Chapter Eight

"Was that Peter Wilton with your Bella just now?" Robert called to his son as the shop door slammed shut and the bell rang furiously in the wake of a hefty shove from Tom's left foot.

"She's not my Bella," Tom muttered without looking in his father's direction or seeing the surprise in his face. Tom returned to the boxes and crates lying in the middle of the shop floor and began removing tins ready for stacking on the shelves behind the counter. He heard his father clear his throat.

"Have you had a falling out, son? You can tell me about it if you want."

Tom sighed and hoped he wasn't destined for a man to man chat. He knew that he was fortunate. His father had always been warm-hearted, generous with his time and willing to listen to him. He supposed that being an only child was part of the reason that his parents and in particular his father were so indulgent. He was aware that many of his childhood friends and the lads he had met in the army had a more distant relationship with their parents and envied the relaxed way in which he could converse with them and share his problems. However, after the events of the weekend and Bella's response to the plans he had shared with her, the last people he felt able to confide in at this moment were his parents. If Bella had reacted so badly to his news he couldn't see his parents liking the idea any more. To cap it all, Bella now appeared to have formed an acquaintance with Peter Wilton.

Tom and Peter had moved in very different social circles as children but as two young men of a similar age growing up within the confines of Nethercombe, attending village events and both members of Nethercombe Cricket Club, their paths had crossed quite often before Peter had gone up to Oxford and Tom had begun his National Service. As a child he had formed little opinion of Peter; as a man he disliked him.

Peter had a reputation. Tom had heard rumours, particularly one concerning a farmer's daughter the other side of Cookham. If the stories were to be believed her family had been obliged to hush up an embarrassing situation and send her away to stay with relatives indefinitely. It was certainly true that Peter hadn't been seen at home in the holidays very often since going up to Oxford two years ago. The whispered opinion amongst the gossips was that the Wiltons wished to avoid further embarrassment and he spent the holidays with friends. Tom had been surprised to see him at the Young Farmer's Dance on Saturday but supposed that he must return home from time to time if only to see his parents and this was one of those occasions. At the dance they hadn't spoken and just the merest nod of acknowledgement had passed between them.

The fact that Peter was 'dropping in' on Bella had come as an unwelcome surprise to Tom. Even so, he wished now that he hadn't reacted so jealously to the news. He knew Bella well enough to recognise when she was angry and he knew she had been furious with him. It had only taken a minute for him to regret every stupid word he had uttered, particularly casually offering up his girlfriend to Peter Wilton, of all people.

Tom almost threw two tins of peaches onto the shelf at which his father cried, "Putting a dent in those tins won't solve anything and I'll have the devil's own job to sell them."

Tom took a deep breath and looked up at his father. Robert, oak-like in stature and manner, fair-haired, and still handsome in his early fifties, was watching his son with a look of compassion and understanding.

"You might find it difficult to believe, with me being so hard to resist when I was younger, but even your mam and me had fallings out in our courting days." There was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke and Tom couldn't help but smile.

"I can believe that, Dad."

"You cheeky young bugger," Robert chuckled as he walked towards Tom. Reaching him he placed a hand on his shoulder, "Look, son, I don't know why you two are arguing and you might not want my opinion but I'll give it to you anyway. You're a fool if you let a lass like Bella go. A man couldn't want anything more. You know your mam and me think the world of her and believe me that's not always the case." He patted Tom as if to reassure him, "Don't let the grass grow under your feet. Get after her and put things right as soon as you can."

Tom knew his father was right. He had been jealous, spoken rashly and inflamed a situation that was already awkward. He didn't want this to continue. He would walk up to Greystones this evening, find Bella and talk to her but his time he wouldn't leave until she understood.

X-X-X-X

William walked into the house leading the twins by the hand, tugging awkwardly at Rose as she tried to pull away from him and stay behind with Bella.

"Go on, Rosie," Bella coaxed

The little girl stopped complaining and disappeared into the house behind her older brother. Bella turned to Peter who was leaning against the driver's door of the Daimler after bringing them back to Greystones.

"You have a magic touch. A few words are all it takes," he observed.

Bella pulled a face, "I dunno about that. You saw what she was like earlier and it was you who managed to shut her up then, so that can't be true."

"I wasn't talking about Rose." Peter responded. He caught Bella's eye. There was a serious look on his face and Bella understood his meaning. The uncomfortable feeling returned, the one from which she wanted to hide.

"Well, thanks for the lift, you really saved the day." Her words were unnecessarily brusque and Peter seemed amused.

"Something funny?" she asked.

"You."

The direct response threw her and in her embarrassment she started to gabble, "Daft, I might be but I don't know many jokes, so I'm definitely not funny."

He took a couple of steps towards her, "Well, you're amusing me now."

Bella was nonplussed, "What d'you mean?

He reached out and gently touched her face. She felt the tips of his fingers, soft against her cheek and wanted to brush them away but she couldn't bring herself to do so. Her face was growing warm and she knew she must be blushing. It was maddening to feel like this considering how much she had detested him only a short while ago. He leaned a little closer and she felt herself freeze unsure what would happen or whether she would have the nerve to tell him to go away. His face was close to hers, so close that she felt the warmth of his breath on her skin and in the moment that she finally resolved to move away from him he said in a soft voice, "Come on a picnic with me."

He must have seen the flash of surprise in her eyes because he stepped back and seemed amused again.

"I don't think so," Bella replied at once, infuriated by the idea that he might simply be making fun of her for his own amusement.

"Please yourself," Peter said in a goodnatured tone, "but I'm going on one tomorrow, anyway. I'll tell you what; if you change your mind I'll be at Nethercombe Cross at eleven tomorrow morning."

"I won't change my mind." Bella stared at him trying to impress upon him that she meant what she said.

He laughed aloud at this which only seemed to make him appear even more ridiculously handsome and it annoyed her further still. Smiling he climbed into the Daimler and started the engine. He wound down the window, his blue eyes fixed upon her,

The car started to pull away. "It's a lady's prerogative you know," he called.

"What is?" Bella shouted after him. He didn't answer but waved his hand in a gesture of farewell and drove off leaving Bella staring after him. What on earth was he talking about?

X-X-X-X

The girl was sitting on a suitcase in the middle of the lane. She had taken off one of her shoes and was rubbing the back of her heel with her hand, wincing as she did so from the pain of a large blister which had formed. It was a high heeled court shoe and quite unsuitable for a two mile walk from Cookham Halt Station. It was approaching seven o'clock in the evening and the light was starting to fade. She sighed, looked around her and wondered just how much further the walk would be; the suitcase had been heavy and her feet were killing her.

When she saw the tall figure of a young man turning the corner of the lane and walking towards her she was relieved. She hadn't seen any cars or anyone else on the way here and had been hoping she might be able to cadge a lift or in the absence of a lift, at least find someone who might be able to give her directions. As the man drew nearer she could see the curiosity in his face. A girl sitting on a suitcase all alone in the middle of a deserted lane was an unusual sight. The fact that she remained sitting where she was without any attempt to get up was even more curious.

The man was about ten yards away when he addressed her, "Hello. Are you alright?"

The girl nodded and said in a matter-of-fact voice, "Yes, just a blister."

Tom Stimpson drew level with her and glanced at her feet, seeing the inappropriate shoes, "Where are you heading?"

She raised her eyes to look at him, "Towards Nethercombe. Why do you want to know?"

Tom interpreted the question as wariness rather than rudeness and replied, "I just wondered if you needed a hand with your case?"

She still looked wary but equally resigned to the necessity of obtaining some help, "I wouldn't say no, if you don't mind." She got up, grimacing as she did. "I thought there'd be a bus from the station but the Station Master said the last bus was at six o'clock and told me to walk in this direction. I didn't realise how far it was going to be."

Tom reached for her case and picked it up. It was heavy. No wonder she'd been taking a rest in the middle of the road.

"What have you got in here?" he joked.

The girl shrugged, "Pretty much everything I own."

Tom was surprised but said nothing. In truth, he was struck by the sadness of someone so young carrying their whole life in one leather suitcase and by the unemotional way in which she had imparted this fact.

They set off along the lane, Tom leaning over a little to one side counterbalancing the weight of the suitcase whilst beside him the girl limped along evidently in pain from her blistered heel. The silence drew out and felt awkward,

"I'm Tom Stimpson," he said at last, realising that they hadn't introduced themselves and hoping it would spark some conversation.

"Nice to meet you, Tom," she replied with a wince at the pain in her heel before lapsing into silence again and walking even more slowly than before.

"You could take your shoes off," Tom suggested. "The surface of the road is pretty good and it's dry."

The girl looked uncertain at this suggestion but after another ten painful yards, she stopped, took off her shoes and carried on walking in her stockinged feet.

"You were right," she conceded at last. "I thought I was never going to make it in these." She waved the offending shoes in the air.

"Where did you say you were going?" Tom asked.

"I didn't," the girl responded, "but if you must know, I'm going to visit a friend who lives here."

"What's your friend's name?" Tom asked. "I know most people who live round here."

She looked up at him out of the corner of her eye, "I bet you do."

Tom glanced sideways. There was just the hint of a smile on her face at last. For a moment or two Tom thought she was going to keep the information to herself but then she seemed to relent,

"My friend's name is Molly. She used to be Molly Dawes but it's something else, now."

Tom was surprised. "Do you mean Molly James?"

The girl nodded and smiled properly for the first time, "Yes, that's her."

X-X-X-X

"What the hell were you thinking?" Charles cried, hands on hips, his eyes boring into Molly, their expression a mixture of disbelief and fury. "Did you think I wouldn't find out or that Sir Percival wouldn't be straight on the telephone to complain?"

Molly swallowed hard. The news that, by the time she and Marjorie had left the airfield that afternoon, Sir Percival had called and fired a broadside at Charles about the antics of a reckless pilot, practically dive bombing his wife, had brought home to Molly the full folly of her actions. She was silently kicking herself for being so stupid.

"Did you tell him it was me?" Molly bit her lip in anticipation of his answer.

Charles ran his fingers through his hair, clearly exasperated, "No, I didn't. I blamed it on some fictional pupil who I tore off a strip when we returned."

"Well you are now, aren't you?" Molly replied under her breath.

Charles exhaled, still annoyed with her, "But you're an experienced pilot, Molly. Why did you do that when you know how awkward things are? The last thing I need is you behaving like some impetuous kid. I saw enough of that in the war."

"I'm sorry," Molly replied, "I couldn't help it. She's just so bleedin' stuck up. I'll apologise if you want." She was quaking at the thought but felt she must offer.

Charles looked at her as if weighing up the use of making such an apology. He shook his head, "Don't bother, it won't make any difference. In fact it will probably make it worse. I don't need that kind of help, Molly."

They stared at each other both lost in their own thoughts. Charles was still angry at Molly. He remembered the looks on the faces of Molly and Marjorie on the return from their flight and Molly's quip about a shared pleasure. At the time, given the smile on her face and the way she had looked at him as he had walked towards her, he had wondered whether it was a subtle hint to him that she was in a good mood and he had looked forward to going home that evening. All such thoughts were sadly dispelled the moment Sir Percival's unwelcome voice had blasted out of the telephone receiver and he realised that her independent, bordering on reckless, streak had surfaced again.

If he was completely honest, he wished he had been there to see it himself. He couldn't help having a grudging respect for his wife's nerve even if it had made life difficult again. He also recalled that way back in the early days of his service in the RAF, a few years before the war, when he had been posted to Coastal Command he had received the bollocking of a lifetime from his commanding officer for making a low level pass over the home of a Rear Admiral's daughter in Dartmouth. He had been seeing Lucinda for a few weeks and having shot her a line about his flying ability was keen to demonstrate his skills. When he buzzed her home on a hot, clear June day, whilst on his return to base, he had not realised that the Rear Admiral, having very recently returned from an overseas visit, was hosting a garden party. His actions not only ended his C.O's good opinion of him but also his fledgling romance with young Lucinda whose father wouldn't allow him within a mile of his home or daughter again. Now in his late thirties, Charles felt able to excuse his ill-advised actions as youthful impetuousness. The same couldn't be said of Molly and he wondered, not for the first time since meeting her, just how often she would confound his expectations before she was through.

Molly gazed at Charles and wished she could make a good suggestion that would lighten his mood. She regretted her actions. He was right of course; there was no excuse for what she had done. She was nearly thirty, a mother of three, the wife of a respected man and someone who'd been honoured by the King, no less, for her bravery. She shook her head a little at that memory. Even her bravery had been a moment of recklessness, disobeying orders. It was strange how Charles had never asked her for the truth of that moment. When she had lied to him about not hearing him order her away from the burning aeroplane at RAF Milton, he had accepted it. She sighed. She should have thought of him and everyone else before carrying out that stupid manoeuvre today. Annoying Lady Wilton might have been satisfying at the time but it didn't change the situation with the Wiltons.

She moved towards Charles and reached out to grasp his hand and squeeze it tight.

"I am sorry. I promise I won't do anything like that again."

He gazed down at her. She was contrite. No matter what she did he always seemed to forgive her. It was hard to remain angry with her for long with those dark-lashed green eyes fixed upon him. He shook his head marvelling at his own weakness.

"You've done a few things since I met you, Mrs James, and got yourself into a few scrapes over the years."

"I promise I won't…" she began.

He put a finger to her lips and gave her a rueful smile "Hush. Don't make promises you can't keep."

"Have I ever told you I love you?" Molly asked, a smile hovering in the corners of her mouth.

Charles' arms reached out to circle her waist, "Tell me again. I'm all ears."

The smart rap at the front door a few minutes later startled Charles and Molly and he reluctantly, released her from his embrace.

"Are you expecting anyone?" he asked.

Molly shook her head and made for the door. As she entered the hall, Bella appeared from the kitchen having also heard the knock at the door.

"Is it for you?" Molly asked her sister.

Bella shrugged, "How would I know? I'm not a mind reader or anything."

Molly ignored the sarcasm in her sister's voice, grasped the handle and opened the door. Tom Stimpson stood in the doorway carrying a large, brown leather suitcase and accompanied by a slightly built, fair-haired young woman.

The girl smiled and exclaimed at once, "Molly!"

Molly froze in surprise and stared at her

"Don't you recognise me?"

Molly regarded the girl. The soft burr of her accent was familiar but she couldn't place her. She took in the sight of her fair hair deftly styled and pinned, the over-made up face, bright red lipstick at odds with her pale complexion, her blue eyes full of anticipation, the slim figure fashionably attired in a narrow-waisted, full-skirted dress and her high heeled shoes, one of which seemed to have caused a blister as a smear of blood was visible at the heel of her nylon stockings.

The smile on the girl's face began to fade as she realised that Molly was unsure. She tilted her chin upwards and bit her lip. In any other person it might have seemed a gesture of defiance but for a moment, seeing her expression, Molly was afraid that the girl might cry. She seemed to be fighting her hardest to put a brave face on the situation as if she had experienced this before and was determined not to give in to her anxiety. In that moment Molly saw her as she had once been: a motherless child, neglected by her father, abandoned and then, ultimately, an orphan living in a children's home.

"Hattie?"

The girl broke into a smile and the relief was evident in her voice, "I didn't think you remembered me."

Molly shook her head, "Of course I remember you."

The words of Hattie's dying father and the guilt about her actions had stayed with Molly for a very long time. Nine years had passed but how could she possibly forget Hattie Tyler.