Chapter 21 #3
She told herself Edwin wouldn’t have left her here if it wasn’t safe.
She found a glass and poured herself an inch of brandy, spluttering as it slid down her gullet and spread its warmth through her chest, then helped herself to a piece of fruitcake from the basket Edwin had brought.
As the temperature rose and the brandy slid through her veins, she began to feel calmer.
She pulled a book off the bookshelf – Wuthering Heights – cut another piece of cake, poured another glass of brandy, then climbed onto the bed, wrapping herself in an eiderdown.
Soon she was as warm as toast, and a little bit woozy.
The shadows receded and instead the cabin wrapped itself around her.
She felt snug – snug as a bug in a rug, as her mum used to say.
She felt a pang as she remembered her parents.
It was almost the first time she had been truly on her own to grieve.
She had been so busy with work and the fire station and the boarding house was so noisy.
Besides, grieving almost felt like an indulgence, for there were so many others who had lost people.
You were supposed to button yourself up and carry on.
But for once, she allowed herself to weep until she felt she had no more tears.
Exhausted, she picked up her glass and her book and began to read, transported to the wilds of the Yorkshire Moors.
She started awake hours later. Edwin was shaking her arm gently.
‘Morning,’ he said as she opened her eyes.
‘Is it?’ She sat up, yawning. ‘I must have slept round the clock. Must be the country air.’
‘Shall I make you a cup of tea?’
‘That would be just the job.’ She realised she’d fallen asleep fully clothed, but maybe that was a good thing. ‘Did you have a good time with your family?’
‘Yes. Though I always hate leaving them.’
‘Your poor mum.’ Stella could only imagine how hard it was, letting your son go.
‘She saw me, so she’s happy.’ He filled the kettle and put it on the stove. ‘What did you get up to?’
‘I did some drawing. Ate cake. Read.’ She picked up the book. She’d lost her place. ‘Oh, and I watched the birds. Hundreds and hundreds of birds, circling around.’
‘Starlings.’ He nodded. ‘It’s their party trick in winter. They do it before they roost.’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it. I wanted to draw them but they were too fast …’
He made the tea and brought it over to the bunk. They both sat on the edge, munching on the last of the fruit cake.
‘Hey, I want to show you something,’ he said, his eyes laughing.
‘What?’
He put his tea down and tugged off half his shirt. Her eyes widened as he revealed his right arm, a tattoo emblazoned on his bicep.
‘I had to get one, being around all those sailors.’ It was a five-pointed nautical star, boldly inked in black and red. ‘What do you think?’
‘Oh my God.’ She laughed in delight. ‘You’re crazy. Did it hurt?’
‘Did it hurt?’ He winced. ‘Yes, it bloody did.’
‘You poor thing.’ She pressed a finger onto his skin. The tattoo had absorbed itself completely onto the surface, as if it had been there forever.
‘I thought a star was better than an anchor,’ he said lightly. ‘Or a heart with Mum through it.’
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘And it reminds me of you. A star for Stella.’
She drew away her hand. She could feel it, the heat between them, the pull.
‘Don’t,’ she said.
‘Don’t what?’ He widened his eyes, not averting his gaze.
‘Look at me like that.’ He knew exactly what he was doing. ‘It’s not fair. On me or her.’
He sighed, nodded, slid his arm back into his shirt and stood up. ‘Would you like some scrambled eggs?’
And with that, the spell was broken.
While he cooked, she picked up her book again and devoured another chapter of Wuthering Heights, completely captivated by Cathy and Heathcliff’s doomed narrative.
She felt safe, wrapped up in her nest, absorbed by the story, listening to the hiss of butter as it hit the pan, smelling the bread toasting.
When the eggs were ready, she put the book to one side with a sigh.
‘It’s not going to end well, is it?’ she asked Edwin.
‘I haven’t read it,’ he admitted, and for a moment she wondered, in that case, who the book belonged to. Who might have left it here? Of course he must have brought women to the boat. Maybe even Meg. But she mustn’t allow herself to feel jealous. She had no right. She picked it up again.
‘I want to try and finish it before we go.’
After they’d eaten, he got out his sketch pad, and drew her. Eventually she looked up and saw what he was doing.
‘Don’t draw me! I must look a sight.’ She pushed at her hair.
He carried on sketching. ‘My manager’s badgering me for an exhibition. He says it’s important for me to keep my own work going, not just immerse myself in battleships and barrage balloons.’
‘He’s right. Being a war artist will make you a bigger name. You need to make the most of it.’
He made a face. ‘It seems wrong, to exploit something that’s an honour for my own good.’
She frowned. ‘I don’t think you’re exploiting it. They chose you because you’re brilliant at what you do.’
‘Maybe.’ He looked down at his work. ‘I’ll take this home and paint it later.’
She jumped off the bed and came to look at it over his shoulder.
There she was, hair wild, cross-legged in the middle of the bed, holding her book.
But she wasn’t reading it. She was staring straight out of the picture, and the expression in her eyes told another story.
Was that how she’d been looking at him? With naked desire, a half-smile on her lips? She was mortified.
‘Oh, blimey. What a heap I look. Don’t show it to the public, whatever you do!’
He laughed. ‘We’d better start heading back. It’s a bit of a drive.’
She packed up her things with a heavy heart. This had been the perfect respite. She had actually relaxed, and realised that she spent her life tense, braced for a bomb. It was good to know that something resembling the world as it had once been was still here, deep in the countryside.
As he locked up the cabin, he gave her the key.
‘I’m leaving this with you. You can come here whenever you want. Promise me you will keep yourself safe.’
She took it, smiling her thanks. Why did he care so much? she wondered. But she was very grateful. Just knowing Penelope was here made her feel as if safety was within reach.
The next day at work, she showed the key to Monsieur Corbières.
‘Perhaps you should go there now,’ he said. ‘You will be safe on the boat.’
She shook her head. ‘That’s not going to win us the war, is it? If everyone scarpers. We’ve got to show them that we all stick together, that they can’t bully us. I’m not leaving everyone at the fire station. Or you.’
She stared at him, defiant, and saw there were tears in his eyes. He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, but he couldn’t speak. She held the key out to him.
‘Do you want to go? I know Edwin won’t mind. I’ll look after the shop for you.’
‘Non.’
Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then Stella stepped forward and hugged the old man.
He was frail beneath his serge jacket, and he smelled of tobacco and last night’s wine.
There was no need to say anything. It was too terrifying to speculate, because there was no point.
They were all at the mercy of Hitler and his determination to bomb them into submission.
But he had underestimated his enemy. They might be ordinary souls, but cowards they were not.
Stella put the key on a ribbon and tied it round her neck.
It hung next to her heart, and every time she felt it, she thought of Edwin, and how kind he was to her.
One day, she thought, she would go to Penelope, and he would be there, and they could sit on the deck and draw, then drink wine.
And if her mind wandered a bit further, to them curling up in the bunk in each other’s arms, well, she was allowed to dream.
But for now, everyone had to hold their nerve.