by Juno Dawson
In short, the happiness I feel far outweighs the worries I have about Rick leaving Llanmarion. It’s worth it. All and any love is worth it.
But incident never feels very far away, and that brings me on to what happened this afternoon. Deep breath. It was an uncommonly warm day for springtime and I was quite overdressed in a woollen skirt and stockings. As soon as I finished my shift at the office, I rode straight over to the hospital to meet Rick.
We strolled, swinging our joined hands gaily, through canary-yellow fields of rapeseed towards our barn. Of course I don’t relish that we have to sneak off to a derelict barn – it makes it all feel sordid and illicit – but what other choice do we have? We cannot legitimately lie with one another until we are man and wife.
Only, as it turns out, it is far from being ‘our barn’. So far off the road, Rick and I assumed the place was forgotten. We waltzed in, as carefree as daisies. It was only when we heard a loud curse and hay came fluttering down through the gaps in the planks that I was made aware we weren’t alone.
‘Who’s there?’ Rick demanded. ‘Come out at once! This is private property.’ I didn’t like to tell him people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.
Amid a rustle of trouser legs being hastily hauled up and a clatter of belt buckles, two ashamed little faces popped over the side of the top floor. My hand flew to my mouth. It was none other than Andrew and Bill Jones.
They knew what we were doing in the barn, and, by golly, we knew what they were doing too.
Chapter 21
Holy gay love tryst, Batman! This diary is the gift that just keeps on giving. My mouth is actually hanging open. Who knew people in the forties were so randy? I guess this is what happens when you don’t have MTV. Or maybe it was because they were all aware that they could snuff it at any given moment, so they all threw caution to the wind.
I recover from the SCANDAL but start to worry. If Andrew from the diary is my Grandad Andrew, that is, again, icky. Why do my grandparents keep getting it on? At this rate I’m going to have to shower with a scouring pad just to feel clean. My brain starts to do sex maths. Number one: if this Andrew is my Grandad, maybe he was bi. Loads of people are bi. Kurt Cobain was bi. Brian Molko is bi. I don’t wanna think about Grandad having sex EVER, but I don’t really care if it’s with men or women.
But what are the odds? There must be a trillion Andrews in the world. It seems unlikely that Diary Andrew is Grandad Andrew.
There’s only one way to find out. I glance at the clock to make sure it’s not too late, and carry on reading.
‘Margot!’ Andrew said, his mouth a surprised little circle.
‘What are you doing?’ I said, although I knew full well; the question was more a reflex than a request for information.
Andrew scrambled down the ladder. ‘Look, Margot, it isn’t what it looks like …’ My expression must have been deeply sceptical. ‘You can’t tell anyone. Do you understand what would happen?’
‘Shut your mouth, you idiot.’ Bill, coming down the ladder, thumped Andrew in the back.
‘Bill, she saw us.’
‘Shut your mouth!’ Bill raised his fist to silence Andrew, but Rick stepped in between them.
‘Cool it!’ he commanded, holding Bill back.
I held up a hand. ‘Calm down. I won’t say anything, and neither will Rick.’ Bill’s shoulders went down an inch. ‘Why do you think we were sneaking out here? We can keep a secret if you can.’
I gave Andrew a subtle smile, and although he was too scared to smile back, he did look bashfully to the floor. Andrew, perhaps not a surprise, but Bill Jones! I say!
Father always tuts and sneers when people mutter about pansies, but I can’t imagine it’s something a man, if so inclined, can avoid. Mother’s eldest brother, Edmund, who fled Berlin just before Hitler came to power, is a confirmed bachelor and I have always found him to be utterly delightful.
‘If you say anything, I’ll say you made it all up,’ Bill added huffily.
‘What two guys do on their own time is their business,’ Rick said with a shrug.
‘It was nothin’.’ Bill buttoned his shirt and skulked out of the barn.
I looked to Andrew. ‘Are you going to be all right?’
‘I’ll be lucky if he speaks to me again.’
‘Would that be so terrible?’ I asked.
Andrew blushed a rosy pink shade. ‘I like him rather more than I’m supposed to.’ He shook his head. ‘And almost certainly more than he likes me.’
‘Oh, my poor, sweet Andrew.’ I took his hand in mine. ‘I don’t think Llanmarion is where your great love affair is meant to take place.’
‘It’s working out all right for you,’ he said without missing a beat.
I swapped a quick glance with Rick, reminded of that invisible shawl I feel wrapped in. Sometimes I wonder what fates conspired to steer us both to such a hidden pocket of the universe at the same time. It seems so lucky, so fortuitous, I hardly dare sneeze lest I blow our chance away.
Of course I won’t say anything about what we saw in the barn. It’s Andrew’s business, and I’d sooner die than make life any harder for him. I can’t imagine it’s easy as it is. It’s tempting to tell Bess, but I don’t trust her to be discreet.
Now that I am in love, it makes me angrier that Bess and Reg, and Andrew and Bill can’t be. It seems so fundamental. Stern words from a pulpit won’t turn back a tide.
Forgive me, diary, I must now go and help Glynis with vegetables for dinner. The new mundane beckons again.
Chapter 22
I wake up and make it as far as the shower, but I quickly realise I’m not well. There’s a shiver inside my bones, and muscles I didn’t know I had ache. I wonder if I’ve caught whatever virus it is Mum has. Even Margot notices. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks as I sit at the breakfast table. Mum isn’t up again.
‘I feel pretty gross.’
Margot frowns and holds the back of her hand to my forehead. With a ‘hmm’, she dashes upstairs, to return a moment later with a thermometer. ‘Here, pop this under your tongue.’ I do as I’m told and a minute later she whips it out of my mouth without warning. ‘Goodness. No, you’re not well. Back to bed with you, young lady.’
I don’t even have the strength to argue. I practically have to drag my hollow limbs up the stairs back to my room.
I toss and turn, one minute burning up and fighting off sheet tentacles, freezing cold and rattling the next. Crazy fever dreams about Margot and Andrew and Rick and Dewi and Bronwyn and Thom filter in and out of my head. I keep waking up in a panic, thinking I have to be somewhere.
In the worst, Mum has been rushed to hospital while I’m lying here. ‘Mum!’ I yell out at one point.
‘What?’ She pokes her head around the door.
‘Mum?’
‘I’m here.’ She sits at the foot of the bed. ‘Are you feeling any better?’
I don’t. It feels like there’s broken glass in my throat. ‘I had a dream about you. Are you real?’
A gentle smile. She looks very beautiful, like a painting from the Louvre or something. The sun hits her pale face and it’s way Renaissance. I can never pronounce Renaissance. ‘Yes, I’m real. You poor thing. Let me get you some paracetamol.’
I grab for her arm. ‘No, don’t go.’
She sits back down. ‘It’s all right, Fliss. I’m here.’
I scoot over and she lies down next to me. I hold her close and drift off into a shallow sleep.
The rest of Thursday is a write-off and, let’s face it, if you’ve had Thursday off you’re hardly going to go back to school on Friday. The teachers barely bother to hide their hangovers on a Friday. Lots of ‘Quiet Reading Time’.
I do feel a bit better though. The burning throat and shivers seem to have morphed into a stinking cold, which I can deal with, even if I do look like a gooey plague victim. Mum and Margot let me sleep until about nine thirty and then I feel well enough to head downstairs. I want out
of the bed. it’s sweaty and smells like ill person.
I have some toast before sinking into a hot bath. Well, if you’re gonna be ill, do it right, I think. I daren’t read the diary in the bath in case I drop it, so I take a Nancy Drew Case Files paperback I already read a few years back and soak until the water goes tepid and Nancy figures out who’s leaving the sorority spooky messages.
Because I’m off school, I tie my hair into a messy bun and put my dressing gown on. Mum has changed my bedding while I was in the bath and, truth be told, I’m probably well enough to have gone to school.
Ah, well. As it is, it’s another day with Margot’s diary. I get under the covers (the farm is only getting more Baltic as we head into autumn) and turn to the next entry.
Thursday 1st May, 1941
May Day! And what a glorious spring day it was – warm enough to wear a light cotton dress and sandals.
Llanmarion was determined to plough ahead with the May Day fair despite what happened on St David’s Day. The maypole was erected and the children from the primary had been practising for weeks. There were some tightly clenched nervous jaws, but the celebration would go ahead as planned.
We took along a picnic – all of us: myself, Rick, Bess, Andrew and Doreen. Bill Jones was there too, but notably wouldn’t even acknowledge poor Andrew. Still, we brought a wonderful spread: pork pies and cucumber sandwiches and honey on crusty bread. It was all wonderful until we realised we’d set out our blanket right on top of an ant’s nest! Oh, you should have heard Doreen squeal as they crawled over her legs!
Peter’s class was involved in the dance so, after we’d eaten, we gathered around to watch. Rick wrapped his arms around my waist and I snuggled close. He’d been sullen all day. ‘Are you quite all right? You’re very quiet today.’
‘I’m fine and dandy.’
He gave me a kiss and I turned to return one. Some of the wizened old hags from the village looked across at us with scorn on their faces, but I cared little. They were young once, and you’re not telling me they weren’t partial to kissing. ‘You seem sad.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m not sad, I’m in love.’
‘Well, that’s a good thing!’
‘I love you so much, Margot, it almost hurts.’
It seems so silly to write it down, but I did start to panic. ‘In a good way, I hope?’
He paused for a moment and it was simply awful. Then, thank goodness, he smiled. ‘It’s like an ache,’ he said. ‘A big, warm ache … right here.’ He took my hand and held it to his breastbone. I could feel his heart, thumping away.
‘I’m glad to be in your heart.’
He held my face in his hands, as if he wanted to get a good look at me. ‘God, you’re beautiful. And brilliant.’ He kissed me again.
I smiled. ‘Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.’
He laughed and kissed me again as the music started.
Oh, Peter was sweet in his short trousers. The dance began well enough, but soon descended into wonderful chaos as one clumsy oaf went the wrong way and a tangle of red ribbon ensued, which soon turned into and a scrappy fist fight between two little boys. Poor Miss Dipping, the school-mistress, had to step in to split them up and untangle them.
We laughed so much we cried. It was the best thing I’ve seen all year!
I turn the page for the next entry.
Only there isn’t one.
It’s just a blank page. I turn again and this time there’s an envelope, pressed as fine as a leaf, between the pages – jammed firmly into the spine. I prise it out. The envelope has been opened with precision – the reader has used a paper knife. It’s addressed only to ‘Margot’.
Somehow I know it’s a love letter from Rick, and that feels even worse than reading her diary, more intimate. Is that going to stop me?
No.
I’m a terrible person.
I slide the letter out, a single silky sheet. Rick’s handwriting is instantly male.
My beloved Margot
I have fought in wars, been prepared to die for king and a country I didn’t always call home, but it turns out love makes us all cowards. By the time you read this, I will have gone. Call me a coward if you want, but I can’t stand to see your face as I break both our hearts.
I write this letter and curse the fates. Time is so cruel. It seems so stupid that much of love is at the mercy of timing. A week here, an hour there, a minute later or a second earlier and we might have never met and no one’s heart would have to get hurt.
I was never meant to be in Llanmarion, and neither were you. We were never supposed to meet, but I can’t regret this love. Know it was love, my dear. It is love. When I’m with you I feel like I’m glowing. I felt it the first night we met and I still feel it now. I wonder if I’ll always feel it.
But, and it pains me to write this, my heart belongs to another. I know I should have told you from the start, but you intrigued me, and before I knew what was happening I was on your doorstep with flowers. I had to know you. I wasn’t to know we’d both fall so deeply so fast.
I was promised to another girl right out of school in Canada. Childhood sweethearts. We came to England together, and we were to marry, until the war broke out and delayed our plans. She’s not like you, Margot. She’s a sweet, simple girl. A gentle soul who deserves better. As passionately as I feel for you and as much as I’ve imagined a future for us beyond the war, I do not believe she could survive my betrayal. She is waiting for me in Ontario, waiting for my return after the war.
You, you my beloved, are strong enough to weather any storm. Of that I am certain. I don’t know if I’ll recover from this agony, but I know you will.
What we have was this village. You, me and Llanmarion, like one of those snow globes at the Christmas market. Imagine that, and try to trap the love we have in a glass bubble, something you can keep and treasure forever. Something that was perfect. Maybe it’s better I leave and let it be perfect in perpetuity. Just think, we’ll be young and beautiful and happy forever in that snow globe. We’ll never get old, never fall out of love, never remind each other of how we’re decaying. Maybe this is for the best.
Please don’t hate me, Margot, I don’t think I could stand it. I don’t know where they’re sending me and perhaps it’s best if you don’t try to find out. Pretend I died some gallant, Nazi-fighting death and you loved and lost a war hero.
My cowardice doesn’t darken that light in my heart. That will always be there. I will always love you, Margot Stanford. I am so very sorry.
Farewell, my beloved,
Rick Sawyer
Chapter 23
Nooooooo!
At some point while reading the letter, my hand has absent-mindedly flown to my chest like I’m stopping my mashed-up heart from spilling onto my clean duvet cover.
Jesus, Mary and that other one, this is AWFUL. Because I went into it expecting a love letter, I read again, my heart sinking further into my stomach with every line.
He left her?
He just left?
He had a girlfriend?
What?
Again, noooooo! No, no, no. This isn’t what was meant to happen at all. Poor, poor Margot.
I carefully fold the letter back into the envelope and tuck it back in. I have to know what happened next. I turn the page, and thank God there’s more.
Friday 9th May, 1941
I don’t know what to write. I’ve been staring at an empty page for days. What is there to say?
He left me here.
It feels like I am rotting from the heart out. My arms and legs and mouth continue to soldier on, but my insides are festering and mouldy, writhing with maggots. How I wish I could cry. How I wish I could scream and shout, but those are pastimes of the living.
I got the letter two days ago. It was waiting on the doorstep when I got home with Glynis. We were positively exuberant as we’d managed, between us, to break that devilish cipher. And there it was.
It’s a
ll so clear now. I last saw Rick on Sunday. It was a bright and sunny day and so we went up to the lake. I fell asleep on our picnic blanket, Du Maurier open on my chest. I awoke and found him gone. I looked up and saw him at the water’s edge, skimming pebbles across the surface. Circles rippled, and I sensed he was brooding, perhaps aware we’d both have to acknowledge his improving health soon.
Now I know his thoughts weren’t nearly so noble. I watched him awhile. I wonder if that was when he knew. When he decided to leave me here. I suppose that ache he felt in his chest wasn’t love after all. It was guilt. Guilt: cold, black and greasy.
He calls me his beloved, but how could he love me and be so ruthless? I could have no more left Rick Sawyer than I could leave my own body, and yet he managed it. I read his letter once, and thought it must be some horrific nightmare. I read it twice and it felt like I was in a novel. Only on the third read did it truly sink in.
He has gone.
And with him went my spirit.
Saturday 10th May, 1941
I couldn’t avoid it any longer. I had to tell Glynis why Rick hadn’t called on me this week. ‘Margot, is Rick well?’ she asked me as we tidied up after supper tonight. The lambs are getting a bit bigger now. The children were out helping Ivor with them, so it was just the two of us.
I retrieved the letter from my pocket. I don’t know why I’ve been carrying the cursed thing around with me, but it’s all I have of him now. Without a sound I handed it to her. She read it quickly and her eyes dimmed with pity. ‘Oh, Margot, sweetheart. I’m so sorry, like.’
‘Thank you,’ I said in the absence of any original thoughts.
Glynis sat me down at the kitchen table. ‘You poor thing. This is absolutely awful. And to tell you in a letter – what sort of a man does that?’
I said nothing.
‘Ah, Margot. I thought he was one of the good ones too.’ She took my hand. ‘It feels awful, doesn’t it? This won’t make you feel any better just now, but we’ve all had our hearts broken at some point, you know? For me it was Gryff Owen. We were twelve and I thought he was the most spiffin’ chap in all of Wales. Only he said I was big as a heifer. Can you imagine? Although I was a bit podgier back then, mind you.’ I must have glazed over. ‘Margot? I know it feels like a catastrophe, but it will get better, I promise. Hearts heal, just like broken bones, so they do.’
