The Keeping of Secrets

by Alice Graysharp

  I nodded dumbly, my breasts sore and extended, my vagina still throbbing with his imprint. Stepping back James let me climb on board and I watched him receding, his grief stricken face growing distant, abruptly obscured by a fellow passenger and when I looked past her I could see James no more.

  Experiencing many miserable nights in my life was no preparation for how I felt that Saturday night. Snippets of our conversation echoing and, like trick photography, the sight of him above me, the feel of him inside me, the sound of his melodious accent, the scent of his skin, endlessly repeating in my mind. Thoughts revolving, spinning erratically. How could I trust a man who took me to a hotel bedroom when I was not married to him? Granted, James asked me to marry him, and I conceded that but for my kiss in the bedroom that distracted him he would have asked me beforehand, but perhaps he planned for us to be together as husband and wife after my presumed acceptance without a nuptial blessing. Did he respect me so little? I felt let down, cheap, emotionally and physically defiled. My thoughts swung wildly in the opposite direction. It was all my fault. I led him on. I allowed him to do what he did. I should have stopped him. I’m a good-for-nothing flibbertigibbet. I can’t trust myself again. Ever.

  James’s parting words still rang in my ears. Give him hope? How could I give hope to a man with such little integrity? How could I trust myself to be with him and not do the same again? I yearned to see him, to hear the soft cadences of his exotic accent, to see those crow’s feet crinkle. And to feel his insistent lips on mine, his tongue exploring, my body tingling. I feel all these things but I never once told him I love him despite his saying more than once he loves me. I’m no better than that hussy Janet who threw herself at her cousin and ended up marrying at three months pregnant.

  Weary with silent weeping, around three o’clock I sat up in bed composing a letter that echoed the one I wrote to Bill ten months earlier in such different circumstances.

  I will not deny that I feel an affection for you, I wrote. In some ways I realise now you have been for me a young uncle, or perhaps a cousin, figure, I lied. I have enjoyed your letters and your company, however brief that has proved to be, and I would be willing to remain a pen pal if you wish it. But please do not place the rest of your life on hold for my sake. I release you from any sense of commitment or obligation you may feel towards me. It would be unfair of me to give you hope. And equally it would be unfair of me to keep you committed in some vague sense for the future when you might meet someone else and want to settle down with her. It would be better for us to understand this now than for you to live in limbo.

  I didn’t know what else to add, so signed off. The next morning I left early, pleading schoolwork and detoured via the Club to deliver my letter to the B pigeonhole. There was nothing for me under R.

  Setting my face to the future and vowing to put the whole experience behind me and never to trust myself or any man again, I was unprepared for the letter that arrived from my mother three days later.

  ‘Dear Pat,’ wrote my mother, ‘What have you done? I was sent to help with cleaning the library this morning and found your nice young man slumped in the corner looking as miserable as sin and when I enquired after him he told me there had been a terrible misunderstanding on his part and he had no idea you are only sixteen and if you’d been the twenty-one or -two he’d thought you were he would have pressed you to marry him. He told me this as I demanded to know what had brought you home silent and unhappy on Saturday evening. I feared he had made a dishonest woman of you, but he assured me that was not the case.’

  Ah, so if you’d asked me that and I had assured you he hadn’t, would you have believed me?

  I read on.

  ‘He told me that he had applied to return from his leave early and was expecting to go this afternoon to North Weald to help out for a couple of weeks or so and then back to the squadron at Croydon. He was just waiting for a message to be brought up to him confirming his change of plans. He told me of his love for you and of his marriage proposal and that although you had given him no hope he was prepared to wait ten years or even longer in case you changed your mind. He showed me the rings he bought and said that he would always carry them close to his heart.’

  ‘Pat, if you love this man and are just worried about your age, I will speak with your father about giving our permission for him to walk out with you, officially I mean, even consider marriage sooner rather than later if you were afraid of what we would say. You’re the same age that I met your father and I was married at nineteen and had you at twenty and with this war on it seems young people grow up fast.’

  She went on to write about other, more trivial, things and I put the letter down. He must have received my letter before Mummy encountered him, for he told her he had no hope.

  Becky glanced up.

  ‘Pat, are you alright?’

  The dam burst and I was helpless in the torrent of grief, regret and lost innocence that poured into the valley of my despair. Handing her the letter and nodding for her to read it I rocked in my chair and dropped my head into my hands as Becky rushed to my side, hugging me and briefly perusing my mother’s missive.

  ‘Oh, Pat,’ sighed Becky, ‘why didn’t you tell me on Sunday? You said you’d had a pleasant weekend with your parents. I thought perhaps it hadn’t been pleasant, for you weren’t yourself, but I had no idea you saw him and that this is what happened.’

  ‘Sorry, so sorry,’ I murmured between my fingers.

  ‘Don’t apologise, I only wish I’d known and could’ve helped sooner.’

  Mrs Grice came running in at the commotion. ‘It’s all right,’ Becky assured her. ‘She’s split with her young man and is a little upset. She’ll be fine soon.’

  Fussing and tutting, Mrs Grice produced cups of tea.

  I hear the English cure all ills with a cup of tea.

  My period came three days later. Perversely I wept as I tended to myself, relief mingled with grief, regret for what we had done together entwined with sorrow for what I would now never have of him.

  Nothing for me under R the following weekend.

  And still nothing for me under R a week later when the doorman, catching sight of me checking the pigeonhole, took me on one side. ‘I’m so sorry, dearie,’ he said, and I looked at him quizzically, thinking, does everyone know about my rejection of James’ proposal? and I saw his head turn towards the In Memoriam board and he said, ‘It was posted this morning,’ and my head shrieked, No, no, no! and I moved towards it as if wading through treacle.

  Group Captain James Alistair Bonar. Killed in action 11th November 1940 over the North Sea by a bomb dropped from an Italian BR20 while engaging Italian enemy forces with German cover, temporarily flying with squadron 249 North Weald. Twelve known kills, also at least ten probables and damageds. A fine officer and will be sorely missed by his compatriots in the RAF and by our own squadron RCAF No.1.

  PART TWO

  SECRETS AND LIES

  To every thing there is a season, and a time to

  every purpose under the heaven:

  a time to be born, and a time to die;

  a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

  a time to kill, and a time to heal;

  a time to break down, and a time to build up;

  a time to weep, and a time to laugh;

  a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

  a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;

  a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

  a time to seek, and a time to lose;

  a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

  a time to rend, and a time to sew;

  a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

  a time to love, and a time to hate;

  a time for war, and a time for peace.

  Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 Revised Version

  9

  Winter

  Winter gripped my heart as surely as it grippe
d the country.

  Lying awake into the nights, silent weeping, stifled sobbing, the same thoughts revolving around my head. He’d still be alive if I’d said yes. He wouldn’t have arranged a temporary transfer. He died because of me.

  Logic warring with emotion. It was his choice. He didn’t have to curtail his leave. He was unlucky but it wasn’t your fault.

  Nightmare thoughts rearing up, wondering how he died, envisaging his awful last moments. Was it a direct hit that knocked him out without his knowing, that killed him outright? Or did the bomb catch one of the tanks each side of the cockpit, dousing him in fuel and igniting, bringing searing agony to his sinewy body? His handsome, chiselled face, skin peeling back, blue eyes exploding with heat, large, firm, gentle hands agonisingly consumed. Was he still alive as the aeroplane hit the water and sank, choking, drowning, knowing that death was inevitable? Did he call out for his mother, or were his thoughts of me, who had rejected him? His body now resting at the bottom of the unforgiving sea. Had he separated from his plane or was he entombed in my namesake, the rings still resting against his unbeating heart?

  Sleeping through sheer exhaustion, clawing my way through each day, putting on a false smile and pretending all was well, I succumbed to the winter ’flu shortly before Christmas, shivering and aching as I lay in bed, Becky ministering to me with cold compresses and bowls of thin soup and watery porridge, and emptying the ancient metal chamber pot when I was too weak even to stagger to the toilet. Mrs Grice seemed to regard nursing as outside her remit. After a week or so the worst was over and I tried sitting up in bed feeling faint and exhausted. Becky propped me up with both our pillows and passed me a glass of water.

  ‘Drink as much as you can,’ she urged. ‘You’ve got to get your strength up so you can go home for Christmas.’ After a few sips I laid my head back, a tear rolling down my cheek.

  ‘It was the cloud.’

  ‘Cloud?’

  ‘That went across the sun and so I decided to go in for a cup of tea. If I’d gone straight to the Nash Gal I’d never have met him and he’d still be alive.’

  ‘Pat, you mustn’t take on the guilt and regrets of the world. I know you blame yourself that he flew when he did but there was nothing else you could have done. I know how much going into teaching means to you. It wasn’t your fault he thought you were older than you are.’

  Yes it is. I behaved outrageously. I kissed him like he kissed me, passionately, eagerly, lustfully. I was infatuated and I threw myself at him. I should have found excuses instead of seeing him. I should never have agreed to write. I led him on.

  Shaking my head slowly I said, ‘He’s dead because of me,’ my tears flowing freely as Becky drew me into her arms.

  ‘Weep for him, then. Don’t bottle it up. That’s what grieving is all about.’

  ‘I k…k…killed him,’ I hiccupped.

  Becky held me tightly through the raging and as it subsided said, ‘And now it’s time to stop berating yourself. Ultimately it was the fault of those beastly Jerrys.’

  ‘Italians,’ I corrected. ‘Eyeties. It was an Italian bomber.’

  ‘They were fighting on Germany’s side. Look, I’m not going to say anything crass like cheer up, but you do need to find a way to forgive yourself.’

  ‘He said that over his mother. “The person we find hardest to forgive is ourselves”.’

  ‘“There’s a time to break down and a time to build up”,’ quoted Becky. ‘“A time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance”. Mourn him now and the rest will happen for you when you’re ready.’

  ‘Becky, what would I do without you? Thank you for looking after me in so many different ways.’

  ‘And one of those ways is to make sure that you eat up.’ Becky, reaching for the cooling bowl of porridge and raising the spoon, cocked an eyebrow questioningly. ‘Would you like me to feed you or will you feed yourself?’

  With weak, trembly legs I made it home the following week, curling up in my bed and hating the festive season for I felt neither peace nor goodwill towards myself. My mother, not renowned for keeping her opinion to herself, was tact personified and I concluded that she believed James’s assurance of the retention of my reputation. Why did he tell her that he had not made a dishonest woman of me, I wondered, coining my mother’s phrase, and not just own up in the hope that she would wade in, insisting on marriage? Was it really to protect me, or was it to protect himself? ‘I’m a fucking cradle snatcher,’ he’d said, self-disgust harshening his tone. I flinched again at the indecent adjective he’d used. I was only a few months over the legal age of consent, so perhaps he was afraid of what his contemporaries would think of him. I’ll never know, but for whatever reason, I’m grateful to him for lying to my mother and allowing my family to continue to believe me virgo intacta.

  I also calculated that as Becky was my only close confidant and had read my mother’s letter she, too, had no idea of the true events of the last day I was with James.

  So my secret’s safe, I concluded. I’ll never marry, no husband to ever know the truth either. And I’ll not be shamed like Janet, as there’s no resulting baby to proclaim my disgrace.

  On the day before Christmas Eve I was descending the stairs to the hall, having decided to test my strength by walking round to my grandmother’s, when a figure appeared the other side of the frosted glass and knocked. I called, ‘I’ll get this,’ to Mrs Haywood, the ground floor neighbour, who started to emerge from her kitchen at the rear, and I opened the door to the harassed mother from Idmiston Road, the pram parked behind her and her two older children beside her.

  ‘’Ere y’are,’ she said, holding out a package. ‘This come fer yer a couple weeks ago. Sorry I ’adn’t got round ter passin’ it on but I ’aven’t bin this way ’till ter-day.’

  ‘Why, thank you,’ I said, taking it and noticing my name ‘Miss P. Roberts’ written in bold handwriting I’d not seen before. ‘It’s kind of you to come all this way.’ I hesitated. ‘Er, would you like to come in for some refreshment?’

  ‘Nah, I wanner ge’ter the market ter-day, being near Christmas an’ all,’ she replied, ushering the children back along the short path and into the street. ‘Can yer let peoples know yer’s moved? I can’t promise ter bring stuff over all the time.’

  ‘Yes, yes of course,’ I promised, calling ‘Thank you again,’ to her as she disappeared round the corner into St Matthew’s Road.

  I was intrigued. A few minutes investigating the package would not delay me unduly, so I tore the end open and extracted a letter. Puzzled, no address being given at the heading of the letter, I glanced down at the signature and froze.

  Douglas McKellen.

  Douglas. Tall, older, red-haired, broad Scottish accent. ‘Hie there lassie.’

  Trembling, I turned and hastened up the stairs, all the way to my room at the top. Thank God Mummy’s at work and Daddy’s asleep and I’ve no special arrangement to see Nan, I can see her this afternoon. Closing the door to my room quietly, I tumbled the package’s contents on to the bed. My letters to James. I knelt over the bed, burying my head in the letters, stifling my sobs in the bedcovers. I must get a grip, I can’t have anyone coming in and finding me like this. If Daddy wakes and hears me crying he’ll investigate. Forcing myself to calm down at this sobering realisation, I sat back on my heels and picked out Douglas’ letter. It was brief.

  Dear Miss Roberts

  Following the loss of my commanding officer, colleague and friend, a package of your letters was found among his effects. A delay occurred in returning these to you as we did not at first know your address. I thought to try to return them through the Beaver Club but I was subsequently passed a letter to forward to you which James had lodged with his own superior officer to send to you in the event of his death and which is addressed to your home address. The task of forwarding it fell to me as I was still holding your letters and other effects of his for forwarding to Canada.

  It is
not my business why you rejected his proposal of marriage leaving him broken and grief stricken. I did not ask and he did not tell me, but in honour of his memory I am doing as he wished which is to ensure that his letter is passed on to you. Of his effects I return the letters you sent him to avoid their causing his family any more grief than they are already facing.

  Yours sincerely

  Douglas McKellan

  Frantically I sifted through the letters and snatched out the envelope in James’ handwriting addressed to the Idmiston Road address. I didn’t recall telling him we had moved since the summer and now I was glad I hadn’t for to have the package arrive here in my absence would have given the lie to my insistence that I had not led James on and would have brought on an interrogation by my mother I feared I would have been unable to withstand. Moving up and sitting trembling on the edge of the bed, I tore the envelope open and extracted the single sheet.

  Dear Pat

  If you are reading this then you will have learnt that I am dead. I received your letter and this is my reply so that you will know that I do not blame you for your words in it, nor deep down do I believe them. You told me when were last together that had circumstances been different you would have married me like a shot. I understand your desire to carve yourself a career first, heaven knows that is what I have done myself despite my father’s opposition. I want you to know that I still love you and I am even more sure now than ever that you are the only one I will ever truly love. Forgive me, my darling, for my insensitivity and my unthinking selfishness when we were last together. I have placed instructions with the rings for them to be sent to you if my body is recovered; meanwhile I will carry them wrapped in those instructions close to my heart. If you can bring yourself to think kindly of me, please know that as I am dead I will be content to wait for you in eternity. And meanwhile go and live your life and be happy.