The Light Over London(22)

He’d walked her back to the bottom of the lane again, stealing kisses when they were sure they were out of sight. He squeezed her hand goodbye, but it wouldn’t be for long. He’d asked her to the cinema in Newquay later that week, taking advantage of a scheduled night of leave. He would meet her at the bus stop and they would go see Freedom Radio with Clive Brook and Diana Wynyard.

She suspected Kate would be more than happy to provide an excuse for her to miss the meal with her parents. In all likelihood, her cousin would insist that Louise borrow something else from her wardrobe, and perhaps dress her hair as well, insisting that an updo would look far more adult than her misbehaving waves.

Louise let herself through the garden gate, prepared to answer any of her mother’s inevitable, pointed questions about her afternoon. She’d gone for a walk with a book. (That would account for the time.) She’d decided to go to the beach. (That would account for the sand on her shoes.) It certainly was a windy day, but it had felt good to be outside in the sun after a dreary winter. (That would account for her windswept hair and rosy cheeks.)

With a little smile, she pushed open the unlocked front door of her parents’ house and shrugged off her coat.

“Louise, is that you?” her mother called.

“Yes, Mum. I’m just hanging up my coat.”

“Come join me in the parlor.”

Her hand stilled halfway to the hook. There was a pleasant sweetness to her mother’s voice that she only used when they had company.

“Just one moment,” she called back.

With her coat hung up, she smoothed her hands down the front of her jumper and straightened the collar of her white cotton shirt. Then she straightened the seams of her fawn-colored skirt, stretched a smile over her lips, and went through to the parlor.

Louise had been right. Her mother was perched ramrod-straight on the chintz chair, and to her left, sitting on the rose-patterned sofa with antimacassars covering the arms, was Mrs. Moss.

“Louise, how are you?” asked Mrs. Moss as she replaced the teacup she held in its saucer.

Louise clasped her hands behind her back, fingers twisting as she glanced from Gary’s mother to her own. “I’m very well, thank you.”

“Louise, won’t you join us?” her mother asked in a way that told her there was only one correct way to answer the invitation.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll just wash up. I was at the beach.” She edged to the door. “Perhaps I can bring you more hot water for the tea.”

“Louise, you will sit.” This time her mother’s voice brooked no argument. Louise sank into a chair. “Now, will you please explain why I received two telephone calls today asking me the name of the RAF officer you were with?”

“I—”

“Now, Mrs. Keene,” said Mrs. Moss, leaning her considerable bulk toward Louise’s mother, “I’m certain Louise meant nothing by it.”

“Then why is it that Mrs. Chalmers said he was waiting at the bottom of the road for her? What an utterly common thing to do. If he had any manners, he would’ve called on you,” said her mother.

The very idea of Paul having to do something as old-fashioned as “call” on her so that her mother might scrutinize him and find him lacking in this parlor surrounded by lace curtains and bowls of potpourri made Louise recoil. But the real reason she’d asked him to meet her away from the house was so that she could avoid this very conversation.

“And then you were seen walking the steps from the beach with him,” her mother continued.

“Who was it who saw us?” Louise asked.

The question brought her mother up short, and she blinked at Louise a couple of times. “Mrs. Dorsey spotted you from the road. She was walking back with her shopping. She said she was so shocked that Gary’s girl was with another man she nearly dropped her string bag.”

I am not Gary’s girl. The words lodged on her tongue, but Mrs. Moss was leaning over to pat Louise’s mother on the arm.

“This is all just the idle gossip of housewives. Louise has never been anything but a good girl,” said Mrs. Moss.

“I will not have my daughter gallivanting around with some officer,” said her mother.

“He’s a friend,” said Louise before she could stop herself.

“A friend?” Her mother might’ve snorted if Louise had ever heard her make such an uncouth noise.

“Of course he is,” said Mrs. Moss. “It’s to be expected, with so many young people about. What’s his name, dear?”

“Flight Lieutenant Paul Bolton. He flies Spitfires for Coastal Command out of RAF Trebelzue,” Louise said reluctantly, for resistance would only encourage suspicion.

“And how did you meet him?” asked Mrs. Moss kindly. Except Louise had known Gary’s mother for long enough to know not to mistake kindness for empathy. Where her mother was all hard edges and flint, Mrs. Moss could pretend at softness, smothering people until they did or said whatever it was she wanted.

Carefully, Louise said, “He’s one of Kate’s friends. He wanted to see the Smugglers’ Cave, so I told him I would show him.” A half-truth and a little white lie, but she hoped it would be enough to squash her mother’s distrust.

“See, Mrs. Keene? There’s nothing more to it than that. Louise would never do anything to hurt Gary. Not while he’s being so brave, fighting for his country,” said Mrs. Moss.