Lovely War(92)

“Do you think he was murdered?” asked James.

“I hope not,” Hazel said. “But if he’s alive, and he cared for Colette, why didn’t he write?”

She realized her gaffe too late. She wished she could crawl under her seat and hide.

“Perhaps he didn’t care as much as your friend thought.”

Hazel’s face, she was sure, could light kindling wood. She dove back into the novel.

“Was it spending time with Aubrey,” asked James, “that got you and Colette in trouble?”

Hazel looked up sharply. “How do you know about that? In my letter, I said we’d quit.”

He hadn’t read the letter but couldn’t admit it. “So you didn’t tell me the entire truth?”

“Well, who told you?” she retorted.

He was caught now. “Your supervisor,” he said. “Mrs. Davies.”

Hazel half rose from her chair. “She what?”

James glanced around, embarrassed. “She wrote to me,” he whispered, “when my letters piled up after you left. She said you’d been dismissed for entertaining soldiers after hours.”

Hazel’s anger was no longer exactly adorable. “How dare she! Of all the nerve!” She whirled upon James. “And you believed her, is that it? Is that why you stopped writing?”

“No,” he said simply. “It isn’t.”

This left her deflated, then stunned. “Are you sure?”

He looked out the window. “Very sure.”

Hazel’s bitterness of heart was acute. It was almost funny. She’d grown excited, she realized, and hopeful. If Mrs. Davies had sundered them, an explanation could fix all. But if his caring for her had died on its own, nothing could ever fix that. She fished urgently around in her purse for a handkerchief.

James saw the tears and knew he was the cause.

The conductor announced the Lowestoft station, coming up. James gathered his things.

Once more they collected the heavy suitcase and stowed it at baggage claim. James consulted a card in his pocket with an address, then studied a map. Together they set off.

Half of Britain had decided to spend a sunny Saturday at the seashore at Lowestoft. Mothers and children, youths too young for war, and the middle-aged streamed off the train platform with picnic baskets. James and Hazel followed the crowd toward the waterfront until he turned onto a side street.

James found the number he wanted, and Hazel wondered if she ought to stay at the gate. But James held the gate open for her, and as she passed through it, she caught once again that familiar scent of him, of clean, ironed cotton and spicy bay rum aftershave. It was humiliating, really, how much it affected her.

James took a deep breath, approached the door, and knocked.

A woman slowly opened the door.

James knew the face, but the expression was unlike the image he’d seen. She was enormously pregnant, carrying a husky toddler boy on one arm.

The child made James ache. That round, chubby face. He’d need a dad to play catch with and teach him to swim. James wanted to take the tyke in his arms. Or bolt for the train station.

“Mrs. Mason?” he asked.

“Who’s asking?”

“My name is James Alderidge,” he said. “I served with your husband in France.”

She clapped her free hand over her mouth and gasped. “Come in, come in, please.”

Hazel absorbed this information in quiet shock. Frank Mason. The one he often mentioned to her in his letters. His closest friend at the Front. Dead. Gone. He must be.

They followed her into the kitchen. It wasn’t tidy, and Mrs. Mason clearly felt ashamed.

“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Mason stammered. “What with the baby on the way, and this one wearing me out, I’ve been a bit slack. . . .”

“Please don’t give it a thought,” murmured Hazel. She wished she could help by washing the dirty dishes in the sink, but it would multiply the woman’s embarrassment.

“I’m Adelaide.” The young mother held out a hand to Hazel. “You’re Mrs. Alderidge?”

Hazel blushed. “No, I’m a friend. Hazel Windicott.”

“Your lady friend, then,” Adelaide told James. “How nice of you both to come.” She filled a kettle with water. “I’ll just get this heating up, and we’ll have tea, all right?” She glanced over at the corner, where the toddler was busy dragging all the pots and pans out of a cupboard. “Here! Frankie. None of that noise now, love. Go play with your blocks.”

Little Frankie had no intention of giving up the pots and pans. Hazel sat on the floor and reached for the wooden blocks. She tried to interest him in playing, but the sturdy little lad ignored her, so she built a tower herself. Once she no longer appeared to care about Frankie’s attention, she had it in full. Before long they were at work, adding blocks in turn to the tower, and laughing when it fell. She realized James and Adelaide weren’t talking. She looked up to see the boy’s mother smiling, and James watching her intently, with a look she couldn’t place.

Frankie, she thought, at last I’ve found you. A lad whose feelings are easy to read.

“Your turn.” She handed him a red one.

Adelaide Mason set out mugs for tea. “It was awfully good of you to come.”