The Wind Off the Sea Read online

  ‘Stale bread, Richards,’ Meggie interrupted. ‘We all know the state of play, their latest ruse being to invite sealed bids, and the highest wins. Desperation point, I should have thought.’

  ‘And the closing date was yesterday, which of course neither of us was in any fit state to remember, was we, dear?’

  Meggie kicked the bedclothes feebly and groaned at Richards, wishing he would get on with it, something of which he never seemed capable.

  ‘No we wasn’t,’ she retorted. ‘Now get on with it, you daft old bat.’

  ‘Three bids, Miss Megs. Two absurdly low, at least a thousand pounds under the last asking price – and one …’ Richards deliberately let his voice peter out, raising his eyebrows ever higher and making his mouth ever smaller.

  ‘One what, Richards? One what for God’s sake?’

  ‘One – preposterously and absurdly high.’

  ‘High?’ Meggie bit her lip and her long-fingered, pale-skinned hands moved restlessly across the top of the sheet. ‘Absurdly high?’

  ‘Preposterously so. Unbelievably so. Laughably so.’

  ‘So it’s not genuine then? Someone larking about, do you mean?’

  ‘Most certainly not, Miss Megs. The bid enclosed a banker’s cheque as a deposit should the bid be successful, and your man is conferring with his man e’en the noo to confirm the details.’

  Meggie frowned again and then puffed out her cheeks.

  ‘So go on – tell me. How preposterously, absurdly, ridiculously high was the winning bid?’

  ‘Hold on to your wig, milady.’ Richards sighed dramatically. ‘It was five thousand more than was originally asked.’

  ‘Five thousand?’ Meggie gasped. ‘Five thousand pounds, Richards?’

  ‘No, five thousand brass farthings, you silly scarecrow. Of course it’s five thousand pounds.’

  ‘Good grief,’ Meggie said, all but inaudibly. ‘But if this is true—’

  ‘It’s true, it’s true. You’re not delirious, you’re not dead and gone to heaven. You’re better, your temperature is down, and to cap it all some lunatic is going to pay you five thousand pounds too much for this dear old wreck of a mansion.’

  ‘But who?’ Meggie wondered, eyes popping. ‘Who would be potty, crazy, or even stupid enough to do that?’

  ‘Search me, your high and mightiness. Some madcap by the name of Pat – Pat for Patrick I imagine – Mr Patrick O’Henry, apparently, an eccentric Irish inventor, so they tell me.’

  ‘Mr O’Henry has to be quite some inventor to be willing to pay that sort of money for dear old Cucklington, Richards.’ Meggie sighed. ‘And you do realise what this means. Don’t you?’

  ‘I do indeed, Miss Megs.’ Richards sighed in return. ‘It means at last I might be able to claim all the back pay I’m owed.’

  The only setback to the change in Meggie’s fortunes was the continued non-appearance of Waldo Astley whose absence became more noticeable with each passing day, not only to Meggie but to everyone who had become involved with him in the deceptively short space of time he had been in Bexham.

  Peter and Rusty Sykes awaited his return without knowing anything about the sorts of risks he was running yet with a feeling of mounting concern, as if instinctively they realised that whatever it was their employer was doing it was certainly not in the normal run of things. Rusty was also anxious because her father and her brother Mickey had been hard at work on the Light Heart to meet the deadline set down by Mr Astley yet now he was nowhere to be seen, nor was there any word from him, and what was worse the money he had deposited against the repairs was fast running out. Judy Tate awaited his return because she was dying to tell him how well things were going between her and Walter, just as Loopy was hardly able to contain her eagerness to see him again. She thought even Waldo, with his seemingly unstoppable enthusiasm and optimism, would not be able to believe that before Loopy’s exhibition had finally closed she’d managed to sell another eight paintings. Even the Reverend Anderson prayed for a quick return. He and Waldo had become good friends over the months, their opening dialogue about the poverty of the vicar’s sermons having been a turning point in the clergyman’s life, since shortly after that he had discarded his books of pre-prepared sermons and begun thinking for himself. The fine and unexpected result of this was that his preaching had improved immeasurably and with it had grown a true affection for his maverick parishioner. Naturally Hugh Tate found himself praying for the safe return of his intrepid young agent, a man whose audacity and courage he had admired from the time he first met him in the bar of the Paris Ritz in 1945, only hours after the liberation of the city.

  But most of all Waldo’s safe return was prayed for by Meggie Gore-Stewart, who’d at last realised that she had finally and much against her better judgement of course, fallen in love with the engaging American of the dark eyes and the mysterious ways. The Highwayman, as she liked to think of him, seemed to have kidnapped her off her chair that evening at the dance, and galloped recklessly off with her emotions.

  But still there was no word.

  In desperation Meggie sought out Hugh, only to be answered with a sad shake of the head and a shrug of the shoulders. Waldo Astley had gone to Berlin, had arrived safely, had posted his continued presence and then, once again, disappeared.

  The days became weeks, and while Meggie gradually seemed to recover from her fever, and dutifully joined in the celebrations at the Three Tuns that accompanied the wedding of Princess Elizabeth to her dashing naval prince, it seemed to her that instead of the future Queen of England walking down the aisle it was her and Waldo, while the bells of the Abbey became those of the ancient Saxon church of Bexham, pealing out merrily across the estuary in celebration of one of the most unexpected marriages in their recent history.

  But now it was December, and the days were growing colder and shorter as everyone prepared for Christmas, hoping against hope that this winter was not going to be as severe as the last, as well as that the absence of their American friend had not become a permanency. But as the children opened fresh doors on their home-made Advent calendars and hung them back on their bedroom doors, there was still no news from Berlin.

  Then, just as dramatically as he had disappeared, Waldo Astley returned.

  He was first seen walking down Bexham High Street with what seemed to the people who knew him an even larger cigar than ever clamped between his perfect white teeth, his arms full of parcels wrapped in shining red paper.

  What the people who saw him did not know, but Rusty and Peter Sykes knew, was that this was not his first day back. They had been surprised by him a good ten days before, but had been sworn to secrecy when he arrived at the dead of one night with his left arm in a sling and a deep scar running down his forehead through his left eyebrow to finish on the top of his cheek. Naturally Rusty was the first to wonder why the secrecy was necessary when everyone had been waiting for so long to welcome him home. Equally naturally, Waldo told her to mind her own business.

  ‘Your wife’s bossier than my old mammy,’ he grumbled good-humouredly to Peter. ‘I don’t wish to see anyone, and I don’t wish anyone to know that I’m here, and that’s all there is to it.’

  Rusty suspected that there was actually a good deal more to it than that, because she had gone through an experience that had left her scarred and wounded as well. She knew how memories could haunt a person and said so, which made Waldo growl at her; but instead of asking her to leave for stepping so far out of line, which she was quite sure he would, after a long while and several deep sighs he told her to sit down by his bedside while he took her into his confidence.

  ‘It’s not these silly injuries that are plaguing me, Rusty. Sure, they hurt at the time and they still hurt me now – but it isn’t them that’s the bother. It’s what I saw. That’s what gets to you, as you know. It’s the real life dilemmas that stay with you – people’s pain and misery and despair. You know what I’m talking about so I can say it to you, Rusty. The things
I saw in Berlin – they’ll stay with me for the rest of my days. And there was damn all I could do about it. There’s damn all any of us can do about it. We complain about what it’s like in this country – how things should be better having won the war – but we’re OK. I mean we are really OK compared with what those folks in Berlin are going through right now. Believe you me, they’re going to take a long time to shift, the memories I have of those people. Oh boy.’

  Rusty said nothing because there was nothing she could say. She just stayed with him as he lay there in silence, and watched an almost shocking tear rolling unashamedly down one of his cheeks before he turned his face from her and fell into a deep and troubled sleep.

  Five days before Christmas, everything changed when Rusty heard the sound of whistling coming from inside his bedroom and moments later saw her employer emerge dressed in his best dark suit and crisply laundered white shirt and best red silk bow tie. He smiled at her, donned his famous black slouch hat and left the house with his arms full of presents for his friends, all of whom he called on in turn, leaving their houses only when he extracted from them a promise that they would tell no-one else of his return.

  He called on Lionel, whom he found in company with his daughter Mattie and her friend John Tate. He dropped into the vicarage and enjoyed a tot of hot whisky and lemon with the Reverend and Mrs Anderson; he paid his respects to Richards and his loyal band of locals in the Three Tuns. He called in on the Tates and found them all busy decorating their tree, Loopy, Hugh, Walter, Judy and Dauncy. It was hard to know who was the most astonished or pleased to see him out of them all, and finally he knocked on the door of Cucklington House, with only one red-wrapped present left.

  Meggie opened the door. When she saw who it was she laughed, burst into tears, laughed again and finally and thankfully threw her arms around his neck.

  ‘Remind me to go away a lot more often, Miss Gore-Stewart,’ he said, smiling broadly, the expression in his eyes unseen over Meggie’s shoulder. ‘Or is this the sort of greeting you always extend to Santa Claus?’

  ‘You’re such a bloody fool,’ Meggie said, wiping away her tears quickly. ‘And a bloody awful sort of man to boot.’

  ‘In that case don’t boot me out,’ Waldo replied. ‘At least not until you see what I’ve bought you.’

  ‘I haven’t bought you anything,’ Meggie lied. ‘But only because I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I thought you’d just taken off – in the same way as you arrived here. Out of the blue. In a puff of smoke. And I’m not opening this now – it’s unlucky.’

  She took the carefully wrapped present and put it under her Christmas tree, which was decorated with pre-war lanterns lit from inside by tiny bulbs, large real glass baubles, and strange-looking pieces that her grandmother had collected down the years and had always put away on Twelfth Night until the following December when once again it was time to deck the halls and house with holly.

  ‘Why should you worry about ever seeing me again?’ Waldo asked, his face all innocence. ‘Why, the last time we saw each other—’

  ‘No.’ Meggie held up a hand, at the same time crossing to the drinks tray. ‘Don’t talk like that – don’t let’s talk about it at all. You disappeared and I think you did it just to frighten me. I do not like people disappearing. A lot of people have disappeared from my life, there one minute and gone the next, and I don’t want it to happen any more.’

  Seeing her expression Waldo pulled her back towards him and took her hands in his.

  ‘If you’re thinking how I’m thinking,’ he said. ‘Of what I’m thinking—’

  ‘Anyway, I’m glad you’re all dressed up,’ Meggie said, interrupting him. ‘Now you sit there and enjoy your drink while I go and change.’

  ‘You don’t have to change. You look great; so glam.’

  ‘I want to look even more glam, as you call it, thank you.’ Meggie tossed back her blond hair and smiled at him, putting one hand to his cheek. ‘So just preserve that soul of yours in patience, as Richards used to say when we were growing up, and wait for a transformation.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’ Waldo smiled, took the hand that was held to his face and kissed the palm. ‘Just don’t be long. And by the way – what’s the occasion?’

  ‘It’s Christmas, fathead. And we’re going to a party.’

  They didn’t have to go far – in fact they didn’t have to go anywhere, because the party was being thrown by Meggie right there in Cucklington House. Having changed into a stunning albeit pre-war cocktail ensemble of matte crêpe tunic jacket with a velvet front matching the underlying dress, and found a precious pair of silk stockings and her favourite evening shoes, Meggie brushed her hair until it shone – adding the final embellishment of jewelled combs either side of her face – then hurried down the back stairs straight to the kitchen and her emergency larder. As she prepared a tray of cold chicken, fresh ham and cheeses and took out a bottle of chilled Bollinger from her ancient pre-war Frigidaire – the food and drink having been of course provided by Richards and his team of trusty smugglers from the Three Tuns – from upstairs she heard the sound of Waldo playing carols on her Blüthner.

  As she came closer to him, walking quietly down the service corridor and out across the hall, she could now hear him singing as well. He was singing ‘In the Deep Midwinter’, which just happened to be her favourite carol, and he was singing it in a beautiful round baritone, filling the house with Christmas and her heart with unaccustomed joy.

  She stopped outside the drawing room and waited until he had finished.

  ‘Don’t you know anything a little more – well, you know – festive? Something we can all sing?’ she remarked casually, putting the tray down. ‘Something those of us without wonderful deep brown velvet voices can sing? Instead of all this recherché stuff?’

  At once a poker-faced Waldo began to play a terrible pub-like version of ‘While Shepherds Watched’, the words of which Meggie immediately amended to the schoolgirl version.

  While Shepherds washed their socks by night

  All seated round the tub

  A bar of Sunlight soap came down

  And they began to scrub!

  Waldo shook his head tragic-sad at her, as if she was a hopeless cause, and transposed the carol at once into a minor key, which made it impossible for Meggie to continue singing her mock version.

  ‘Clever clogs,’ she said, opening the champagne. ‘Spoilsport.’

  ‘I’m a musical puriste, Miss Gore-Stewart,’ Waldo said in his best Grand American, very Harvard, very Long Island. ‘I simply cannot sta-and the classics being traduced.’

  ‘All right, Schubert.’ Meggie sighed, sitting beside him on the piano stool, their champagne on the piano before them. ‘Play me “White Christmas” then. I just love “White Christmas”. Gives me goose bumps.’

  ‘I’ll sing it only if you let me kiss your goose bumps better.’

  ‘That’s a deal.’

  And it was. They were both as good as their word.

  ‘Isn’t this a bit sudden?’ Waldo wondered as he sat with Meggie in his arms on the sofa before a roaring log fire. ‘And before you laugh, I’m serious.’

  ‘No, on the contrary, Mr Astley,’ Meggie replied. ‘I think it’s a little late. I hate wasting time – and when I think of the time we’ve wasted. All that lovely, long hot summer. All those swims, those walks, that lazing on the beach. It’s purely criminal the time we’ve wasted not being together.’

  ‘You hadn’t got a good word to say for me,’ Waldo observed. ‘I know. You hadn’t got a good word to say for me, about me or to me—’

  ‘And didn’t you know? That is always a sure sign.’ Meggie laughed, with another toss of her hair. ‘Besides, you wouldn’t even look my way, so you are certainly not one to talk, Mr Waldo Astley.’

  ‘I was dazzled. Blinded. Terrified by your charms.’

  ‘Et ta soeur, as they say in la belle France.’

  ‘It’s true. No it
isn’t – because I did look at you. I looked at you a great deal and it was you who wouldn’t look at me. The day of the famous Regatta. When you were helping in the Three Tuns – in that low cut red dress of yours, and your hair all awry. You looked so different from your usual cool, poised self. I couldn’t stop looking at you.’

  ‘I know.’ Meggie smiled. ‘I know.’

  ‘You do? Well now, I sure would like to know how – you never looked at me once.’

  ‘Women can feel these things. I’m not sure about men, but women certainly can. Anyway, there’s a mirror behind the bar.’

  Waldo laughed and lit his cigar. ‘You still wouldn’t look, though.’

  ‘I danced with you at the hop afterwards, didn’t I?’

  ‘Sure you did. No, as a matter of fact, you didn’t. You let me dance with you. You looked past me the whole time. In fact you spent the whole time looking over my shoulder. I got the distinct impression you thought I’d been rolling in a cow barn and wouldn’t touch me with a haymaking fork.’

  ‘Shows what you know. I didn’t dare look at you. I didn’t dare dance with you – because I didn’t know what would have happened. I felt out of control.’

  ‘I wonder why?’ Waldo mused. ‘I felt just the same.’

  ‘So, as the saying goes – we were meant for each other. Big sigh.’

  ‘You’re making fun.’

  ‘Only because it’s so serious.’

  ‘I have a favourite cliché, too. Then they woke up and found it was all a dream.’

  ‘Could be, could be.’ Meggie looked at him and then kissed him tenderly. ‘Somehow I don’t think so – except—’ She stopped, remembering a specific dream, and frowned. ‘Except, sometimes one does dream, and the dream does change one’s mind.’

  ‘Let’s dance,’ Waldo suggested, of a sudden, getting to his feet. ‘I want to dance with you again.’

  ‘I’m out of needles,’ she replied. ‘Rather, I mean the gramophone is. I forgot to get some new needles.’

  ‘We don’t need the gramophone. I just want to dance with you.’

  ‘Very well,’ Meggie agreed. ‘What do you intend to do? Play the piano one-handed while we dance round the stool?’