The G.I. Bride

by Eileen Ramsay

  April was bewildered by the talkative woman. She couldn’t have asked for a warmer welcome, but all the same, the thought of food then bed sounded wonderful. She only hoped she didn’t dream tonight. Sometimes she woke screaming, and she was worried she’d wake Mrs Teague. Mrs Osborne used to complain about the disturbance, but April couldn’t imagine the friendly Mrs Teague being quite so cruel. She walked into the kitchen, which was painted white and had a range cooker and a small table by the window that looked out on to the garden. It was dark now, but April wondered whether the vegetables Mrs Teague was using in her soup had come from there, or if she was still able to grow flowers.

  ‘Just in time, lovely. Sit down and get that inside you. Carrots, potatoes and cabbage – all from the garden,’ she said proudly, unwittingly answering April’s question. ‘The bread’s warm. No butter, mind, but it’s not too dry if you dip it in the soup.’

  April sat and began to eat. ‘Oh, this is delicious, Mrs Teague. I can’t imagine how you’ve made it so tasty.’

  Mrs Teague laughed. ‘Oh, I have my ways. My Isaac used to say I was a wizard in the kitchen. It was one of the things he loved best about me.’ She smiled sadly, then shook her head. ‘Now I’m just happy to cook for anyone who’ll join me.’

  As she ate, Mrs Teague asked her about her journey down. When she explained about the sheep and the cold, Mrs Teague tutted. ‘Oh, blast this war. Nothing is simple any more. I’m just glad Isaac didn’t live to see this. After what he experienced in the last one, this would have broken his heart . . .’

  Mrs Teague looked close to tears, and April put her hand on hers. ‘Please don’t upset yourself.’

  ‘I’m sorry, April, I do get upset when I think too much about the war. I read the papers and listen to the radio, and seems to me the only way we’ll win is if the Americans join us. Still, if anyone can persuade them, Churchill can.’ She jumped up and started to clear the dishes away.

  ‘Can I help you, Mrs Teague?’

  ‘Oh, bless you, no. Let me show you to your room so you can get to bed. We’ll talk more in the morning.’

  Relieved, April followed her landlady up the stairs into a pretty, feminine bedroom. The bed was covered with a flowered bedspread, and a writing desk was pushed up against the window. In one corner, there was yet another flowered armchair – Mrs Teague seemed to like flowers maybe a little too much – that matched those in the sitting room, and against the opposite wall a wardrobe and a chest of drawers. It all looked so clean and welcoming that April nearly cried with relief. This looked like a place she could really find sanctuary in.

  ‘There you go, April. I’ll wish you good night. Bathroom’s just down the corridor. You stay in bed as long as you like tomorrow. You’ll need your strength for when you start work.’ And with that, Mrs Teague left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  April flopped down on to the bed. She was so tired she wasn’t sure she had the energy to change into her nightgown. She lay for a few minutes staring at the ceiling and thinking about her day and everything that had happened. There was something about this place that felt familiar. Not just this house, but as if the very atmosphere was one she knew. Was this because she’d been here before? Or were her mother’s Cornish roots so strong that just being in the place she had lived was enough. She shook her head. She was being fanciful. It was probably the way people spoke. They sounded just like her mother. She’d always called April ‘my lovely’ too.

  With that comforting thought, April drifted to sleep, still wearing the tatty old skirt and jumper that had been given to her by the WVS.

  Chapter 4

  ‘April! April, whatever is the matter?’

  April opened her eyes in shock, her body racked with sobs and her face wet with tears. The remnants of her dream were still with her as she stared into Mrs Teague’s concerned face.

  ‘Oh! Oh no! I’m so sorry, Mrs Teague. Did I wake you?’

  ‘Never mind that, dear. Seems like you’ve had a nasty dream. Let me get you some cocoa, and you can tell me all about it.’

  April sat up. ‘Oh no. Please don’t bother. I’m so sorry. I often have bad dreams, I’m used to it, so please go back to bed. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘As if I can leave anyone in the state you’re in. And you just a young girl and under my care. No, lie back down, I’ll be back in just a moment.’

  April lay back with a sob of distress. It had been over six months, and still the dreams would not go. Her father’s anxious face at the window, the wail of the sirens, the explosions, the flames, and the green velvet curtains flapping around the gaping hole where her father had been standing. It was driving her mad. And now Mrs Teague would probably want her to move out. She pulled the covers up over her head, wishing everything would just go away. Oh, this awful war! When would it all stop?

  She heard Mrs Teague come back in and the bed sagged as she sat down on the edge.

  ‘Drink your cocoa, lovely, and if it helps, you can tell me all about it.’

  April pulled the covers down and looked at the kindly woman’s face. Her blue eyes were soft and her tone was sympathetic. But what could she say?

  ‘There’s nothing to tell, Mrs Teague. I dream about the night my father died in an air raid again and again. I’m sorry, I don’t always scream. Mrs Osborne, who I used to live with, used to get cross at being woken up.’

  ‘She never did! The nasty old biddy! I’d give her a piece of my mind if I ever saw her. I’m guessing that you’ve not had much comforting after a nightmare before.’

  April shook her head. ‘No, I suppose I haven’t. You are kind, Mrs Teague. Thank you. But I think you’ve been disturbed enough tonight. I’ll be fine.’

  The older woman looked at her searchingly, then said, ‘Very well, April. But you must understand that I will never be cross with you for having nightmares. Me and Isaac never had any children of our own, so I care for others’ children where I can. And while you’re my lodger, pet, I will do the same for you. Have no fear.’

  April almost cried at these kind words, and she smiled tremulously. ‘Thank you. That is possibly the loveliest thing anyone’s said to me for a long while.’

  Mrs Teague patted her hand. ‘Right. Now you know not to fear, I hope you can sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning, dear.’ She left, shutting the door gently behind her.

  *

  When April woke the next morning, she was feeling much better, and remembering Mrs Teague’s kindness during the night made her feel less alone than she had in months. She hoped that the woman hadn’t had second thoughts during the night and decided she might be too much trouble as a lodger. She washed and dressed in some old woollen slacks the WVS had given her and a woollen jumper that had definitely seen better days, but it was warm and comfortable and April didn’t anticipate going out much that day.

  She crept quietly into the kitchen where Mrs Teague was standing at the stove stirring a pot of porridge. She jumped when she heard April pull a chair out.

  ‘Bless me, you gave me a fright! How are you feeling, lovely? Better, are you?’

  ‘Much better. Thank you for being so kind last night.’

  ‘Pish, anyone would do the same. Here’s some porridge for you. Get it down you, and if you like, later, I’d be happy to show you the way to Truro.’

  ‘Would you mind very much if I just stayed here today? I’d like to unpack and I have some letters to write.’

  Mrs Teague patted her hand. ‘You do that, then. Sounds sensible to me. Rest and resuscitation, isn’t that what they say?’

  April smiled. ‘I think it’s recuperation.’

  ‘Tsk, I am a silly old fool sometimes. You carry on, April. I’ve got some shopping to do in Truro so I’ll see you at lunch, dear.’

  April ate her porridge then went back to her room and unpacked. She didn’t really have anything to do at all, but she felt so tired and bewildered that the thought of venturing out today had felt too much. She sat down at her des
k and wrote a letter to the Osbornes to let them know she’d arrived safely. Not that Mrs Osborne would care one way or another, but it would be impolite not to contact them at all, and her father had been very strict about manners and the correct way to behave.

  By the time she heard Mrs Teague return, she’d written three letters – one to Mrs O’Connor to let her know she’d moved, one to the Osbornes and, finally, she wrote to Theo, giving him her new address. She kept it quite brief and to the point as she still wasn’t sure about her feelings towards him any more.

  That night, after a very leisurely day and some more of Mrs Teague’s glorious cooking, April was finally starting to feel more relaxed. Her landlady really did seem like a lovely woman who was so interested in everything April had to say. The signs were good, April thought later as she lay in bed, that this had been the right move for her. Smiling to herself, she drifted off into what she hoped would be a peaceful sleep.

  *

  ‘April! Wake up. It’s just Mrs Teague here, no need to fret.’

  April opened her eyes, suddenly aware that her blankets were on the floor, the sheet was twisted around her and the pillow was soaking wet.

  ‘Oh no! Not again. I’m so sorry, Mrs Teague.’

  ‘Hush, my girl. It’s fine. You sounded so terrified and so heartbroken, I had to wake you. Was it the same dream?’

  April nodded.

  Mrs Teague’s eyes were kind and full of concern. ‘I’ll make you something hot, my love. Hold on there.’

  When she returned with a mug of cocoa, she sat on the side of the bed. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

  April shook her head. ‘It’s like I said last night. The air raid.’

  Mrs Teague nodded sympathetically. ‘And who’s Theo? Did he die too?’

  April was startled. ‘Did I call his name? Oh. He’s an old friend. I was staying with his parents before I came here.’

  ‘Ah. Is he your sweetheart?’

  April looked away. ‘Not any more.’ She felt tears well again and dashed them away impatiently.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me all about it? You know the old saying – a problem shared and all that.’

  April shook her head, but the tears kept coming. Mrs Teague stroked her hair back from her face. ‘There now, it’s all right. Tell your old landlady all about it, and maybe you’ll feel better.’

  It had been so long since April had been able to confide in anyone and Mrs Teague’s presence was so comforting that she gave in and told her everything. From her father’s death, to Mrs Osborne and Theo, and Theo’s last visit. And finally, she spoke of her hopes of finding anyone who might be related to her.

  ‘You poor child. What a time you’ve had, and all alone in the world. Well, don’t you worry any more. I have nothing but time, and I can help you in your search. It can’t be too difficult, can it, now? Do you know where your mother’s buried? That’s where we should start.’

  ‘Yes, I think it’s in a place called St Merryn.’

  ‘Oh, I know St Merryn. It’s not so far on the bus. How about I take you up there one day so you can pay your respects? I know the church and old Mrs V up there knows everyone’s business. If anyone knows where your mum’s sister is, it’ll be Mrs V.’

  April’s heart lifted. ‘Really? You’d do that with me?’

  ‘Of course I will. Now snuggle down for what’s left of the night and we’ll talk more in the morning.’

  Mrs Teague was just closing the bedroom door when April asked tentatively, ‘Mrs Teague, would it be all right if we went tomorrow?’

  ‘I think that’s a very good idea. Go there before you start working and you don’t have so much time. Good night, my dear.’

  *

  The next morning, April dressed and went down to the kitchen to find her landlady at her usual spot by the stove. This time, she seemed to be concocting some sort of stew. Whatever it was, it smelled wonderful. April smiled at the sight and reflected that she didn’t think she’d ever met anyone quite as kind.

  Mrs Teague turned. ‘Ah, there you are, dear. How are you feeling this morning?’

  ‘Much better, thank you, Mrs Teague. And I just wanted to say how sorry I am for waking you last night, and thank you for being so kind to me.’

  ‘Nonsense, child. I was just happy to be there. Now, get this tea down you, and I’ll make you some toast, will that do you? No butter, I’m afraid, and only dripping for the toast, is that all right with you?’

  April sat down. ‘That sounds perfect. Thank you.’

  ‘And do you still want to go up to St Merryn? Or have you changed your mind?’

  ‘I would like to go. Thank you. But if it’s not convenient for you I can make my own way if you give me directions.’

  Mrs Teague tutted. ‘I said I’d come, didn’t I? Anyway, it’ll be nice to have a little journey.’

  April smiled in response. She couldn’t wait to see her mother’s grave, and maybe, just maybe, the woman at the church could help her find some of her family.

  *

  Gazing out of the window, April watched the beautiful Cornish countryside roll past. Mrs Teague, thankfully, had bumped into an acquaintance and was busy chatting to her, so April was able to sit quietly and think about her mother. Had she gazed at this very sight when she was younger? Maybe she’d even visited the hospital. April liked the idea of treading where her mother once had; it gave her a warm feeling of belonging.

  When they finally got off at St Merryn, April drew in a deep breath and looked around her. How wonderful, she thought. My mother belonged in this village, belonged in Cornwall, and therefore I belong too.

  In her mind she had painted what she now realised was a chocolate-box picture of a quaint English village, but St Merryn was no more than a long straggly line of houses with a larger building that was probably a hotel in the middle. She refused to be disappointed, though, and looked up in expectation at the church, only a few hundred yards along the road. The massive stone tower loomed over the village and the moors, visible from every direction as it climbed up towards the grey December sky. Almost as if she had stepped along the road every Sunday of her life, she hurried to the ancient stone wall that encircled the church and graveyard, opened the old gate and stood for a moment gazing up at the church tower. Her first thought was not of her roots but of how enormous the church was for such a small community.

  The church door was open, and with Mrs Teague trailing silently in her wake, she went inside. A feeling of peace washed over her as she walked down the long aisle, looking around her at the rows of wooden pews, the embroidered kneelers, and, at the front of the church, the beautiful stained-glass window depicting a Madonna and child. She stared at. Was it a sign? She shook her head. She was letting her emotions take over, something that, as a nurse, she had been taught never to do. She walked back to the door and stood at the entrance for a moment, noticing the houses visible over the stone wall that surrounded the church. They were large with generous gardens – one of them was probably the vicarage. If she couldn’t find her mother’s grave, she would knock and see if the vicar was in. Perhaps he would let her look at the church records so she could verify she was in the right place. But first, she was anxious to search the graveyard. It was large and full of gravestones – some older than others. If she looked at only the relatively new ones, that should save her some time.

  Mrs Teague came and stood beside her. April jumped slightly. She’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she’d almost forgotten the older woman was with her.

  ‘How about we split up to look for your mother’s grave?’ she said gently. ‘That way we have a better chance of finding it quickly.’

  April nodded. ‘That sounds like a very good idea. I’ll go this way’ – she pointed to the left – ‘and if either of us finds it, we will give a shout.’

  Mrs Teague set off, then stopped suddenly. ‘What was your mother’s name?’

  ‘Oh, it was Mellyn Harvey née Rowe.’


  ‘Right, I’ll get on.’ Mrs Teague turned right on the neat pebble path that wound around the perimeter of the church while April walked in the opposite direction. Some of the stones seemed as ancient as the surrounding wall and a few showed signs of having fallen and been replaced, but the large area of grass was neat and tidy, and she could tell that the graves were carefully tended. Not a vase or flower was in the wrong place. Someone worked with love here and April was glad. At least she knew her mother’s grave was well looked after.

  She shivered as the wind blew into the churchyard, and paused for a moment, looking out over the vast expanse of moor. In her mind she pictured her mother as she remembered her: beautiful with long, golden hair and blue eyes, just like her own. She’d been small, April remembered, but strong. And in her memory, her mother was always smiling. April felt tears well up in her eyes and shook her head; she needed to focus on the task in hand.

  She became more methodical and returned to the gate, turned right and looked at every stone as she passed it. Teagues, Dashells, Hammetts, Landreys and other Cornish names aplenty but no Harveys or Rowes. April kept walking and reading. ‘Dearly beloved wife of’ and ‘dearly beloved husband of’ – the litany of the dead continued, and then suddenly she saw a fairly modern stone standing against the boundary wall, facing the entrance to the venerable building. A discoloured marble vase, which held two fresh sprigs of holly, sat on the ledge at the bottom of the stone. April kneeled down before it, her heart beating wildly, and read the inscription.

  In loving memory of Mellyn Rowe Harvey, dearly beloved wife of Edward, mother of April, daughter of Eleanor and Frank, and sister of Hilda. Born 7 October 1900 and departed this life on 9 June 1928.

  Her eyes were so clouded by tears that April could read no more. She remained on her knees, unaware of the dampness seeping through the material of her slacks, repeating the words: Eleanor, Frank, Hilda. Her family. Could they still be alive? Perhaps it was Hilda who had left the holly on the grave? And if not her, who?