She wasn’t sure why she was telling the doctor this. Was it because she wanted, so desperately, for it to be true? Was it because she wanted Doctor Durand to agree that from their few minutes of small talk at Mother’s funeral he had deduced Stefan was a good man? Did she need someone else’s approval of him?
Doctor Durand looked at her as if she was stupid. ‘But he is one of them, isn’t he?’
Persey narrowed her eyes. ‘You just said some of them were all right,’ she reminded him.
‘The medical staff, of course. Not their fault their calling was to save people’s lives and they now find themselves wrapped up in this mess. Even then, I wouldn’t even consider telling them about Lise. And although your Captain Keller also seems friendly he looks the part and wears that awful uniform. So don’t even think about trusting him.’
The gramophone played Tommy Dorsey in the dining room as Persephone laid the table for dinner. Mrs Grant had all but banished meals involving Stefan from being held in the kitchen, so the girls were forced back to the more staid surroundings of the dining room to eat, even though they’d much rather eat in less formal an atmosphere.
Listening to ‘Indian Summer’, Persephone could almost imagine there was no war on outside. Just for these few, precious minutes. The summer sun had warmed the room throughout the day and she swayed slowly to the music as she neatened the cutlery and placed a jug of water on the table, setting out the crystal tumblers and throwing open the window to combat the inordinate warmth.
The smell of a rarely available, small piece of beef roasting gently in the oven was a delicious precursor to what Persey considered the main event, one of Mrs Grant’s famous summer berry crumbles. Out in the countryside they were more privileged than most, with access to a large kitchen garden. Meat would be a problem – Persey knew that. Scarcity of food in general was going to be a problem. But not as much of a problem as if they had lived in town, with a postage-stamp-sized garden and strict rationing to adhere to.
Time would tell as to how awful things would get there. Even though the island was only about nine miles long it was far easier out here, surrounded by farmers, to get hold of the odd piece of illicit meat if the farmer was clever at hiding the animal from the Germans – and if Mrs Grant bartered well enough for it. And of course, they were growing their own fruit and vegetables. Mother had called the six fruit trees on the property the orchard, which had tickled Persey, Dido and their father, but now she’d have given anything for her mother to be here, reprimanding Persey jokingly for pruning them badly.
She looked at the table with its display of roses brought in from the garden. She picked up the vase and put it on the side, unsure if it was a frippery too far. She shook her head, lifted the vase upfrom the sideboard and replaced it on the table. She’d picked the flowers; she may as well use them to brighten the room.
‘Why did you just do that?’ Stefan asked from the doorway, his head tilted to one side.
How long had he been there? Had he been watching her?
‘I … it seemed silly, to have flowers, at a time like this. And then … well,’ she said, looking down at the vase.
‘A time like this?’
‘With everything going on.’ She brushed past the comment. ‘Dinner might be a little while yet. I’m waiting for Dido to get back.’ Actually, where was Dido? She didn’t say she was singing tonight. Perhaps Dido had ventured out in search of different employment now the hours she could sing in the club had been restricted by the curfew. It was mercenary to think it but now Lise would be in hiding for the duration and not returning to work, perhaps she should mention to Mr Le Brost that Dido might be interested in helping there instead? Paperwork wasn’t exactly Dido’s forte though.
Stefan walked towards the gramophone, which Persey realised now had finished playing. He began looking through the records. ‘Do you remember,’ he started, ‘when we went to the youth dance at the tennis club?’
She smiled, recollecting. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘It feels like a lifetime ago.’
She watched the back of his blond head as he selected a record. ‘It was,’ he said. ‘We were all trying to do the Charleston and the fox trot back then.’
‘I was rather good, as I recall,’ Persey said looking past him.
He turned, a smile on his face. ‘You were, actually. I was desperate for something slower. And when the Charleston had finished, one of Jack’s friends demanded it was played again.’
‘Oh yes, so they did.’
‘At the time I thought, so this is what hell is like.’
Persey couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Oh, it wasn’t that bad.’
‘Your mother watched on with laughter, as I remember. Didostepped in to try to show me and it was the first time I’d heard the two English phrases: as red as a beetroot and two left feet.’
‘Are you still that bad at dancing?’ she asked, folding her arms and watching him keenly.
He shrugged and turned away, selected a record and turned back to her. ‘Shall we find out?’ He held out his hand to her as the comforting crackle of the track began prior to the music starting.
‘Oh no, I didn’t mean—’ She stiffened suddenly, kept her hands down by her sides.
‘Do not argue. Just dance with me.’
He took one of her hands and she inched gingerly towards him.
The slow first bars of Noël Coward’s ‘Where Are the Songs We Sung’ struck up and he pulled her closer. All the air had been sucked from the room. It had been so long since she’d danced and never like this. He moved steadily, leading, turning them slowly in the space between the dining table and the window. She tried to think of anything other than what they were doing – anything. What on earth had possessed Dido to install a gramophone in both this room and the sitting room? It was a ridiculous extravagance. They had never needed two.
He wasn’t as awkward as she. Why wasn’t he? His body heat warmed her; his hand gently rested on her back. She became so acutely aware of his touch that she stumbled.
