The Victory Garden(26)

“She did give me a warning against unsuitable young men with evil designs,” Emily said, laughing.

“And how do you know I don’t have evil designs?” he retorted.

Emily felt herself blushing. “Because I know you,” she said.

“Too right. I’ll always treat you with respect, Emmy. You’re a quality girl. You deserve only the best,” he said. “Right then. Let’s deposit your bag at this guest house, shall we? It’s not much to look at, but the blokes tell me they take good care of you there. The navy lieutenant in the next bed said he put his wife up there when she came to visit.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Emily said. “After sleeping six to a room in the most uncomfortable bunks that creak and groan every time one turns over, I’m sure it will be like heaven.”

He went to take her bag.

“You don’t have to do that. I can manage,” she said.

She watched a frown cross his face. “Emily, I’m certified fit to fly a plane,” he said. “I can carry an overnight bag, I promise you.”

They set off together. Robbie slipped his hand into hers. She looked up to give him a little smile. He still walked a little stiffly, she noted, but he was making a supreme effort to stride out. As they approached the harbour, they could see fishing boats bobbing in the water in a wide estuary. Green fields came down to the banks on the far side, and as they watched, a ferry left the far shore, coming towards them. It was a peaceful scene, as if war were only a nasty rumour, far away.

“Here we are.” Robbie led her to a house in a terrace that faced the water. Across the front was painted “Seaview Guest House.”

“I’ve checked it out,” he said. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’s clean.”

The landlady was all smiles when Emily was introduced. “A local girl, are you? He said you were from Devonshire yourself.”

“I am. Near Torquay.”

“Fancy that. I’ve a sister who lives in that part of the world. And this young man is all the way from Australia. Left his homeland to come and fight for us. I call that noble, myself. Now, if you’d like to see your room . . .”

She started up a steep and narrow staircase, moving with surprising agility for one of considerable bulk. She opened a door to reveal a tiny room with nothing more than a single bed, a chest of drawers with a mirror on it and a washbasin against the wall. As Robbie had said, it was nothing fancy, but clean.

“Bathroom down the hall,” the landlady said. “Breakfast at eight. Cup of tea whenever you’ve a mind for it. And I lock the front door at ten.”

They thanked her. Emily left her overnight bag and followed Robbie down the stairs.

“You must be hungry,” he said. “I thought we’d get a bite to eat and then maybe go to the cinema. A real date for a change.”

“I’d like that.” She smiled at him. “I hardly ever go to the pictures. It’s a real treat.”

“I asked your landlady about where to eat,” he said, “and she told me of a place that does the best fish and chips. I know it’s not what you’re used to, but it’s wartime, isn’t it? There aren’t many cafes open, and when they are, they serve the most disgusting muck.”

“Robbie,” Emily said, laughing. “Do you know what I’m used to these days? A great hunk of bread with cheese and a pickled onion for my lunch and a big vegetable stew for supper. That’s what I’ve been living on. Fish and chips sounds heavenly.”

The cafe was situated by the docks, looking out over the water. Late sunlight still sparkled, painting the scene with a rosy glow. Inside, it was not at all fancy, but it did have red-and-white-checked tablecloths and a small vase of flowers on each table. They sat in the window, facing each other. Two large mugs of tea were brought, and then two huge plates of cod and chips with a plate of bread and butter.

“Stone the crows,” Robbie said. “This is more food than I’ve seen since I left home. And fish and chips is quite a novelty for me. You don’t find fish where I come from.”

“It’s a novelty for me, too,” Emily said as she popped a chip into her mouth.

“What do you mean? You live here. You can eat it all the time.”

“I can’t remember the last time I had it. On holiday once in Cornwall when I was quite small, I remember. It’s not the sort of food my mother thinks suitable. Working-class fare, you know.”

He chuckled. “Oh right. Not like the salmon mouse.”

“It’s mousse, as you very well know!” She slapped his hand, laughing.

His eyes held hers, and she felt a shiver at the way he was looking at her.

“So tell me,” he said, “what did you do with yourself all that time stuck at home?”

“Nearly went mad,” she replied. “Actually, I came home from school when we got the news that Freddie had been killed, so we were in full mourning for six months. Black dresses, no callers, no music, nothing. It was silly, really. Freddie would have found it silly. As if any amount of mourning could bring him back.”

“And then?”

“It took me a long while to get over his death—longer than I would have thought. I think I must have been in a state of shock, or depression, I suppose. None of the things I’d grown up to expect would happen after school—balls and parties and meeting young men.”