Page 66 of Last Letter Home
‘There’s a good little Italian place I know near Soho Square. I thought we could dine there. Then, well, I hope it’ll be all right, a friend gave me the name of a hotel in Kensington. The proprietress is a good sort, he says, very discreet.’
‘Oh, Paul.’ Sarah’s face was ashen. ‘You didn’t say anything to your pal about me?’
‘No, of course not! I said it wasn’t for me, that another friend wanted to know. Did you bring . . . ?’
She nodded, then dipped her left hand into her handbag. When she brought it out a plain gold band gleamed on her fourth finger. Seeing it there, he felt emotion rise in him, pride, yes, and a deep joy. Their eyes met, complicit.
‘Does your mother think you’re staying with your Aunt Susan?’
‘She didn’t ask. I don’t think she’d care at the moment, Paul.’
‘Every mother cares about her daughter.’
‘I think mine has given up on me. Last time we spoke about you she told me I was old enough to make my own mistakes.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘What did she mean by that?’
‘I think she understands that I won’t love anybody else. Ivor Richards was her last hope for me to do the conventional thing. The war has changed everything, she knows that. She’s more concerned about . . . well, Diane goes about in her own little world at the moment. She’s recovered from . . . you know, but she is so thin and so dull and quiet.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, peering up at her over his cup as he sipped his tea.
Sarah stirred hers thoughtfully.
‘I know I said we shouldn’t talk about my family, but everything seems to come back to them. I don’t seem to be able not to, Paul.’
‘Never mind.’ His cup clinked as he set it in the saucer, a lump of sadness swelling in his throat. ‘I wish I could forget mine, too.’
‘I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me. But you wouldn’t want to forget your parents, would you, not really.’
‘No, of course not. Sarah, do you believe you will see your father again? And your little brother? I can’t bear the thought that I won’t . . . see my parents, I mean. One of the men in my unit says that while you can remember them they’re still with you, but it’s that that brings the pain, isn’t it? Remembering.’
‘Yes, but it’s that which makes us higher than the animals, Paul. We can remember those we’ve lost and anticipate seeing them again. It’s like the seasons. After winter comes spring. It’s what gives our lives meaning.’
‘But what if there is no point to any of it and this world is all there is?’
‘Then we only have death and despair and I will not accept that. Paul, look at me.’ He raised his eyes to her face, saw the gravity in her eyes and it held him steady. ‘You must feel very alone, but you have me and you have a task to do. We can’t know what will happen, but we must trust that . . . we will endure.’
He reached and gripped her hand, feeling the ring on her finger, hard and warm. And once again he felt the strength in her pass into him and it calmed him.
‘You are so wunderbar, meine Liebchen,’ he whispered, leaning in towards her. And in the same hushed tones, ‘Are you finishing your rock cake or may I have it?’
‘I’m eating it myself, thank you,’ she said, with a toss of her head, and he laughed and reached and dabbed up a crumb before she could stop him.
‘Signore, signora, please, this way.’
The restaurant in Old Compton Street was charmingly eccentric, with a Union Jack hanging prominently above the bar and cheap prints of famous Italian landmarks on the walls. The very delightful moustachioed proprietor admitted them with a flourish and waved them into a cosy room full of tables laid with gingham cloths and candles stuck in Chianti bottles. It was early yet and there were only a few other diners. Paul and Sarah were briskly relieved of their coats and their luggage and ushered to a tiny table in the window. Candles were lit, menus thrust into their hands, aperitifs brought and orders for food taken.
‘For the wine, I have something verrry special. Verrry romantic. No, no, the price is reasonable.’ The man waved the matter of money away as though it were nothing.
When he’d left them, Sarah leaned forward to whisper, ‘This is lovely. How clever of you.’
‘It’s very bohemian, I hope that is all right.’
‘Very much all right. Listen!’ Strange accents floated out from the kitchen, laughter, and above it all a snatch of opera in a hearty tenor voice. The smell of smoky hot oil mixed with herbs wafted through the air. ‘Do you think they’re doing it on purpose?’ Sarah’s eyes were full of fun.
‘I expect so. We could be in Italy!’ Paul said, smiling.
‘It’s probably nicer to be here than Italy at present, don’t you think? With that nasty little Mussolini man in charge.’
