by Jan Casey
So she allowed herself to feel rather than think and she realised that here, in Sorn, she had found a peacefulness and calm she knew she wouldn’t be able to reclaim in London. She imagined her life there becoming more complicated, rushing to the Tube for work, hurrying home to Freddie; shopping for makeup and clothes to keep stylish; booking hair appointments; asking Lillian and George, David or Mum to mind Freddie so she could go to a club or out for lunch with friends; being set up on dates by well-intentioned people, only to find the man others thought perfect was neither funny, interesting or ambitious – no match for her Fred.
Here, there was time to collect leaves in the autumn and daffodils in the spring and make collages with their efforts; to watch the old oak tree move through the seasons; to learn everything there was to know about sheep and laugh at Freddie when she said, ‘Baaa’. The little girl had so much attention that she was talking in complete sentences; if they were to go back to life in the south, she would not have the time to pursue such worthwhile activities with her child to the same degree.
Jeanie and Fin had asked to her stay and said they would charge a peppercorn rent for the croft now that the billeting payments had ceased. Fin had great plans for renovations to the little house that included an indoor bathroom, windows that were sealed against draughts and replacing the thatched roof. And Jeanie was like a sister to her plus an aunt, cousin, and grandmother rolled into one for Freddie. The Barfoots adored the little girl and Viola knew that if anything happened to her, they would put Freddie’s interests above their own. And they were not like family to her – they were her family and had been for almost two and a half years.
Then of course, as always, there was Fred. He had never been part of her life here, so apart from her memories there were no associations with him. To knowingly churn up all that emotion again, in London or the Cotswolds, was more than she could bear to put herself through.
She penned all of that in letters to Mum and Lillian and stressed that her decision was set in stone, but she was waiting for their long-promised visit.
The return letter from Mum arrived so quickly, that Viola sighed when she opened it, sure it would contain countless reasons Mum thought Viola better off at home. But what she read blasted her decision to pieces like a bomb reducing bricks and mortar to scree.
My dearest Viola
You will never guess who has been here today, chatting with me and drinking tea. No, don’t try to guess, you never will, so I will tell you – Annie! Yes, Annie. Fred’s sister.
My goodness, how she has changed. But so have we all during the long war years. Do you remember her as a young girl? She had long, wavy hair that would not stay in the pins she adjusted over and over again. And she used to find it so hard to keep still, jiggling and giggling her way through conversations and high teas. Well, she is remarkably beautiful with hair that does as it’s told and a lovely, calm, rather intense demeanour. I couldn’t decide whether her prominent cheekbones were the result of lucky genetics or deprivation. Certainly her razor-sharp shins beneath elegantly crossed legs would have me believe the latter.
I came to the conclusion that she had been through a lot – at least as much, if not more, than you and I have experienced – and been incredibly brave to boot. She mentioned a few occurrences like foraging for food in the forests and watching hordes of Germans take to the roads in search of shelter and sustenance and a group of young people she and Fred were involved with who wrote and distributed resistance material. Two or three times she referred to a journal she kept for the duration of the war and said that everything they had gone through was written in its pages. She did not elaborate on any of those events and I didn’t feel inclined to probe as there was something so painful churning deep in her eyes that I was loath to stir it up. But I would love the chance to be privy to that notebook.
I was amazed that when she gets settled, she said she would like to go to university and learn how to help people overcome what she called social injustices. That sounded like a difficult aspiration for anyone, let alone a young woman. Well, I thought, Bevan could use someone like you and said so. Her head bobbed up and down when she confirmed, as I thought she would, that she agreed with his proposals for social reform. Conviction and determination were etched into the set of her features, the earnest way she spoke about her vision for the future, her fist that pummelled into the opposite palm every time she made a point. She is convinced that people have more in common than they have differences and that the world should bear that in mind.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘All of us have experienced war. We have been men and women at war and we must recognise the similarities amongst us. We must listen to the ordinary people and understand what binds us together rather than what drives us apart. Then we might not ever allow such a wide gulf to open between us again.’
Then she told me she has a little boy, not much younger than Freddie and no husband, but she was wearing a wedding band. Also in her care are her German mother-in-law, a young girl who she has taken under her wing and – please sit down for this, Vi, and if you are sitting make sure you are well supported – Fred! He was injured and malnourished but is making good progress in St Thomas’s. Annie said he would probably be discharged within the next two or three weeks.
I told her you had been billeted to Scotland with your little girl, although I did not offer any more information about that as I didn’t think it the appropriate time or place or indeed my call.
I do not know if you want to pursue this, Vi, but will you now please come home and see if this flame you have carried for Fred can be reignited? It seems, from what Annie intimated, that Fred has never ceased in his affection for you and yes, I know, that was before he learned of your indiscretion. But the war has changed attitudes so he may accept Freddie as his own. If Dad could have such a change of heart, then anyone could.
Lillian and I are going to arrange tickets for the middle of October to come to Scotland and, given that you will have had a month or so by then to think about this news, bring you and Freddie back with us.
All my love to you
Mum X
Never before had Viola been so glad to follow Mum’s advice. If she had been standing or sitting on the edge of the chair, she would have passed out. As it was, she had to put her head between her knees until the giddy spell passed. ‘Mummy?’ Freddie asked, putting her little hand on Viola’s arm. ‘Freddie get a cup of tea?’
Viola nodded and sent her daughter to play out her latest game with miniature cups and saucers and spoons. She read the letter again, following each line with her finger. Whether she and Fred had a future together was up in the air, but he was alive and without that certainty there had been nothing but a black abyss. Now, at least, there was a chink of hope.
That night she laid out her treasures on the bed. The pamphlet that she now had no doubt was written by Fred; Lillian’s comfy cardigan, now more hole than wool; Freddie’s birth certificate; the card signed by Dad; letters from Robert and David; the portrait of her and Freddie under the oak tree; Fred’s thwarted thesis. There was the ring, too, resting in the dip between her collarbones. Each one of them a memory that symbolised a part of her whole. If these outward trappings were the sum total of her life, then it was not too bad a tally. But was it wrong to want and hope for more?
She didn’t think it was, but she had seen and heard and learned enough to know that her life was not always under her dictate alone. Of course, she could not begin to harbour thoughts that Fred might want her and Freddie until she told him about every aspect of her ill-fated relationship with Mike and the result of that assignation. Mum was right – Fred did, after all, have a right to learn the truth and it was her responsibility to tell him the whole story. When Freddie was asleep, she spread out her writing paper and pen and started at the beginning. She did not spare him any of the details, but emphasised that she had acted out of loneliness and regretted how immature and selfish and destructive her behaviour had been.
<
br /> It is you I love, Fred and always have. I wear your ring close to my heart and your heart in mine. Not an hour of any day goes by when I haven’t ached for you and I am mortified that I ruined what we had together.
If you could begin to understand what happened or to forgive me, I would be forever grateful.
Always your Viola. XXX
When she lifted Freddie to post the letter, both she and the little girl kissed the envelope. Watching it disappear into the red box, her heart dropped, too. If felt as if the tiny glimmer of hope she had been keeping aflame all this time was inevitably about to be extinguished. And as the weeks went past with no reply, she had to convince herself that what had been between her and Fred could never be rekindled.
*
At the first sound of tyres on the path, Viola stood on the doorstep with Freddie in her arms. The banger had been old when she was first billeted to Sorn, but now it was ancient and spluttered and wheezed its way up the hill. At last she could see it, fumes puffing from the exhaust. Freddie was pointing out the birds, the sheep, the car in the distance. But all Viola was aware of was the hammering of her heart and the snakes twisting and turning in her stomach. Mum and Lillian were nearly here and she was beside herself with excitement and trepidation. Then, as luck would have it, a flock of sheep skittered across the path and stood, vacant and nonsensical in front of the car.
For a moment she didn’t know what to do. Fin will shoo them away, she thought. Or should I make my way down to meet them? But she was wearing house slippers and didn’t want to miss their arrival by taking precious time to change into wellies.
In the time it took her to hesitate, Fin hopped out and opened the back door to help Mum, Viola supposed. But he had his hand under a man’s elbow. A tall, rather thin man who seemed to have his left arm in a sling. Fin leaned into the other side of the car and appeared with a young woman clutching what looked like a red notebook. Viola’s mind flashed between knowing it was Fred and Annie and refusing to believe it was possible. As if caught in time and space, they all stood motionless, staring at each other, registering recognition and disbelief. For a split second Viola recalled her perfect day in the family garden six years earlier, when she thought the path of her life was unalterable and would bring her the epitome of happiness. This setting was nothing like that and yet, in these blotched surroundings and as one of these flawed people she knew she had never experienced happiness before.
The spell broke and in a frenzy, they all moved at once. Fred scooped up a small boy who looked about the same age as Freddie, leaned on Annie and with one determined step after another made his way up the hill. Somehow, Viola’s trembling fingers released the ring from under her blouse to where it bounced in between her heart and Freddie’s and she ran without stopping towards them.
Acknowledgements
A special thank you to my lovely daughter, Kelly Collinwood-Erdinc, who read each chapter as it was written and provided me with invaluable feedback and advice.
I would like to acknowledge how grateful I am and how lucky I feel for the love, support and encouragement I receive from my husband, Don Gilchrist, my son, Liam Collinwood and my stepsons Tom Gilchrist and Danny Gilchrist.
Thank you, also, to my wonderful family members Ozzie Erdinc, Arie Collinwood, Sonia Gilchrist, Sue and Gerald Ward, Duncan and Lisa Gilchrist, Ally and Sharon Gilchrist and my fantastic friends Nick Abendroth, Lizzie Alexander, Jo Bishop, Helen Chatten, Penny Clarke, Breda Doran, Fiona Emblem, Jo Emeney, Steve Farmer, Natalie Farrell, Chris Holmes, Paula Horsford, Jan Hurst, Maureen John, Nick John, Liz Kochprapha, Katy Marron, Tom Mathew, Liz Peadon, Dave Pountney, Liz Prescott, Jenny Savage and Martin Shrosbree.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart to Peter and Kathleen Casey and my Galway family for their encouragement and love, to my supportive family members in Turkey and to my sister, brother-in-law, nieces and nephews in the United States.
My thanks go, as always, to my grandchildren Toby, Kaan, Ayda, Alya and Aleksia for bringing endless joy, laughter and happiness to my life.
I am so grateful to Rhea Kurien, my fantastic editor at Aria Fiction who has been committed to this book and to me as an author; I’m going to miss you, Rhea. Thank you, also, to my very helpful and dedicated agent, Kiran Kataria at Keane Kataria Literary Agency.
Thank you to the National Centre for Writing in Norwich and to the Creative Writing Department at Anglia Ruskin University for their on-going support.
Perhaps this should have been mentioned first rather than last, but I am deeply grateful to the White Rose and all young people, on both sides of the channel, who put what they believed to be right and just above their personal safety and thoughts for their own futures.
About the Author
JAN CASEY was born in London but spent her childhood in Southern California where she was inspired to become a writer by her teachers and regular visits to the impressive Los Angeles Central Library.
Before becoming a published novelist, Jan had short stories and flash fiction published and achieved an M.A. in Creative Writing from Anglia Ruskin University in Cambridge.
She was a teacher of English and Drama for many years and is now a Learning Supervisor at a college of further education.
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