street was dark and silent and only the shaded beam from Paul’s torch prevented them tumbling into a large hole in the pavement outside. Still, when they entered, the hallway was bathed in a cheerful glow and a vase of artificial flowers on the desk represented an attempt at a welcome. A bell summoned an ageing, vampishly dressed woman from a door at the back. As she presented the register for Paul to sign, she studied them with a benevolent expression. Then she reached for one of the keys hanging on a varnished rack behind her that had Welcome in several languages painted across the top. Next to it was a framed list of house rules, which he saw included the scrawled addition: If there’s no hot water, there is no hot water. This failed to dent Paul’s feeling of happiness. His nerves vibrated with energy like the strings of Horst’s violin.
‘Third floor, dearies,’ the woman said, fondling her carmine bead necklace. ‘Breakfast is at seven, but,’ her smile was kind, ‘tell you what, if you’re a little late down I’ll save you some.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Paul mumbled in embarrassment. Up several flights of stairs they went, then he wrested open a door at the top, and they found themselves in a small chilly room with a sturdy-looking double bed, a chest of drawers with a jug and bowl on it, painted with flowers, and a matching chamber pot under the bed. The ceiling light didn’t work, but the bedside light did and cast a cosy yellow glow.
‘I’m sorry it’s so ordinary,’ Paul said, taking her in his arms. ‘I wish we had something more glamorous than this.’
‘It’s lovely, really.’ Sarah kissed him and smoothed the worried lines from his brow. He helped her off with her coat and it joined his on a hanger that clattered on the back of the door, then they sat together on the edge of the bed, knees touching, and he took her hand. After a moment he leaned over and found her lips with his and she stroked the soft skin of his cheek. He kissed her again, more deeply this time, and she kissed him back and he wrapped her tightly in her arms and drew her down onto the pillows. In the glow of the lamp her eyes gleamed hungrily for him and he felt for the buttons of her cardigan.
‘How does this work?’ he murmured, struggling with the belt of her skirt and she showed him, then helped him with the top button of her blouse.
She shivered in her underwear and he tucked her tenderly between the sheets before undressing himself. She watched, her eyes on the strength and sheen of the muscles of his chest and arms.
‘How did you do that?’ she whispered, nodding at the angry bruise running down his thigh.
