I promised to keep this short, so before I go, I’ll end now with what is in my heart.
Darling girl, I will never regret the short time we spent together, because I know now what it’s like to love someone heart and soul.
Never look back. You’re young, find someone to love. I wish you a full and happy life.
Here’s looking at you, kid!
Your Brad
XXX
Sandra folded the letter and clutched it to her heart.
A panicky feeling overcame her. Without thought – of either muffling up in warm clothing, or that she hadn’t eaten – she shot from the chair and made for the front door. She hurtled along the path as though the devil himself was chasing her.
She didn’t think where she was going and was surprised to find herself at the church hall door. Entering the empty hall, she saw, at the far end of the room by the stage, the little Christmas tree, donated by one of the farmers. It stood green and proud waiting to be embellished with ornaments and brought to life.
For some reason she never quite understood, the scene reduced Sandra to shoulder-heaving tears.
Matthew, going to see that all was ready for when the WI arrived to decorate the hall, found Sandra. She was standing in front of the tree and, turning at his footsteps, eyes pink and glistening, tears dripping from her cheeks, she looked the picture of distress.
Alarmed, he hurried towards her. ‘Whatever’s the matter, Miss Hudson?’
She shook like a leaf. ‘It’s Brad.’ The words came out jerky. ‘His plane didn’t return. He’s dead.’
He couldn’t bear to see her so distraught. He was skilled at dealing with such matters but now, at the sight of her, Matthew was lost for words. He tried but he couldn’t think what to say.
‘I’m sorry.’
He told himself to leave. This was a private matter and she hadn’t requested his presence. Besides, Matthew admitted, he was too involved.
‘I’ll make you a cup of tea in the kitchen.’ His response was inadequate, he knew. ‘The women from the WI will be here soon.’
He made to move away.
‘Please stay,’ she managed to say through sobs. ‘I would rather be with you.’
What else could Matthew do? He rifled in his pocket for the clean handkerchief he kept for such occasions.
She wiped her eyes on it.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’ Matthew was genuinely regretful Miss Hudson’s sweetheart had died. He only wanted her happiness.
‘Me and Brad had finished.’
Before he could think of a reply, she hesitantly went on to tell him, as best she could through her distress, how the American was married and had gone back to his wife.
She wiped the tears from her face. ‘I’ve learnt these last few months’ – her expression had changed, become resolute – ‘to trust my inner feelings. Though I didn’t want Brad to go, there was a familiar feeling about him leaving. Do you know what I mean, Mr Carlton?’
‘That it was ordained?’ Matthew put it into words he understood.
‘You could say that. I’d never been in love before and I couldn’t see a future with Brad.’
‘In America?’
‘I suppose, but that would have been difficult.’ She frowned. ‘The strange thing is I never told Brad my background.’ She added quickly, ‘It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him. It was more we lived in a world of our own when nothing else mattered but that we were together.’
It occurred to Matthew as Miss Hudson spoke how much more confidence she had now than when he’d first known her, how much more inner strength.
She gave him a quivery smile as if she knew he was thinking about her. ‘It’s strange but I’ve always felt comfortable confiding everything to you. Thank you, Mr Carlton.’
‘I’m glad I could be of help.’ He inwardly groaned at such an inane answer. There was so much he wanted to say but couldn’t.
She looked at him with a surprised look of discovery. ‘You’ve always been there when I’ve needed someone.’
He saw the tears start and, deciding she must want to be alone, he got up to go.
‘Please stay,’ Sandra told the curate.
It was true she could speak her mind to him and felt neither judgement nor condescension. She could be completely at ease. She could be herself.
In a moment of clarity, an overwhelming sense of knowing she was in the right place at the right time washed over Sandra. A moment of reality, as though the blinkers had been taken away from her eyes.
Sandra didn’t want to be anywhere else but safe and secure here.
She had loved Brad heart and soul, but he wasn’t for her. Their precious time together was only ever to last those few short months. Sandra knew that now. And Brad had known it too. She thought of him and all the other brave souls who had given their lives that others might live.
Brad’s words came back to her. Live a full and happy life. She owed that to him. But could Sandra love again?
She said a silent prayer. Sleep peacefully, Brad Carter. I’ll never forget you.
She looked at Mr Carlton, who gazed back at her with his warm eyes.
She felt awkward with him as she saw not the cleric but the worldly man with… tenderness in his heart.
What an idiot she’d been, not seeing what had been right in front of her all this time.
Gazing at the curate, the simplicity of the man, his beliefs, honesty and goodness, Sandra realised with an absolute certainly she’d known only a few times in her short lifetime, that yes, one day she could learn to love again.
34
January 1944
Frieda
Christmas had come and gone and Frieda felt bleak because, though everyone around her was optimistic about the prospect of a second front, all she could think about was the distressing news that British bombers had conducted their heaviest raid yet on Berlin.
Sitting opposite her at the kitchen table making up Comfort Fund packages, Aunty Doris leapt from her chair and switched off the wireless.
Aunty Doris was glued to war news, the same as everyone else, but Frieda knew her aunt was worried about her becoming too involved in the situation in Berlin and wanted to protect her.
Frieda couldn’t help being obsessed and listened daily to the news and read all the newspapers on the subject. She imagined the devastation in Berlin, toppled buildings reduced to rubble, the dead lying on the ground. The fear that her relatives were amongst them reduced her to a state of despair.
But Frieda hadn’t succumbed to the voice of will that wouldn’t allow her to eat. Sandra’s method of experimenting daily with morsels of different kinds of food and gradually increasing the helping size had been successful and she knew her attitude to food had changed as a result. She still worried constantly about getting fat but she had regained a certain standard of health she wanted to maintain, and she wasn’t so exhausted any more.
It was dinner time and Frieda was home early from the farm as Mr Nichol had said she could help Aunty Doris in the post office because Mrs Teasdale was off sick and her son (who was a Boy Scout) was doing firefighting training in Hexham.
More himself these days, Mr Nichol’s ghastly grey pallor had changed back to its normal ruddy complexion. Frieda suspected that Mrs Nichol’s improved health had helped with the transformation.
The farmer had warned his workers when Mrs Nichol began to be seen downstairs again at mealtimes, ‘Don’t mention our Wil— the laddie, as Mother’s heart isn’t strong enough to handle the grief.’
Frieda felt sad for Mr Nichol, because just thinking about his son made him well up.
She finished a dinner of mince, half a potato and peas and pushed back her chair, taking the dirty dishes to the sink to wash them.
‘Thanks, love. You’re a great help.’ Aunty Doris resumed packing parcels at the table. ‘These long dark winter nights at home cooped up with only the wireless for company give me the hump. Which reminds me, how did the panto
go last night? I couldn’t keep my eyes open.’
‘I really enjoyed it. Lots of funny jokes about the village.’
Mrs Curtis from the shop was a Guider and had written a pantomime for the Guides to perform on stage in the church hall. Frieda thought the Guides brave as the idea of being stared at terrified her. Memories from her schooldays came back to her, when she was singled out and bullied by the other children for being a Jew.
What was wrong with her today? She felt as vulnerable as eggshells inside. Deep down Frieda knew why. Another year had passed without any word from her family. News had filtered through about what the fate was for Jews left in Germany. And, in her weak moments, she feared the worst.
Guilt-ridden, she still wondered why she had survived.
‘Did anyone forget their lines?’ Aunty Doris gazed at her with that intense expression she used when she suspected Frieda was experiencing a moment of mental torture, and wanted to bring her out of it.
Frieda took more deep breaths. ‘No. Sandra didn’t have to prompt.’
Some of the Land Girls had volunteered to help the production by painting scenery or improvising with clothes to make costumes. Sandra had volunteered to act as prompt.
These days Sandra was never far away from the church. It hadn’t escaped Frieda’s attention why that was. She’d noticed surreptitious, lingering looks between her friend and the curate. But she hadn’t pried. She knew her friend would tell her when she was ready.
That time had come yesterday morning, when the pair of them were cleaning out the pigs’ shed together.
Leaning on her rake, eyes shining, Sandra told her, ‘I’ve had a letter from Alf. He says the reason he isn’t home yet is him and the RAF boys he was travelling with were arrested by the Spanish police and imprisoned for two months for entering the country illegally. He says he’s been released and is now in Gibraltar in an RAF camp. He expects to be flown home at any time.’ She beamed. ‘Oh! Frieda. I’m so relieved and happy.’ Then she had looked stricken. ‘How thoughtless of me with all you’re going through.’
Frieda was busy putting a woven willow fence across the shed side opening to keep the pigs outside.
She had assured her friend, ‘It’s wonderful to hear good news. It gives me hope, I couldn’t be happier for you.’ It was the truth. ‘I was so worried about you when the American died. Despite everything I would have felt the same if anything had happened to Antonio.’
Raking the muddy straw from the entrance into a heap, Sandra paused. She frowned in concentration as though trying to find suitable words to reply. ‘While I don’t regret a single moment I spent with Brad, I realise now he was never mine to have. He should have told me he was married from the start. But he showed me how to love. He’ll always have a corner of my heart, but only as a first love.’ Her eyes widened in amazement. ‘Frieda, I’ve got something to tell you in strictest confidence.’
Frieda guessed what the secret was but turned and looked suitably expectant.
‘I’ve fallen for Mr Carlton.’
Frieda knew it. ‘And does he feel the same way?’
Squeals came from the outside fenced-off area – it would seem the pigs were excited too – and Sandra hesitated.
‘Would you believe, yes. Apparently, he approached the bishop some time ago about the matter of us courting.’
‘He must have been smited—’
Sandra laughed. ‘Smitten.’
Frieda giggled. ‘Smitten by you from the first.’
‘Isn’t it incredible? All that time and I never guessed. It just seems right, as if I’ve always known him. I think because he was a curate I held back.’ She shook her head in amazed wonder. ‘He says the bishop insists that propriety is important, so we’re to court in secret.’
‘So, no holding hands in public,’ Frieda replied playfully.
Sandra went pink. ‘Until the event of an engagement announcement, no.’
Frieda beamed. ‘Sandra, this kind of thing only comes once in a lifetime. Enjoy each moment. Though’ – she pulled a mock horrified face – ‘personally I would find keeping a secret as big as this difficult.’
‘I don’t mind. I’m just so happy.’ Sandra looked pensive. ‘I’m prepared to wait as long as it takes. Matthew insists being involved with him is a big step for me and he wants me to be sure.’
Frieda leant the fork against the shed wall. ‘The curate’s a good sort. I would imagine he would put your feelings first.’
‘He does. He would jeopardise his own happiness if he thought I’d be unhappy.’
Frieda crossed her heart. ‘I promise I won’t tell a soul.’
‘I had to tell you. You’re family to me.’
Maybe the only family I’ve got, Frieda thought.
Thinking of family, Frieda said, ‘Why don’t you write and tell Mrs Goodwin the good news about Alf and that you’ve found happiness with Mr Carlton? It will make her day.’
‘Better still, I’ve written and told her I’ve got next weekend off and will spend the night. I intend to tell Olive in person.’
‘Oh! She’ll be thrilled. I wish I could come with you’ – Frieda gave her friend a mischievous grin – ‘but someone has to milk Gertie. Give Mrs Goodwin my love.’
‘I will.’ Sandra laughed. ‘I bet she’s started baking already.’
Frieda, delivering the afternoon’s post before she went back to work at the farm, brought out the last letter from the sack.
She passed an opening where a wrought-iron gate would have been had it not been taken away to make munitions earlier in the war.
Posting the letter through the brass letterbox, she retraced her steps back to the post office. She passed the little white bridge over the gushing stream, swollen now with the recent torrential rain. Walking along the stream’s grassy banks, the sun peeped through a cloud and the village was drenched in sunlight.
In the absolute silence, she gazed around the village, empty of people except for an elderly man who sat on a wooden bench on the other side of the stream, smoking a pipe.
As she made her way back to the post office, Frieda knew, with a clarity that comes only a few times in a lifetime, to prepare herself because something momentous was going to happen.
‘Yoo-hoo,’ a voice called, as if on cue.
Aunty Doris was standing at the end of the garden path, behind the stone wall.
As Frieda approached her aunt held out a letter, an anxious look in her eye. ‘I put this aside so you would see it.’ She handed over the letter. ‘Did you not see it by the post bag?’
Frieda hadn’t.
‘It’s from the International Red Cross, probably sent on from their headquarters in Geneva.’
A cold sensation shivered up Frieda’s spine.
‘Come and read it inside.’ Aunty Doris led the way up the path.
Dreamlike, she followed Aunty Doris and, as the post office bell gave its familiar ting, she wondered if, after opening the letter, life would ever be the same.
Throwing the empty post bag on the counter, she wondered if this was what Sandra must have felt when she received Alf’s telegram.
She stood in the deathly quiet post office where only a clock ticked. She could procrastinate no longer. She tore the envelope open.
The letter was written in German, something Frieda struggled with after so long, but she got by enough to manage.
November 1943
Dear Frieda,
Sorry I ran away that day.
Her heart raced; it was from Kurt!
I found the good friend and I am in hiding. Our parents and grandma were arrested and taken to the camps. The Red Cross helped find you. I hope you are well, my beloved sister. I wished to write in case the worst should happen but in my heart I feel that one day we shall meet again after this war is done. I miss you. I’m sorry I didn’t protect you and Mama.
Your loving brother,
Kurt
Her throat aching, Frieda read the letter again. Thou
gh she stared at the words she couldn’t quite believe that they were real.
Time slipped away, and Frieda was transported back to the crowded station in Berlin, staring into her brother’s mutinous face.
I won’t go. Papa told me that I’m now the man of the family until he returns.
She relived in her mind’s eye Mama’s drawn, white face, the acute shock when Kurt jumped ship, the loneliness and fear of the sea journey.
She had survived. So had Kurt. As the enormity of the moment sank in, tears fell from her eyes. She brushed them hastily away with a hand. This was not the time for tears. As the joy of knowing Kurt was alive filtered through every fibre of her being, happiness overcame her.
‘Frieda, for goodness’ sake, tell me what the letter says.’
‘My brother Kurt is alive.’
‘Oh, my goodness. That’s wonderful news. I’m so glad for you.’ Tears of joy brimmed in Aunty Doris’s eyes. ‘Does he say where he is?’
Frieda read the letter out loud.
‘Who is this good friend? Do you know?’
Frieda’s brow wrinkled in thought. ‘I can only think Kurt means Herr Unger. Papa always referred to him as my good friend.’ She remembered something else. ‘Herr Unger has a cellar. Maybe that’s where Kurt is in hiding.’
Aunty Doris’s expression became grave. ‘You realise it would be too dangerous for them if your brother was to say any more.’
Frieda nodded.
Aunty Doris gathered her up in a hug. As they held one another there was an expectant silence and she knew Aunty Doris was wondering about the rest of Frieda’s family. But Frieda couldn’t face the subject of her parents right now when all she wanted was to bask in happiness.
The post office door tinged open.
Her aunt kissed Frieda on the brow. ‘I’m over the moon your brother’s alive. Just trust in the future, love.’
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