Wait for Me
Three o’clock finally came. William Urquhart stood up from his desk with an officious clatter. William was the son of the parish minister and was also Aberlady School’s head boy. As such, he was responsible for ringing the big handbell by the front door to signal the beginning and the end of the school day.
As he passed by, William winked at Iris.
Iris giggled and blushed.
Lorna groaned.
What was Iris thinking? Of all the boys she could set her sights on, why did it have to be pompous William Urquhart?
As the first heavy peal of the handbell sounded from the front door, Lorna was on her feet, signaling to Iris to be quick. Iris clearly had other ideas. As everyone else surged from the room, she very carefully flipped down the lid of the inkwell set into her desk, wiped her pen nib on a cloth rag, and placed her workbook into her desk, lining it up carefully on top of the pile already inside. Then she took a hairbrush from her schoolbag and began tugging at the knots in her messy brown curls, pulling the hair straight down her shoulder with the brush, only to have them bounce back up again, looking no tidier than when she started.
“Come on, Iris, hurry!” urged Lorna.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” said Iris, stuffing the brush back into her bag. Suddenly, her eyes lit up as she looked behind Lorna.
William Urquhart was standing right there, uncomfortably close. He bowed at the waist—not a brief nod like the German’s, but a full bow—and Lorna had to step back to avoid him touching her.
“Have a good afternoon, ladies,” he drawled.
So full of himself!
He straightened up and brushed past Lorna. When he reached Iris, he lifted her left hand to his thick red lips and kissed the back of it.
Iris giggled again.
Lorna shuddered. Who did he think he was, Errol Flynn?
“Good afternoon to you, William,” Iris purred. “I’ll see you in the morning. I’m looking forward to it already.”
William oiled his way out of the classroom. As they followed him out, Lorna glared at Iris but said nothing until they were on the street. There she bent double and pretended to retch into the gutter.
“What are you doing?” asked Iris.
Lorna stood up.
“Oh, William, I’m looking forward to it already,” she cooed sarcastically, wiggling her hips in an impression of Iris. “Iris, you can’t be serious.”
“But he’s so dashing.”
Lorna scoffed.
“We’ve always said he looks like a young Tyrone Power, though.”
“No, Iris, you’ve just started saying that.” She glanced around in case William had reappeared. “I’ve always said that he looks like a snooty, stuck-up slug.”
Iris pursed her lips in that infuriating motherly way, and Lorna knew what was coming—another lecture about how Lorna didn’t appreciate William’s better traits.
“No, you’re wrong, he’s not stuck-up. He’s very intelligent and really, very mature.”
“Did he tell you that?” Lorna didn’t want to sound nasty, but sometimes she despaired of Iris, she really did. William had only asked Iris out for the first time the other day, but she was acting like they’d been an item for years.
“Actually, it was his mother who told me,” Iris said without irony, ignoring Lorna’s snort of derision. “And he’s already been offered a place at Edinburgh University for September to study law. And then he’ll do his postgraduate doctorate in theology so he can become a minister like his father. Of course, William has ambitions beyond a tiny parish like Aberlady. He’ll have one of the big churches in Edinburgh, even St. Giles Cathedral, perhaps. He’s very driven, you know, and I very much admire that in an honorable man.”
Lorna had heard enough.
“An honorable man? Iris! Listen to yourself. Don’t you remember how upset you were just last year when he was so mean and patronizing about your Jane Austen project? And about your singing, and my drawing? Are you telling me he’s really changed that much?”
“He has, Lorna. You’re just not giving him a chance,” Iris muttered through pursed lips. “He’s changed since then. And you are being quite mean and patronizing yourself right now.”
“I am not. I’m just trying to get you to see sense,” Lorna retorted. “Anyway, what about John Jo? My brother will be heartbroken when he finds out you’re not pining for him anymore.”
“That was just a girlish infatuation,” Iris said haughtily. “This is true love. William and I will be together forever.”
“Forever?” Lorna scoffed. “But won’t Saint William be called up when he turns eighteen in June? Chances are that by September he’ll be off to the army, not to university.”
Iris looked uncomfortable.
“Yes, possibly,” she conceded, “but his mother seems sure that with his poor eyesight and foot problems, he won’t have to go. A deep mind like William’s would be much more suited—”
Lorna snorted.
“Poor eyesight? He doesn’t even wear glasses. And I don’t think having stinky feet can keep you out of the army. It certainly didn’t work for my brothers.”
“Stop it, Lorna! His eyes are very sensitive, Mrs. Urquhart says. And apparently, the Urquharts know a colonel up at Edinburgh Castle, and she’ll have a word with him when William’s call-up papers arrive. And for your information, William does not have stinky feet.”
“Did Mrs. Urquhart tell you that too?” Lorna tried not to snap. “Come on, Iris, can you not see that his mother would do anything to keep her little baby at home instead of letting him out to play with the rough boys?”
Lorna couldn’t stop the bitterness creeping into her voice. She didn’t mean to pour scorn on a mother’s fears. Lorna knew what it was to lie awake at night imagining every bomb or shell or bullet that might hurt John Jo or Sandy, and she wouldn’t wish that on anyone else. But if her brothers were risking their lives, then why should William-bloody-Urquhart stay safely at home?
“Lorna, that’s not it at all.”
Iris sounded hurt. Lorna didn’t care. She was on a roll.
“No? And what does Sweet William have to say about all this? Is he happy to have his mother weasel him out of doing his duty?”
“No, actually.” Iris’s voice was suddenly barely a whisper. “William seems to be quite excited about joining up, even though that means he’ll have to leave his mother and father behind … and me.”
All Iris’s tight-lipped motherly condescension had vanished, and tears sparkled in her eyes.
“Oh, Iris, don’t.”
Iris wiped at her face with her sleeve.
“You just don’t understand,” she sniffed, “what it’s like to be in love.”
Lorna was stumped. She would have told Iris off, but her friend looked so sorrowful, Lorna just sighed and wrapped Iris into a hug.
“Oh, come on, silly, don’t cry. The war could be over by then, and we’ll get all our boys back, the sweet ones and the rough ones. Maybe William won’t have to go at all.” Lorna pulled out her handkerchief and handed it to Iris. “Anyway, I have something important to tell you, so please come for tea.”
Iris managed a wan smile and sniffed.
As they walked toward Craigielaw, Lorna told Iris about the new arrival that morning, and gradually, Iris seemed to recover her humor. Within minutes, she was firmly agreeing with Lorna and was suitably appalled by the news. Hadn’t they both always detested Germans? How could it be patriotic to let the enemy run amok on British soil, even if they were prisoners?
“I know that Dad and Nellie could do with more help”—Lorna picked up the rant where Iris left off—“especially since Old Lachie had to retire from the sheep before Christmas. But is there really no other option than dumping bloody Germans on us?”
“Apparently”—Iris sounded like she was spilling a secret, her voice dropping low—“the prisoner who was delivered to Esther’s farm this morning was really old and fat, and Esther’s dad was not happy. He said the chap would be worthless for any heavy work on the farm, which is what he was needed for. And Esther says their Land Army girl is useless and the size of a sparrow, not like your Nellie at all.”
“Nellie’s hardly enormous,” said Lorna.
“No, but she’s strong and she knows about engines and stuff.”
“Yes, but she’s still a woman. And apparently my dad would rather have a German on the farm than another woman, even a German who looks like that.”
“Looks like what? Is your prisoner old and fat too?”
“Not exactly …”
“Young and fat?”
“No …”
“Well, is he young and handsome then?”
“Not exactly …”
“He is, isn’t he? You think he’s handsome!”
“Oh stop!”
“You do, don’t you? You fancy a German!” Iris cried.
“Iris, shhhh! I mean it, stop! He is young but … oh, it’s awful. He’s been … burned … his face … it must have been awful.”
Lorna could picture him again: the tight angry, brilliant pink skin contrasting with eyes the color of snow-laden clouds, and the sneer that tweaked the corner of the disfiguring mask. Lorna wondered for the first time how bad his pain had been.
“Oh my goodness, no!” said Iris, looking more thrilled than horrified. “That’s dreadful! Well, I suppose it’s dreadful, isn’t it? I mean, he is a German, so maybe he deserved it … not deserved it exactly, but … oh, you know what I mean.”
“Iris! Just because someone’s a German doesn’t mean he deserves to be hurt so badly.”
“But you hate Germans.” Iris looked genuinely puzzled. “Aren’t you pleased that this one’s been hurt?”
“Well, yes … no … maybe … I mean, yes, but when you’ve got a real one standing right in front of you and the damage to his face is so terrible, well, it’s … different. Somehow.”
Lorna realized only then that her initial revulsion was passing on, allowing pity to creep in behind. She looked at Iris, expecting to see a reflection of her own discomfort, but Iris was smiling.
Iris leaned in close, her face eager.
“But you still haven’t told me,” she said in a loud whisper, “would your German have been handsome if he wasn’t so … you know?”
“Iris!”
Three
Mrs. McMurdough had her coat on to leave when the girls walked into the kitchen. On the range behind her, a huge pot of stew simmered deliciously.
Lorna threw down her schoolbag and wrapped her arms around the housekeeper from behind. Taller by several inches now, Lorna kissed the old woman on the top of her head as she hugged her.
“Mrs. Mack,” said Lorna, who had seldom heard the housekeeper called by her full name, “that smells wonderful.”
Mrs. Mack had looked after Craigielaw since Lorna’s mother died when Lorna was a toddler. She came in from the village every day to cook, clean, and care for the family. Now that the boys were away and Lorna was older, however, Mrs. Mack would leave when Lorna got home from school and go look after her own grandchildren while her daughter Sheena worked the late shift in the aircraft repair factory at Macmerry. Before she went, however, Mrs. Mack always had a meal ready for Lorna to serve up to her father and Nellie.
“And a good afternoon to you, too!” Mrs. Mack turned round and hugged Lorna back, but only for a moment. “But just look at my floor!”
Lorna stepped back. A trail of mud ran from the door to end at her filthy shoes.
“I did not spend half the morning on my poor old knees scrubbing, just for some young besom to drag mud across it. Out you go, and take those filthy shoes with you.”
She gave Lorna a playful shove toward the door.
“Oh, and Iris is here, how lovely. Actually you’ve saved me a trip, dear. I’ve some cotton curtains that I want made into pinafores for my granddaughters.” Mrs. Mack barely paused for breath. “I’d sew them myself, but my fingers aren’t up to stitching anymore, and I know that you and your mum would do a lovely job on them. I saw the party frocks you did for Mrs. Gunn’s twins. Very pretty. So shall I pop the material in to your mum on Sunday after church?”
“We’d love to help, of course,” replied Iris, “but we won’t be home after church on Sunday. The minister and Mrs. Urquhart have invited Mum, Dad, and me over to the Manse for Sunday dinner.”
Mrs. Mack’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“Sunday dinner at the Manse with the minister? My, how grand!”
“Well, now that William and me, I mean William and I, are stepping out together …”
Mrs. Mack’s eyebrows rose even more.
“Now, that’s some news I hadn’t heard about,” she said, looking pointedly at Lorna.
“Well, it’s only been a week or two, eleven days actually,” continuted Iris, “but we are very keen on each other. He’s very good-looking, don’t you think? Just like a young Tyrone Power, that’s what we’ve always said.”
Lorna vigorously shook her head behind Iris’s back to make sure the housekeeper knew that she was not part of that “we,” and Mrs. Mack suppressed a smile.
“Well, I don’t get to the pictures very often these days, so I wouldn’t know about that,” Mrs. Mack said, “but I’m sure you’re right.”
“And he’s very clever too, and very moral. So we’re doing things the right way, and that’s why our parents are meeting on Sunday.”
“Meeting on Sunday?” Mrs. Mack burst out. “But your folks and the Urquharts have known one another for years. Decades even. Didn’t Reverend Urquhart baptize you and Lorna and every other bairn born in the village these last twenty years?”
“But it’s different now.” Iris was pursing her mouth again. “They’ll be meeting for the first time as the parents of a couple who are stepping out. Don’t you see?”
Behind Iris, Lorna picked up an imaginary noose and mimicked hanging herself. She could see Mrs. Mack was struggling not to smile.
Suddenly, Iris spun around, catching Lorna with one hand in the air.
“What are you doing, Lorna?” she demanded.
“Sorry,” Lorna choked out. “You know I was only kidding.”
“You’re just jealous because I have a young man now.” Iris put her hands on her hips, like an angry old man in the cartoons, which amused Lorna even more. “And you’re even more jealous because it’s William.”
Lorna and Mrs. Mack were both laughing now, even as Iris’s voice rose with irritation.
“I always knew you secretly liked him. Well, bad luck, Lorna, he’s mine now, and you can just die an old maid if that makes you happy.”
Iris furiously buttoned up her coat.
“And if you ever want to escape off this farm like you say, Lorna Anderson, then perhaps you should just grow up a bit and find someone to marry who’s as good and as clever and as driven as my William.”
With that, Iris flounced out of the door.
“Iris!” called Lorna. “I’m really sorry. Come back! I was only teasing.”
But Iris was gone. Lorna didn’t go after her because Iris regularly flounced out after one disagreement or another, and they always made up at school the next day. Lorna rolled her eyes at Mrs. Mack, who shook her head.
“That wasn’t very kind, you know,” said the housekeeper, “but my, it was funny.”
“She’s right, though,” replied Lorna. “I probably will die an old maid, unless that German slaughters me in my bed first, just to put me out of my misery. Wait, do you even know about the German yet?”
“Aye, I’ve met the German, but what are you havering about?” said Mrs. Mack with a snort. “That young laddie hasn’t enough gristle in his meat to choke a chicken, let alone to murder you. Did you not get a look at him? There’s nothing to him. Hasn’t had a square meal in months, judging by the speed he wolfed down the soup and dumplings I fed him at dinnertime.”
“You gave him his dinner?” Lorna was startled.
“Of course I gave him his dinner.” Mrs. Mack looked perplexed. “Why wouldn’t I? The lad has to eat if he’s expected to do a day’s work. Or should I be giving him gruel like he was in the workhouse? And a hunk of stale bread every Friday if he’s very lucky? Oh my goodness, but you’re a hard one.”
“I’m not hard, I just don’t see why …”
Mrs. Mack was looking at her steadily, one eyebrow raised as if Lorna’s words were simply proving her coldheartedness.
“So where is he now?” Lorna asked instead.
“They went over the back field after dinner,” Mrs. Mack replied, turning back to stir the stew. “One of the heifers got herself hooked onto the fence. And our Nellie’s getting the cows in for milking. She’ll likely be in begging a cup of tea before you can say ‘Where’s the shortbread?’”
Sure enough, within minutes, Lorna heard the lowing of the dairy cows as they shuffled toward the milking parlor, as they did morning and night.
Lorna went to the back door. Nellie was stamping along behind the cattle.
Like Nellie, dozens of Land Girls were working on farms around East Lothian, doing the farmwork left by men called up to fight. When she’d first arrived from London, aged eighteen, Nellie had never even seen a cow before, but soon it was like she had been born into farming. Not only was she now a trained tractor mechanic, more importantly, Nellie had beguiled the cows into their best milk production in years and was clearly happier in Aberlady than she had ever been in London.
Petite but buxom, Nellie was definitely the only Land Girl that Lorna had met who could wear the uniform of a thick green sweater and beige jodhpurs without looking like she was hiding a sack of potatoes up her shirt. And Nellie used her curves to great effect, by all accounts, in the pubs and dance halls on her nights off. She flirted unashamedly with local men and visiting servicemen alike and openly admitted that she was looking for someone who could offer her a better life after the war than she’d had at home in London before it.
When Nellie caught sight of Lorna through the kitchen window, she waddled over as fast as she could in rubber boots at least two sizes too big for her tiny feet.
“So what do you think?” Nellie said in a loud whisper.
“About what?”
“About the new chap, duckie. Didn’t you see him?”
Lorna pretended not to understand.
“For Gawd’s sake,” said Nellie, “that new young lad, the German, with the face, you know. That poor boy. What a mess! I could scarcely look at the poor blighter.”
Lorna couldn’t think how to reply, but Nellie didn’t seem to need her to.
“I don’t know about you,” Nellie continued, “but I’ll be locking my bedroom door at night, I will, if they’re going to let these Jerries roam around the place.”
“They’re not roaming around,” said Lorna, unreasonably irritated even though she’d been thinking the same thing, “and he’s not going to be here at night. He’ll go back to the camp at night to be locked up again. At least, that’s what they said.”
“Fingers crossed they keep those gates locked tight then, eh?” Nellie said. “I’ve been quite happy up to now keeping as far away from German soldiers as I can get.”
She wandered back toward the milking parlor, slapping the trailing cows on their rumps to speed them up.
“Good to know there’s one kind of soldier you’d stay away from, Nellie,” Lorna muttered to herself as she walked back to the kitchen.
The next morning, as Lorna cleared up the breakfast dishes, the dogs began barking at an approaching truck. Knowing it must be dropping off the prisoner from Gosford, Lorna rushed to put her coat on and grab her schoolbag. She needed another look.
The yard was murky as Lorna pulled the door shut behind her. The blackout curtains ensured no light escaped into the yard, and the early sun had not yet broken through the clouds that had rolled in overnight. As she put her gloves on, Lorna heard the cows stamping and Nellie cursing in the milking parlor.
The truck’s tailgate slammed, and around the back of the truck came the German boy, an excited flurry of sheepdogs around his knees. He bent over and rubbed the dogs’ necks.
Traitors! They didn’t greet her like that anymore.
Even in this light, it was clear he was young for a soldier, barely older than some of the lads at school, so maybe eighteen? Nineteen at most. The knitted hat he wore over his shaved head was pulled lower on the left side, and his uniform was hidden now under some brown coveralls. Familiar brown coveralls, with an elbow patch and a torn pocket.
Lorna recognized them suddenly as Sandy’s. Had the prisoner stolen them? No, that was silly, he wouldn’t be wearing them around the farm if he had. Which meant that her dad, or perhaps Mrs. Mack, must have given them to him. What right did they have to give away her brother’s belongings when he was gone? And to a German, no less.
As he walked toward the barn, he rubbed his hands together, his fingers fine-boned, almost delicate. Not the hands of a farmer, and certainly not hands that were used to the frigid air of Scotland in February. Lorna noticed he had no gloves, so at least Dad or Mrs. Mack hadn’t given him a pair from the boys’ bedrooms. The enemy didn’t deserve to be warm, no matter what Mrs. Mack said, and no matter what injuries he’d suffered.
He stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and hunched his shoulders up to his ears. He looked … was forlorn the right word?
In spite of herself, Lorna suddenly felt almost sorry for him.
As the truck reversed, she stepped out of the shadows, her school shoes clicking on the cobblestones. The German saw her, and for a second or two, neither of them moved.
A frown creased the skin on the right side of his forehead, and as before, Lorna found herself mesmerized by the dreadful damage to his face.
Then embarrassment overcame fascination, and Lorna looked down at her shoes, still muddy from the day before. When she looked up, the frown had smoothed out, but the tug at the right side of his mouth was there again. That same sneer. Except, today, it did look more like he was trying to smile. Tentative, perhaps, but still, it lightened his face, filling out the gaunt flesh of his right cheek, though the left remained tight and static. He gave her a nod, and instinctively, Lorna nodded back, feeling suddenly shy.
Why should she feel shy, though? It was her farm, after all, and he was the stranger. She needed to be assertive.
“Good morning,” she said, raising her voice as her father had done. “I. Am. LORNA. ANDERSON.”
She drew out the sounds of her name, making every letter clear. She pointed her finger to her chest.
“Hello,” the boy said, touching his own coveralled chest with one long finger. “I. Am. PAUL. VOGEL.”
He pronounced his words as clearly as she had, almost mimicking her. His English words were clipped and short.
“Hello,” Lorna replied.
He bowed his little bow again.
“Em …” Realizing she wasn’t sure what to say next, she hoped the poor light might cover the flush that was creeping up her neck.
The German stayed silent. Clearly he was waiting for her to speak. There was no sign of the smile now. But none of the frown either.
“Em …,” she repeated, glancing up at the lightening sky.
When she looked back at him again, his gaze was intent upon her and the smile was back, drawing Lorna’s attention away from the burns. Its curve led her from his mouth up to his eyes, which sparkled.
Lorna suddenly felt furiously guilty about noticing that. Surely noticing an enemy’s sparkle was tantamount to treason. She was betraying John Jo and Sandy and Gregor and all the others by even noticing such a sparkle, wasn’t she?
And anyway, what right did this prisoner have to be smiling and sparkling at her?
At that moment, “Yoo-hoo!” rang across the yard. Mrs. Mack appeared through the gates to the lane, carrying as always her big carpetbag and waving her umbrella at them before heading toward the house.
Lorna straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.
“I have to go to school now,” she said slowly, pointing imperiously in the direction of the village and then at her school tie. “To school.”