It made for an intriguing dinner.
“We’re glad to have you back, Edward,” Pop said as they began the main course of mutton stew, which primarily consisted of root vegetables.
Margaret finished serving and sat back in her chair. “And we hope to have Peter back with us by spring.”
Edward smiled. “Well that’s splendid news,” he said. “And I’m certainly glad to be back myself. Holland was no trip to the seaside, I can tell you.”
“Pop tells us you were lucky to make it,” Margaret said.
“It was luck,” Edward said, thoughtfully. “Nothing more than that. Ten thousand of us went out there and eight days later few more than two thousand came back. We retreated across the Rhine to the south bank.” He stared down into his stew. “We had to leave our wounded behind.”
“All brave men,” Pop said. “The finest.”
Edward nodded. “And none more so than Colonel Frost and his battalion,” he said. “Barely seven hundred and fifty men held our objective for four nights, which was as long as anyone thought all ten thousand of us could manage against such overwhelming numbers.”
“What happened to them?” Pop said.
“About a hundred men finally surrendered. Two hundred or so wounded had already been evacuated by then.”
Pop opened his mouth to say something else when Margaret cut in. “I think Edward’s had quite enough for now.”
Edward gave her a half-smile. “Thank you, Mrs Lasseter.”
“Of course,” Pop said. “Excuse an old fool, Edward. I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut.”
“That’s quite all right, sir,” Edward said.
Mena changed the subject. “Have you seen Mary lately?” she asked.
“No,” Edward said. “But I expect I soon shall. With so few of us Red Devils left, word is that we’ll not see any more direct action for a while. Has she been home lately?”
Margaret eyed him curiously. “Not since November,” she said. “But didn’t she tell you?”
Edward looked suddenly flushed. “Yes, I’m sure she did,” he said. “I’m so forgetful these days.”
Mena thought he dug himself out of that one rather well. This was intriguing indeed. “I’m sure she’ll be home for Christmas,” she said. “Mary loves Christmas almost as much as I do. And how about you, Edward? Are you coming again this year?”
“No, I’m sure I can’t,” Edward said, taking no time to think about it as he began to play with his food.
Margaret looked upset at the thought. “Really, Edward? What a pity. I was already used to the idea, wasn’t I, Pop?”
“Yes, of course, Mother,” Pop said. “It won’t be the same without you, lad.”
Edward smiled like he was embarrassed about something and Mena wondered if he might have fallen out with Mary, although she couldn’t imagine anything bad enough to come between them. But why else wouldn’t he do all he could to be with her over Christmas, or at least say he’d try? Especially as he’d already said that he was unlikely to see further active duty for a while. She was dying to ask, but how could she? It wasn’t her place to and this was certainly not the time.
Mena also thought it curious that Edward did not stay long after dinner. He politely refused Pop’s company by the fire, along with the cigar he’d offered him.
“I really have to get back,” Edward said as they all stood in the hallway. “Thank you for dinner, Mrs Lasseter. It was very kind of you.”
“Not at all, Edward,” Margaret said, her tone conveying curiosity now, too. “You know you’re always welcome.”
It seemed to Mena that she had been the sole reason for Edward’s visit. She walked with him to the front door, toying with the parlour palm on the jardinière as she passed it. She could feel her mother’s eyes following her every move, as they had since she’d been allowed out of her room.
“Well, goodbye Eddie,” Mena said, a little too loudly. “It was lovely to see you again.”
Edward looked over her shoulder. He smiled at her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “If you agree,” he whispered, “be ready.”
She felt something press into her hand and watched as he left along the path towards the gate. She stole a glance to see what it was. It looked like a piece of pale-blue airmail paper, folded to the size of a matchbook. She slipped it into her cardigan pocket. Her intrigue had deepened.
“Come away from the door, Mena,” her mother called.
“Coming Mother.”
As soon as the dishes were washed and dried, her mother escorted Mena back to her room, which was fine with Mena as she was dying to read Edward’s note. Before her bedroom door had fully closed she threw herself onto the bed and began to unfold the message. She had barely glimpsed the words when the door shot open again and her heart raced as she quickly shoved the note under her pillow.
Her mother stood in the doorframe. “I’ll send Pop in later with a glass of milk,” she said. She paused like she wanted to say something else, or had perhaps intended to say something else all along but when faced with it she couldn’t bring herself to.
Mena gave a half-smile and nodded, wondering perhaps whether her mother had wanted to thank her for behaving herself in company, or for not saying anything about her condition or causing a scene. Did she detect a shred of regret standing there; regret for keeping her locked in her room like a criminal? As Mena watched her mother go, and as she heard the key turn slowly in the lock, she supposed not.
Edward’s note was short.
Dear Mena,
If you want to keep your baby, meet me in the lane an hour before daybreak on New Year’s Day. Pack a small suitcase. Take only what you need. I’ll be waiting for you.
Ed.
Mena’s intrigue deepened. She had such a fierce sense of excitement and hope now that it made her skin tingle. She wondered again why Edward - kind-hearted as he was - would offer to help her like this and go against Mary. She wondered where he would take her and what kind of life awaited her if she chose to go. She thought about the Sisters of Enlightened Providence again and knew that none of the answers really mattered. She was going. There was no question in her mind about that.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
New Year’s Eve, 1944.
It was almost seven p.m. and Mena could barely contain herself as she sat at her dressing table, struggling over the last few words of the letter she was writing to Pop. She had her little red suitcase packed and ready and a simple dress and cardigan to travel in were hiding beneath her bedcovers, waiting to make their appearance along with the New Year, if it would ever arrive. She’d spent all morning deciding what to take with her and what to leave behind, and she’d spent all afternoon getting herself ready for the evening party as her mother was calling it, although with only her parents and Mary there this year, Mena knew it would be nothing of the sort.
She wore the Emerald gown Joan had given her for her birthday, having let it out to accommodate her new shape with material from an old dress she no longer needed. It would never be quite the same again, she knew that, but she also knew that she wouldn’t be able to take it with her and she was desperate to wear it one last time. She wore tan stockings, which Danny had given her, and grey leather court shoes with a peep toe. She particularly liked them for their Movie-Mode label and its obvious Hollywood connotations. She wore her hair up and she’d spent far too long fussing with it only to concede that nothing looked right without her makeup, which was already packed in her suitcase - not that she dare wear it. She did none of this directly for the sake of her mother’s party. Mena’s considerable effort was merely to go along with the illusion that this year was just like any other. She would do nothing to put her mother on her guard, taking the same care with her preparations as she always did so as not to give the slightest hint that tonight, once the New Year was in, she was leaving.
Xavier and Manfred were under the bed. Mena could see their snouts in the mirror, resting side by side on the floor by o
ne of the bed legs. They came in at sunset when her mother unlocked her door for the evening and Mena supposed her mother had waited until then because she believed her little girl couldn’t possibly run away in the dark, which made Mena smile. She would have liked to see her mother’s face when she came to her room in the morning to find she’d done just that.
“The Hartwell’s won’t be coming this year,” Mena said to her companions. “There won’t be so many scraps for you, I’m afraid, but I’ll see what I can do. We’re having cold-cuts and potatoes and Mary’s made her jelly-cream again. Poor Mrs Hartwell,” Mena added. “I’m sure she must feel very offended, but Mother can hardly tell them why they can’t come this year can she?”
She rested her pen and studied herself in the mirror again. The gown and her condition were decidedly at odds with one another, but what could she do? She turned back to her letter and the last task she had to perform before she could go downstairs and join the rest of the family. She owed Pop an explanation but why was it so hard? She’d been poring over it for almost two hours now and she was glad she wasn’t wearing makeup because she knew it would have run several times over with her tears by now, and never more so than when she had written that after tonight she might never see him again.
It was nearly seven-thirty when Mena added the last kiss to her letter, sealed it in an envelope and left her room. She knew everyone was downstairs, but she still looked carefully around as she stepped into the hallway, watching the doors as she clutched her letter tightly. She could hear the wireless in the sitting room and the occasional line of indistinct conversation, and wary of just how well sound travelled through the floorboards, she trod them carefully in case her mother heard her and came up to see what she was doing.
There was a carved ebony cupboard above an old laundry trunk in one corner of the hallway where Pop kept his tobacco. He called it his oh-be-joyful, which was really just a synonym for wotnot or thingumy, because no one seemed to know exactly what it was or where it came from. Mena went to it, opened the door and slid her letter in beside one of the tobacco pouches. Pop would find it there soon enough, she thought. Tomorrow evening, perhaps. Then the mystery surrounding her disappearance would be a mystery no more.
Were it not for the shared sense of excitement and fear Mena had felt since leaving her bedroom, the closing hours of 1944 would have been without question the most boring hours of her life. Pop remained in the sitting room with his pipe most of the evening and hardly said a word, which was why the evening had been so dull. Although her mother seemed bent on making sure everyone enjoyed the party, continually forcing what food there was in front of them and insisting they play games like charades. This had the opposite effect on all but Mary, who appeared to be doing her best to go along with things for ‘Mother’s sake’.
To Mena the whole evening was a charade, made all the more ludicrous by her modified gown and the fact that everyone else had dressed relatively plainly: her mother in a floral frock, Pop in his usual jacket with the sagging pockets and Mary in a navy-blue belted skirt-suit. Mena was in the kitchen with Mary now, watching her fix herself another snowball. She’d lost count of how many that was, but the bottle of advocaat she’d bought only yesterday was almost empty. She watched her take a sip and light a cigarette.
“How come you’re allowed to smoke in the kitchen?” Mena asked.
“Party rules, sis,” Mary said. “One night only.” She staggered a little as she sat against the kitchen table and drew deep on her cigarette. She let the smoke go and then drew it back in through her nose. “Want to try one?”
Mena blew a tune across the top of the cola bottle she’d been holding for the last hour or so. She shook her head, not letting on that she’d already tried one of Joan’s and didn’t much care for it.
“How’s Edward?” she said. She was still curious as to why he was coming so gallantly to her rescue and why he hadn’t been to see Mary at all over Christmas.
“Ed?” Mary looked surprised by the question. She knocked back half her snowball in one go. “He’s fine. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, it’s just that he usually comes to see you over the holidays, doesn’t he? I wondered if everything was alright.”
Mary pursed her lips and blew a sharp line of smoke at Mena. “Of course it is,” she said. “Why wouldn’t it be? There’s still a bloody war on you know. Or had you forgotten?”
Mena shook her head.
“Well then,” Mary said. “He couldn’t get away this time, that’s all it is.”
Mena half-smiled and wondered whom her sister was trying to convince. She knew she was on to something so she persisted. “It’s just that he dropped by and had lunch with us a couple of weeks ago and -”
“Yes, that’s right,” Mary cut in. “Mother said he’d popped in. That’s not so unusual, is it?”
“No, not at all,” Mena said. But what she did think unusual was that Mary had to find that out from their mother. Why hadn’t Edward told her himself? He must have known Mary would find out. He would have mentioned it in a letter, surely. Unless he’s stopped writing to her, she thought. She watched Mary stub out her cigarette with such purpose that she decided to let the matter rest.
“Let’s go and listen to the wireless,” she said.
Mena thought Pop looked dreadfully forlorn when she entered the sitting room and saw him fixed as usual by the fireplace like he was carved from the mantle itself. His head was bowed with his pipe, one ear trained on the wireless and George Formby’s ukulele. She gave him a smile as she crossed the room and topped up her mother’s sherry glass.
“Thank you, dear,” her mother said.
Mena forced a smile. 1945 was less than an hour away now and in that time she had but one objective if her escape plan was going to work: she had to convince her mother that there was no need to lock her door tonight.
Mary came in and slumped down on the settee. “Careful Mother,” she said. “You might get a taste for it.”
Margaret’s laugh mocked her. “There’s the pot calling the kettle,” she said, indicating the fresh snowball in Mary’s hand.
“This is nothing,” Mary said. Then as Mena sat beside her she quietly added, “I’ve a bottle of gin, too, and I might bloody well drink it before the night’s out.”
Mena kept her eyes on her mother’s sherry glass, keen to see her drink as much as possible before midnight, thinking that it would serve her purpose better if she would just pass out. A series of cheerful tunes came and went on the wireless. Mary made several trips to the kitchen and gradually seemed to retreat into herself. Mena topped up her mother’s sherry again and sat on the floor beside her chair. She sighed, purposefully.
“You know, mother,” she said. “I’ve been thinking that Trinity House might not be such a bad idea.”
Her mother sat up. “Really, Mena,” she said, and her smile was the most genuine Mena had seen in a long time. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about it at the party, but since you’ve brought the subject up.” She leant in and cupped Mena’s cheek in her hand. “What’s brought you to your senses?” she asked.
Mena held her mother’s hand to her face until her mother slowly withdrew it. She wanted to tell her that she wished to join a holy order and live a life of celibacy, married to God, but she thought that would be overdoing it.
“It’s not the life I want for myself,” she said. “I want a career and I want to travel. I can’t very well do that if I’m left to bring up a baby by myself, can I?”
“A career?” her mother said. “You’d do better to meet a nice English boy and settle down in Leicestershire. A doctor, perhaps. Someone like your father. You must meet plenty of doctors at the infirmary.”
“Yes, of course, Mother,” Mena said. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I want options and I won’t have many unless I go to Trinity House, will I? I mean, what doctor would want to marry me if I didn’t?”
“Quite, Mena. You can see now that we’re on
ly acting in your best interests, can’t you?”
“Yes, Mother,” Mena said. “In fact, the next couple of days can’t go quickly enough. The Sisters of Enlightened Providence will teach me how to sew properly, won’t they?”
Her mother almost laughed. “Yes, and a good deal more besides. You’ll leave Trinity House a fitting spouse for any Englishman, doctor or otherwise.”
“I will,” Mena said. “Would you like some more sherry?”
“Yes, dear. I think I would.”
Pop tapped his pipe purposefully beside the clock on the mantle.
“Heavens, it’s nearly time!” Margaret said. “Fifteen minutes to go!” she added. “Come along, Pop, have another stout.” She got up and opened a bottle for him and topped up her own sherry.
Mena watched Pop take the bottle from her mother like it was too heavy to hold. She wished there was something she could say to him to make him feel better. None of this was his doing; she knew that. For a moment she wondered whether she could go through with it. It didn’t seem right to leave him behind to deal with Mother all by himself, but she would be forced to leave him just the same if she stayed and for all she knew she might be trapped at Trinity House for years.
As the hands on the clock crept slowly around to midnight, she knew that her time at the Lasseter house had run its course. When the hour came she gave pop such a hug, and she thought she heard him choke back a tear, but when they parted again his eyes were smiling at her, giving her strength. She hugged Mary and her mother, knowing it was for the last time, and they all linked hands and sang Auld Lang Syne, just like they always did. When the moment had passed and the forced revelry had faded, Mena helped clear up. Then feigning tiredness she kissed Pop again, said goodnight to everyone and went to bed.
Chapter Thirty
Mena had been standing in the darkness behind her bedroom door for half an hour, counting her heartbeats as she waited and listened. It was after one a.m. and she had changed into her travel clothes; her suitcase was ready at her feet. She knew Pop was already in bed because she’d heard him snoring. She was listening for her mother now and after that she would listen for the quiet sounds that accompany the still of night: the faint tick of the clock on the mantle downstairs and the drip in the cistern that you could only hear when the Lasseter house had finally settled. When she heard that, she knew it would be safe.
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