A Gathering Storm(33)

‘But it was my idea, buying the canoe. I talked him into it.’

‘You couldn’t have predicted the storm. It took everyone by surprise.’

‘You don’t understand,’ he said, turning and looking straight at her, his eyes wild. ‘It’s always my fault. It’s like a sort of curse.’

‘What do you mean?’ She was almost glad when, at that moment, Arlene Brooker emerged carrying the tray of lemonade and the cake to die for.

They saw each other most days after that. There was the terrible afternoon of James Sturton’s funeral. Most of the town turned out for it, and James was buried in the cemetery on the hill above St Florian, while bumblebees blundered in the long grass. It was a drowsy afternoon when in life he might have played cricket or wandered in the countryside whistling his tuneless whistle. Instead he was laid to sleep for ever in the earth, alive only in the minds of those who knew him as a clumsy sixteen-year-old boy with a lopsided smile, a dusting of freckles, a passion for rugby and a dislike of book-learning. Beatrice’s mother had told her she needn’t upset herself by going to the graveside, but she went anyway to support Rafe, and as she stood at the back of the crowd thinking about all the things in life that Sturton would never see or do, the tears dripped down her face.

Life went on in its unfeeling way. They played mixed doubles at tennis, but not with Sturton’s sister. Rafe came to tea at The Rowans and Beatrice sat stiff with anxiety in case her father was rude or, worse, cold and uninterested. Thankfully, even he responded to Rafe’s polite friendliness, his handsome open face and his happy sensitivity to others.

‘You were in the war, sir?’ Rafe asked, and his respectful manner was genuine. ‘My father was, too.’

‘Your uncle tells me he got an MC,’ Hugh said, a bit grudgingly.

Rafe nodded. ‘He saved some of his platoon by leading them through a minefield. I wish I could remember him, but I don’t.’

Beatrice was intrigued to catch her parents exchange meaningful looks. Then her mother said, ‘Of course you don’t. Now, Rafe, you’ll have some more tea?’

‘I feel sorry for your generation,’ Hugh Marlow continued, discarding the cucumber from his sandwich. ‘There’s another war coming, you’ll see, and it’ll be worse than the last.’

‘I hope you’re wrong there, sir,’ Rafe said, his expression alert. ‘My uncle says we should stay out of it, that Herr Hitler’s not interested in fighting us.’

Beatrice’s parents again glanced at one another, and Mrs Marlow’s face was troubled. ‘I don’t think it’ll be as easy as that,’ her father said.

Her mother smoothed her skirt and shook her head. Beatrice had heard them talk in anxious tones about letters from the family in France. These described the surge of refugees passing through Normandy to board ships to England and America, recounted stories of persecution and brutality that the refugees brought with their meagre possessions out of Germany.

‘This will be everyone’s war, I think,’ Hugh Marlow said solemnly. ‘England expects every man to do his duty.’ He pushed back his chair and went to tap the barometer on the wall with his knuckle. ‘High pressure,’ he said. Rafe watched, sensibly making no comment.

But nor did he let the subject lie. Another day, as they walked on the beach with Jinx, he said, ‘Suppose your father’s right?’

‘What would you do, if there were to be a war and you were old enough to fight?’

‘I’d fight,’ he said, pulling himself up, suddenly looking older than his sixteen years. There was a strange light in his eyes that made her shiver. Seeing her face he said, ‘But don’t worry. My uncle says Mr Chamberlain will sort things out. You’ll see.’ And he picked up a stick and hurled it across the beach for Jinx to chase.

Beatrice watched him tear after the dog, his long legs lithe and golden, his shirt unbuttoned, blowing in his wake like wings. She liked to study him when he dozed in the sun, noting his hair to be the exact old gold of corn waiting to be harvested, the glow of his pale brown skin; fascinated by the pulse that throbbed in his throat. Since that day in the Brookers’ back garden they’d not touched except by accident. That matter had never been mentioned again, but Beatrice remembered it, and treasured it when she lay sleepless during the hot August nights. His skin had smelt salty; even the slight tang of sweat had not been unpleasant, but rather alluring.

Sometimes they talked of deeper things: of his mother, far away in India, whom Beatrice guessed he missed more than he ever had courage to say; of his father, dead when Rafe was only six; of the older half-brother, now at Sandhurst. Beatrice felt a channel of sympathy flow between them.