“And you never heard that there was some sort of feud between your father and William Hammond?”
“No. And the idea’s absurd.”
“Annabelle’s sister Jo says their father warned them away from your father and his family.”
Gordon seemed about to reply, then stopped, his expression puzzled. “It is strange, now that you mention it. Annabelle was always asking questions about my family. I thought it was just ordinary curiosity until—”
“Until what?”
“Oh, it was nothing, really.” He scratched Sam’s ear for a moment. “One day I realized she wasn’t curious about other things—you know, who my mates were, what I did when I wasn’t with her, the usual female stuff.”
Gemma gathered from the swift glance he gave her that he meant to get her dander up, so she let the remark ride.
“I …” Frowning, Gordon looked out at the river. “How very odd. You’re sure my father knew Annabelle’s when they were young?”
“They’ve both confirmed it.”
“My father never talked about his childhood, and I certainly don’t remember him mentioning knowing William Hammond. My mother, though … she always told stories about life here before the war. They used to come here, to Island Gardens, on summer evenings, and watch the pleasure boats on the Thames. The boats were strung with colored lights, and music would drift from them over the water. Sometimes people would dance, and my mother always wished she were old enough to dance, too. But it never happened. Everything had changed, after the war.”
“Maybe that’s where you got your love of music, from your mum.”
He shrugged, his gaze still far away. “Maybe.”
The band had stopped playing, but now the music started again. First, a swingy beat, then the clarinet picked up the melody line with a hint of melancholy. Gordon reached out and, grasping her hand, pulled her to her feet.
“What—” she started to say, but he had placed his right hand in the small of her back, guiding her firmly.
“You mean they didn’t teach you to dance in police school?” he said in her ear.
“Of course not. This is …” She had been going to say “absurd,” but the grass felt cool and springy beneath her bare feet, and the weight of his hand on her back and the rhythm of the song seemed suddenly irresistible. “What is this?” she asked, fighting the temptation to close her eyes. “It seems so familiar, but I can’t quite …”
“Rodgers and Hart.” Pulling her a little closer, he hummed along with the melody. “ ‘Where or When,’ it’s called,” he added, with a trace of amusement in his voice.
The breeze lifted the hair on Gemma’s neck, and for a moment she felt herself floating, suspended between the music and his touch. “I’d not have picked you for a dancer,” she whispered.
“My secret ambition was to be Gene Kelly.…”
She felt his breath against her cheek, then she was aware only of the music and the harmony of their steps.
The last flourish of the clarinet caught them in mid-step. They came to an awkward halt, hands still clasped. Gemma felt the pulse beating in her throat, then the rising flush of embarrassment.
She stepped back, freeing her hand. A low rumble of thunder vibrated in the air as she fumbled into her shoes and scooped up her handbag. “I have to go,” she said, and turning from him, she walked away through the park without looking back.
IT WAS CHRISTMAS BEFORE LEWIS RETURNED to the Island for a visit. Evacuees had been streaming back into London for months, but the schools had closed at the beginning of the evacuation, and the returning children had no place to go. The government had not been responsive to appeals to reopen—the teachers had gone to the country with their charges, and many of the buildings had been taken over for civil defense.
“I’ll not have you running the streets like a wild thing, not when you have a chance at a proper education,” his mother had said firmly, and even though the government had launched a Christmas publicity campaign aimed at keeping children out of London—Keep them happy, keep them safe—she’d eventually given in to Lewis’s pleas for a holiday at home.
His months in the country had been touched only lightly by the war. With the advent of petrol rationing in late September, Edwina’s autos had been polished more often than driven, but to Lewis’s delight, John had begun teaching him how to maintain them. Gardening was less to his liking, but he and William helped plant a winter garden behind the Hall kitchen. Edwina acquired two Jersey cows from a neighboring farmer as a hedge against the rationing of milk and butter, and on the Downs were ever-increasing signs of preparation as the army practiced training maneuvers and set up searchlight battery units.
None of this had prepared Lewis for the sight of London. He sat with his face pressed to a gap in the shatterproof sticky-tape covering the window as his coach wound its slow way through streets empty of automobiles. People saved their petrol allotments for the weekends, managing as best they could on the overcrowded public transport. Sandbagged trenches, some painted in garish colors, scarred the public parks. The hurrying pedestrians were dressed all in somber grays and browns, as if they had adopted voluntary camouflage.
He walked from the bus stop to Stebondale Street, his footsteps growing slower as he climbed the last gentle rise. The street seemed meaner, dingier, than he remembered, and he felt a sudden uneasiness as his house came in sight. Would he find that things at home had changed, too? Going round the back, he entered the cluttered yard, then pushed open the kitchen door and peeked in. Familiar aromas assaulted him—cabbage and bacon and baking bread—and at the cooker, his mother stood with her back turned to him, her pink apron tied neatly at her waist. Pausing for a moment in her stirring, she tilted her head in that listening way he knew so well. “Lewis?” She turned, her thin face alight, and in a moment he was enveloped in a floury hug. “Let me look at you,” she exclaimed, holding him at arm’s length. “Oh, my, your brothers will hardly recognize you, you’ve grown so.”
At the sight of his startled face, she laughed. “I wanted it to be a surprise. Tommy and Edward have both managed a day’s leave for Christmas. They’ll be here tonight.”
Cath came in then, high heels clattering on the floorboards, and gave him a lipsticked smack on the cheek. Lewis stared at her in consternation. “What’s the film-star getup for?”
Cath tossed her head, but the motion didn’t disturb her hair’s smooth waves. “I’m a grown woman now, Lewis Finch, and you should treat me with some respect. I’m meeting someone, if you must know.”
“Not if your da sees you like that,” his mum said. “Lewis is right, Cathleen. Wipe that muck from your face before your father gets home—”
“But, Mummy, you know how long I had to queue to get this lipstick—”
“You should have known better, then, shouldn’t you, missy? And you’ll stay at home tonight with your brothers. I’ll not hear another word.”
“You should talk, anyway,” Cath said, abandoning the argument and pulling a face at Lewis. “Acting the toff like that.”
“What do you mean, toff?” he retorted, incensed.
“Just look at you.” She nodded at his pullover and trousers, castoffs of William’s, the trousers still a bit long. “And listen to you. You sound like that reader on the BBC, what’s his name, the one who talks like he has a pencil stuck up his nose.”