Wait for Me

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“That’s right, I’d forgotten that Saint William is off-limits now.”

“Lorna, stop it, please, I know you’re just jealous!”

Though Iris was still laughing, a tightness in her voice told Lorna that she wasn’t joking anymore, so Lorna backed off.

“That’s it exactly, dear friend,” Lorna said, allowing only a hint of sarcasm to creep in. “I’m jealous. Perhaps I need to find me a handsome, upright, and highly intelligent chap of my very own right now.”

Iris jabbed Lorna harder, with her fist this time.

“Enough! Grab the string, would you? We need to get these tied up.”

Lorna tossed Iris the ball of string, but before she closed the flaps on the nearest box, she let her fingers play in the soft wool of the scarf Iris had knitted so expertly. It would certainly keep some Allied soldier warm, whether he was at the front or in a prison camp. Perhaps it might bring him some comfort too, knowing it might have been knitted by a pretty girl back at home.

By the time the boxes were packed and sealed, and Lorna and Iris had practiced bandaging each other’s elbows several times, it was well after six. Lorna had to hurry home to get the tea served up.

She was late getting Paul his evening meal, but he didn’t seem to notice. When she opened the lambing shed door, he was sitting in his usual place against the wall. This time it was not a lamb in his hands, but a newspaper. He’d folded it in half and then in half again so it was more the size of a book, and he appeared to be studying it very closely, running a finger under each line as he read the tiny print. After a second or two, he cupped his hands in front of his mouth and blew warm air onto his fingers, then returned to his reading.

He was so engrossed that he didn’t appear to have heard her come in. He opened the newspaper and tore out the page he had been reading. Then he tossed the paper back onto the stack of old Scotsmans that her father kept in that corner for fire lighters, leaving the torn page flat on his lap. Paul ran his finger along the lines again.

Lorna coughed and stepped forward.

Paul started at the sound but did not look up. Instead, he crumpled the page under his hand, as if he wanted to hide it.

“I brought your tea,” Lorna said, puzzled, and trying not to be suspicious. “Sorry it’s a bit late.”

Without answering, Paul got to his feet and hurried toward the back of the shed, stuffing the paper into the pocket of his coveralls. As he went, head down, he swiped the sleeve of his sweater across his eyes and nose.

Was he crying?

Lorna hesitated. If he was crying, she doubted he would want her to stay, so she set the tray down on top of the barrel and walked back to the kitchen. What in the paper could have upset him so much? There were lots of stories these days about how far the Allies were pushing into countries that had been under German occupation, and even into Germany itself. Not easy reading for a German soldier, a German boy, so far from home.

By the time Lorna left the kitchen an hour or so later to get Paul’s dishes, the evening air had grown colder again. As she buttoned her coat, she remembered the way that Paul had blown on his fingers to warm them while he read. She also remembered, with shame, how satisfied she had felt that first week to see him with no gloves at all, pleased to see this German suffering. Her stomach twisted at the memory.

She went back inside to where the single Red Cross scarf sat on her knitting bag. Lorna wound it round her hands, feeling again the warm comfort of the dark red wool. Did anyone deserve to be cold when there was an alternative sitting right here?

On an impulse, she tucked the scarf inside her coat and hurried up the stairs to John Jo’s bedroom. But as she riffled through the drawers, she couldn’t find a single pair of gloves. With a sigh, she gave up and went back downstairs and across the yard.

She didn’t expect to see Paul, but he appeared from the storeroom at the back with a sack of feed when she entered the shed. He stopped, looking wary, perhaps wondering if she would mention what had happened earlier.

But she didn’t want to embarrass him, so Lorna busied herself with tidying the empty dishes into the basket, and after a moment, Paul continued toward her.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Glad you enjoyed it,” she replied.

Lorna didn’t pick the basket up, however. Instead, she took the maroon scarf from inside her coat where she had tucked it and held it out to him.

“I thought you might need this,” she said. “I knitted it, so it’s not very good, but it’s warm.”

“You knitted that for me?” Paul said quietly.

“No, no, for the Red Cross,” said Lorna, “to be sent in the parcels for our prisoners of war. But then I saw you blowing on your hands, and I thought, well, you’re a prisoner of war, so perhaps you need it as much as they do.”

Paul laid the sack down beside the wall and took the scarf from her, losing his long fingers in it as she had done. Then he raised it to his face and pressed its soft wool against his undamaged cheek.

“Yes,” he murmured, “it is very warm.”

“I tried to get you some gloves, but I couldn’t find any.” Lorna was starting to feel a little warm herself. “But I could try to knit you some, if I asked Iris to show me …”

Paul glanced to the windowsill as she spoke, and there lay the green woolen gloves she had been looking for.

“Oh! You have them. John Jo’s gloves.”

“Mrs. Mack gave them to me.” He sounded apologetic. “I do not always remember to wear them. I hope you do not think it is wrong for me to have them.”

Lorna felt flustered. “No, no, not at all. That’s fine. Really.”

Paul suddenly stepped forward with his hand outstretched. It took Lorna a moment to realize he wanted to shake her hand. Tentatively, she reached out to him, and as his fingers closed around hers, she looked up and their eyes met.

“Thank you for thinking of me, Fräulein Anderson”—Paul’s voice was low—“and thank you for this gift.”

At that moment, the kitchen door slammed and her father’s footsteps sounded on the cobbled yard, so she withdrew her hand from Paul’s and grabbed the basket.

At the door, she hesitated.

“My name is Lorna,” she said over her shoulder.

For a heartbeat, she thought he hadn’t heard her, but then he spoke.

“Good night, Lorna. I hope you sleep well.”

Nine (#ulink_da610748-dda0-5e2b-90ed-3e1a8497b765)

“Will you come back to my house for tea?” Iris asked as they left the school the next day. “William has a Scout meeting this afternoon, and Mum is at my grannie’s, so I have nothing better to do.”

Lorna studied Iris’s sweet smile and knew that her friend hadn’t meant to sound rude.

“I’m flattered,” she answered drily even so.

“Oh, you know what I mean.” Iris nudged her arm. “So will you come?”

Lorna shook her head.

“Maybe another day? I’ve got things to get done while it’s still light, but thanks.”

In fact, Lorna couldn’t face spending another hour or so with Iris as she prattled on about William, about school and Red Cross, and oh, about William some more. Lorna wanted to clear her head. The night before, she had lain awake for a long time thinking about how upset Paul had looked over that piece of the newspaper. She shouldn’t care if she saw him cry—she didn’t really know him, after all, and it wasn’t like he was her friend—but it had bothered her all the same.

Saying good-bye to Iris, Lorna decided to take the long way home through the woods. Though it would be a few weeks until the bluebells came into flower, she did love walking between the tranquil old trees. If she kept up a good pace, she wouldn’t be back too late to get the tea on the table at the normal time.

The wind had got up during school, and it whipped Lorna’s hair around her face as she walked. She pulled her scarf up over her head, tied it under her chin, and tucked the ends down inside her coat. Despite the wind, though, the sun felt warm on her face for the first time in months, and there was a mildness within the blustery air.

As she gave herself up to the rhythm of her feet on the path, Lorna allowed her mind to flit from Paul to Iris and William, to John Jo and Sandy, to Nellie and back to Paul again, and before she knew it, she was at the farthest end of Craigielaw’s land, beside the beach beyond the woods.

She barely noticed when a large droplet of water hit the ground right in front of her. However, when the next four or five cold drops hit her face, and one sneaked into the narrow gap between her scarf and her neck, she paid more attention. Above the far shore of the Firth of Forth, a quilt of thick black rain clouds had darkened the bright sky, and its shadow was steadily creeping toward her over the water. And from the way the waves were dancing and bursting with white horses on their crests, Lorna could tell that the storm was coming fast.

Suddenly the clouds were illuminated from behind by a burst of lightning. Before she could count the seconds—one alligator, two alligator—a boom shook the air. Lorna almost lost her balance, as if the thunder itself had tried to push her over, so she ran, bent low, toward the edge of the woods.

With the rain’s arrival, the last wash of daylight vanished and Lorna found herself in a soaking twilight. Sheets of water, woven stiff as canvas, swept her toward the trees as waves would wash a dinghy against a seawall. The lightning flashed and flashed again across the darkness, not waiting for the thundering fanfare to sound before crackling again.

By the time she reached the woods, she was drenched. The cold moisture seeped through her sodden coat, her tights were sopping inside her shoes. But the rain barely made it through the dense canopy of the old oaks, wych elms, and sycamores. Even though the thick branches were still mostly winter bare, with just the first pink buds coloring the brown bark, they still acted as soundproofing, deadening the earsplitting noise of the storm.

Wet and miserable, Lorna threaded her way through the familiar woods in the direction of the farm, skirting the nettle beds until she found the well-worn path. She stuffed her scarf into her pocket, then shrugged out of her coat, the fabric soaked through so that even her sweater and shirt were already wet. Trying to keep her coat tucked under one arm, she wriggled her damp sweater off over her head, then squeezed the single braid that lay down her back until water trickled through her fingers.

“Bloody rain!” she said, shaking the excess water from her hand.

“I agree,” said a voice behind her. “Bloody rain!”

Lorna spun around too quickly. Paul was sitting only ten yards away on the trunk of a tree that lay at a drunken angle to the ground.

Considering the deluge falling so near, he looked remarkably dry in his dark gray army sweater and the maroon scarf she had knitted. In contrast, Lorna knew she must look like a thoroughly drowned rat. Stray strands of hair were plastered to her face, and her white cotton shirt was sticking to her arms and shoulders.

Even though she knew—she hoped—that her wet shirt was not showing off anything more embarrassing than an unflattering undershirt, Lorna suddenly felt exposed under Paul’s scrutiny and tried to pull her sweater back over her head. She only succeeded in dropping both her coat and scarf onto the ground, and anyway, she knew she’d never get the damp sweater back on with any dignity.