With that, he turned to the first letter and began to read.
Chapter Twenty-Two
September 1944.
Mena had never felt so alone. She hadn’t seen Danny in almost three weeks and his attempts to call on her were becoming less frequent; he’d only tried twice in the last week. She was losing him. She knew that, but she couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes and tell him what had happened and the longer she left it the worse it became. She was letting him go simply because she didn’t know what else to do and it felt like the only good thing in her life was slowly dying while she just stood back and watched.
She couldn’t see Joan again either. Sheer embarrassment and the disgusting shame of it all had come between them. What must she think of her? She’d written Joan a letter the night she came home from the pictures. She’d been in such a panic. She’d told Joan not to come to the house - not ever again. She was so scared that Joan would tell her mother or Pop. And she’d written some hurtful things in that letter - things that could not now be undone. She’d told Joan to keep her big mouth shut; told her what a busybody she was. She’d even threatened to write to her parents to tell them what the real Joan Cartwright was like. All those secrets. How that would shatter the illusion they must have of her. Joan was no little Miss Perfect either.
Mena regretted writing every word.
The result of her uncharacteristic behaviour that night, however, seemed to have had the desired effect and that was what mattered most to Mena. Joan hadn’t once tried to see her and so far her parents appeared oblivious.
So far.
Mena put her book down and went to the full-length mirror next to her dressing table. It was late morning on a Tuesday. She was still in her nightdress and she hadn’t done a thing with her hair. She stood sideways to the mirror and ran her hands down the front of her nightdress, smoothing the material over her skin. There was definitely a bump there, she thought. Was it bigger than yesterday? She thought it was. It was definitely bigger than it looked a week ago. She monitored her condition like this every morning and the truth of it was that to anyone else, if she was showing at all, it was negligible. She was thankful that the sickness seemed to have passed, which was something that until recently had also been part of her morning ritual.
She forced a breath out like she was practicing her contractions. Then she gripped her hair with both hands, scrunched her fingers into tight fists and began to pace the room in a silent rage. When her eyes fell on her book again, face down on the floor by the window, she sat and calmly continued to read.
She’d found a copy of Madame Bovary at the general library in town. That was the last time she’d been out of the house, when she delivered Joan’s letter to the Civil Service offices. Since then she’d spent most of her days like this, analysing the life of Emma Bovary or listening to Glenn Miller on her phonograph, and in between, panicking and fruitlessly trying to think of a way out of her predicament before her condition became too obvious and people started talking. That was the reason she’d stopped wheeling her books around the hospital wards, too - why she’d stopped reading to the patients even though the beds had never been in such demand and their occupants never more in need of such comforts.
Mena went on like this for a few more days and then suddenly everything changed. On the Friday of that week Pop came to see her in her room with lunch and a glass of milk. He often did and with it he would bring news of the war and the outside world in general. He had a spam sandwich with him today, which he set down with the milk on the bedside table.
“There’s been an uprising in Poland, Mena,” he said. “The Russians are closing in on the capital and the Polish Home Army and the citizens of Warsaw are making a brave fight of it.”
Mena feigned polite interest then asked, “Has Danny called?” It was always her first question and one that preoccupied her mind.
Pop sat on the bed. “Not today, Mena, no.”
Mena’s shoulders sank and she stared out the window. The low clouds seemed to suffocate the horizon, reflecting her mood. Her mother hadn’t reported Danny calling at all that week.
“Mind you, I’m not surprised,” Pop continued. “Word is that it’s all gone very quiet down at Shady Lane. That can only mean one thing to my mind.”
Mena spun back into the room. She thought about Eisenhower’s visit at the end of last month and had a good idea what Pop was going to say next.
“They’re packing up,” he said. “I’m sure of it. And Edward’s unit have been confined to barracks. Mary’s trying to get to him now. I don’t know how she does it, mind.” He laughed to himself. “That girl could manipulate the stars.”
“Will she be allowed to see him?” Mena asked.
“Hard to say,” Pop said. “But she’s going to try. She’s convinced they’re off somewhere.” He shook his head. “She must be sick to her stomach, poor thing.”
Mena shot out of her chair. “Thanks, Pop,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I need to get dressed.”
All Mena could think about as she cycled to Shady Lane that afternoon, pedalling fast, fuelled by her emotions, was that she had left it too late. She’d been such a fool all year for one reason or another and she began to despise herself for letting it come to this. How could she stand back and let him go? She had to be more like Emma Bovary; she knew that now. She had to take control of her life, find Danny and tell him everything - to hell with the consequences. She had to tell him that she loved him, too. She couldn’t recall ever saying it, not even during those tender moments when they had come so close to making love, and each time she had refused him because all she could see when he touched her in that way was Victor Montalvo.
She wished now that it had been otherwise.
It was spitting with rain by the time Mena reached the camp. It was cool out but she wore no coat, just a skirt and pullover that were soon damp, but she didn’t care. She went to the main entrance this time and was directed to the regimental personnel section. It was an olive-green, cotton-canvas tent like all the rest and the man she’d been directed to see was busy with a clipboard, scribbling away at a folding table. He had a fat cigar in his mouth that he was chewing more than smoking. He waved her in and pointed at the chair opposite.
“I need to see Staff Sergeant Danielson,” Mena said as she sat down. She thought that sounded more official, but it didn’t seem to matter to the man sitting opposite.
He put his pencil down and rolled his cigar back and forth between his teeth. He looked her over briefly then shook his head, grinned and said, “I suppose you’ve come for your pound a week like all the rest?”
“Excuse me?”
The man seemed low on patience. He huffed as he leant in on his elbows and said, “For the baby. That’s why you’re here, ain’t it? A pound a week for sixteen years. Believe me lady, you sure ain’t the first.”
Mena drew a sharp breath and held it. She just stared at him, dumbstruck. Finally, she managed to say, “A pound a week?”
The man nodded. “Or do you expect the joker to marry you?” He rocked back on his chair. “Look, lady. You seem real nice and I’m sure you deserve something for your trouble, but it takes two. Know what I mean? You’ve got just about as much chance of making the fella pay up or marry you as I have of making General.”
Mena screwed her eyes at him. The conversation seemed too bizarre to contemplate, although she had to concede that he wasn’t far off the mark. She shook her head and decided to start over. “I just need to see Staff Sergeant Danielson,” she repeated.
Another huff. “What company’s he with?”
Mena had no idea. Danny might have mentioned it, but she couldn’t recall.
He shook his head and reached for a thick folder that was on the table beside him. “Danielson, you say?”
Mena nodded and the man began to rifle through what she supposed was some kind of personnel register. “He’s got blonde hair,” she said, trying to be helpful. “Almost white.”
>
The man stopped what he was doing and looked up at her. “It ain’t got no photographs in here, lady. Just names and numbers.”
He continued and a moment later he tapped the register and said, “Danielson, E. There’s only one listing here so I guess that’s the little joker’s daddy.”
“I guess,” Mena said.
They all seemed to refer to each other as jokers for some reason. Mena never asked Danny why. She noted the clue to his real name and wondered again what it was and whether she would ever now find out. It made her feel warm inside knowing that the man opposite her thought Danny was the father of her child. She liked the idea of that and wished with all her heart that it was true.
“He’s in A-Company,” the man said, interrupting her fantasy. “A for Able.”
“So, can I see him?” Mena asked.
The man removed his cigar, looked into his lap and sighed. When he looked up again, he said, “No. I’m real sorry, lady. You just can’t.”
Mena’s pulse began to race. “Why not?”
“As far as you’re concerned, Able Company ain’t here no more.” He stood up. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”
Mena got up with him and she felt so light-headed she nearly fell down again. She held on to the table to steady herself. Her mouth was suddenly dry - her hands clammy.
“You okay, lady?”
Mena took a few slow breaths and nodded. “Can you tell me where they are?”
The man didn’t answer straight away. He just looked at her like he was weighing up whether or not to say anything further. Then he simply said, “No, I’m sorry,” and headed for the exit.
Mena ran after him and caught his arm. “I have to see him,” she said. “Please.”
The man shook his head at her, but this time there was something that resembled a smile on his face. “Look,” he said. “Best I can do is get a note to him. But don’t take too long about it. There’s paper and pencils on the desk there if you need ‘em.”
“But I may never see him again,” Mena said. It was more a thought that just came out rather than something she meant to say, but the man heard her.
“Everyone had a chance to say their farewells yesterday,” he said. “If Danielson chose not to spend his time with you, then - well, you can make up your own mind as to what that means.”
Mena wanted to scream and cry and die right there and then. She wanted to hit that man, too. Hit him hard, like any of this was his fault. She knew Danny must have called at the house last night and that her mother had chosen not to tell her. She’d always told her before, like she was proud of herself. But not this time. Danny must have told her he was leaving and if Mena had known that yesterday, of course she would have seen him. She would have held him tight and never let him go.
But it was all too late for that now. She didn’t cry or scream or hit out at anyone. She calmly went back to the table, sat down and began to write.
Chapter Twenty-Three
At breakfast the following Monday there was a letter waiting for Mena. Pop had taken the post in that morning and he’d arranged the envelope prominently on her placemat. Mena’s eyes fell upon it as soon as she entered the room; she rarely received mail unless it was her birthday or Christmas and she could guess whom it was from. The envelope, bearing Danny’s name and number along with a US Army return address left her in no doubt. She had butterflies in her stomach as she picked it up. She felt something else inside the envelope and she wanted to tear it open straight away, but she didn’t. She glanced at Pop and coyly returned his smile.
Her mother, who was sitting opposite her, must have caught the exchange. Her stern face turned first to Pop and then to Mena as she said, “Are you going to open it then, dear?”
Mena shook her head. She hated it when her mother called her dear. She knew it was never well meant. “I think I’ll open it later,” she said, somewhat nonchalantly as she put the envelope to one side. She watched her mother’s eyes drift after it and felt a degree of control she hadn’t known before. She rather liked it.
After breakfast Mena set out on her bicycle for Wigston and the wild-flower meadow where she and Danny often went. Along with her letter, which she hadn’t let out of her sight, she took her fountain pen and some blank airmail paper that Pop had given her, all pressed between the pages of Madame Bovary, which she thought would give her something firm to write on.
It was a fresh autumn morning. The early fog had given way to clear skies and it was cool out, but by the time she arrived she was glowing from the ride and the medley of feelings caught up inside her. The meadow had changed with the season and there was no scent of malt vinegar on the air this time, but as she sat down by the hedgerow and looked to the horizon, it wasn’t difficult to find the memory of that special place.
She couldn’t hold her smile back as she opened the envelope and saw what else was inside. It was a strip of olive-drab cloth bearing Danny’s surname and she imagined he must have embroidered it himself, which made it even more special. She put it inside her book where she thought she would keep it as a bookmark. Then she turned to the letter, which was dated Saturday, September 17th; the day after she’d gone to look for Danny at the camp. She thought he must have read her letter and that this was his reply. She studied his handwriting first. Then she traced a finger over the ink, as if touching the words he’d written somehow brought them closer together as she read them.
Dear Mena,
I figured if you wouldn’t see me then maybe you would at least read a letter. We’re jumping into action tomorrow and I couldn’t go without giving it one last try. If nothing else I had to say goodbye. They won’t tell us what we’re in for until the C-47s are in the air, but we’ve been issued with maps and currency so at least we’ve got some idea of where we’re headed. It’s ten p.m. now and it’s raining real heavy as I write. It’s like being inside of a tin drum, but the noise is kind of comforting in its way - it sure would be quiet in here otherwise. Most of the fellas are writing home or to their sweethearts. Some are just laid back on their cots staring up at the hangar roof and I can guess what they’re thinking. Sleep won’t come easy for anyone tonight, but when it comes for me I know it will be all the better for having written you.
Not seeing you for so long has sure made me realise how much I care for you, Mena. I don’t know what happened that night at the dance, or what the deal was with that loudmouth drunk, but I want you to know that whatever it was, it doesn’t matter an owl’s hoot to me. It seems plain enough now that that joker was the reason you felt you couldn’t see me again. I sure wish I could change that, but here we are. Today is all we have and tomorrow is for dreamers.
Mena, we’ve had such good times together, I can’t begin to say how much I already miss you. Sitting here in this cold hangar waiting for the go makes it seem like I’ve already left England. I miss all that, too. It’s a wonderful country, the likes of which I don’t suppose I’ll see again anytime soon. I guess I feel that way because of you, Mena. You remind me of all the beautiful things I’m fighting for.
Mena, there’s a question just burning a hole in my chest. I would have asked it if I could have seen you last Thursday - everyone had a pass that night. It just doesn’t seem right or fair to ask it now, not in a letter the night before I go back and face those Krautheads. Heck, what I need to say, Mena, is that I love you. The rest will have to wait until I see you again if you’ll let me. For now, I just know this war would be an easier thing to get through if I thought you felt the same way. It’d be just swell to get a letter from you either way.
Danny.
Mena read the letter again. Was Danny going to ask her to marry him? She would need confirmation before breathing a word of it to anyone, but she could think of no other question in that context that was so important that he had to ask it in person. Neither did she want to. Her mouth remained open while she tried to take in its significance. Everything they had ever done together and all of the things they had yet to do
rushed her at once until she was left an old woman sitting on a porch by a river somewhere in West Virginia. Although, it didn’t take long for Mena’s thoughts to come around to asking whether Danny was still alive. If the jump went ahead, he’d have been in action for over twenty-four hours by now and she thought that was a long time under the circumstances.
She didn’t like to think about that.
Instead, she thought about the letter she’d written to Danny at the camp and she realised he couldn’t have received it before he’d written this letter to her. She could only hope that he’d received it before he left and that at reading it he would know how sorry she was and how completely she returned his love. She hadn’t written anything about the bad things that had happened that summer. Not yet. As much as she wanted to tell him, it hadn’t seemed right to let him go with news like that.
After reading the letter for the third time, Mena took up her pen and began her reply, toying constantly with the coin on the chain around her neck as she wrote. She had a good idea how long it would take to find him from all the letters that had been sent back and forth between her brothers over the years. She knew she had to write straight away to confirm Danny’s intentions so there was no misunderstanding. And she would say yes, of course she would marry him if that was what he wanted to ask. She didn’t mind a jot if he wanted to propose in a letter and she would tell him so. She thought she’d tell him about Montalvo too, but she talked herself out of it. She didn’t want to blacken things. She could write and tell him afterwards.
Chapter Twenty-Four
October 1944.
After that first letter in September, Mena wrote many more letters to Danny while she waited to hear from him again. She would lie awake most nights wondering how he was and what he was doing, and she was always up early to look out for the postman. She knew by now that Danny was in Holland because she’d received two more V-mail letters from him.
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