by Hazel Gaynor
So many times I have imagined what I would do if I saw Teddy again. I’ve pictured myself running into his arms, everything swept away in his warm embrace. I have pictured us sitting by the fire as an old couple in love, grandchildren playing at our feet. But this is not the end of a picture, or the end of a novel, or the final act of a play. This is real life, and when faced with the question, I don’t have an answer.
He rests his fingers against my lips. “I would never ask that of you. Never. I’ll be on the three o’clock train to Liverpool, and I will go with peace in my heart to know that you are sailing toward your future.”
There are times when words are inadequate. He wraps his arms around me and I close my eyes, allowing myself to walk with him, back across the years to a small village hall in Lancashire. He is an awkward young boy. I am an excitable young girl in search of adventures. Our eyes meet and we feel something stir within our hearts; something we will later come to understand as love. I blow at a dandelion clock, the seeds drifting between us, whispering of a future we cannot yet imagine.
I stand in silence as he picks up his coat and hat.
I hear his soft footfall on the stairs. I hear the door gently close and I am torn apart—half my heart in the past, half my heart in the future.
I sit quietly at the window and watch him leave, hands in his pockets, the rising sun at his back. Teddy Cooper. The man I would once have followed all the way to the end of the earth, the man I would once have run to across all the endless miles.
I don’t follow, or run. I watch him walk farther and farther away from me until he is a distant dot and then nothing.
“And what about Teddy? . . . Have you let him go? Have you made peace with that too?”
Peach and lavender clouds bloom over London as the chimes of Big Ben strike six. The wagons rumble toward the markets. Hawkers drag heavy handcarts. A milk float rattles past. A bread van crunches its brakes as it pulls up in the street. Life goes on as the turmoil in my heart gradually calms.
Only then do I know what I must do.
47
DOLLY
“. . . the stars will always shine and I will
always be looking up, Dolly: looking for you,
thinking of you, loving you.”
The warm summer breeze tugs at my hat and skirt as I step out of the bookshop on Charing Cross Road. There is a wild recklessness in the air as I prepare to say farewell to this city I have grown to love. I let it swirl around me, pulling the dark shadows of my past away from me, blowing them over the rooftops and far away to some distant place beyond the horizon. I am liberated from the guilt that has trailed behind me all these years. Teddy is recovered and content with his life. My child is much loved and well cared for.
And yet there are still creases to smooth, frayed edges to neaten.
From Charing Cross Road, I travel to Shoreditch, to Hettie’s house. As I open the latch on the gate, my eyes glance toward the upper windows in the hope that he will be there. But there is no movement at the curtains today, no face pressed against the glass. My heart is restless as I knock on the door.
Hettie invites me in for tea but I decline, explaining that I don’t have time.
“Of course, of course. Lots to do! Steamships to board! I’ll fetch the dress. Come in. I won’t be a minute.”
I step into the hallway as she rushes through to the workroom. I listen keenly, hoping to catch the sound of him. Little footsteps. A small voice. But the house is quiet today. Too quiet.
While I wait for Hettie, I study a collection of photographs on the wall. A happy young couple with a baby. A happy boy cuddling a teddy bear. I take my own photograph from my coat pocket. He came from such a dark and troubled place, the memory of which will always cause me sorrow, but I gave him life and I gave a mother and father a son to love, and by that thought I will always be comforted.
Hettie reappears with my finished dress wrapped in tissue paper. I take it from her and give her something in return.
“It’s for little Thomas,” I explain. “I was hoping he might be here. Would you give it to him?”
Hettie looks a little surprised. “Of course.”
“I just . . . well . . . it’s a book. You told me how much he likes to read. I hope he’ll like it.”
I was so pleased to find The Adventure Book for Boys. Before the shopkeeper wrapped it for me, I wrote an inscription inside: To dear Thomas, Wonderful adventures await for those who dare to find them. Be brave. Be daring. With much love, Auntie Dolly. X.
Hettie smiles. “You’re very kind, Miss Lane. I’ll be sure to give it to him.”
“Perhaps I could write to him occasionally. I’m sure it would be very exciting to receive a letter all the way from America.”
“He would like that. Thank you. But only if you have time.”
I look into her eyes, knowing that I can never tell her, that I can never explain why I will always have time for Thomas; that there will never be enough time for all I want to say to him and give to him.
I take her hand. “Thank you for all your incredible work, Hettie. We will wow America with your costumes. Soon everyone will want a Hettie Bennett!”
She blushes. “Well, I don’t know about that. But I hope the tour is a roaring success. I wouldn’t be surprised if you never come back. I have a feeling America will suit you, Miss Lane.”
“I hope so, Hettie. I hope so very much.”
From Shoreditch, I take a motor cab to Liverpool Street station. The driver weaves laboriously through the heavy weekday traffic. I fidget with my gloves, opening and closing my purse and drumming my fingers on the empty seat beside me. I huff and sigh like a piston engine. “How much farther?” I ask, again and again, my heartbeat quickening with each new line of traffic we become obstructed by.
“Not long now, miss. I’ll get you there as quick as I can.”
But it isn’t quick enough. I urge the wind to blow us along.
Eventually we arrive. The station concourse hums to the sound of harried travelers and the cry of porters. Great trollies of luggage rumble past as the shrill whistle of a departing train sends a shiver right through me. It is so final. So beseeching. I think of the many hearts that will lurch as the wheels set in motion, men, women, and children leaning through the windows to wave their farewells, some with joy at what lies ahead down the tracks, some with the deepest sorrow at what they leave behind.
I look up at the departures board, searching desperately for the train to Liverpool. The three o’clock train is preparing to depart. I make a dash for platform five, dodging mothers who stop suddenly to fuss over their children, stepping around elderly gentlemen who seem to purposely block my way. The stationmaster checks his pocket watch and looks up at the station clock hanging from the great iron brackets above the platform. As he lifts a whistle to his lips, I urge him not to blow.
“Teddy!”
I run through the gate as the whistle is blown. Someone is running behind me, calling for the train to wait. I turn. “Teddy?” but it isn’t him, it isn’t him. Steam hisses from the brakes as the train creaks and groans, the carriages jolting to attention as the locomotive pulls away with a great yawning effort, as if it would pull every bit of my heart along with it. I run along the platform, stretching up onto my tiptoes to see inside the carriage windows as they begin to rumble slowly past.
“Teddy!” I cry. “Teddy Cooper!”
For a moment, I am a young girl again, weeping on the station platform as he presses a bunch of daffodils into my hands. “We’ll be married in the spring and we’ll have little ’uns running around our feet and everything will be back to normal, Dolly. Just you and me and a quiet simple life. Just like we’ve always wanted.” The life I know in one hand. The life I dream of in the other.
Lovers’ hands are torn apart, fingers outstretched in the void. Windows are pulled shut. Hands stop waving. I cannot see him.
“Teddy!”
I glance desperately up and down th
e platform but he is not there.
“Teddy!”
He has gone.
He has gone.
And I am the fool that let him go.
I watch the last of the carriages disappear amid the clouds of smoke before I turn and walk back along the platform, slumping down onto a bench like a bundle of washday rags, my tears blurring my vision. “I wanted to say good-bye, Teddy. I just wanted to say a proper good-bye.”
And then I see it. A brown paper package on the seat beside me.
I pick it up.
To Little Thing.
I look around me, but the platform is empty.
I pull the string and fold back the paper and I gasp when I see it. My book. The Adventure Book for Girls. Tears spill onto the pages as I lift the book from its wrapping and open the cover, and there they are, the words I have heard so often as a gentle whisper, a reminder: Wonderful adventures await for those who dare to find them. With much love, Auntie Gert. But there are new words written beneath. A new inscription. I always knew you would find those adventures. Fly, my Little Butterfly. Spread your wings and soar. Always, Teddy. X
And there’s a letter. I unfold the page and start to read.
My dear Little Thing,
We have shared so many words, you and I, and yet when it comes to saying good-bye it is as if the world has no words at all.
I took the two o’clock train, Dolly. I had always planned to take the two o’clock train. I didn’t want to confuse you or muddle your thoughts. We have shared too many good-byes, you and me. It is better this way.
Life has been strangely cruel to us in many ways, but it has also been extraordinarily generous and kind and that is what I choose to remember. Those are the memories I will care for as if they were the most precious jewels. From the very first time I saw you, you drew me into your soul and held me there, before blowing me gently back out as you puffed at a dandelion clock. You were eight years old and I was ten. I still don’t know how I spent ten whole years of my life without you in it.
When I was in France I would look at the stars every night and think of you, knowing that you would be looking too. I didn’t know what life had in store for us then, and I don’t know now. But I do know this: that after everything we have been through, and all that we might lament and regret, the sun will always rise and the stars will always shine and I will always be looking up, Dolly: looking for you, thinking of you, loving you.
Don’t be sad for us. Don’t mourn what we might have had or what might have been. Embrace what is. Go to America and find your adventures. Go and live the life you were meant to live. Set your dreams free and see where they take you.
Your wings were always restless, Dolly. I knew you would fly away. Like the butterfly at my window you were never mine to keep, and you are both more beautiful in your freedom.
Don’t forget me, Dolly. Look for me in the stars.
Always, and forever.
Teddy
X
I place the letter back inside the book and clutch it to my chest as the clatter and chaos of life goes on around me. In the middle of it all, I am perfectly still.
“There is a moment, Miss Lane, between the end of one thing and the start of another. It is a most peculiar thing, like that strange light between night and dawn: not dark and not yet light. A sense of something other—something in between . . . Sense the ending. Prepare for the new beginning.”
I stand up, hold my head high, and walk along the platform, away from my past, one foot in front of the other. Sometimes our dreams come true. Sometimes they frighten us and break our hearts. Sometimes we must let them go. That is the way of things. That is the path the adventurer takes.
As I walk, I feel my wings unfold behind me. They start to beat, strong and steady.
“Thank you, Teddy,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
I am ready.
I am ready to fly.
I am ready for adventures.
EPILOGUE
Claridge’s Hotel, London
1974
The soothing lilt of the piano drifts around the Foyer at Claridge’s, the pleasing medley of old-time jazz captivating us all, the music mingling with polite chatter and the jangle of silver teaspoons against fine china cups. The sound of afternoon tea. The sound of luxury.
The annual tradition of afternoon tea at Claridge’s began as Perry’s idea. Once a year, on Loretta’s birthday. He felt it was a fitting tribute to the sister he had loved so dearly and the woman who had touched all our hearts. She loved this place and we continue to love it for her. The truth is, I am as enchanted by it now as I was the first time I came here as a rising young star of the theater.
I sit at our usual table for two, seated behind a huge date palm while I wait for him to arrive. He is late, as usual. At least I have a little privacy while I wait—a little, but not too much. The spaces between the foliage afford the guests an occasional glimpse, sending whispered speculations racing across the crisp white tablecloths. “Is it her?” “I thought she was still in America.” “Yes, I’m certain it’s her.”
I smile. Let them whisper. Let them wonder. It is, after all, part of the performance.
I sip my coffee and watch the raindrops slip down the windowpane. It reminds me of the day I first chased adventures along the Strand and bumped into dear Perry. I smile at the memory: sagging cotton stockings splashed with dirt. Borrowed coat. Thirdhand shoes. Unpunctual. Untidy. A girl who would never get on in life.
Except she did.
She got on remarkably well.
I check the time on my wristwatch and then I see him crossing the road, dressed to the nines, a walking stick at his side. After all this time, after all these years, my heart still jumps a little at the sight of him.
I stand to greet him as he limps toward the table and I cannot stop the smile that spreads across my lips as my arms open wide to embrace him. I rest my head on his shoulder, absorbing the familiar feel of him.
“Look at you!” he says, his eyes smiling. “America is treating you well, I see!”
“Dear Teddy. It has been too long.”
“It has been exactly a year, Dolly. It is always exactly a year.”
We are old friends, Teddy and me, separated by an ocean and a lifetime of memories, and we are always so very delighted to see each other. I squeeze his hands. He squeezes mine in return. Our hands may be frail and lined with age, yet when I close my eyes I am a girl of just eight years beneath his gentle touch, and he is a boy of ten. We sit beside each other, dangling our legs over the stone bridge, and all is wonderful with the world.
Teddy once said that life is as fragile as a butterfly wing and we must carry it lightly. Sometimes it will sit happily in our hands, sometimes it will fly away from us, but in the end—no matter the distance or the complications in between—the things we truly care for will always come back to us.
Like our greatest hopes and dreams, they will be a part of us.
Always.
Acknowledgments
As with any production where the spotlight shines on the principal actor, there is always an incredible supporting cast and crew in the wings. A book is no different, and I must now stand aside and drum up frenzied applause for all of the following.
Firstly, my leading ladies: agent of wonders, Michelle Brower—a rock of sense, great judgment, and endlessly sound advice—and my editor at William Morrow, Lucia Macro, for mentioning the 1920s in the first place, and for your unerring calmness and wisdom, which kept this book on course and added extra sparkle where I’d missed a bit.
To my publisher, Liate Stehlik, and the wonderful team at William Morrow in New York—Nicole Fischer, Megan Schumann, Molly Waxman, Jennifer Hart—and the production and copy editors who spare my blushes. Thank you all for your endless support and hard work. Special thanks to Rhea Braunstein for the beautiful interior design and Mumtaz Mustafa for the stunning U.S. cover.
In writing this book, I completed a journey I started
way back in 2013 when I was first introduced to Kate Bradley, senior editor at HarperCollins UK. I am so excited to now be working with Kate and the fabulous team at HarperFiction. To stand on the 16th floor of the News Building in London and see my books lined up along the shelves is a moment I will never forget. Thank you so much, Kate, for your belief in me, and your patience! Special thanks also to Charlotte Abrams-Simpson for the beautiful UK and Ireland cover.
Huge thanks to Tony Purdue, Mary Byrne, and Ann-Marie Dolan at Team HarperCollins Ireland. It has been great fun getting to know you over the last year and I’m so happy to be working with you all. Go raibh maith agaibh!
A very special thank you to Susan Scott, archivist at The Savoy. From my first tentative email in the summer of 2014, you answered my questions with patience and fascinating detail. In particular, the two books you recommended—Imperial Palace and Madeleine Grown Up—were absolute jewels to research. I must also thank you for recommending the lavender éclairs from the Melba patisserie outside the hotel! Thanks also to Orla Hickey at Claridge’s for helping with historical matters of afternoon tea!
Also joining me on stage are my fabulous family and friends who continue to tolerate my incessant need for reassurance, advice, and gin while I write. In Ireland, special thanks to Sheena Lambert for reading early drafts and, along with Catherine Ryan Howard, supplying regular doses of coffee, cocktails, and sanity. To writing friends Carmel Harrington and Fionnuala Kearney, thank you for the laughs and the kebabs! To Carol Longeran and Gillian Comiskey, thank you for corrupting me on various very long lunches. To Ciara Morgan, Angela Legg, and Tanya Flanagan, thank you for all your support and the camping! Huge thanks to my big sister, Helen, for enthusiastically reading everything I send and finding appropriate emojis to express your reactions. The cocktail glass was definitely overused on this one! A special hello to the newest additions to the family, Cian, Rosie, and Berry, who are The Girl from The Savoy book babies (and book dog!).
