JT02 - To The Grave

by Steve Robinson

  She looked up and something playful seemed to spark in her eyes. “And there’s plenty I can tell you,” she said. “I’m eighty-four years old, but seeing this photograph again makes it all seem like yesterday.” She smiled at Tayte. “Well, perhaps not quite yesterday.”

  Tayte returned her smile. “There’s nothing better than a photo to stir old memories,” he said.

  Joan lifted the book and gave it a gentle shake, hands thin and contracted with arthritis. “I remember going to see the film with Mena,” she said. “She took quite a shine to the eponymous Emma Bovary as I recall. I think something about that character caught her imagination.” She paused and stared into the middle distance beyond the windows. “That was just after her birthday.”

  “1944?” Tayte said.

  Joan nodded. “She‘d just turned seventeen. I remember that because she wanted to join the Land Army and suddenly she was old enough to, but something stopped her. I don’t recall what it was. I was glad she stayed in Oadby that summer, though.”

  “That was the last time you and Mena were together, wasn’t it?” Tayte said.

  “It was. Mena was so desperate to leave home and live her own life. It was inevitable that she would go sooner or later.”

  “Do you know why she left?”

  “There was a lot of speculation,” Joan said. “She wanted to get away from her mother, I know that much, but I don’t think it was the main reason in the end.”

  “You weren’t with her when she left?”

  “No,” Joan said. “We were best friends one minute and seemingly less than strangers the next.”

  Joan looked at the photograph of the two of them again and smiled sadly. She slipped it into the front cover of the book and saw the nametape that was marking Tayte’s page halfway in. She opened it and turned her head sideways to read it, eyes widening as she did so.

  “Danny,” she said with a sigh.

  “The GI Mena fell for. Jonathan told me.”

  “Oh, she fell for him alright.”

  “Can you tell me anything about him?”

  Joan drew a long and thoughtful breath. When she let it go again she said, “I’m a little confused about Danny Danielson. I know Mena loved him, but -” She paused. “Do you mind if we don’t talk about Danny just yet?”

  “Not at all,” Tayte said. He was intrigued by what he thought she might know about Danny, but it was clear that seeing his surname on the nametape made her uncomfortable and he didn’t want to push his luck. “Maybe we could talk about Mena some more,” he said. “Save Danny for later.”

  “Yes, I’d like that.”

  Tayte offered her a smile, knowing how difficult it must be to have a stranger turn up at your door trying to dig up a past you might sooner forget, but he sensed that some part of Joan Cartwright wanted to go back there. Why else would she have invited him in?

  “You mentioned Mena’s seventeenth birthday, he said. “Would you care to tell me about that? Did she have a party?”

  Joan’s face beamed as she seemed to recall it. She laughed. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Mena Lasseter had a birthday party alright.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  August 1944.

  Mena’s birthday was on a Saturday. The day before, on the 11th of August, General Eisenhower had paid a surprise visit to his 82nd boys at Shady Lane. There was an inspection at Stoughton Aerodrome and although Mena hadn’t seen Danny yet to find out what it could mean, Pop had said that it had to be because something big was coming up.

  That troubled Mena.

  It had been a hot and sticky month so far, though it was thankfully cooler now. There had been a thunderstorm during the night and it had been raining hard all morning, which Pop had said was just God’s way of clearing the air. It was drying now as Mena stood by the gate at the bottom of the garden, gazing out over the fields at the clouds that remained stacked on the horizon like a fleet of battleships at sea. She was thinking about Danny and the visit, wondering when their time together would be up and wishing that the summer of ’44 would never end, despite everything. She drew another long breath, tasting the air that after rain had a sweet, mineral quality to it that she liked, like rusting iron. She had barely considered the more immediate problem of how she was going to tell her mother about Danny when she heard a call.

  “Are you coming in?”

  Mary was home and Mena was thankful for that. She’d arrived soon after the war-office telegrams and she’d been a great comfort to everyone. It seemed such a long time ago now, yet it was barely more than two weeks. No one really talked about it anymore, perhaps to avoid further upset or perhaps because the war effort kept everyone so distracted that they had little time to dwell on it. Mena knew there would be plenty of time for that later.

  She turned away from the landscape and her floral-print dress became animated as a breeze pushed through the gate and played with the yellow ribbon that was tied in a bow around her waist. Mary was walking down to meet her. She was by the old well, waving at her with a cigarette between her fingers. Mena rarely saw her without one these days.

  “Edward’s just arrived,” Mary called. “I think he has something for you.”

  She was smiling and Mena smiled back as she strolled towards her. Mary knew all about her and Danny. Not about Victor Montalvo being there in Danny’s place that night in May. As far as Mary knew - and Joan for that matter - the two of them had met at St Peter’s and had been going steady ever since. But Mena had told her about the dance at De Montfort Hall and every wonderful encounter since, saying nothing to suggest that she’d met him there for the first time, as she had with Joan.

  Mary had told her she should just come out with it and tell Mother she was dating. And why shouldn’t she? She’d always planned to wait until her birthday; like that extra year on her age would make all the difference. She considered that if she was old enough to leave home and join the Land Army then surely she was old enough to have a boyfriend, Yank or otherwise, and wear make-up too if she liked, although she hadn’t found the courage today. The problem was that since turning seventeen she didn’t feel any different. She’d thought about telling Pop, but that was no use. She knew Pop wouldn’t mind just as long as she was happy.

  “And?” Mary said as Mena arrived beside her. “Have you worked out what you’re going to say when he arrives at the door with his flowers and that cheeky Yank smile? It won’t be long now. We’ve finished the cake and tea’s all set. I wonder if he’ll have a present for you.” She grinned like she knew she was teasing.

  Mena sighed again and nodded. “I don’t think I’ll say anything.”

  “Just let it happen?”

  “Something like that. I’ll put my arm through his and everyone will get the picture. It’s not like they haven’t met him before and it was Mother who invited him back.”

  “I still think you should tell her,” Mary said. “Get it out in the open before he gets here. Is he Catholic?”

  Mena shrugged. “I never asked.”

  Mary stopped walking. She turned to Mena and the two locked eyes. “You love him, don’t you?”

  Mena didn’t need to think about that. It felt like it was something she’d always known yet would never be able to explain to anyone. From her tone, Mary seemed to know, too, just from being around her this past week. Mena’s eyes softened and she just smiled back.

  “Then everything will be alright,” Mary said, stubbing out the remains of her cigarette. “Isn’t Joan coming? I thought she would have been here by now.”

  Mena wished she was. “She’s away with her family,” she said. “They won’t be back until tomorrow.”

  They went into the house, through the kitchen and into the sitting room where Pop and Mother and Edward Buckley were sitting. The twins from London were sitting opposite one-another at a drop-leaf table in the front window, racing to see who could finish their jigsaw puzzle first, and Xavier and Manfred were asleep as usual on their settee at the back of the room. E
dward, who had turned out in full dress-uniform, rose to attention, full of smiles as the girls entered.

  Their arrival stopped Pop’s conversation mid-sentence. “There you are, Mena,” he said. He finished stuffing a pinch of tobacco into his pipe and Mary joined him with a cigarette and lit it for him. “I was just saying what a great disappointment it is to us all that last month’s assassination attempt on Hitler failed.” He glanced at Edward and under his breath he added, “Bloody war might have been over all the sooner if that bomb had got him.”

  “Pop!” Margaret said. “I’ll have no swearing in this house. I don’t care if there is a war on.” She turned to Edward. “And you say it was one of their own, Edward?”

  “A Colonel, Mrs Lasseter. Shenck, I believe he was called. They shot him the same day and I hear they hanged several of his co-conspirators from meat-hooks - with piano wire, would you believe?”

  “Barbarians,” Pop said.

  Margaret winced and reached for the teapot that was set out with the rest of the crockery on a low table by the fireplace. Mena’s birthday cake was there, too, and although not that big it was big enough and was as much as her mother could put together, even though she’d been saving the ingredients to make it for months.

  “Happy Birthday, Mena,” Edward said. “Look what I found.” He reached down beside the settee and produced a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He handed it to her with a kiss on the cheek. “Sorry the paper’s so dull, but you know how it is.”

  The gift was heavy. Mena smiled then laughed as she wrestled it to the floor. She untied the bow and carefully unfolded the wrapping paper so it could be re-used. It looked like a battered old brown leather suitcase and she thought at first that Mary couldn’t have told Edward that she was no longer going away to join the Land Army. But it was heavy. There had to be more to it.

  “Open it then,” Mary said.

  It had clips on the sides and a button beneath the handle. Mena lifted the lid slowly, like she expected something to spring out and make her jump. It didn’t, but what she saw still surprised her. Her jaw dropped.

  “It’s a phonograph,” she said, scarcely able to believe it. The silver-coloured turntable had a green felt mat and the needle arm was of the same silver metal. “It’s beautiful,” she added.

  “Look inside the lid,” Edward said.

  There was a divider to store records and Mena reached inside and felt the thin paper edges of more than one sleeve. She withdrew them and her birthday just got better. “Glenn Miller!” she said, her eyes scanning the blue-and-cream label. “Bluebird,” she read aloud. “Electrically recorded phonograph recording.”

  “That’s the label Miller and his band are signed with,” Edward said.

  Mena kept reading out the words. “In the mood - Fox Trot. By Glenn Miller and his orchestra.” The other record was Chattanooga Choo Choo and it had a similar label.

  “It’s portable,” Mary said.

  “You wind it up,” Edward added. “See the handle there?”

  Mena picked it up by its brown Bakelite knob, looked it over and put it back in its place. She turned to her mother and was surprised to see her smiling back.

  “You can listen to it in your room on Saturdays,” Margaret said.

  Mena got up and kissed everyone; even the twins, who proceeded to wipe their faces in disgust. Outside, Mena heard a car pull away. She looked out the window, which was still covered with condensation from the morning’s rain and the twins’ breath, but she was too late to see who it was. When the knock at the front door came she stared at Mary and froze for several seconds before she said, “I’ll go.” But her mother was already on her way.

  A moment later she heard, “Philomena! There’s someone to see you,” and Margaret Lasseter came back into the room, her blank expression giving nothing away.

  Mena let go of the breath she was holding when she saw Joan standing in the doorway. She was puzzled to see her, but pleased just the same. Her friend looked quite plain today, she thought. She wore a simple grey skirt and a lilac blouse. Her hair was tied back and she wasn’t wearing make-up.

  “Joan!” Mena said. “What a nice surprise.”

  “Hello Mena. Hello everyone.”

  Mena rushed over to greet her, eyeing the bright wrappings on the significant parcel she was carrying. “I thought you couldn’t make it.”

  “I know, but I talked Dad into coming home early. Have I missed the cake?”

  “Not a bit of it, and look what I got off Edward and Mary.” She showed Joan the phonograph and the Glenn Miller records.

  “That’s a real humdinger,” Joan said and Mena laughed at her.

  “You’ve been around too many Yanks, Joan Cartwright.”

  Joan winked back as she handed her parcel to Mena. “Here, this is from me.”

  Margaret was on the edge of her seat. “What beautiful paper.”

  “I kept it from last Christmas, Mrs Lasseter.”

  The gift felt soft in Mena’s hands, yet she unwrapped it like whatever was inside was made of crystallised sugar. She saw the colour first: green, like emeralds with the sheen of satin. She knew long before she took it out and held it up to her frame that it was the dress Joan had lent her for the dance at De Montfort Hall.

  “I thought you might like to keep it,” Joan said.

  Mena’s jaw dropped again. She just stared wide-eyed at Joan for several seconds while the lump in her throat stopped her from speaking. She was wondering how her birthday could get any better when she heard Pop say, “Excuse the pun, but look who’s dropped in.”

  Mena spun around, still clutching the dress to her, and there beside Pop stood Danny, smiling at Mena like only Danny could. He looked smarter than ever, she thought, and he was clutching his flowers just as Mary said he would be. She hadn’t even heard the knock at the door or noticed Pop leave the room to answer it.

  “Mr Danielson!” Margaret began. His presence seemed to light a fuse in her. She was on her feet and fussing with the wrapping paper Mena had left all over the floor. “You took your time coming back to see us. You know Edward, don’t you? Of course you do. It’s our Mary you’ve not met and this is Mena’s friend, Joan.”

  Danny nodded at Edward and offered Mary a polite smile. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” he said. To Joan, he added, “How are you, Joan?”

  When his eyes found Mena’s, Mena found that she was lost for words. She tried to shake her head, like she didn’t want to go through with this after all, but it barely moved.

  “And you brought flowers,” Margaret said. “How thoughtful of you.” She reached for them and Danny stepped back.

  “Well you see, ma’am, it’s like this,” he said. He looked at Mena again and Mena silently willed him not to say another word. Then he did. “The flowers are for Mena.”

  “For Mena?”

  “That’s right, ma’am.”

  Margaret’s cheeks flushed. “Of course,” she said. “How silly of me. Flowers for the birthday-girl.” She looked puzzled. “But how did you know it was Mena’s birthday?”

  When it came down to it, Mena couldn’t bear to stand there and watch Danny suffer any longer. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Mother,” she said. Her stomach was in knots. She couldn’t look her mother in the eyes. Instead, she put an arm through Danny’s, smiled and said, “We’re dating.” Just like she said she would.

  Margaret’s face dropped. Her thin eyebrows shot up towards her hairline, creasing her brow. “Oh,” she said, and she sat down again.

  “Well, that’s splendid,” Pop said. “And how long has this been going on?”

  “Not long at all, really,” Mena said before Danny could answer.

  Margaret sat staring at Mena’s birthday cake, absently toying with her crucifix. A moment later she picked up the cake-knife and indelicately chopped into it. An awkward smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Danielson?” she asked.
>
  “That’d be swell,” Danny said. He handed the flowers to Mena and kissed her cheek. “That’s not all I brought,” he said to Mena. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a fold of olive-green material. He held it in his palm and unwrapped it as Mena watched. “It’s none too pretty for a girl like you,” Danny added. “But it would do me a great honour if you’d wear it from time to time.” He removed the material and Mena moved closer.

  “See,” he said. “No pretty thing at all, especially bashed up and all like it is. I made a hole in it and put it on a chain so’s I could keep it around my neck as a reminder - not that I need one.”

  Mena studied it. It was a polished silver disc about an inch across. It had a deep depression close to its centre and there was a picture and several words engraved on it. She couldn’t make out the detail.

  “It’s the coin that saved my life,” Danny said. He indicated the depression in the centre. “See, that’s where the round hit.”

  “Close call,” Edward said.

  “It sure was. I had a whole bunch of ‘em in my pocket. Felt like someone just thumped me hard in the chest. Well it spun me round and down I went.”

  “Shouldn’t you keep it?” Mena said. “I mean, if it was lucky for you.”

  Danny shook his head. “The way I see it, Mena, that silver dollar has served its purpose. They say lightning never strikes the same place twice so I don’t suppose it’d be lucky for me again. Maybe it’ll be lucky for you.”

  Mena lifted the coin from Danny’s hand and slipped the chain over her head. It covered the small silver crucifix that was already there. “I’ll cherish it, Danny. Thank you.”

  “It was made a few years after the last war,” Danny added. “They called it the ‘Peace Dollar’ - ironic as that is. Like I said, it’s not much to look at, but I wanted to give you something that was special to me and I can’t say I have much else in this world that doesn’t belong to Uncle Sam.”

  The room seemed to close in around Mena as everyone gathered for a better look; everyone except her mother, who remained seated. Mena held the coin out on its chain for all to see, knowing that it was a wonderful thing, simply because it had belonged to Danny. She also knew that it was something she never wanted to take off again.