The Last Dance (23 page)

‘Oh look, Tommy,’ a mother said opposite her, pointing her son’s attention to the river after they’d left Isfield. ‘Maybe we could get Dad to take you out soon.’

Stella stared absently at the handful of boats and their passengers, mainly fishermen.

‘How will he row with only one arm?’ Tommy said.

‘You can take one of the oars,’ his mother replied, casting a glance Stella’s way but she pretended she hadn’t seen it. ‘The war took your father’s arm but not his love for life, Tommy.’

Stella could feel the woman wanted to catch her attention, perhaps open a conversation, but she didn’t want to be trapped in small talk. She thought about reading Rafe’s letter – itched to do so – but she wanted to be in a quiet space when she did, not surrounded by people coughing, clearing their throats and murmuring around her. As a result her mood darkened further and she reached for John Potter’s newspaper from her bag. Stella deftly opened it up, flicking immediately to page three so she could widen the coverage of the paper and hide behind it. She saw the articles, read the words repeatedly but randomly and absorbed nothing.

What was Georgina planning? How was she hoping to gain the most mileage out of what she thought she knew?

The announcement of Barcombe Mills Station she heard distantly and shifted her weight automatically as one man left and another arrived to sit next to her brandishing a fishing rod. Several other enthusiasts were wrestling with rods and baskets, which captured Tommy’s attention and his mother finally had someone to talk to.

Stella buried herself further behind her newspaper, actually reading the article this time about the man called Adolf Hitler, the Chancellor in Germany recently turned dictator. The article posed several questions about the failure of German democracy, the lack of worth for the German mark, the nation’s huge numbers of unemployed now well past the half-million mark. It spoke of the plight of the poor in that country and simmering bitterness at their loss of territory and colonies as much as Germany’s lack of standing in Europe following the Great War. The article explained the gathering hostility that was gaining momentum within Germany against the war reparations and how the humiliation following the Treaty of Versailles was deeply damaging to a once-proud nation. It quoted the German observer, Gareth Jones, from
The Western Mail
in Wales who was a regular visitor to Germany, and a journalist respected by Adolf Hitler. Jones was apparently predicting another war on the horizon and the conversation she had overheard between Rafe and Basil took on a new dimension. She desperately wanted to read his letter but just couldn’t face it right now in light of what Mr Potter had said. She was avoiding thinking further about Georgina until she could just calm her anxiety.

Stella looked away from the foreboding in the article to glance out of the window again as the train gathered speed through the rolling chalkland of the South Downs. Surely the world would not go to war again? But if the comments in this story were accurate, then that’s precisely where the little man with the strange moustache in Germany was leading his people. And somehow Rafe was part of this. His childhood friend must know something incriminating about Adolf Hitler or why would London be interested?

‘It’s very troubling, isn’t it?’ the man next to her said, catching her attention.

She hadn’t realised he’d noticed what she’d been reading. Stella nodded, glad now that she hadn’t brought out the letter; he may have read that. ‘I don’t want to believe it.’

He sighed. ‘I don’t think we can put our heads into the sand.’

‘This article is mooting another world war?’ she murmured.

He shrugged. ‘By all accounts, the German dictator is quite the orator and stirring up a lot of resentment and hostility towards the rest of Europe. I don’t think we can count on peace being maintained.’

‘Gosh, that’s ruined my day,’ she lied, knowing it had already been ruined once she discovered Rafe had left Harp’s End. It had got steadily worse since.

Her companion nodded. ‘Our government is well informed, though.’

‘You know that for sure?’

‘I work for the government. This is not how I dress every day.’ He grinned, his iron-grey beard stretching with his smile. He had a pipe tucked into the corner of his mouth but it remained unlit. He must have seen her notice it. ‘My doctor thinks I should stop.’ He tapped his chest. ‘I cough too much for his liking. My wife prefers I continue.’

She frowned. ‘Really?’

‘She knows I become a grouch when I don’t. It was Barbara’s idea that I go through all the motions of getting ready to smoke it and then . . .’ He shrugged.

‘Not light it?’ she offered and he nodded. ‘Clever. How is it going?’

‘Terrible,’ he admitted and they both chuckled softly. ‘You mustn’t worry.’

She glanced back at the page, her thoughts worrying about Rafe more than herself. ‘Britain has barely recovered from the last war.’

He nodded, trying to comfort. ‘I promise you we’re taking steps. We’re making sure we know what the Germans are up to . . . and the Russians.’

‘Taking steps? What do you mean?’

‘I’m not permitted to talk about it and I don’t work in the right section to talk with any authority even if I did. However, I know we’ve got a network of people watching the German situation very closely.’

‘Spies?’

He said nothing but gently tapped his nose.

‘Having spies in Germany surely isn’t enough,’ she whispered.

‘Who said Germany?’ he replied in a cryptic tone. ‘We need to know what’s happening in the Polish corridor, for instance; even as far as the Levant.’

Stella wanted to ask more but the loudspeaker crackled and their approach into Brighton was announced, drowning out any opportunity for further conversation, exacerbated by people moving to gather up their belongings and donning coats again.

As their carriage curled closer to their destination, their height from the viaduct gave far-reaching views over the town of Brighton with sparkling glimpses of the sea. Stella was struck by the heart-stilling notion that if war did occur again, then Rafe would almost certainly be in the thick of it once more, testing the luck that had kept him safe through the last horror. She imagined him signing up to do his duty immediately although it sounded like Basil Peach had already coerced him into clandestine work. Rafe was a born adventurer from the little she knew of him, plus he would be able to escape his problems at home – perhaps he’d see war as a way out?

She hated even thinking upon it. The train began to slow into the station just as she saw one of the new-fangled electric trains pulling out of an adjacent platform.

‘Brighton Station. All change.’

She tuned out to the repeated announcement.

‘Thank you for letting me bore you,’ her elder said, lifting his cap to her. ‘I’m Donald Perks.’

‘You didn’t bore me, Mr Perks. In fact your comments have put me into a contemplative mood,’ she admitted as he held the door open for her to alight onto platform eight.

He sighed. ‘Forgive me, it was not my intention to spoil your day.’

They walked up the platform, side by side. ‘No, not at all but you’ve made me realise there is so much more important going on than shopping for a voyage.’

‘Good grief, how wonderful, a voyage? Where are you off to?’

‘I’m a companion to two children and their family is taking a trip east.’

‘Marvellous. How far east?’

‘Egypt, as I understand it.’

‘Port Said?’ He queried, sounding astonished.

She grinned. ‘Yes. Is it really that shocking? Including the Holy Land, so we’re sailing the Red Sea. Sounds so biblical. Have you been there?’

‘No. I wouldn’t hesitate, though. I envy you.’

‘Don’t, I’d be very happy if it were cancelled, especially now with talk of war.’

‘I shouldn’t have raised it,’ he said, gesturing for her to go first.

Stella handed over her ticket for clipping.

‘If it’s any consolation, the British have driven out the Turks that were occupying it after the Great War. Now we’re more interested in gathering information on what the Germans and Russians are up to in the region.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh, yes. You’ve no doubt heard the adage that information is power? Well, Jerusalem is a bit of a focus for us with what is happening in Palestine and the struggles there, but generally the whole region is a target in terms of its strategic importance for shipping, resources, trade routes . . .’

‘So, Britain is spying on what the Germans are up to in the Middle East?’

He gave her a look of horror, a finger to his lips as they emerged, jostling with other passengers into the Brighton terminus forecourt. ‘Spy is a sinister word. No, we’ve had our people overseeing local government but places like Transjordan are now states in their own right. It’s more a case that we keep our ear to the ground for any shifts in the balance of power, especially in terms of Germany and its new power-hungry leader. Those restless nomadic tribes carry information that we find useful. We keep a presence, that’s all.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, Miss —’

‘Myles.’

‘You’ve been a most enjoyable companion.’

She grinned, holding out her hand, which he gently shook once.

‘Safe travels in the Levant.’

‘Thank you, Mr Perks.’

He raised his cap, smiled warmly and strode off down the hill into Brighton. She looked around at the busy forecourt with its mix of horse-drawn cabs moving slowly around the faster, more nimble motorised versions. The older way would be cheaper.

‘Western Road?’ one of the cabbies called, catching her attention and making a soothing sound to his horses. ‘Steady now.’

‘Yes, er, that’s the main shopping district, isn’t it?’

‘Indeed it is, Miss. Tuppence, please. You can alight at the clock tower and turn left into East Street for Hanningtons Department Store.’

She paid her coin and clambered up into the carriage, smiling at the four other passengers.

Her thoughts helplessly roamed back to the potential for war. If Rafe worked in London and was connected with governmental departments – as Basil had alluded – wouldn’t he then be informed on these new developments in Germany? Why would they walk across the Weald of Kent, collecting butterflies and making daisy chains as if the world was safe and wonderful if war was brewing again? Why would Kew Gardens need his help cataloguing plants of the desert if the government was more concerned with cataloguing insurgency or, more to the point, German infiltration? And Rafe, a linguist of some stature, it seemed? Why didn’t he teach his children French, if he was fluent?

Questions bounced around her mind as she barely noticed their rocking motion down the hill.

‘Clock tower!’ she heard the driver say.

‘Oh, that’s me. Excuse me.’ She tiptoed, careful of treading on her fellow passengers’ feet, and a boy riding at the back of the coach hopped down to open the door for her.

‘Thank you, Miss. Enjoy your day.’

She smiled at him. ‘The driver mentioned Hanningtons?’ she said hopefully.

He pointed east. ‘Straight down there and on your right. Can’t miss it, Miss.’

They both smiled at his pun before he hauled himself back onto the carriage and rapped the top. The horses were clicked on and the vehicle lurched away.

Stella could see the promenade from where she stood and the greyish sea in the distance. The day had turned cool and the sun that had delivered a warmish morning was now clouded over. She shivered, pulled her coat collar up higher and skipped across the road, turning left into the broad and busy East Street. People moved in a flowing stream but she was not daunted. Coming from London meant the Brighton streets were far from threatening and despite the gloomy thought of war pervading in her mind, she was intrigued to see this southern department store that she recalled her customers used to talk about.

The large store was easy to find – not just by its commanding four-storey domination of the eastern end of the street with its high Victorian Gothic style. It even wrapped itself around the corner, which she presumed turned from North into fashionable East Street. The store seemed to be like a magnet, luring flocks of people through its doors.

She entered its darker world with muted lighting and noted the columns that dotted the ground floor around the main counters where impeccably dressed staff served their clients in genteel quiet, peppered with soft gales of laughter. It smelled polite and rich, not nearly so colourful as Bourne & Hollingsworth, but Stella was instantly charmed by its faded grandeur. She overheard a pair of women move by her suggesting they take tea, and given that she’d barely touched her breakfast, a pot of tea sounded irresistible. It was past midday but it was still early enough for hours of shopping ahead. She followed the waft of perfume and fur-collared coats of the well-heeled women up the stairs to the tearooms.

‘Just for one, Miss?’ the waitress asked in a long black-skirted uniform.

‘Yes, please. Is there a window table, by any chance?’

The girl smiled. ‘Follow me.’

She was led to a table next to one of the tall windows. ‘I’ll have a pot of black tea with milk, please.’

‘Thank you,’ the girl said, scribbling her note but Stella was already looking away out into East Street where the changeable British weather had indeed changed and umbrellas were being dragged out. Suddenly there was a slow-moving dance of black domes beneath her.

So Rafe could speak Arabic, amongst other languages; it made sense, given Beatrice’s explanation of his childhood this morning. She wondered how Rafe had sold his wife the idea of a tutor in the first place. Maybe it was a status symbol to have a governess in tow, she decided, as she gazed absently while peeling off gloves. She couldn’t wait a moment longer, public place or not; she would read his letter now and hope for some enlightenment.

‘Hello, Stella.’

She swung her head back in disbelief at the voice she knew well and was disappointed in herself for yearning to hear it.

Rafe beamed at her. ‘Glad I found you.’ No words came easily. She stared at his confident smile as he shrugged off his overcoat. ‘Warm in here,’ he said, ignoring her shocked silence. The waitress arrived with Stella’s tea.