The Keeping of Secrets

by Alice Graysharp

  The door opened abruptly and my mother, holding Monty back by the collar, popped her head round it saying, ‘I’m putting the kettle on. Jon, will you have a cup… Oh!’

  Jon and I were a frozen tableau save only for our heads which whipped round in my mother’s direction. For once my mother was utterly speechless. Her head withdrew and she retreated with Monty. The knob turned slowly and the door settled silently back into its frame.

  Jon turned back to me.

  ‘Please say yes.’

  I was grasping at straws now. ‘What if we, I mean, what if I, I mean, what if…’ I could hardly bring myself to say more as we had never talked about the long term future, let alone children. Everyone lived for the moment and I had seen the result for war widows trapped in poverty with one or more children in tow. For goodness sake, it had happened to Janet from school, and she might have a gold band on her finger but I’d heard on the grapevine that the tiny widow’s pension didn’t pay all the rent or feed her two children. At least Janet’s parents had some means to help her. Mine didn’t.

  I took a deep breath. ‘What if we had a child as a result and you were….’ Pulling a hand away I fluttered it helplessly in the air.

  ‘Killed?’ said Jon, baldly. ‘Well, the little chap would have you and your parents and a whole family on my side to help you care for him. My parents should be able to spare something to help out. And you would have something of me with you always.’

  ‘But I don’t want just something of you, I want you. Please, I can’t bear to speak of it anymore.’

  His face brightened at my words, ‘I want you’, then fell at the rest. He scrutinised my horrified expression.

  ‘What d’you mean? That you just want me around when convenient to you, but don’t want to marry me? We’ve known each other nearly four years and been together for nearly three of them. You’re my soulmate, the only girl I’ve met I want to marry.’

  I looked down at his hands, the nails neatly trimmed, and, yes, I believed him, I didn’t doubt that was true. And I knew that he was the only one for me. I had known it the very moment I first saw him standing on the front doorstep at Bill’s house. The echo of words spoken to me a lifetime ago. I know you’re the one for me. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you at my feet and picked you up off the floor. And then it happened for me. There could never be anyone else for me but Jon.

  ‘I can’t.’

  Jon saw me look down and, hearing my response, span away and up, moving to the mantelpiece where he held on to it as if clinging for dear life. His head dropping, he said in a low voice, ‘I should never have come. Not right now. I just so wanted to see you. We haven’t been together for ages and who knows how long I’ll be away and whether I’ll even come back.’

  This was a downbeat, almost melancholy side to Jon I’d not seen before. He was usually so cheerful, finding the upside of any down moment, turning negatives into positives, comforting and cajoling, practical and prosaic.

  ‘And damn it, Pat,’ he added, with an angry edge, ‘what’s a chap to think? Your letters are full of loving affection and you’ve never given me any reason to doubt your feelings. Plenty of other couples get married on leave and at least the chaps have memories to go away with to keep them going, to give them something to fight for and come back for. Can’t you give me that?’

  I heard the anguish and bitterness in his tone, and exhaustion and fear. I suddenly felt humble that he was revealing a side of himself previously hidden. He had been my rock and my mainstay and he was as human and as vulnerable as anyone.

  In that moment’s silence I heard the front door close and my father’s greeting to my mother as he ascended the stairs. Jon heard too, and he squared his slumped shoulders and pushed himself away from the mantelpiece.

  ‘I’ll go now. I love you, Pat. I’m sorry I was wrong to think of a future with you. You can write to me if you change your mind.’

  Give me hope for the future, Pat. I love you. Please write. And I had written and he had flown to his death with my rejection in his pocket.

  Not again, no, no, not again, not with this one I truly love. My overriding emotion four and a half years earlier was guilt, but now I felt a tearing in the very depths of my being, a chasm opening beneath my feet. As Jon moved the short distance across the room and reached for the doorknob I sprang forward and grabbed at his arm.

  ‘I’ll get engaged, yes, yes, I’ll get engaged, please Jon, don’t go, I can’t bear to have you go like this,’ I babbled. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, I love you too and I do want us to be married one day when this dreadful war’s over and you’re back for good. But if it will help you bear things while you’re away, I’ll be your fiancée and we’ll get engaged now and we’ll have something to look forward to while we’re apart.’

  Jon turned slowly as I spoke, a look of incredulous hope spreading, and I thought, what terrible power love bestows and what utter vulnerability it exposes.

  Jon’s arms came round me and we were lost in each other. His tongue pushed between my teeth and I felt a familiar thrill shoot down to my groin. As we surfaced I realised my dressing gown was dislodged and Jon’s hands were inside it, feeling the contours of my body through my nightdress, one hand brushing a bulleting nipple and pressing on my breast. I melted against him, feeling his hardness against my stomach and caring not even that my parents’ murmurings could be heard the other side of the door, but after a moment Jon uttered a mock ‘Ahem’, withdrew his hands and, with a raised eyebrow, carefully drew my dressing gown around me and fastened the cord.

  ‘I’ll get dressed,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Sorry I can’t assist you now,’ Jon grinned. ‘I’m looking forward to the day when I can. But meanwhile I think I need a chat with your father.’

  With a ‘Go on with you’ flap of my hand, I extricated myself from the room, sidling into mine as Jon stepped to the living room doorway and spoke to my father.

  ‘Sir,’ he said deferentially, ‘might I have a word?’

  ‘Nice to see you, my boy,’ said my father a little heartily, as Monty scampered around him, and I surmised that he was au fait with my mother’s encounter with us in the living room earlier.

  My mother scurried after me.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded, shutting the door and leaning against it. ‘Was it what I thought it was?’

  I suddenly felt overwhelmed and burst into tears.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m crying, we’re engaged and I’m very happy,’ I sobbed. ‘He wants us to get married while he’s on leave but, Mummy, I can’t and I feel I’ve let him down. I said I’ll get engaged because I don’t want to lose him. I was so afraid he would think I’d rejected him and go and get k…’

  I couldn’t bring myself to finish the word and my mother for once rose to the occasion magnificently, not finishing my sentence either, but holding me, guiding me on to the edge of the bed and stroking my back until the storm had subsided, Booty all the while watching from the chair, his tail swishing.

  ‘I won’t pretend I don’t know what’s behind this,’ Mummy said. ‘One day you’ve got to forgive yourself. You’re a young lady now and not a schoolgirl, and this is different for you, I know it is. I had only one true love and that’s your father, and it’s the same for you with Jon. Don’t be ashamed that you can’t love everyone.’

  I looked at my mother with grudging respect. Her prattling and carping sometimes concealed gems of wisdom.

  ‘Jon wants me to call in sick today.’

  ‘Tsk, nonsense,’ said my mother. ‘When’s he going away? In a week, two weeks? Plenty of time to get you a ring.’

  ‘In ten days,’ I said. ‘But you’re right.’

  My mother broke out the sherry for a toast, which left me feeling a little light-headed so early in the morning, and insisted on Jon staying for breakfast. An odd engagement celebration, not quite what I had fantasised, but certainly memorable.

  Jon insisted on accompanying me to work, even
though it meant a tram and a tube, and he left me at the school gate with a promise, ‘I’ll be here all spruced up when you finish. Four is it? That should still give us time to get back and consult Sanders on our way home.’

  Surviving gentle ribbing from some of the girls, ‘Hey, Miss, is that your soldier man we saw?’, ‘He’s handsome. Can I have him after you?’, I retreated to the staffroom at break time for a kindly interrogation by Rose White, an older lady who had taken me under her wing. I was later, towards the end of the school day, most surprised to be summoned to the headmistress’ office. Miss Macey got straight to the point.

  ‘I hear your young man’s on leave with a view to embarking in ten days’ time for the front and that you’ve just got engaged today.’

  I nodded, wondering where this was going.

  ‘You are aware that your contract allows for you to take up to three family days’ leave and that can be extended by the headmistress in extenuating circumstances?’

  I nodded again, comprehension dawning.

  ‘Good. So the rest of this week you will take as family leave. I will expect to see you back here next Monday. Take Friday of next week as extended family leave. Is that understood?’

  ‘Th… thank you, Miss Macey,’ I stammered.

  She nodded her dismissal. ‘And congratulations to your fiancé,’ she added, ‘and best wishes are in order to you.’

  Such generosity from one whose own hopes had been brutally exterminated by the trenches of the Great War was humbling. I sped off to find the Deputy Head and the others who would cover for me in my absence and pass them an outline of the next few days’ forthcoming lessons. This delayed me a little and I was relieved to see Jon, now in civvies, waiting patiently for me in the main lobby.

  I explained the day’s developments and he brightened. ‘How kind. Let’s go straight to Sanders now, they’ll still be open, and could we perhaps see my parents after that? I’ll make sure you get home safely later. With only the partial blackout nowadays the journey after dark’ll be easier. Also, I’d like to organise some sort of special family get together, our parents and maybe some of my aunts and cousins that are in London, perhaps for Sunday lunchtime?’ He saw the alarm on my face at the thought of his wider family crowding into our tiny flat. ‘Don’t worry, my mother’s already offered to host it and we can pull back the dividing doors between the sitting room and the back room, there’ll be room enough.’

  At Sanders Jewellers, nestling beneath the high railway bridge in the Brixton Road, I was brought up short. In response to Jon’s request for engagement rings the jeweller brought out a tray of solitaire diamonds on gold bands.

  ‘And we have, of course, a range of wedding rings that complement them. Here,’ he added and, whisking a small jewellery box from a drawer behind him, picked out an exquisite solitaire and a matching plain gold band, and placed them in the box. I stared at a flashback of such intensity that I was rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to breath. James, beside me on the chaise longue, eager, expectant, his hand holding the opened box. If they don’t quite fit, we can go back now or first thing on Monday and get them fixed.

  ‘Pat?’ Jon’s concerned voice coming from a distance. I must have swayed, certainly I felt as if all my strength had drained from me. The jeweller hastened round, grabbing a chair and I sat, feeing foolish and a little tearful.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, ‘it’s been a very long and,’ trying to put on a positive face, ‘rather exciting day,’ to the jeweller’s retreating back.

  Jon squatted beside me. ‘We can do this another day if you’re not feeling well.’

  ‘No,’ I protested. The jeweller reappeared and proffered a glass of water. I recalled the imprint of his large, gentle hand around mine, and, averting my eyes from the glass at the end of the jeweller’s outstretched arm, caught sight of a tray of dressy rings twinkling on a high shelf beyond the line of his shoulder. Intrigued, I stood slowly up and indicated the shelf’s content.

  ‘They’re pretty,’ I said, a little inanely.

  ‘Ah, my platinum collection,’ he said proudly, placing the glass on the counter. ‘You have to be careful with gold you know, it can clash with certain shades of stone. A ruby, for example, can look a little overdressed with gold, unless what you want, of course, is a bit of pomp and circumstance. The best stone for gold is the diamond. Now, a solitaire diamond looks lost with platinum, but the silvery effect of the platinum sets off a ruby especially perfectly, although it works well for any coloured stone. You can complement the main stone, of course, with others, including diamonds. Shall I?’

  I nodded for him to bring out the tray.

  Then I saw the prices. ‘Oh,’ I said, unthinkingly, ‘they’re awfully expensive, even more than the others.’

  ‘Well, that’s because they’re platinum,’ said the jeweller. ‘A more precious metal than gold.’

  Jon was watching me carefully all this while. ‘Pat,’ he said, ‘how many years do you hope we’ll be together? Forty? Fifty? More?’ I blinked and calculated. His grandfather was eighty-five. I laughed and said, ‘If you live as long as your grandfather we’re looking at sixty-five years. At least.’ Maybe I’ll be too old by then to care about James.

  ‘Well,’ continued Jon, with his usual unassailable logic, ‘assuming you wear the ring every day, that’s nearly twenty four thousand days, which seems to me a pretty good return on the cost of the ring now.’

  He leaned forward and put his hand on mine. ‘Choose the one that you want to wear for me.’

  ‘What about a wedding ring to match, though?’

  ‘We can do a platinum wedding ring to match,’ the jeweller reassured us. ‘They tend to be narrower than the gold ones, again because of the cost.’

  ‘Choose the ring that you want to wear as my fiancée now and that you’ll be happy with for the rest of our lives,’ Jon urged again.

  And so I did. A large ruby set in platinum with tiny diamonds around, a deep red sunburst that soothed my soul. A special ring for a special love carrying no memories of the past but speaking to me only of our future together.

  The next day the mild, unsettled weather continued and we decided to brave the odd shower while retracing the steps of our early courtship, walking the streets of the City of London decimated in the Blitz. We made our way to St Paul’s, symbol of British resistance, and, passing truncated ruins still sprouting weeds, we speculated what might rise from the ashes of the cathedral’s fallen comrades. Jon envisaged a new, sleek, modern metropolis; I argued for rebuilding in a more traditional style.

  After a silent, reverential, circuit of the inside of the Cathedral we stood briefly at the top of the steps enjoying a momentary glimpse of a pale, weak February sun on the side of our faces. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, enjoying the feel of my arm in Jon’s, a moment of quiet beside the man I loved. From my left came the sound of several footsteps, the murmur of voices and, suddenly, rounding the building a male voice said, clearly and distinctly, ‘And here, fellas, is the front of Saint Paul’s. Let’s go on down these steps first and you’ll get a better view. Isn’t that just swell?’ And I knew from the precise, melodic cadences that he was Canadian, not American, and I opened my eyes to see four or five Canadian army officers and a couple of Canadian airmen in peaked caps standing below us to our left.

  Jon must have felt me jump and freeze at the first tones of the newcomers’ self-appointed guide as he turned, looking down, frowning, puzzled.

  ‘Pat, what’s the matter?’

  I couldn’t bear the grief, the guilt, the subterfuge, the lies any longer, and, wrenching myself free, skidding round the corner to my right, I cannoned into a pillar on the north wall and came to an abrupt halt against it, burying my head in my arms and weeping desolately. How stupid of me to think I could have my cake and eat it. I’m going to have to tell him, I can’t go on like this. I can’t ask him to take soiled goods. I’ll break the engagement, see if he can return the ring and g
et his money back.

  Jon followed me, taking me in his arms, holding me tight as I struggled briefly, speaking softly, desperately, into my ear, ‘Pat, what is it? Tell me, you can tell me, please, let me help you, please don’t cry.’

  ‘Not here, I can’t tell you here.’

  Jon looked round. ‘Yes you can. There’s no one else here. Come, sit down,’ and he led me to a low workman’s bench that had been left against the outside wall. Crouching in front of me as I sat and wiped my nose with my hanky, he said in a low, urgent tone, ‘Pat, I’m trained to be observant. I’ve noticed over the years that anything to do with Canada or Canadians triggers something in you. I sense your distress and fear. There were the Canadian soldiers at the Leatherhead Fair, there was the Canadian officer in Doncaster, and now this. I know these chaps here are Canadians, you can tell from their uniforms if not the accent. I’ve noticed you stiffen when your mother mentions the Beaver Club. You’ve tried to hide it, you can school your expression but your body somehow gives it away. Pat, did something happen to you when you were evacuated to Leatherhead? Before I met you? I know there were a lot of Canadian soldiers stationed in Surrey since shortly after the outbreak of war, even during the Phoney War.’

  Leaning forward and gripping my upper arms in his hands, he continued,

  ‘Pat, I love you and nothing, I repeat, nothing that’s happened to you will change how I feel about you. Was there a Canadian soldier who pressed his attentions on you in ways you didn’t like and you’ve never felt able to tell anyone? You’re not to blame for anything that may have happened.’