destroy him.
âWho is this man?ââ he said, at last, wishing to have it formally acknowledged.
Margaret turned her tired, astonished eyes on him.
âWho? Boris, of course. As youâve heard. As you must have guessed. The Boris.ââ She closed her eyes. âThe only Boris Iâve ever met,ââ she went on, enjoying the sound of the name she had so seldom spoken aloud for twenty long years.
âThe man you were engaged to before the war?ââ
âYes. Of course.ââ
âYou told me he was dead.ââ
She opened her eyes again, wide with indignation. âI thought he was dead. I never heard definitely. Was that surprising? Knowing what happened in Poland?ââ
He had to acknowledge it was not. He was still shaking with rage, forcing himself to control his voice and his impulse to attack.
âYou arenât suggesting that I knew he was alive, are you?ââ
âIâm not suggesting anything.ââ
âOh, but I think you are. You always do. If I had known, I wouldnât have been â I wouldnât haveâââ
She stopped as the chill thought came to her that Boris, alive, had made no effort to find her. She had tried, through the Red Cross, to find him, but he had not tried to find her. Or perhaps he could not. That must be it. After all, he had come to them from a Russian ship. A prisoner. All these years. While sheâ
âThe Russians must have caught him and kept him,ââ she said. âThatâs why I could never find out what had become of him. He went back to fight, but you know that. Iâve told you often enough. He was recalled months before war was declared. They knew in Poland, of course. He must have been caught between the Germans and the Russians. Thatâs what Iâve always thought. Havenât I?ââ
âItâs certainly possible.ââ
Margaret was sunk too deeply in her own confusion to notice the bitter tone in Colinâs voice. The dangerous myth on which she had sustained and balanced her surviving girlhood, a frail bridge over which she had refused to pass, which she had been unable to leave, was now giving way beneath her, fatally cracked, irreversibly falling. She was too shocked, too frightened to rush forward to firm ground, to safety. Instead she clutched the insubstantial fabric of her myth. Boris had come back to her at last.
âHe hasnât changed much,ââ she said, smiling faintly.
Colin looked at her with contempt, remembering, because he had never forgotten, a photograph of the man she had once shown him and which he was sure she still treasured.
âWould you have recognized him if Stephen hadnât?ââ
âOf course.ââ
âHe didnât recognize you.ââ
It was true. She still felt the pain of that cruel blow. But Colin must not know this.
âPoor man! After getting ashore in that icy waterâHe must have nearly died. No wonder he passed out when heâd struggled up from the beach. Would you recognize friends you hadnât seen for over twenty years if youâd just done what he did?ââ
She was talking too fast and too excitedly, she knew, but she couldnât stop.
âI think itâs a miracle he made it at all. But he was always enormously strong. He swims like a fish. He can do anything in boats. I remember going sailing with him onceâââ
She forced herself to stop. Colinâs face, which she had only just noticed, frightened her.
âHe ought to be changed by now,ââ she said, more calmly. âI want to know why he came here. Itâs so extraordinary. An almost unbelievable coincidence.ââ
âExactly,ââ said Colin dryly, turning towards the door as he heard footsteps. âThe coincidence is unbelievable, isnât it?ââ
Chapter Three
The footsteps were not those