The Light Over London(28)

I want to believe that he’s right.

5 March 1941

I saw Paul again today. He took me for a walk along the water in Newquay. He wanted to buy me ice cream, but I laughed and told him no one would be selling it in the winter when the wind is still so biting.

We talked about everything, as we always seem to do when we’re together. He told me about Christmas in London with his family. They always have champagne before their dinner, and once, when his father was carving the goose, it flew off the plate and onto the floor! His mother burst out laughing. She sent it back down to the kitchen—they have a cook named Mrs. Dunn who comes every day, which does sound grand—and it came back with all of the good meat sliced and bread to make sandwiches. They called it their Christmas picnic.

After our walk, I was shivering so much that Paul insisted we stop at a hotel that had been commandeered by the Royal Marines to billet its officers. He joked that it was a shame it would be so long before we could celebrate a Christmas together and drink champagne. I was so happy that he might want me to meet his family that I let it slip that I’ve never had champagne. He immediately ordered a bottle even though it was three o’clock in the afternoon. I was shocked that they had any at all because good alcohol can be scarce these days, and I tried to tell Paul I didn’t want it because of the expense. He just laughed and told me that I was worth it.

The champagne was delightful, all bubbles and fizz, and I drifted back to the bus stop in a daze.





7


LOUISE


“Rationing jam? What’s next?” Mrs. Bakeford muttered, locking the shop door as a fog rolled down the high street.

Louise couldn’t help but agree with her as she buttoned the last button on her coat. Despite the signs they’d put in the window and at the counter, the entire day had been spent explaining why the housewives of Haybourne couldn’t purchase more than their allotted portion of jam and preserves. She’d been cajoled, importuned, and even yelled at by old Mrs. Harper, whom she’d never particularly liked anyway.

“It’ll be better in a few weeks’ time. They’ll be used to it then, just like they were with tea and meat,” she said, reassuring herself as much as Mrs. Bakeford.

“Let us hope so. I’ll see you tomorrow, Louise.”

“Good night, Mrs. Bakeford,” Louise said, hooking her handbag over her wrist and starting the short walk home.

If the day had left her tired, at least there was the prospect of seeing Paul that week to lift her spirits. He hadn’t been able to tell her exactly when he’d be able to secure an afternoon’s leave—he was flying a series of exercises—but he was confident he’d be able to steal away at some point. He’d let her know through Kate, who had been more than willing to act as a go-between, but that didn’t mean her cousin was entirely silent about the arrangement.

“People will find out at some point, you know,” Kate had said the day before after church.

Louise had glanced around, but her mother and Kate’s were chatting, both with folded arms, their handbags hanging off their wrists and swaying slightly with every punctuated point. Their fathers had rushed out as soon as the service had ended to stand with four other men from the neighborhood, each with a pipe or a cigarette clamped in his mouth.

“No one’s paying us any mind,” said Kate, nudging her with her elbow.

Louise blushed. “You can never be too careful in Haybourne. Everyone always seems to know everyone else’s business.”

“And they all have an opinion to go along with it. But that’s why you need to think about this. Otherwise you’ll wind up with your mother and Mrs. Moss in the parlor all over again.”

“I know, I know. I just . . . I just want a little more time.”

Once she’d explained to him the difficulties she’d faced after their trip to the beach, the last few weeks with Paul had been blissfully uncomplicated as they’d avoided meeting in Haybourne again. She liked that he leaned in when she told him stories about growing up in the village because he hadn’t heard them all before. And she loved when he spoke about his family, his travels, his life. He was different from any other man she’d ever met. Raised in a mansion flat in Kensington, he doted on his mother and revered his father, a prominent barrister and Master of the Bench at Lincoln’s Inn. Paul had read history for his degree with a mind to entering politics, before the war had broken out. He’d been one of the first men from Cambridge to join up.

It seemed extraordinary to her that this man who belonged to a glamorous world so removed from her own had chosen her, a girl who’d hardly ever ventured out of Cornwall save for the few times she’d visited her mother’s sister in Bristol. Louise hadn’t even seen London, while Paul kept a bedsit on what he called a bohemian street in Chelsea for when he was home from university, even if he’d told her it had nothing more than a gas ring for making tea and an electric fire to keep him warm.

“You’ll have to write to Gary too,” said Kate, her voice sympathetic.

“Why should I?” Louise asked, suddenly angry. “It’s our mothers who’ve gone mad, not us.”

“Because when you tell your mother that you’re in love with a flier, you’ll be happy to know that Gary has backed away quietly. Even Aunt Rose can’t shame a man into marrying a woman whose heart’s already taken.”