“Oh, it’s nothing. I just noticed that your old one was, well, old,” he murmured, also embarrassed.
After dinner we sat in the front room and listened to the news on the wireless, and then I put on a few gramophone records Kitty lent me from Prim’s collection. The first one was called “Cheek to Cheek,” that lovely dance number sung by Fred Astaire. Much to my surprise, within the first few bars, the Colonel was on his feet and asking me to stand up with him, right there in the front room.
At first I laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Why not? When do we ever get to dance these days? In any case, goodness knows when we’ll get the chance again.”
I thought of him living in London, the chance that something might happen to him, too. His near hit in Litchfield had given me a bit of a jolt. I began thinking that one by one all the people I’ve ever cared for will be taken away from me. He must have seen my face, as he said: “Now stop thinking miserable thoughts and enjoy the moment.”
He hauled me up out of my seat and pulled me toward him, and began to gallantly waltz me around the small space. I laughed nervously. He was a surprisingly good dancer for such a large, cumbersome man, light on his feet and competently leading me around and around, one hand firm on my waist, the other clasping my slender hand. I’m medium height, or thereabouts, so my eyes were level with his chest. We must have looked quite comedic, spinning around the dim little room in our own world.
When it finished, we were left standing in the center of the room; the deep red glow of the curtains and rug was warm, close. He pulled away from me and looked down, bent his head a little to one side, and I knew he was about to kiss me.
I panicked, pulled back, started flustering. It’s not as if I’d never thought about him in this way. Or that I’d never dreamed about kissing him. I just didn’t ever see it actually happening. Now I panicked even more. Perhaps he mistook my panicking for not wanting to kiss him. What would happen if he never wanted to kiss me again?
So I stopped panicking, stepped up to him, reached my hands behind his neck, and pulled him down to kiss me. It was all a little clumsy, but we got there in the end, and it was well worth it. An incredible sense of bliss and fortitude drenched my body. I’d never thought that kissing was so divine. I suppose I must have forgotten, parceled it up in a storage box in my brain with a large label: Do not open.
Now it’s open. Well and truly exploded.
We continued kissing for quite a while. I think he must have been enjoying it as well, as he had a dreamy look in his eyes. It was a late night, with very little time spent studying the music for the concert.
What a strange turn of events. Perhaps he felt that since he was going, he needed to take stock of the situation. Perhaps he wanted to secure my affections. Possibly his near death in the Litchfield bombing made him realize something, too. Maybe he’s just never had the nerve to do it, and now, since he’ll be gone next week, it made it so much easier for him. All I know is I’m glad he did do it. Whatever happens in the future, last night will always be ours, an isolated piece of heaven in this chaotic world.
Saturday, 24th August, 1940
The Litchfield Singing Concert
We hadn’t had enough rehearsals, at least two sopranos had come down with a nasty cough, and then when we arrived the hall was as dirty and dingy as a deserted mansion.
Our hearts fell.
“Well, it’s a good thing we got here early,” Mrs. Tilling said, looking in cupboards for some brooms. “And did anyone remember to bring decorations?”
Mrs. B. had brought along the colored bunting from Henry’s leaving party, and began handing it out and ordering people around. “We’d better hurry if we’re to make this place fit for a concert at seven o’clock.”
We scurried around, and I have to confess that by a quarter to seven the place looked a lot better. The red, white, and blue streamers really cheered the place up, and we made some newspaper chains to bulk it out. We set up the chairs for the audience, then went and took our places at the side of the stage, and waited, whispering last-minute tips for nerves.
But the place remained deserted.
“How many of those posters did you put up, Kitty?” Mrs. B. boomed over to me from the altos, as if it were entirely my fault that no one had turned up yet.
“A lot more than you did!” Mrs. Tilling snapped back at her. We all giggled. Fancy Mrs. Tilling getting the better of Mrs. B!