While We're Apart (2 page)

Tears welled as she caressed the gold heart. It was the first birthday present she'd ever received, and because it had come from him, it was extra special. She leaned across and brushed her lips against his. ‘Thank you, Jack. I'll treasure it always.'

He reddened with pleasure. ‘I'm glad you like it,' he said. ‘It took me ages to decide what to buy you, but the lady in the shop said it was a good choice.'

Mary took off her glove and held the locket, feeling it warming in her palm. ‘Oh, there's a little clasp.' She fumbled to open it. ‘And you've put your picture inside.'

‘I cut it out of the rugby club photo we had taken at the end of last season,' he replied. ‘It's a bit blurred, cos Billy Watkins poked me in the ribs and made me move.'

She regarded the tiny black and white photograph and then snapped the locket shut, loving the feel of it nestling in her hand. ‘It's perfect,' she said on a sigh.

‘I thought you might like something to remember me by.' He shifted awkwardly beside her, his gaze fixed on something in the distance.

She looked at him a little sharply. ‘That's an odd thing to say,' she said. ‘I'm hardly likely to forget you when we see each other most days.'

‘Things change, Mary,' he said quietly as he shifted on the grass again. He fumbled into his pocket and brought out a rather squashed packet of cigarettes. As Mary didn't smoke, he lit one for himself and then continued to gaze out over his father's frozen fields, his thoughts unreadable.

Mary experienced a sharp pang of alarm as he remained silent, but knew better than to badger him into telling her what he meant by that remark for, like his father, Jack measured his words carefully before he spoke. She waited, her tension increasing as he smoked his cigarette.

‘Mary, there's something I've got to tell you,' he said hesitantly, his gaze now fixed on his muddy boots.

Mary's heart thudded against her ribs. ‘You sound very serious all of a sudden,' she replied, making light of the awful fear that gripped her.

‘Well, it is something I've thought about for a while now,' he said through the smoke he had exhaled. He dipped his chin and studied the cigarette between his fingers. ‘And I'm so sorry I've got to spoil your special day, but I've left this too long already, and now I have no choice.'

Her pulse was racing as she watched him struggle to voice his thoughts. Was he about to tell her he didn't love her any more? Was the locket his parting gift? She desperately tried to stem the rising panic, but her voice betrayed her as she brokenly asked, ‘What is it, Jack? What are you trying to tell me?'

He crushed the cigarette beneath his boot and grasped her hands. ‘I've joined up, and I have to catch the troop train tonight at half past eight,' he said all in a rush.

She stared at him in horrified disbelief. ‘No,' she said sharply. ‘You can't do that, Jack.'

He squeezed her hands. ‘But I have to, you see, Mary. I'm young and fit and strong, and I need to do my bit with the other lads. I can't be sitting about here while they're fighting on the front line. I'd never be able to face them again.'

She tore her hands away. ‘Of course you would,' she stormed. ‘You're in a reserved occupation, fighting a battle here to feed us all now the convoys are finding it so hard to get through. And you're part of the Home Guard, as well as doing your bit with fire-watching and warden duties.'

His lip curled. ‘Dad's Army's fit only for old men and boys. As for the farm, there are land girls to do my work and Dad will keep them on their toes, never you fear. The rest of it is easily covered.' He reached for her hands again. ‘England needs every able-bodied man she can get, Mary. And I need to stand up and be counted.'

‘But I need you here,' she said through her tears. ‘Please, Jack, don't . . .'

He silenced her with a soft kiss. ‘I must,' he murmured. ‘Don't you see?'

She shook her head, her hair tumbling about her shoulders as hot tears ran down her cold face. ‘No,' she stuttered. ‘I don't see at all. You have responsibilities here, and they are just as important as being on the front line.'

‘Oh, Mary,' he sighed as he pulled her to him and held her close. ‘I'm so sorry I've upset you – and especially today. But I've been dreading this moment, which is why I've put it off until the very last minute.' He tipped back her chin and kissed away her tears, his eyes begging her to forgive him. ‘I love you, Mary,' he whispered, ‘and I will think of you every moment while we're apart. But this is something I have to do. Please give me your blessing.'

Mary saw the determination in his expression and realised then that he couldn't be persuaded to stay, no matter how much he loved her. She held him tightly, fearing the awful loneliness his absence would bring – and the dreadful possibility that he might not come home. Yet most of all she feared that the sights and sounds of battle – the company of hardened, more worldly men and the excitement of war – would change him, and that despite all his promises, he would stop loving her.

Jack seemed to sense some of her thoughts, for he held her even closer and stroked her long hair, winding it round his fingers and letting it slip over the palm of his hand. ‘I know we're both still young,' he said softly, ‘and that this war will change us. But I love you, Mary, and nothing will alter that. When I come back we'll get married, I promise.'

She nodded against his broad chest, unable to speak. This was the first time he'd mentioned marriage; it had simply been tacitly understood between them that they would make a life together one day. But now he was leaving, and the longer the war went on the wider the distance between them would grow. She curled her arms round him, her tears dampening the rough fabric of his old tweed jacket and the thick sweater he wore beneath it.

He hugged her close, rocking her in his arms, his voice gentle as he rested his cheek on her head. ‘It won't be for ever, my love. And once it's all over I'll come home to you and we can be together as we've always hoped.'

Mary fought desperately to get her emotions under control as she nestled into his embrace. She loved the earthy scent of him, the strength of his arms about her, and the sound of the steady drum of his heart against her cheek. But in a matter of hours he would be gone, and treasured, secret moments like this would be at an end. He was the ray of light in her dowdy, drear world and she didn't know how she could bear him leaving. But bear it she must, and for his sake she had to be strong and keep her fears to herself.

‘Yes,' she finally managed. ‘We'll be together again. Of course we will.'

He eased away, his big work-roughened hands gently holding her arms as he looked into her face. ‘I promise to write whenever I can, and you must tell me what's happening here and what you're doing, so I can picture you going about the village.'

Mary gazed back at him and because she had no doubt that he loved her and was finding it just as hard to face this awful parting, she discovered the strength to give him a tremulous smile. ‘I'll write every day,' she replied. ‘Though I don't know what I'll have to say,' she added with a lightness that belied the heaviness in her heart. ‘I lead a very quiet life at the rectory now I'm not going to college.'

He regarded her for a moment, and then softly ran a finger down her cheek and over her lips. ‘You're eighteen, Mary, and you have a lot more to offer than you think. You need to get away from here and experience a bit of life.'

‘I'd like to, but I can't, Jack,' she replied. ‘My parents couldn't manage without me.' She gave a wry smile. ‘Although, having said that, Mother would probably be glad to see the back of me, but that huge house is too much for her to cope with on her own.'

‘You might have no choice in the matter,' he warned. ‘As a young single girl, you'll be expected to do some sort of war work.'

‘I'll deal with that when I have to,' she said softly, ‘but at this very moment all I can think about is you.' She held his hands and gazed into his face, committing to memory his thick brown hair that needed cutting, the arch of his brows over the dark eyes, the long, straight nose and generously drawn mouth. ‘Where are they sending you?'

‘Somewhere in the west to a training camp. The army don't tell us anything much,' he said with a slight shrug. ‘But there was mention of home leave before we're assigned to our postings, so I could be back here in a matter of weeks.'

A thrill of hope shot through her. ‘Then that's what we must look forward to,' she replied determinedly.

They kissed again, holding each other tightly against the bitter wind that had suddenly changed direction and found their hiding place. ‘You're shivering,' he said as he drew her to her feet. ‘Come on, let's get you home before you catch your death of cold.'

Mary didn't want these precious moments to end, but the church clock struck the hour and she knew they must. ‘Can I come to the station to see you off?' she asked as he carried the heavy basket through the gate and carefully closed it behind him.

‘I'd like that,' he admitted as they moved out of the cutting wind. ‘But I think it's best if we say our goodbyes here in private,' he added softly.

They kissed and clung to one another in a silent desperation of words unsaid, and of overwhelming emotions. With a tender, lingering kiss he reluctantly stepped away, took her hand and walked beside her down the narrow lane towards the rectory. As they reached the final bend he crushed her to him, kissed her passionately and then turned to hurry away towards his family's farmhouse at the other end of the village.

Mary was blinded by tears as she watched him go, his shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets, head down – clearly fighting his own emotions and not daring to look back.

She stood there in the pitted lane until he was out of sight, then, like a small, wounded creature, crept back into the lee of the hedge where she huddled in a tight ball of heart-rending misery.

Mary had no idea how long she'd been crying, but eventually the well of tears had run dry and she realised she was aching, not only with loss and loneliness, but with the bitter cold that had now seeped into her bones. She drew her gloves back on and stamped her feet to try to get some feeling into them, but she was numb inside, her heart heavy.

She caressed the gold locket and kissed it before tucking it beneath her clothes so it lay warm against her skin, hidden from her mother's prying eyes. Adjusting her scarf and coat collar, she took a last, longing look up the lane, then picked up the basket and trudged home. She knew her mother's sharp eyes wouldn't miss her swollen, reddened eyelids and tear-streaked face, but Mary decided she could blame it on the wind.

She rounded the last bend just as the church clock struck two. She was very late and there would be trouble, but she realised that it didn't matter. Nothing mattered now that Jack was leaving.

Her footsteps slowed as she approached the large grey flint church which stood back rather grandly from the lane, sheltered by trees behind a low wall that was smothered in ivy. Despite the centuries of wars, civil unrest and the Reformation, it still retained some of its Saxon heritage in the vaulted roof beams and sturdy pillars that lined the broad flagstone aisle. The lovely old stained-glass windows had been carefully removed and stored in the crypt to protect them from bomb blasts, and the bells in the square Norman tower had been silenced for the duration.

Mary stood by the lychgate and noted that the deep shadows beneath the arched wooden porch didn't quite hide the leaves that had blown in from the surrounding trees and were now piled against the heavily bossed, solid oak door that creaked alarmingly when opened. The sprawling graveyard looked sadly neglected since the old gardener had passed away in the summer, for the grass had grown long, the weeds rampant amongst the leaning headstones, lichen-stained stone angels and Victorian table tombs. Dark yew trees swayed in the wind beneath the lowering sky, and the mournful caw of crows merely emphasised the bleakness of it all.

Her gaze fell on the three new gravestones that had been set close together in acknowledgement of their brotherhood in arms. Mary had known the boys from childhood, and had watched them proudly parade through the village on their way to the station, their boots gleaming, their khaki uniforms pressed, buttons polished. Yet they, like so many others, had made the ultimate sacrifice, and the whole village had come to honour their own, and to lay them to their final rest in the chalky soil of home. For them the war was over. But for Jack, it was just beginning.

Mary quickly turned away and hurried down the long driveway to the ugly great house that was the rectory. Churchill had talked about sacrifice, and the need to pull together and be courageous even in the darkest hours, and now she understood just how hard that would prove. Yet her own sacrifice was so much less than others had been forced to make, and she was determined to square up to whatever lay ahead and do her best to keep the home fires burning until this war was won and Jack and all the other boys came home.

Her boots crunched over the weed-strewn gravel drive and she eyed the house with little affection, for although she'd lived in it for as long as she could remember, it had never really felt homely. Standing squarely in an acre of land, the three-storey Victorian red-brick building looked over the churchyard and across to the South Downs. It had been built at a time when churchmen had huge families, and perhaps her parents had once planned on having more children, but as she was the only one, born late in their lives, they rattled about the place like peas on a drum.

The attic rooms had been closed up after the roof was damaged following a particularly fearsome air raid, for no one could be found to mend it. Dust sheets had been put over the good furniture in the two large reception rooms now it was too cold to stay in either of them for more than a few minutes, and the bedrooms were so bleak that they woke each winter morning to discover a thin crust of ice on the inside of the loose-fitting sash windows. With coal being rationed so severely the cast-iron radiators had been turned off, and although her father had a single-bar electric fire in his study, the only heating in the rest of the house came from the vast range in the kitchen – but even that was measly.