Till The Wind Blows Silent Read online

  Till the Wind Blows Silent

  By Bernice Bohnet

  Digital ISBNs

  EPUB 978-0-2286-0203-3

  Kindle 978-0-2286-0204-0

  WEB 978-0-2286-0205-7

  Print ISBNs

  BWL Print 978-0-2286-0207-1

  Amazon Print 978-0-2286-0206-4

  B&N Print 978-0-2286-0208-8

  Copyright 2018 by Bernice Bohnet

  Cover Art Michelle Lee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

  Dedication

  For Doreen, the kindest and most loving mother imaginable. Your unconditional love has made me the luckiest person on the planet.

  I would also like further acknowledgements besides that of Service Alberta: I would like to thank Judith (Jude) Pittman, Publisher, for seeing potential in this novel and patiently and capably guiding me through the publication process. You are a true professional.

  I would also like to thank Nancy Bell, Editor, for all you contributed to this work. You are not only brilliant with language but also considerate and efficient.

  I appreciate the fact both Jude and Nancy worked with me despite my technical shortcomings. BWL is an excellent publisher.

  Most especially, I would like to thank my husband, Bruce, for his support and encouragement. You read over completed chapters, offered suggestions, and encouraged me when I grew disappointed. I could never have completed this book without your help.

  Thanks also to my sister, Gerry, and, of course, Doreen. You two are terrific.

  Thank you as well to the many friends and family who are eager to buy my book and even help with promotion. I am fortunate to have so many wonderful people in my life. Your enthusiasm is contagious.

  Acknowledgments

  BWL Publishing Inc. wishes to thank the Government of Alberta for their support.

  PART 1

  LONDON ENGLAND

  1944-1945

  Chapter 1

  Anna’s sensible shoes thudded on the pavement of London’s deserted streets. Fear hastened her steps.

  She’d caught a glimpse of the man several blocks back. He looked about her age, from what she ascertained in that brief moment, that and the U.S. Army uniform of khaki with russet shoes.

  There was no sign of life in the buildings crowding the street this early in the morning. Without pausing she pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear and wiped the trickle of sweat from her temple.

  Why hadn’t she decided to have a lie in herself? What a silly idea it was to visit the park on a quiet morning. She shifted the easel and large paint box into a better position and tucked her purse more firmly under her arm. Burdened down like this, there would be little chance to fight off an attacker.

  Fighting to control the situation and her growing panic she picked up her pace. A peek over her shoulder showed the bloke remained a few feet behind. Switching tactics, she slowed down. The soldier matched her pace and stayed the same distance behind her. Perhaps he was harmless and not a threat as she perceived.

  She crossed the street and so did he. The shops were closed on Sunday so there was no escape by ducking into one. Maybe this was God’s punishment for her sins. She really should have gone to church with Mom and Dad this morning, not hurrying through the deserted street lugging easel and paint box.

  Her heart pounded and fresh sweat broke out on her brow. Could he be some sort of pervert? He looked respectable enough but so could a rapist and murderer. The entrance to a tube station was just ahead, but if she dared to descend into the murky depths of the tunnel he might grab her before she could board a train.

  The persistent ache in her side decided her.

  Anna entered the station, hoping to lose the soldier among the other commuters. The chill sent shivers over her as she left the warmth of the sunshine outside. She ran down the stairs and tripped on the last one, banging her left knee sharply. There’d be a bruise tomorrow. More penance for skipping church, she supposed.

  In her haste, she failed to excuse herself to any of the people she bumped into. Reaching the metal turnstile, she almost dropped her purse as she inserted the ticket.

  She sent a prayer of thanks to God when a train almost immediately pulled up. She felt more blessed when she found a seat by the window. No one sat beside her; an unusual occurrence because often when she rode the tube she felt like a tinned oyster.

  When the door closed, she radiated joy, certain she’d lost the soldier. Her hands ceased to shake and her breathing eased.

  Anna managed to smile. She could still go to the park and paint the beautiful trees just as she’d planned. She settled the paint box and easel against her knees. Her day off wouldn’t be wasted.

  Soon the car moved and Anna swayed to its movement. Goodness, how silly the whole escapade seemed now. She’d probably just imagined that man had been following her.

  Anna leaned back and closed her eyes. The earlier tension melted like butter on toast, and she allowed herself a cat nap. A presence beside her brought her instantly awake. Opening her eyes and turning her head she smothered a gasp. The soldier occupied the seat beside her. How did he get on the train without her seeing him?

  Anna opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out. Oh Lord, it was just like one of her nightmares. She looked about frantically for a bobby, but could see none.

  The American soldier didn’t grab her or even seem to notice her. His attention seemed captured by a large, foldout map of London. It must just be coincidence he showed up beside her.

  Several minutes passed without the man acknowledging her existence and curiosity began to replace her terror. Anna peeked at the man beside her through lowered lashes.

  He was more than a little attractive, she decided. Not tall, but certainly in good shape, and those large, expressive brown eyes made her wonder if they lit up when he smiled. The smattering of freckles on his nose was endearing.

  Anna straightened her spine and assumed a pleasant demeanor. She almost forgot that only a few minutes earlier she’d been too scared to scream. Now she hoped to get to know him.

  She clasped her hands together and she searched for some way to start a conversation, but came up with nothing.

  Anna shifted in her seat and cleared her throat. The soldier never looked up from the map. She went from being frightened to disappointed, in a very short time.

  Nonetheless, it pleased her that she looked much better than she did on workdays when she rode the Underground with her hair pulled back into a bun and dressed in baggy, shapeless trousers.

  Today was Anna’s twenty-fifth birthday and in honour of the occasion she wore a special dress, a rare treat. She had traded a pair of gray work trousers for the dress, clothes being rationed, and she was grateful for her cousin, Miriam’s, practicality.

  The blue flowered dress nipped-in at the waist and the large, white, lace collar suited her. It made her feel attractive and she’d danced to an imaginary Strauss waltz around and around her bedroom when she’d put it on earlier this morning.

  When she least expected it, the bloke turned and seemed to notice her for the first time. Anna put her hand over her heart, it beat so fast. The handsome man smiled and indicated the map he held, and said, “I wonder, Miss, if you know your way around London? I wanted to go to Charing Cross station. Am I on the right train?

  “No, Charing Cross is in Westminster right by Trafalgar Square. You’ll h
ave to take the northern line. You’re on the southern. I’m sorry. Your journey may take a while.”

  “That’s alright. Thanks for the information. I appreciate the help. Londoners are a friendly people.”

  She liked his accent.

  “Besides, it’s fun riding the Tube on a peaceful Sunday morning with a most helpful British lady.”

  Anna blushed.

  The soldier held out his right hand, smiled enough to leave crinkles around his eyes, “I’m Harold Dexter. It’s great to meet you.”

  The subway carriage rounded a curve and the momentum pressed Harold against her. Her nose twitched with the spicy scent he used combined with an under note of soap. The thigh pressed alongside hers was solid and strong. Glancing up, she noticed the hint of stubble on his cheeks and chin.

  When the car straightened again, Anna reluctantly moved away. She extended her hand, “I’m Anna Marshall. It is nice to make your acquaintance.” She hoped she didn’t sound like an ancient grammar teacher. The hand that gripped hers was warm and dry.

  Harold didn’t seem put off by her formal manner. “Anna, what a beautiful name. I love it. It’s a very romantic name.” He smiled and she noticed how white and even his teeth were.

  Anna nodded her head. She wished her own teeth were whiter; all the Yanks seemed to have brilliant smiles. Anna refrained from commenting on his name. In her opinion Harold was a horrid name and she couldn’t tolerate false flattery.

  Harold deftly continued the conversation. “I see that you’re an artist. That is wonderful. I’d love for you to show me your work.”

  It pleased Anna that he seemed to want to see her again.

  “Yes, I paint but I wish I had more talent. The last time I went to an art gallery I saw one of Monet’s water lily paintings, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Sometimes I wish I possessed genius like Monet rather than a mere, small ability.”

  Anna blushed. Why did she go on so with a complete stranger?

  If Harold noticed colour staining her cheeks, he didn’t comment on it. “Maybe someday you’ll do a painting for me. Do you think my wish might be granted?” He spoke tentatively.

  Anna forgot any embarrassment in her enthusiasm. “Yes, perhaps. What subjects do you like? Landscape, portraits, still life? Oh, or abstract versus the more traditional styles?

  If he liked landscapes, she might give him something she’d already painted, like that one of the cliffs of Dover. She’d even painted a bluebird on it, just like in the song.

  “Whatever you choose is fine with me. I’m sure I’ll like it.” He waved a hand dismissively.

  Anna drew back a little and hid a frown. A small suspicion entered her head. Perhaps this Yank wasn’t an art lover; he probably didn’t even know who Claude Monet was. Nonetheless, he did appear to be trying hard to get to know her.

  She wished their carriage would lurch again. The thought of physical contact was exciting.

  Harold’s gaze roamed over her and squashed the tiny thrill that ran through her. It was as if he saw right through her dress down to the safety pins holding her underwear together.

  Several awkward minutes passed with only the rattle of the Underground breaking the silence. Harold straightened up as if he’d made a decision of some kind.

  “Here, I have a small gift for you.”

  From his pocket he produced the finest pair of silk stockings Anna had ever seen; in London, in 1944, they were a highly-coveted luxury.

  He pulled the sheer items from the Harrods packaging. Expensive items, especially with rationing, her heart skipped with delight. Harold held them up so they shimmered in the dim light.

  Anna reached out and ran the luxurious stockings through her fingers, careful not to snag the delicate material. Their soft, classic shade of light brown; and very straight seams sorely tempted her. Wouldn’t they look marvelous with her new dress?

  Caution overcame temptation. “No, I couldn’t possibly accept these. This is much too fine a gift for someone you just met. Thank you, though, for offering.”

  Harold shook his head vigorously so it looked like his hat might topple. “No, I know a way to make it all right. I have rented a hotel room. It’s just at the next stop. Please say ‘yes.’”

  Harold put a hand on her arm and she looked up, lost in his deep brown eyes.

  The pressure on her arm sounded alarm bells as Anna realized exactly what he was offering. All the rubbish about painting and wanting to see her work was just that, rubbish. He thought she was a floozy who could be bought for a pair of silk stockings. That certainly wasn’t her idea of love.

  Anna shoved the stockings back at Harold, no longer concerned about snagging them, “How dare you suggest such a thing? Please remove yourself.

  Harold’s beautiful eyes pleaded with her. “Please, Blanche, please. I’ll be careful. I’ve got a condom. I think I’m in love with you.”

  The soldier’s voice sounded far too loud, even with the rattle of the carriage. A few heads turned in their direction and Anna was suffused with anger and embarrassment.

  “You are not in love with me.” She enunciated each word carefully. “My name is Anna, not Blanche. If you don’t remove yourself, I’ll scream and accuse you of molesting me.”

  Wordlessly, the Yank shoved the stockings into his pocket and stood up.

  He kept his hands in his pockets even though he swayed as he walked toward the exit doors. He had the audacity to smile and tip his hat to a woman holding a baby as he passed. Anna was appalled at the cavalier attitude and gritted her teeth in anger when he leaned against the post and whistled that ridiculous ditty, Yankee Doodle Dandy.”

  The soldier got off at the next stop, and Anna sent a silent prayer of thanks to God.

  Tears pricked at her eyes so she reached into her pocket and pulled out a hankie her mother had embroidered with daisies. Why had she been so silly as to think any man would be interested in an old maid like her? Everyone said if a woman hadn’t caught herself a husband by the time she was twenty-one, and here she was twenty-five. Twenty-five, for heaven’s sake!

  She’d dabbed her eyes, picked up her purse, and dug until she found the ancient compact, complete with cracked mirror, she always carried.

  At that moment she hated her mirror. True, it revealed her best feature, freshly washed, blonde, shoulder-length hair; but it also revealed a thin, pale face composed of a long nose, thin lips and gray eyes, presently slightly damp; altogether not an encouraging sight.

  She sighed; her figure had its problems as well; a long, angular body with small breasts and protruding pelvic bones, the result, at least partly, of food shortages. If only she had curves like her sister, Patsy.

  The train shuddered to a stop at the next station and almost immediately, a pretty, sexy, blonde woman in a short, clinging red dress; came to sit beside her. Anna smoothed her dress and straightened her posture.

  The girl reminded her of Patsy. Just like Patsy, the girl tried to catch the attention of a handsome young man in uniform standing nearby.

  Anna resisted the urge to say that she knew a well-paid American soldier with rare, elegant silk stockings that came at a price she wasn’t prepared to pay. Anna believed this girl would take the stockings, and so would Patsy.

  Thoughts of Patsy caused Anna to take a deep breath and conjure up the scent of the inexpensive toilet water her sister favoured.

  Anna missed her sister almost as much as her nephew Robert, Patsy’s so-called love child. Patsy worked on a farm seven days a week, her contribution to the war effort; and Robert had been evacuated to green, leafy Wales, one of the safest places in the United Kingdom.

  Some of the neighbours called Robert a bastard. Anna hated the word and all its connotations.

  The disembodied voice announcing the next stop shook Anna from her thoughts. It was her stop, only a block away. However, she felt too overwrought to paint.

  She decided to stay on the train until the end of the line and then ride back to th
e station near home.

  When Anna returned home she somehow expected Margaret to know all about the incident with the Yank. Her mother always seemed to have a second sense when it came to her children.

  However, Margaret’s face only broke into a smile of pure devotion. Anna reveled in the love and acceptance and found herself forgetting about Harold.

  “Did you enjoy painting?” Margaret said brightly.

  Anna freed herself from the easel and paint box and dropped them on the floor. “No, I guess I just wasn’t in the mood.” She avoided meeting her mother’s gaze.

  She was too ashamed to tell her mother what happened, while at the same time she craved her mother’s support and comfort.

  Margaret gave her daughter a sharp glance and turned back to the bread dough she was working on. As she expertly kneaded the loaves she hummed a Brahms lullaby, a sound that always soothed Anna. The dull green dress strained across her mother’s shoulders, plump in spite of rationing. She pushed a strand of graying hair from her pretty face with the back of her hand. Anna wished she’d inherited her mother’s looks, but Patsy seemed to have gotten the lion’s share of those genes.

  Margaret wiped her hands on a tea towel, clapped small, fleshy hands together and started a new song, “Happy birthday.” She sang boisterously.

  Because it was Anna’s twenty-fifth birthday, a party was planned in her honour. Her mother insisted such a red letter day shouldn’t go unnoticed.

  War rationing aside, family and friends had pooled their resources for a feast. Uncle Sidney would bring a whole bottle of excellent gin, enough to give all adults a small drink.

  Anna’s mouth watered when she remembered there would be roasted lamb, (not mutton) a terrific change from the usual diet of Spam, and a one-egg cake. Sugar rationing made any sweet a wonderful, heavenly extravagance.