The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [137]
‘No, thanks.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He smiled, stuck the cigarette into his mouth and strolled back to the others. I heard the fizz of a match as he lit it, and began talking to his chums, glancing back over his shoulder at me. The Lodge, where I had my room in the attic, was close by the pub. Instead of turning in through the gate, I walked down the high street and sat in the church, praying they’d have left the Red Lion by the time I came out, wiping angry tears from my eyes.
Told myself I wasn’t frightened of him. That the war had taken away my fear because there was so much fear all around you; when boys were getting shot to pieces in the sky, there wasn’t room in the world for any more. But I was still afraid of what he could tell.
What you begged to do, as I recall
I changed my ways. Every evening I jumped off the bus at the stop before Avebury, or the stop after, and walked into the village by a route that avoided the pub. Staring out of my attic window, I could see the grey-blue uniforms below on the pub forecourt and hear the men’s chatter as it grew dark. Sometimes Mr Cromley was among them, striking a match on the bark of the tree, the flame showing me his face. I thought about finding a room in Swindon instead, close to work, but that would’ve been double the journey to visit Mam and Dad, and more of a worry to them. And what was I to tell Mr Keiller? That I couldn’t come to any more of his tea parties because I was afraid of meeting Mr Cromley there? The summer was passing fast, and I’d already turned down two invitations.
No, I was not the sixteen-year-old girl who had cowered at the end-of-season party three years ago. I wouldn’t be driven out of my home. The next time Mr Keiller had one of his tea parties, I dressed in the better of my two summer frocks and tottered up the path between the lavender beds on my highest, bravest heels.
This time the staff had set two long trestle tables in the garden, and there were deckchairs on the lawn. Mr Cromley was not there. My legs went rubbery with relief. I sat with a couple of friendly boys from Aberdeen, with accents I could barely follow, until I saw the dark-haired Glaswegian with the tin foot arrive, limping, dot-and-carry-one.
There was no sign of the boy with bandaged hands.
‘Where’s your blond friend?’ I asked, joining him at the table to pour myself another cup of tea.
Saddest smile I ever saw.
‘The grafts didn’t take. Became infected. They took his hands off on Friday.’
I wanted to kick the table leg. Wasn’t fair. Why did it always happen to the nice ones?
‘You’re a kind girl for asking,’ said the Glaswegian. ‘You remind me of my girl back home.’
‘The chap your friend pulled out of the plane,’ I said. ‘Did he make it?’
He shook his head. All for nothing, then. I sometimes despaired of God. What was He doing up there? Having a bloody tea break, while the world tore itself to pieces? My own hands were trembling, the cup and saucer playing a clinky little trio with the teaspoon so I had to put them down.
On the other side of the lawn, Mr Keiller was talking to Mr Piggott, in his brown army uniform, on leave for the weekend and spending it with his wife in Marlborough. I wanted to say hello, so I patted the Glaswegian’s arm and promised him I’d be back in a tick.
‘Don’t make such a thing of it, Stuart,’ Mr Keiller was saying, in a low voice. It struck me how sad his eyes were. Mrs Keiller was in London, nursing, and though she was supposed to come home to the Manor alternate weekends, there were whispers she hadn’t turned up for weeks. ‘Whatever you’ve heard is greatly exaggerated, I assure