A Song At Twilight

by Lilian Harry

  ‘I know.’ Alison found a hanky under her pillow and wiped her face and eyes. ‘I’m sorry, May. I’m just being selfish. You won’t want to come and see me any more if I go on like this.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ May said stoutly. They both looked round as a bell began to ring in the hallway between the two wards. ‘I’ll be here every day, until you can come home. You don’t need to worry about that. But I’ll have to go now – that’s the end of visiting time.’

  ‘Next Tuesday,’ Alison said as May bent to kiss her. ‘That’s when I’m coming out. A whole week away – it seems more like a year.’

  ‘It’ll soon go by,’ May told her, and gathered up her things. ‘I’ll take this brown paper away with me, it’ll come in useful again, but I’ll leave the jacket and bootees, shall I? I tell you what, I’m looking forward to seeing the little dear in them. I just wish I could see her now.’

  ‘I do too.’ Husbands were the only ones allowed to see the babies before they went home, which seemed to Alison to be a dreadful waste. Because Andrew couldn’t come, she was the only one who would know what Caroline had looked like during these first two weeks of her life.

  Except for Stefan, of course. He had seen Caroline when she was less than an hour old.

  She watched May walk down the ward and turn to wave goodbye. Alison lifted her own hand and fluttered her fingers, and then turned back to her own thoughts.

  Stefan. Somehow, he had become inextricably entwined with her thoughts about Andrew. And her fears that she might never see either of them again were even more intense.

  Dusk was gathering in blue shadows as May walked back from the maternity home. Once, this walk across a neck of the moor and through deep, leafy lanes would have been a peaceful stroll, with no sound other than the evening song of blackbirds, thrushes and robins as they prepared to roost for the night. Now, the air was filled with the sound of aircraft; their engines running as they waited to take off, the roar as they lifted into the sky, the distant growl as they set off on yet another bombing raid.

  Much of the moor where she had once roamed so freely was fenced off too, buildings crowded where once there had been nothing but gorse, heather and grass. The ponies and sheep that had grazed there had been pushed aside, and tarmac roads and runways criss-crossed the land. And even the roads themselves were busy with traffic – heavy vehicles on their way to the coast, lorries filled with soldiers camping at the roadside. The atmosphere was tense with waiting; there was the air of a country holding its breath as the preparations were made for a new and, perhaps, ultimate chapter in the whole troubled story of this war.

  May felt as if dusk were gathering in her heart as well. She could still not quite believe that she would never see Ben again. She had had no time to come to terms with his loss, no time to search her own heart and grieve. Alison’s situation had taken over; you couldn’t turn your back on a baby being born, or on the woman giving birth, especially when she was your best friend. And that was what Alison had become. In the short time since she and Andrew had moved into the cottage at Milton Combe – less than eight months – May had found in her a companion and confidante such as she had never known. She couldn’t quite understand it – they were from such different backgrounds, their whole lives had been different and in normal circumstances they would barely have met. Yet because of the war, they had come close together. Probably the same thing had happened to many girls and young women – finding themselves in one of the Services, mixing with others that they would never have known in Civvy Street, and finding out that class and background had little to do with character. Friendships were being made during these years that would last a lifetime.

  And people had fallen in love. People like her and Ben.

  At the gate to the cottage, she paused. The airfield was behind her now, out of sight, and for a few moments there was silence. Looking down into the valley, she could just see the turret of the little church, and far beyond that the glitter of the River Tamar as it widened out into Plymouth Sound. The sun had disappeared in a glory of flame and apricot and the first stars were pricking the pale blue sky. The birds had almost stopped singing and there were just a few sleepy twitters from the hedgerow.

  Her heart ached at the beauty of it. A beauty that Ben would never share now. A beauty that she would have to live with, alone, for the rest of her life.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  When Jeanie found the letter in John Hazelwood’s cassock her first instinct was to put it aside unread. She was laying it on her washstand, to replace when she had finished her sewing, when she noticed the postmark and realised that it came from Devon.

  She hesitated. Anything from Ben’s Squadron Leader or the Station Commander would have been in an official envelope. And she didn’t think it could have come from one of Ben’s fellow-pilots – the handwriting didn’t look like a man’s. It wasn’t a very educated hand, either – in fact, it looked rather like Jeanie’s own handwriting.

  It must be from May Prettyjohn.

  That poor girl, Jeanie thought with a sudden rush of sympathy. She must be feeling as bad as I do. Even worse, because it was her that Ben wanted to marry. And she’s written to the vicar, too. I wonder if he’s answered her?

  She didn’t think it was very likely. The letters the vicar had replied to were always kept in a pigeonhole in his bureau. He was very careful about that, as he’d explained to her once when she was cleaning his study, because it was important to know which letters you’d answered and which were still waiting. If he’d replied to May, her letter would be there.

  Jeanie looked at the envelope. It was a private letter. It was nothing to do with her. Yet she couldn’t help feeling, allied with her own grief, a pity for the girl who had written it. We both loved him, she thought, and we’ve both lost him. And if the vicar can’t bring himself to answer, someone ought to. It’s not fair, leaving her like this. It’s cruel.

  Before she knew it, her fingers were opening the envelope. She smoothed out the folded pages and began to read.

  By the time she had finished, tears were pouring down her cheeks.

  That poor girl, she thought again. She really loved Ben – you could tell it from the way she wrote about him. And he loved her as well. They ought to have been allowed to get married. It was wrong to stop them. Wrong.

  Her heart was beating fast as she folded the letter and put it back into its envelope. She picked up her needle and cotton, but her hands were shaking too much to put the thread through the eye. She laid them down again and stared out of the window into the garden. Under that apple tree, she had first met Ben. Under that apple tree, she had given birth to her baby. None of it had been easy for her, but at least her engagement to Terry had been a happy one, recognised by both families. And although her pregnancy had almost caused her parents to disown her, Terry’s family had stood by her and it had all come right in the end. And, best of all, she had Hope to remind her of him. If no other man ever wanted to marry her in the whole of her life, she would always have Hope.

  May Prettyjohn had none of that. She didn’t even have Ben’s ring to keep by her heart. She didn’t have the right to come to Ashford and be welcomed by his family. She’d never known the joy of loving him fully, and she would never have his baby.

  I can’t leave it there, Jeanie thought, looking down into the twilit garden. The apple blossom had begun to fall, carpeting the grass beneath with snowy petals, tinged with softest pink. She could hear the grunting of a hedgehog as it snuffled along the foot of the hedge while overhead a pale sickle moon had risen into the sky. In the distance, she could hear the throb of aircraft.

  I can’t leave it there, she repeated to herself. I’ve got to do something about it.

  It was several days before she could decide what to do. Her first thought was to go down to Devon and see May Prettyjohn for herself. Talk to her, try to help her to understand how things were at the vicarage. But the girl knew that already – Ben had told her, and th
ey’d agreed not to marry until his mother could accept it. He’d asked her father’s consent to marry her, and they’d been going to buy a ring, but that was as far as they were going, for the time being.

  Even that, Jeanie knew, must have been hard for Ben to accept. He’d wanted so much to marry his sweetheart, and he’d wanted to marry her soon, before his twenty-first birthday, just in case something happened to him. It was as if he had known.

  All through the war, he had been confident that nothing would ever happen. He’d been bright and brave and daring, filled with courage and a sense that nothing could ever touch him. He’d told her once that you had to feel like that – what was the word he’d used? Invincible? – or you wouldn’t be able to do the job. But he’d lost that feeling, perhaps when he’d fallen in love. He’d realised what he had to lose. And so, just as if it had to happen, he’d been killed.

  Oh Ben, she thought, the tears starting yet again. My poor, poor Ben …

  ‘Jeanie, are you all right?’ The vicar’s voice startled her as she stood at the kitchen sink, her hands in the cooling washing-up water. ‘You’ve been standing there for over five minutes without moving a muscle. I was beginning to think you’d been turned to stone.’

  Jeanie moved round and his expression deepened to concern as he saw the tears on her cheeks.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Is it Ben? I forget that you’re as upset as we are.’

  ‘I don’t expect I am,’ she said, taking a saucer from the water and standing it on the draining-board. ‘He was your son. You’re bound to be much more upset than anyone else could be. Except …’ She hesitated. She’d quickly discarded her first idea, to go and see May – she could no more go to Devon than she could go to Portsmouth – and had realised that she had no choice but to speak to the vicar himself. Perhaps now was the moment.

  She took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got to talk to you, Mr Hazelwood. It’s about Ben. It’s – it’s serious.’ She saw the look on his face and added hastily, ‘It’s all right – it’s not the same as it was with Terry. But I really do need to tell you something.’

  He searched her expression carefully. Then he nodded and said, ‘You’d better come into the study.’

  ‘I’ll finish the washing-up first.’ She tried a little laugh. ‘Mustn’t waste the water!’

  He smiled back at her. ‘Come as soon as you’re ready. And – don’t look so worried, Jeanie. Whatever it is, I’m sure we can sort it out.’

  He left the kitchen and Jeanie returned to her work. I hope he can, she thought. But it all depends on Mrs Hazelwood, and that poor lady really isn’t in any fit state to sort anything out.

  ‘Well, now,’ John Hazelwood said when Jeanie was sitting nervously opposite him on the edge of one of the sagging armchairs by the fireplace. ‘What is it that’s worrying you?’

  The study was quite a big room; its walls were lined with bookshelves crammed with books, and it contained a few chairs and small tables and a large desk at which John composed his sermons and did all the paperwork involved in being a vicar. In the corner was the bureau which held his correspondence, and this was the only tidy part of the room, the one thing that the vicar was meticulous about, and the most sacrosanct piece of furniture there. The shelves, tables and even some of the chairs overflowed with papers and books, and the door was hung with robes and cassocks.

  ‘You’re not going to be very pleased about it,’ Jeanie began hesitantly. ‘I told you it was about Ben. It’s nothing wrong,’ she added quickly, still afraid that he might misunderstand. ‘I mean, nothing wrong that he did. It’s me.’ She bit her lip and then said, ‘I read the letter May Prettyjohn wrote you.’

  John stared at her. ‘You read her letter? But how did you come across it? I’ve kept it in my bureau. Surely you haven’t been looking through that. You know that everything in there is confidential.’

  ‘No! No, truly I haven’t. But you left the letter in your cassock pocket. I was mending the hem and I found it.’ She looked at him pleadingly, aware of the painful colour in her cheeks. ‘I didn’t read it to start with – I knew it would be wrong. But I saw where it was from and I guessed it was her, and – well, I just couldn’t seem to help it.’

  ‘I think you could have helped it, Jeanie,’ he said gravely. ‘I think you must admit that.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose I could.’ She looked down, feeling the tears hot in her eyes, realising for the first time what he must be thinking. They had taken her into their home, cared for her, treated her almost like a daughter – and she had let them down. By this one, simple act, she had let them down. She raised her eyes again and said, ‘I’m really sorry. I know I shouldn’t have done it. But I did, and – and I can’t forget it. I’ve got to talk to you about it.’

  John was silent for a few moments, his brows drawn together in thought. Then he said, ‘Yes, all right, Jeanie. We can’t pretend you haven’t seen it. But what exactly do you want to talk about?’

  ‘Well, I know it’s none of my business but – I was fond of Ben too, you know. I was really fond of him. I’ve got to admit I was a bit upset when I heard about this other girl, but when he talked to me about her, I could see he really loved her. And when I read the letter I could see she loved him, too. And I wondered – I just wondered if anyone had written back to her. Because I could do it, if you’d like me to.’

  ‘You?’ he said in surprise.

  ‘Yes, why not? You see, I know what she must feel like. I lost my boy too. Only his family were good to me – they took me in when I needed it and found me this place with you, and helped me to keep Hope. When you look at it like that, I’m a lot luckier than May Prettyjohn. Me and Terry might have done wrong, but we made each other happy, and he died knowing what it was like to love me. And I know what it was like, too.’ She looked at him a little defiantly. ‘I know people say that was wrong, but I can’t ever be sorry about that. And I’ve got Hope, and she’s a part of him for ever. I know I shouldn’t be saying things like this to you, Mr Hazelwood, what with you being a vicar and everything, but as it’s turned out I’m not sorry about any of it.’

  Again, he took a moment or two to answer. His voice was still quiet, as he asked, ‘Are you saying that Mrs Hazelwood and I have treated this girl badly, Jeanie? That we’ve been wrong all this time?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare say that, Mr Hazelwood. You’re a vicar. I’m just saying what happened to me.’

  ‘But your fiancé’s family were good to you – those were your words. They stood by you and took you in. My wife and I haven’t done those things for May. In fact, we didn’t even reply to her letter until a week ago. I have written back, Jeanie, you’ll be pleased to hear. At least I’ve done that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she murmured, her eyes falling. ‘I’ve been talking out of turn. I’d better go – there’s things I ought to be doing.’

  She began to get up but he lifted a hand to stop her. ‘No, Jeanie, don’t go. I didn’t mean to reproach you. I think you’re quite right. We haven’t done as we should by this poor girl. Even my letter – well, it was just a note, really, polite and formal, thanking her for writing. With no thought for her feelings, no sympathy for her loss. I’m ashamed of it.’ He placed his hands on his knees and stared down at them. ‘You’ve made me ashamed.’

  Jeanie was shocked and dismayed. ‘I didn’t mean—’ she began, but again he stopped her.

  ‘I know you didn’t. But you were right. We’ve been very remiss.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I’ve been so wrapped up in my own sorrow, and my wife’s health, that I’ve grievously omitted to think of what poor May was going through. You’ve been wiser and more compassionate than I, Jeanie. I’m glad you read that letter.’

  ‘Glad?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, glad. Otherwise I might have gone on, pushing it from my mind, ignoring the pain she must be feeling. What sort of a man of God am I?’ he demanded bitterly. ‘What sort of guidance can I give, when my own sins are so black?’ Jeanie
didn’t know what to say. She had never seen the vicar like this, except when in the pulpit, denouncing evil. She wished she had never spoken to him about May’s letter. It’s just what Mum always says, she told herself. Good never comes out of doing wrong. Only, when she thought about her daughter Hope, she could never quite believe that – unless what she and Terry had done wasn’t wrong after all …

  And if it hadn’t been, perhaps reading May’s letter wasn’t either. Perhaps good might come of it yet.

  ‘I don’t see that you’re that bad,’ she said to the vicar. ‘It’s not as if you can’t put things right, after all.’

  He stared at her, half amused by her words, half incredulous. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you know her address, don’t you? You could write again. Or I could,’ she offered again. ‘She seems a nice person. Why don’t you let me do that?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. You’re quite right, this is something I must do myself. Not that it wouldn’t be a very nice idea for you to write to her as well,’ he added. ‘You’re of an age, after all, Ben was a special person to you both and you of all people can understand just how she must be feeling. I think she would very much appreciate hearing from you. But Olivia and I must play our part as well.’

  ‘Mrs Hazelwood?’ Jeanie queried doubtfully. ‘Do you think she’s well enough? I don’t think May would want to upset her any more.’

  ‘No, I’m sure she wouldn’t. But I’ve come to the conclusion lately that it isn’t doing my wife any good to let her go on in this way. If we allow her to go on hiding from the truth, she’ll never be able to face the rest of her life. She’ll always stay in this shadowy world she seems to be living in now. And it seems to me that the shadows are growing deeper every day …’ His voice faded and he seemed to be staring past Jeanie at a future he dreaded; then he turned his head and looked at her properly again, smiling apologetically at her bewildered expression. ‘I’m sorry, Jeanie. I don’t suppose I’m making any sense to you. Look, if you want to write to May, then please do so with my blessing. Explain how things are here if you like, but tell her I’ll be writing again soon, properly, and tell her my prayers are with her.’ He sighed. ‘No, even that I should be doing myself, and I will. You just write her a friendly letter of your own.’ He fell silent again and Jeanie began to rise uncertainly to her feet. He looked up then and added simply, ‘And thank you.’