by Julie Berry
Hazel took the plunge. “Are you Mrs. Alderidge?”
The woman clapped a hand upon her forehead. “Dearie me, yes! Lost my head along with my youth ages ago, it seems. Yes, I’m Mrs. Alderidge.” She chuckled.
“And is James here?”
The woman’s face grew still. She opened her mouth, then paused. “You don’t know.”
Hazel’s flesh went cold. God in heaven, please, no.
“Mrs. Alderidge,” she pleaded, “what don’t I know?”
“Oh, you look so pale,” said Mrs. Alderidge. “When did you last hear from James?”
“We had been writing regularly,” Hazel said, “but then there was the great battle, where the Fifth Army—well, anyway, after the battle, the letters stopped. And I was so afraid.”
Mrs Alderidge’s face melted with sympathy.
“And then my mother sent me a clipping she saw in the paper,” Hazel’s words rushed on, “saying he was receiving the Distinguished Service Medal.”
Mrs. Alderidge swelled with pride.
“So I came back from France, where I’d been doing war work, to see if I could learn anything about him.”
“You came back from France,” echoed Mrs. Alderidge wonderingly. “Where you’d been doing war work. Oh, you dear, dear girl.” She closed her eyes, as though the tenderness of the scene was just more than she could bear.
This is James’s mother, Hazel told herself. Don’t grab her shoulders and shake her.
Maggie appeared then in the doorway with a tray laden with a tea service, which she set down upon a table nearby. “Shall I take some, er, upstairs?” she asked her mother.
Who’s upstairs? Hazel was desperate to know. Was Maggie trying to tell her something?
“I will in a bit, Margaret,” Mrs. Alderidge said.
Maggie retreated slowly from the room. Mrs. Alderidge busied herself with pouring tea and asking Hazel how she took it, cream or no, when Hazel’s patience burst.
“Please, Mrs. Alderidge,” Hazel implored, “is James still alive?”
A shadow passed across her hostess’s face. “He is, thank the Lord.” She set down the cup and took both of Hazel’s hands in hers. “You poor dear lamb. You feared he was dead?”
Tears pricked Hazel’s eyes. She closed her eyelids tight.
“Is he badly wounded, then?”
Mrs. Alderidge released her hands slowly. A new dread settled onto Hazel’s shoulders. It doesn’t matter, she told herself. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. As long as it’s James.
James’s mother watched her for what felt like an eternity.
“He is well in body,” she said at length, “but he’s not yet, quite, himself.”
In other corners of the house, people moved about, but no sound reached Hazel. Not. Yet. Quite. Himself.
“Why don’t I pop upstairs,” Mrs. Alderidge said, “and just have a little chat with James? Seeing you might do him a world of good.”
Hazel soon heard footsteps ascending the stairs.
She tried to compose herself.
He is well in body but he’s not yet, quite, himself.
Yet.
“Yet” meant he could become himself. What was wrong could be made right with time.
The footsteps were in the room directly above this one, overlooking the street. She glanced up at the ceiling. There was James. Somewhere above her. Right there.
Shell shock? Was that it? Some of the German prisoners had suffered from it. The more severe cases had been kept in a separate ward. They couldn’t work.
Her mind conjured up unspeakable things. Straitjackets. Ravening insanity. Violence. The thought of German prisoners brought back the horrid scene from Compiègne that had haunted her quiet moments and her nightmares. She pressed a fist over her lips.
Stop it.
Why hadn’t James come down?
Maybe he was getting dressed. She tucked imaginary stands of hair back into place.
Or maybe he couldn’t see her today, but he’d be eager to see her very soon.
That was all right. Of course! Let’s see. She could find lodging somewhere, maybe, and stay in the area a couple of days, wire her parents a telegram. Find some respectable older woman who let rooms to boarders, and . . .
A much slower tread sounded on the stairs, coming down.
Hazel braced herself. James.
But it wasn’t James.
“I am so very sorry, Miss Windicott,” Mrs. Alderidge began. “James is not feeling up for company at present.”
Hazel willed herself to smile. “That’s all right,” she said. “I can come back another—”
Mrs. Alderidge shook her head. “James has asked me to give you a message.”
Hazel lowered her head. It was all the privacy the moment allowed her.
“He asked me to say,” the woman said, “that it’s best if your friendship end with the pleasant memories you’ve shared. He wishes you his very best for your health and happiness.”
Mrs. Alderidge had the tact to let Hazel sit a moment.
“Whatever is wrong with him,” she whispered to her knees, “I would help him. I would be patient while he got better.”
Mrs. Alderidge sighed. “That’s very good of you, my dear,” she said sadly. “Very, very good.”
Hazel dangled, suspended in shock, until she remembered Mrs. Alderidge was watching.
She rose. “Thank you for the tea.”
“All the best to you, my dear.” Mrs. Alderidge handed Hazel her coat. “I just can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
Hazel headed down the gravel walk to the garden gate. Everything in her wanted to look up at the front windows and see if James’s face would be there, but she felt Mrs. Alderidge’s gaze pinned between her shoulder blades and moved quickly down the street.
APHRODITE
Watching Her Go—June 1, 1918
IN THE DOORWAY of the Alderidge home, Maggie stood by her mother.
“James sent a girl like that away without so much as a hello?”
Her mother sighed. “It’s not his fault, Mags.”
Maggie shook her head. “I don’t care whose fault it is. It’s stupid, and I liked her.”
“So does your brother.”
“Then why doesn’t—”
“Don’t you dare meddle in this, Maggie,” her mother said. “I’ve said too much as it is. The poor boy’s got enough trouble.”
Maggie wandered off to the butler’s pantry she’d made into her typing room and pecked at a keyboard exercise, thinking, thinking.
* * *
In a second-story window, James stood in shadow and watched her leave. He couldn’t help it.
As she turned at the gate, he caught a quick sight of her face in profile. There she was, downcast and perfect.
Her tall posture, her dark hair piled atop her head, her long neck, her head bowed down in sadness, her steps slow. The soft white lace of her collar, wrapped around her throat. That bright coat he’d bought her. She was right there. With sunlight casting a halo around her. Growing smaller, though, as each step carried her farther away.
She had come. To see him.
If she were what that woman from the YMCA had said, would she have come?
If she were what he’d believed her to be, how could he watch her leave?
If only he could bolt out there now, and take her in his arms, and die there.
But he was no longer what she’d known him to be. He would never be that James again.
I will never hurt you, Hazel Windicott.
Oh, God.
Better that he hurt her once, now, than prolong her hurt, or even allow her pity and kindness to lock her into a commitment that would pain her for the rest of her life.
If he loved her, he must leave her alone.
APHRODITE
Spasms—June 1, 1918
THIS WAS THE crucial moment. All my work was about to go up in flames. I lose enough loves to misfortune, stupidity, and selfishness, not to mention disease and deadly war. I couldn’t let Hazel get on that London-bound train. I searched desperately. I had only minutes to avert a tragedy.
Her footsteps carried her blindly along, seeing nothing through a film of tears.
Up ahead stood an old vicarage. Knitting on the porch was the vicar’s elderly wife.
I’m not proud of what I did next.
In my defense, this sort of thing happened to Mrs. Puxley several times in any given day.
I gave her a back spasm. She cried out in pain. I knew she’d be theatrical about it.
Her cry reached Hazel even through her despair. She hurried up the walk.
I know it wasn’t sporting or nice. I never said I was either. But I’m not a monster. The remainder of her week was spasm-free, and her husband kissed her cheek, twice.
May I continue? Thank you.
Mrs. Puxley was so doubled over that when Hazel offered to help, the white-haired lady saw only a violet skirt and a pair of elegant shoes such as Parisian girls can buy off the rack whilst the ladies of Chelmsford only dream of them, and faintly disapprove.
The skirt and the shoes helped Mrs. Puxley indoors and onto a sofa, found cushions for her head and knees, and fetched a drink of water. Despite her pain, she got a good look at Hazel.
“Who are you, my dear?” she asked. “You’re not from around here.”
“No,” replied Hazel. “I’m from London. I came to the neighborhood to visit a friend.”
Mrs. Puxley winced as another nerve chose to express itself. “Well, you’ve been an angel of mercy to me,” said she. Mrs. Puxley, that is. Not the nerve.
“Is there anyone I should summon for you?” inquired Hazel.
“It’s the maid’s day off,” moaned Mrs. Puxley, “and my husband is at a funeral in town.”
“Shall I get you some aspirin?” asked Hazel.
“Nasty German stuff,” answered Mrs. Puxley. “I don’t believe in it.”
The old lady seemed so frail and pitiable that Hazel didn’t know how to leave.
“You keep on glancing at the piano, my dear,” observed Mrs. Puxley. “Do you play?”
“I do,” Hazel said, “though it’s been a while.”
“Play something for me,” said Mrs. Puxley. “Something gentle, for my poor nerves.”
Hazel hesitated. She had no music with her, and it had been months. She had come straight to Chelmsford from France. She hadn’t even stopped at home to see her parents. She could go see them to celebrate finding James, she had thought, or to cry on their shoulders if—
If.
So many ifs. Never had she imagined this one—James, alive, refusing to see her.
“My dear?” inquired Mrs. Puxley. “Are you all right?”
“Oh.” Hazel tried to smile. “I’m fine.”
“There’s no need to play if it’s upsetting to you,” said the vicar’s wife.
“No, no.” Hazel rose quickly. “I’m happy to.”
So she played, for Mrs. Puxley, Beethoven’s “Pathétique.” The second movement. “Adagio cantabile.”
Beethoven’s “Pathetic,” Aubrey had called it. She sent up a little prayer that he was out there somewhere, safe.
And she understood now, in a way that she never had before, the sorrow and longing wrapped up in Beethoven’s Piano Sonata Number 8 in C minor, opus 13. They flowed into her playing from her broken heart. This was what she’d needed. This salve for her wounded soul.
“My dear,” Mrs. Puxley whispered breathlessly, after the last notes had reverberated throughout the house, “who are you?”
“My name is Hazel Windicott,” said she.
“Are you an accompanist? Do you give lessons?”
Ah. Hazel tried to think how to answer. “I was doing war work,” she explained, “but circumstances forced me to leave my position, and I came here.” She wished the older lady would stop questioning her and let her play. So brief a taste, after months without music, was agony.
Mrs. Puxley very nearly salivated. “You mean to say,” she whispered, “that you are completely unattached at present?”
Her unfortunate choice of words pricked Hazel’s heart. She was very much attached, even if her beloved was no longer.
“I had planned on returning to some other kind of war work, if I could find it,” she said, “but my hope, eventually, is to prepare for auditions to a music conservatory.”
Her words surprised her. Yes. She would apply. Where was her fear of performing for others now? Gone, along with so many other childish things. Whatever else her future held, she would play the piano. Because she wanted to. Not because anyone expected it of her.
“I should hope you do intend to study at a conservatory,” Mrs. Puxley said decisively. “With a talent like yours, it would be a crime not to.”
Hazel had played at enough piano competitions to know hers wasn’t a legendary talent. But there ought to be a seat for her somewhere, at some reputable music school, if she worked hard.
“You have a beautiful piano,” she said. “A lovely tone, and the room has fine acoustics.”
Mrs. Puxley saw her opening. “Miss Windicott,” she said, “this is rather precipitate of me, but it’s just my husband and I, here, in this big old place. Our son is married and gone. We lack a children’s pianist right now, for the Sunday school. What could be nicer than to have you stay with us for a spell, practicing for auditions and making this old place a bit brighter?”
Hazel was dumbstruck.
I will not say that I was uninvolved in this rather rash invitation.
“My husband’s always asking me, why do I go to the expense of keeping that instrument tuned,” she went on, “but I tell him, ‘Alfred, you never know when you’ll need a piano.’” She turned to Hazel. “Obviously, you’re a well-brought-up young lady. Have you any luggage?”
Luggage? Had they reached the stage of discussing luggage?
Should she do this dreadful thing? To situate herself just down the street from James, after he’d said he didn’t wish to see her anymore?
Do it, I told her. Seize the chance.
He deserves it, she thought wickedly. Sending her off without even a hello! She’d come all the way from France to make sure he was all right, and she wasn’t leaving until she’d done so. Let him tell her to her face that it was over, and then she would go. Meanwhile, she would stay close by and practice on this lovely piano. Why not?
“My luggage is at the station,” she told Mrs. Puxley.
“Excellent,” said that worthy woman, rising from the sofa and forgetting all about her spasm. “I’ll send the neighbor to go claim it for you.”
The vicar’s wife, having found the piano girl for her lonely hours and her children’s Sunday school, was not about to let her walk to the station and change her mind.
ARES
Light Duty—June 3–4, 1918
ON MONDAY, JAMES ventured into town, dressed in a suit coat and tie. His appointment was with the military board of review, whose job it was to determine his rate of recovery, and his readiness to return to military service. If they found him well enough, he’d be back at the trenches, where, in his dulled state, he wouldn’t last a week. If they found him unfit, it would be yet another humiliating reminder of his shattered self.
There were three physicians on the board. One seemed to be of the “get back to it, you shirkers” philosophy, while another was full of sympathy for neurasthenic cases, as shell-shocked patients were called, and a third kept his sentiments well guarded. James submitted to an orderly’s poking and p
rodding, then sat and answered questions fired at him by the panel of three. It felt rather like Judgment Day. When the interview was over, he sat numbly until a verdict was announced: he had made progress. Rest had done him good. He was not yet ready to return to combat but likely would be in time. He was to report to the recruiting office in town the next day for “light duty.” Paperwork. He could don his uniform and do his bit.
He walked home.
Just the thought of his uniform made him shiver. He didn’t want to leave the safety of his room. But maybe it would do him good to get away from his mother’s hovering.
The following morning he bathed, dressed in uniform, and headed up Vicarage Road toward the town.
APHRODITE
Hoping It Might Be You—June 4, 1918
“YOU LOVE MY brother, don’t you?”
Hazel jumped up. She’d taken a walk at midday through the park around the church, and was kneeling to admire some flowers. Now she rose, nearly colliding with a girl. A girl with frizzy hair.
Margaret.
“You can call me Maggie,” the girl said. “So, do you love him?”
Hazel took a step back. “I—”
“Because I could take him a note for you.”
Hazel blinked. “Your mother certainly would not approve.”
“I wouldn’t tell her,” said Maggie, as if this were the most obvious solution in the world. “That’s why you stayed in Chelmsford, isn’t it? For the chance to see him?”
Was Hazel’s heart that obvious?
They continued the stroll Hazel had been taking before Maggie appeared.
“Maggie,” Hazel said, “how is James? Is he . . . all right?”
Maggie thought about this question. “Mum says he’ll be fine, but Dad’s not so sure.”
A stab in the heart. “And what do you think?”
Maggie walked a bit, then turned to Hazel. “I think he needs something, and he won’t get better until he finds it,” she said. “Mum, I could tell, was hoping it might be you.”
