Song of the Skylark

by Erica James

  Slowly the blank expression faded from Mrs Dallimore’s face and was replaced with a smile. ‘Lily,’ she said, ‘is that really you? Has Ellis sent you? Is William coming, too? And Artie?’

  Lizzie’s heart sank. ‘No, it’s not Lily, it’s Lizzie,’ she said with added emphasis.

  ‘Lizzie? Oh, of course, how silly of me. I – I …’ Her words trailed off, and for a terrible moment the old lady looked so confused and upset, almost like a lost child, Lizzie was worried she was going to cry. Never had the poor woman looked more frail or vulnerable. Hurriedly putting down the tray she was carrying, Lizzie went and sat in the chair next to her.

  ‘It’s happening more often,’ the old lady said, her head nodding fretfully.

  ‘What is?’ asked Lizzie.

  ‘The moments of not knowing … of not knowing where I am, or what I’m doing, or who people are.’

  Lizzie didn’t know what to say, so she took hold of one of Mrs Dallimore’s thin, veiny hands resting on top of the photo album and squeezed it gently. The old lady turned her face up to Lizzie’s, her faded blue eyes brimming with tears.

  ‘I’m getting worse; I know I am. What frightens me is when I no longer can tell the difference. It’s been happening for a while now. Can I tell you a secret?’

  ‘Of course,’ Lizzie said solemnly.

  ‘Ellis and Artie regularly visit me. Sometimes Effie comes as well. But the trouble is, they seem so real, and yet they can’t really be here, can they? But they talk to me. And I talk to them. It feels as real with them as it does sitting here with you.’

  Lizzie didn’t know what to say. All she could think was how cruel it was that nature should make the mind deteriorate in this horrible way. It wasn’t fair!

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Mrs Dallimore, ‘that I’m losing my mind, or as you young people say, losing the plot.’

  ‘I would never think that of you, Mrs Dallimore. But maybe it’s just your imagination getting the better of you. Maybe it’s your brain’s way of allowing you to be with the people who meant the most to you.’

  ‘But then why hasn’t Nicholas visited me? Or William?’

  Lizzie tried to come up with a logical reason that would satisfy the old lady in her anxious state. ‘Perhaps they’re waiting to surprise you. You know, like a surprise party is being arranged for you and Nicholas and William are hiding behind the curtain waiting for just the right moment to jump out and say, ta dah! A bit like when Effie appeared on the stage at that dance you went to at the American airbase.’

  Mrs Dallimore smiled and for an instant a brightness shone in her eyes. But then the brightness was gone and she pursed her lips. ‘I shouldn’t ask you this,’ she murmured, her eyes filling with tears, ‘but please don’t tell anyone that we’ve had this conversation, or that I mistook you for Lily. If you do, I shall have to leave and go somewhere else, and I don’t want to do that. You see, I know I’m going to die soon, and I want to die here. I came to Woodside because it seemed such a pleasant place to end my days. Is that too much to ask, to die in modestly comfortable surroundings with people who care?’

  Lizzie’s throat tightened with compassion for this poor woman who was haunted by the spectre of dementia. Did everyone at Woodside live with the same fear, of losing their footing on the slippery slope of infirmity with its inevitable consequences of being cast out? Lizzie knew what the policy was at Woodside, knew too that it existed for a good reason, to ensure the elderly were given the care required for their specific needs, but she hated to think of Mrs Dallimore being uprooted and forced to go somewhere else, to a place where she might not be treated with as much respect and dignity as she was here. ‘I won’t tell anyone,’ she said. ‘I promise.’

  It was a promise Lizzie fully intended to keep, but in truth it meant little, because the physical and mental well-being of every resident was very closely monitored, just as it should be, and besides, Jennifer was already aware that Mrs Dallimore was experiencing episodes of mild confusion.

  Close to crying, Lizzie let go of Mrs Dallimore’s hand and stood up. ‘How about I pour our tea before it goes cold?’

  Mrs Dallimore wiped away the tears that had trickled down her pale, crumpled cheeks. ‘Thank you, that’s a very good idea. And then if you have time, I’ll show you some photographs.’ With what seemed an effort, she tapped the album on her lap.

  ‘I’d love to see them,’ Lizzie said.

  She now had her back to the old lady and was blinking hard as she busied herself with the tea. ‘And if you feel like chatting,’ she went on, her voice tight, and desperately wanting to talk about something more cheerful, ‘I’d love to hear what happened after you’d captured that German airman. I still can’t get over how brave you were that night.’

  ‘I wasn’t brave at all,’ Mrs Dallimore said. ‘I just acted instinctively. As I have all my life.’

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  May 1944, Skylark Cottage, Shillingbury

  The Ritz,

  Mayfair,

  London.

  Darling Clarissa,

  What a hoot it is here in London! And how different to the last few weeks of touring round the airbases. I only arrived two days ago and already feel I never want to leave. I’ve met the most charming people, including any number of fancy Lords and Ladies. Wouldn’t it be a hoot if I bagged myself a Marquess like Kathleen Kennedy?!

  Yesterday I was invited to the Berkeley and then a crowd of us went on to The Four Hundred Club just off Leicester Square – it was full of the most handsome American and British pilots. I kept expecting to bump into Ellis!

  The day after tomorrow I fly home in an army transport plane. I wish I didn’t have to leave London, but my father insists, apparently he’s negotiating a new contract for me with MGM in the absence of any stage roles coming my way. Between you and me, I don’t care if I never make another movie. Do you suppose I shall ever be free to make my own decisions? I know you’ve suffered the appalling loss of your husband, and now your dear Polish refugee, but how I sometimes envy you your life, Clarissa. I don’t mean that to sound flippant or insensitive but what I wouldn’t give to live in that sweet little cottage of yours, surrounded by adorable children, and with nobody telling me what I should and should not be doing.

  Fondest love as always,

  Effie

  PS Remember me to darling Ellis, tell him to stay safe and to write without delay.

  It was towards the end of May, three weeks after Leon’s funeral that Ellis came to see Clarissa. She hadn’t seen him since the night of the dance, the night that Leon had so needlessly lost his life. They all knew in the village that the US airbase was now fully operational and carrying out heavy bombing missions over Belgium and Germany. Every time Clarissa heard or saw a formation of B-24s climbing high into the sky in the direction of the North Sea, she sent up a silent prayer for Ellis to come home safely.

  It was late, nearly ten o’clock, Mrs Cook had already gone to bed and Clarissa was locking up, when she heard the throaty roar of a motorcycle, followed by a knock at the back door.

  ‘Where do you keep the whiskey?’ Ellis demanded after she’d let him in. ‘Even if you don’t want any, I do.’

  Straight away she knew he had the worst of news to share with her. Her heart racing, she found two glasses and opened the cupboard where she kept a bottle of sweet sherry and another of whisky.

  ‘Here, let me do it,’ he said impatiently, when she couldn’t get the top off.

  She watched in silent foreboding while he poured out two measures. Not Artie, she thought, please not Artie. But she knew it was. Nothing else would bring Ellis here at this late hour, looking so stricken.

  ‘There’s no easy way to tell you this,’ he said, passing her one of the glasses. ‘I heard about an hour ago that Artie’s dead. He was with the 3rd Infantry Division at Anzio and—�
�� Ellis’s voice broke. He swallowed and tried again. ‘It was last week … the bloody fool was trying to rescue some goddamned injured soldier when he got himself shot.’ Ellis raised his visibly shaking hand and downed the whisky in one. He banged the empty glass down on the table. ‘All anyone can talk about is that the Allies successfully launched a breakout offensive. But the cost, Clarissa, the bloody awful cost! Four months of slaughter, of brutal carnage. It’s beyond comprehension. And why the hell did Artie have to be there? He wasn’t a soldier. He should never have been there!’

  ‘He knew he wasn’t coming back,’ Clarissa murmured, without answering Ellis. ‘I think I knew it too, but I didn’t want to believe it.’ She closed her eyes and tried to quell the terrifying tremor building within her. Artie. Dead. Her dearest Artie. Never to see him again. Never to read one of his beautifully written letters again.

  When she opened her eyes, she gave Ellis her untouched glass of whisky. ‘You have it,’ she said. ‘You loved him as much as I did. As I do.’

  He took the glass from her, his eyes bloodshot and wet with tears. After he’d drunk the whisky, she put her arms around him, and together they cried out their grief. When the worst was over for them both, Clarissa said, ‘Poor Ellis, you’ve lost the one person in the world you truly loved, haven’t you?’

  He froze in her arms. ‘It’s all right,’ she said softly, ‘I know what Artie meant to you; he was so much more than a friend to you, wasn’t he?’

  Ellis tilted his head back from her. His face was ravaged with raw pain. ‘You knew?’

  ‘Perhaps only subconsciously – until now. Now it makes sense.’

  ‘I expect you’re shocked. Disgusted, even.’

  His expression saddened her, for he looked so disgusted with himself. ‘Oh, Ellis, how could you think that of me? You’re the same to me now as you were before. My love for you hasn’t changed.’

  ‘Then you pity me, don’t you? Which I don’t want. I don’t want to be pitied. Not ever!’

  ‘I promise you I don’t.’

  He regarded her sceptically. ‘Most others would regard me as abhorrent, something vile and utterly loathsome.’

  ‘I’m not most other people,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m Clarissa, your friend.’

  Ignoring her and shaking himself free of her, he sank into the chair by the side of the range. ‘I don’t think Artie ever knew,’ he said. ‘I was always so careful around him. I didn’t want to do anything that might make him hate me. I just wanted to be near him. You have no idea how much pleasure that gave me, just to be in the same room as him.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have hated you,’ Clarissa said. ‘Not Artie. Do you think Effie knows?’

  Ellis looked at her, the downward curve of his mouth lifting at the corners. ‘She’s always known. She’s come across enough men like me in her business to spot the signs a mile off.’

  She knelt on the floor in front of him. ‘I’m sorry I kept trying to encourage you to marry her. That must have hurt you.’

  ‘Not really. I’m used to it. My family are permanently trying to marry me off. And who knows, Effie and I may yet walk down the aisle together. In so many ways, as you once said, we’re perfect together. She knows all there is to know about me and often says that a conventional husband would be the least agreeable thing for her.’

  ‘Why did you ask me to marry you?’

  He dragged a hand over his face. ‘All part of the disguise. Why do you want to know, are you reconsidering my offer?’

  ‘I think I’d make a better friend to you than a wife,’ she said with a smile.

  He shook his head. ‘Sometimes I wish I were different, but I’m not. I am what I am. I can’t change it.’

  She took his hands in hers. ‘You’re who you are, not what.’

  He stared back at her, his eyes still wet with tears. ‘Artie’s dead, and here I am talking about myself.’ He brought his fist down hard on the arm of the chair. ‘What kind of man am I?’

  ‘You’re a man in shock. A man mourning someone he loved.’

  ‘But I should be comforting you.’

  ‘You can do that another time.’

  He sighed deeply. ‘There were times when I was mad with jealousy knowing that Artie loved you. God, how I wanted him to feel that way about me. It hurt knowing that he never would.’

  ‘But he cared deeply about you, I know he did. Perhaps like a brother.’

  In the gentlest of touches, Ellis stroked Clarissa’s cheek. ‘Would you have married Artie if he’d asked? If William hadn’t come along? Or if he’d returned from this godawful war?’

  Clarissa nodded. ‘Yes, but only if he’d agreed to live here with me. I couldn’t go back to America. Not now.’

  ‘Trust me, Artie would have agreed to stay with you wherever you wanted to be. Can I stay here tonight? I can’t face going back to the base.’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  They slept together in Clarissa’s bed, she cradling Ellis in her arms.

  Early in the morning, just as the first rays of dawn filtered through the curtains at the window, and the birds began their noisy chattering, she woke to find that Ellis was gone. Something about the sight of the side of the bed where he had slept, the dented pillows and the scent of his cologne left behind on the sheets, tore at her heart and opened the floodgates of her grief. Burying her face into the pillow, she sobbed. Not just for Artie, but for William. And Leon. How many more people she loved would she have to lose before this dreadful war was over? Or maybe it would go on and on until nobody was left to grieve …

  By the time the children woke and were clamouring for their breakfast, Clarissa had pulled herself together. Mrs Cook knew something was wrong, but discreetly kept her counsel until Walter and Thomas had left for school. Taking Nicholas from Clarissa to soothe him – he’d been fractious since waking, as though picking up on her sadness – Mrs Cook asked what was the matter.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ she said when Clarissa had told her, ‘how will you tell Thomas and Walter? They were so fond of him.’

  ‘I know, and poor Walter made Artie promise he would come back. How will he ever believe anything anyone tells him, or trust anyone sufficiently to love them?’

  ‘It’s a tough lesson, but he will. In my experience children often bounce back better than adults. For now, I’m going to put Nicholas in his pram and go for a walk. Why don’t you see if you can get some sleep? You look exhausted.’

  After Mrs Cook had bounced the pram off down the lane, Clarissa dismissed the idea of resting and set to work on clearing up the breakfast things. She then scrubbed the floor on her hands and knees, before cleaning the small-paned window that looked out onto the garden. It was while she was polishing the panes of glass with a piece of newspaper that she heard the sound of the letter box being pushed open.

  The second she saw the airmail envelope, she knew who it was from. She would recognise Artie’s handwriting anywhere. With trembling hands, she opened the letter.

  My dearest Clarissa,

  I am writing this in the hope that, should I die, my instructions will be carried out and you will receive my last letter to you.

  You knew when I left you in January that I had the strongest sense that my luck was due to run out. I shan’t waste time explaining why I felt that way, and why I still do, not when I have so much more I want to say.

  Whenever I think of our meeting on board the Belle Etoile, I marvel at the chance of our paths crossing and how it has led to the moment of me writing this letter, which is essentially a love letter in its purest form.

  I wish it wasn’t so, but a singular truth in our existence is that we will lose people we love. Another truth, and one close to my heart, is that we will come to understand that no matter how much time we spend with someone we love, it will never be enough. This is how I feel about you, Clarissa. I felt it that
night on board the Belle Etoile when we danced together; I just knew that I had to get to know you better. Thank God I have been granted the joy of doing that, even if for so little time. I daresay a lifetime spent knowing you would not be sufficient, so I have to count myself lucky I’ve had what I’ve had.

  Thank God also that you have given Thomas and Walter such a wonderful home. My instinct is that they will never be reunited with their parents, and I pray you will be with them to soften the pain of their loss. I would trust nobody better than you to undertake this task.

  Now I must speak about Ellis. Poor Ellis. He’s really not as tough as he portrays himself, and I fear my death will affect him badly. Please do all you can to be the friend he so badly needs. I know he has Effie, but you are far stronger than she is.

  You must know by now that had William not come along when he did, I would have summoned the courage to ask you to be my wife. I will never know if you would have said yes, but then perhaps it’s better for me to die never knowing your answer. I don’t think I could have borne a rejection from you.

  Now my love, I have said all there is to say. In the years to come, I hope you will look back on our friendship and remember it fondly. I also sincerely hope you find the happiness you so richly deserve.

  With all my love,

  Artie

  Ellis was reported dead less than a week later. His aircraft came down in the North Sea while returning from an operation over Merseburg. His crew all managed to escape and were rescued not far from Lowestoft on the Suffolk coast. Ellis’s body, and his alone, was not recovered. It was hard for Clarissa not to believe that this was how he wanted it to end.