The man had regarded him curiously. ‘Well, it’s a sort of halfway-house – like a hospital, isn’t it?’
A taxi eventually took him there. It must have been quite beautiful in its day, with a long, gravelled drive curving amongst fine oaks to a pillared entrance, and a fountain around which cars, and at one time, carriages made their entrances and exits.
Now the grass was untended and the walls flaking, while the fountain was still filled with dead leaves. The once-impressive entrance was almost hidden by sandbagged barriers.
A woman of severe appearance in a grey costume watched him enter and asked, ‘May I help?’ It sounded like what do you want?
Ransome was at a loss. ‘I understood that the Warwick family lived—’
She changed instantly, removing the mask and replacing it with welcome. ‘Oh, Canon Warwick? Of course! Is he expecting you?’
‘Well, no—’ Ransome glanced round as three women in dressing-gowns accompanied by a tired-looking nurse crossed the great hallway. ‘What is this place?’
She studied him, her eyes moving from his single medal ribbon to the rank on his sleeves. He looked far too young for both, she thought.
‘Canon Warwick has an official role here as well as his religious duties.’ She waved her hand as the little procession vanished into another door. ‘Evacuee children, bombed-out families, people who have lost everything and everyone—’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know what we would do without him.’
‘If I could leave a message—’
‘Nonsense.’ She picked up a telephone. ‘He’s in the building. What name is it, please?’
The girl spoke from the entrance doors. ‘It’s Lieutenant Commander Ransome, Mrs Collins.’
Ransome swung round and stared at her. How long she had been there he did not know. Like those times in the boatyard. Watching. Listening to his words.
She did not move as he strode toward her, and only when he put his arms around her shoulders did she show any emotion.
‘I can’t believe it. Your letter. Now you.’
He kissed her on the cheek, conscious of her warmth, the touch of her hair against his face. Like that other impetuous kiss when he had seen her leave. For the last time.
He said, ‘Sorry about this, Eve. It was just a chance, so I took it.’
She slipped her hand through his arm and guided him towards the door again. The birds were still singing, and there was sunlight clinging to the treetops.
He wanted to look at her properly, but she held to his arm as if to prevent just that.
She said, ‘I’ve dreamed about this. I wanted to write.’ She shrugged. ‘I was a bit afraid, I think. But when I got your address I made up my mind. I sat with the paper in front of me for hours.’ She swung round and faced him, her hands in his. ‘I was frightened you might have changed. When you answered my letter I knew—’ She reached up and touched his hair. ‘You look wonderful.’ The slight catch in her voice gave away the lie.
He said, ‘I’ve thought about you so much. My little girl in shorts and pigtails.’
She smiled. ‘Not any more.’
Ransome studied her slowly. It was like a dream. Four years, and yet she was not so different. She wore a shirt and overall trousers, the latter daubed with dried paint.
She said, ‘If I’d only known—’ She ran her hands across her forehead to brush away some strands of hair. ‘I’m a mess!’ Then she laughed, with relief, or with joy, perhaps both.
‘How long can you stay? I am sure they’ll ask you to when—’
There was a footfall at the top of the steps and her father hurried down to meet him.
‘It is good to see you, Mr Ransome – or should I call you Captain?’
He looked older, his face drawn to give him cheekbones where there had been none.
Ransome shook his hand, i hope you don’t mind, Canon?’
‘Call me Simon, eh?’ He looked around at the trees and some more aimless figures. ‘One does what one can of course.’ He did not continue.
Instead he said, ‘You must eat at our table. Things are a bit chaotic here, have been since the vicarage was destroyed. But still, God’s work cannot wait for the war-damage repairs, eh?’
He looked at his daughter. ‘You are a bit flushed, dear. Go and tell them we have a guest for dinner.’
Ransome tried to protest, but it was to no avail.
They walked together across the coarse grass where there had once been an elegant lawn. Canon Warwick wore a long black cassock with a small crucifix hung about his neck. His eyes were everywhere, probing, almost fanatical.
it’s been bad here?’
Warwick considered it. ‘Bad enough. It is an unending flow of people, searching for hope, loved ones, refugees in their own way as much as those who clogged the roads in Holland or Greece.’
He changed the subject. ‘Not married yet? That does surprise me.’
Ransome looked away. I love Eve. I always have, and always shall.
But he said, ‘There’s never enough time for anything these days.’
Warwick seemed satisfied. ‘Eve’s been a real blessing since her mother—’
Ransome started. ‘She’s not—?’
Warwick tucked his hands into his cassock and shook his head. ‘Betty had a lot of bad luck, poor dear. First the vicarage was bombed and she had a slight stroke. Then later on she was in the town at her stall – she helps the W.V.S., you know, selling tea and buns to the sailors, that kind of thing. There was a hit-and-run raid, and a bomb fell near to her little stall. Most of the servicemen who were queuing to be served were killed or badly maimed. It really upset her. She’s still not herself.’
Ransome pictured the dead servicemen. It had probably upset them too.
He asked quickly, ‘What does Eve do?’
‘My daughter?’ He smiled gently. ‘She shares her love of art with some of the patients here. But maybe you didn’t know she could paint and draw?’
Ransome thought of the picture in his cabin. ‘Yes, I knew.’
‘It’s worthwhile work.’ He nodded to emphasise it. ‘If she left to join one of the services, I’d be in a sorry state, I can tell you.’
‘Is that what she wanted to do?’
Warwick did not seem to hear the question. He said, ‘I’ll show you the kitchen garden – we are almost self-supporting here.’
It was a difficult meal, Ransome thought. And yet he would not have wanted to be anywhere else.
Eve’s mother, a frail, vague lady who seemed to laugh a lot, but looked very near to tears when she did so, fired questions at Ransome from start to finish.
And all the while he was conscious of the girl who sat opposite him, her eyes rarely leaving his as he tried to paint a picture of his ship, of Rob Roy’s people. Although he answered her questions they were all directed at the girl named Eve.
The canon’s wife looked fondly at her husband. ‘He is so busy, Mr Ransome. He never spares himself for the good of others.’
Warwick jerked from his thoughts. ‘Which reminds me. I have two hospital visits to do tonight.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘May I offer you a lift, Commander?’
Suddenly Ransome felt the girl’s shoe press against his foot, saw the sudden anxiety in her dark eyes.
He heard himself reply, ‘It’s all right. I’m at the R.N.B. Devon-port tonight at least. I can manage.’
Why was it he could not bring himself to call him Simon as he had requested?
‘Well, if you’re sure—’ He fumbled for his watch. ‘I’ve asked the porter to attend to the black-out, my dear.’ He smiled at his wife, but his eyes said that he was elsewhere. ‘I’ll be off then. Very nice to meet you again after all this time, er—’ Then he was gone.