by Liz Fenwick
‘I don’t look like that anymore.’
He grinned. ‘Yes, you do.’
‘Pah.’
‘Older, yes, but the smile is the same, the eyes, the nose.’ He stood. ‘Are you going to help the woman and record a few sound bites for her?’
‘There is no need. It will all be there in the official records.’
‘It’s not quite the same, is it?’ He bent down and kissed my forehead.
‘You think I should do it.’
‘Do only what you want to do,’ he said.
‘Hah.’
‘It’s your choice, Gran.’ He headed to the kitchen. Soon there would be glorious smells wafting through the house. Right now, the light from the table lamp reflected off the glossy print. Everything worked in that photograph, even my crooked hat. The photographer would have been spoiled for choice with all the joyous images around London that night. But he had chosen me in the arms of an airman.
My war. The sun had left the south face of the house; although I couldn’t see it, I knew it bathed the kitchen and study in its last rays before it dropped below the tall trees marking the boundary of the garden. When did my war begin? That was easy to pinpoint, but I don’t think it ever properly ended. I still felt its effects every day.
We had moved to Windward, then my grandmother’s summer home, just after the Blitz had begun in 1940. Mother’s nerves had become too frazzled by life in London when a house three down from us was hit by a bomb and almost completely destroyed.
There had been no complaints from me when our summer retreat became a full-time one. Grandmother had later decamped here as well, when the Army requisitioned Uncle Reginald’s house in Oxfordshire. I smiled. Grandmother had gone on and on about what an inconvenience it had been, when she could have stayed in the estate’s dower house. But Cornwall was in her blood and it had been the perfect excuse not to do the right thing and watch over the estate, but to do what she wanted.
Looking out to Falmouth Bay, I remembered it, as it had been then, busy with naval activity – now, it was only filled with the occasional tanker and pleasure craft. I leaned on my cane, listening. The sound of Glenn Miller’s ‘In the Mood’ played in the distance. Was I losing my mind? I closed my eyes. Those years were so far away but right at that moment they grabbed at my throat, cutting off the air. The sound of the air-raid siren filled the room. I looked left and right, trying to remember where the shelter was, but the siren stopped and I heard Jack’s voice sing the words to ‘Run Rabbit Run’.
I laughed. Silly old woman. It must be some programme on the wireless. Jack liked to listen to Radio Four while he cooked. Music was so powerful. I’d deliberately avoided listening all these years. It acted like a time machine. Being held in Bobby’s arms listening to him whisper in my ear the words to ‘I Only Have Eyes For You’. That was when I realised that I’d lost my heart forever. I shivered. He’d held me so close and when the music finished he whispered the words I’d been longing to say.
I love you.
The wind blew through the open window. I rubbed my arms. What hair was left on them was standing up. It didn’t do to think about old memories. That damn reporter was at fault. I could have avoided all the fuss of the anniversary. Why would I want to look back? Why would anyone want to? We must live for now, not for the future or the past.
The smell of simmering onions drifted through the house. The lack of change in Windward over the decades had more to do with my laziness in recent years, but previous to that it had also been imposed by penny-pinching. And yet, it didn’t look bad for it. Andrew had wanted me to spend his money on it, but by that time frugality was ingrained in me. Grandmother would be rolling over in her grave at the idea. The Hon. Agatha Davies, née Worth, had married well, but her children were a disappointment to her and her grandchildren had proven even worse. How the great had fallen – but it wasn’t all bad. Andrew had been a good man, and now I was blessed with his grandchildren.
‘Gran, dinner’s ready. Do you want to eat in the kitchen or the dining room?’ Jack stood in the doorway humming along with Bing Crosby to ‘Don’t Fence Me In’. His legs moved and he held a hand out in invitation to dance, with a grin spread across his handsome face. Yes, life had provided compensations along the way.
Two
Eventide, Falmouth Heights, Cape Cod, Massachusetts
15 August 2015
A fly bounced off of the window screen and disturbed Lara’s vigil, watching her great-grandfather’s chest rise and fall. Each time she saw him breathe, she wondered if it would be the last time. According to the nurse, he had not been awake or conscious since she’d gone to bed at midnight. It wouldn’t be long now. The family had been called but no one was rushing. They had all said their farewells. Lara stood and walked to the window. Goodbyes. She hated them and this was one she definitely didn’t want to make.
The dog days of August were living up to their reputation. What breeze there was wasn’t even stirring the muslin curtains. The beach in front of Eventide, Grandie’s home, was empty. Nantucket Sound was still and a heat haze hung above the water. The fly paused on the windowsill, then the only thing disturbing the heavy air was the rasp of Grandie’s breath as he exhaled. Sitting on the bedside table were the flotsam and jetsam she’d picked up for him on her morning’s walk. It was the treasure haul of a child. Each day this past week she’d strolled the beach as the sun was rising, bringing back something that she hoped would delight him. Two days ago, the last time he’d spoken coherently, he had explained the life cycle of the horseshoe crab while he held the skeletal shell she’d found in his hands. His mind was still so sharp. It was just his body that was giving up. His passion for the ocean and all things in it had been his life’s work, and that life was nearly complete.
He was ninety-four. She knew that there was no chance that he would make his next birthday in September even though she wanted him to. Without thinking she picked up the clamshell and placed it in his open palm, helping him to feel the contours of it. His eyes opened and fixed onto her. There was love in them. She swallowed.
‘Tell me what type of clam this is? You know me, I can never keep them straight. Is this a little neck or a top neck?’
The visiting nurse popped her head through the door. ‘All OK?’
Lara nodded and waved her away. If these were his last hours she was going to be selfish and not share him. The shell fell from his hand onto the floor and she bent down to collect it. It had scudded under the bed to rest against an old metal box. Picking up the shell, she pulled the box out as well and placed both of them on the bed. ‘What’s this?’ she asked, gesturing to the box.
He tried to lift his hand, but it fell back to the bed. The top of the box was covered in dust, which she brushed away revealing a yellowed label that said: WWII.
‘May I open it?’
He blinked and she took that for a yes, knowing she or someone else would have to open it eventually. It wasn’t locked, and only needed a bit of force for the lid to shift. At the top of the box were his military medals. Lara picked one up, surprised at its weight. A red and white striped ribbon held a medal with an eagle surrounded by words – Efficiency, Honor, Fidelity. There were so many others nestled on the tray.
She placed it in his hand and he smiled, but said nothing. Putting it back, she lifted the tray to see what was under it. A few black and white photographs of him in uniform sat on some loose papers.
‘You were so handsome.’ She held up a picture. ‘Of course, I’m not saying you aren’t now.’
He smiled.
‘Where were you in this one?’
His eyes closed and Lara flipped the picture over. Something was written in faint pencil. She squinted, holding it closer. ‘Helford River?’
There was no response from him. He had fallen asleep again. His periods of wakefulness were less and less. Placing the photos aside, she picked up the sheets of folded paper.
25 June 1944
My dearest
love,
I cannot begin to say how relieved I am that you are alive. I’ve seen the dead and injured come in daily and I have prayed that it wouldn’t be you, but was almost afraid to hope. I don’t think my heart could take it. I don’t understand how in such a short time you have come to be my world but you have. Please, please stay safe. You are my heart, you are my life. I can barely breathe when I think about you and the danger you must be in at the moment. I know I must be brave and I will be for you.
I love you.
Yours always,
A xxxxxxxooooo
Amelia, her great-grandmother. He had met her in England during the war. Lara opened another but stopped to check Grandie again, picturing him as he was in the photos, so young and so very handsome. She really shouldn’t read these very private letters, but it was the first tangible contact she had had with her great-grandmother. Her name was rarely mentioned.
Darling,
Seeing you yesterday almost made things worse. To have you with me for a few hours makes being apart unbearable. I touch my lips repeatedly remembering the feel of yours on mine. I want you so badly it’s all I can think about. When will this wretched war end so that we can be together?
I find I am jealous of every couple I see. It reminds me you are far away and I can’t touch you or feel the warmth of your skin on mine. If you had told me a few months ago that I could feel this way I wouldn’t have believed you. You are my obsession. Every time I shut my eyes I see you and I try to hold you close but at best you are nothing but a pillow. I cannot describe the coldness that crawls over me after the heat of my dreams.
All my love,
A xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
P.S. My physical need for you is invading all my thoughts. I want to know you fully. I understand waiting but my heart and body do not. I dream of nothing but you – all of you – and I wake to the reality that you are not here in my arms touching me.
Lara blushed and folded the letter with care, placing it with the others. It felt wrong to read them. Grandie had never married again even though Amelia had died in 1950, four years after giving birth to their only daughter, Lara’s grandmother Betty. His love for Amelia had lasted his whole life. These letters showed she had passionately loved him too.
Below them were several tiny books each embossed in gold with a year – 1943, 1944 and 1945. Flicking through the pages, Lara saw he had written a line or two at most on each day. He’d never spoken about the war, even though she and her twin, Leo, had asked years ago.
She paced the room, stopping to stare out the window over to the hazy outline of Martha’s Vineyard – the vista so achingly familiar. Eventide had been as much a part of her life as Grandie. The view never bored her. With each tide the beach in front of the house changed. The sand shifted and creatures thrived. The house would go to her grandmother, Betty, who had already stated her plan to sell it. She had left the Cape years ago and her life was now in Florida where the winters were kinder.
It was time to let go. Lara turned back to the room. Her great-grandfather appeared so small on the bed with its tall, carved posts, each topped with the pinecone filial. The troublesome fly landed on his nose. Lara brushed it away again then stroked the thin hair across his brow. He’d been so handsome when young, and traces of those looks were still there in the structure of his face.
‘I love you, and I know you are ready.’ She sat down on the bed next to him and took his hand in hers. ‘I’m trying to be ready too.’ She sighed. ‘Letting go is hard and, well, I’ve never been good at it. Or losing, for that matter.’
His eyes opened. He was listening.
‘But that’s what this year has been about so far.’
He blinked.
‘More divorce stuff arrived in the mail.’ She wasn’t sure why she was telling him this. He wouldn’t understand giving up. It wasn’t what people of his generation did. You married and that was it.
‘I know what you’re thinking.’ His glance didn’t leave her face. ‘I should stick it out. But …’ She took a deep breath. ‘If it had been my choice alone, I would have.’ She shook her head. ‘But you aren’t in a marriage alone.’ She paused. ‘And, well, that’s what Pierre felt he was, in our marriage. Alone.’ Her long hours had taken a toll on their time together. You didn’t get weekends off in the restaurant trade. He didn’t have days off in the week.
Grandie’s eyes closed. Lara paused until she saw he was still breathing. Should they, or more correctly she, have done more to save the marriage? What would Grandie have done? ‘We drifted apart.’ Every day this past year she and Pierre had passed each other in the kitchen and in the hall, no longer touching, and she’d been too tired to notice. The wedding band on her finger caught the light from the bedside lamp. ‘It was more my fault than his, if I’m honest.’
His breath paused and her heart tightened.
‘I’m not sure if you can hear me or not but I need to know how you stayed in love with your wife all this time. Amelia has been gone for over sixty years. How do you make a love like that happen?’
His hand moved, searching out hers. She’d left it too late to ask these questions. If the nurse was right, Grandie might not utter another word.
Unlike modern houses the kitchen in Eventide didn’t face the view, but the driveway. No doubt when someone bought the house they would alter it to meet modern ideas and not those of the late 1800s. Lara, however, liked the fact that when she was cooking she wasn’t distracted by the view. In the kitchen the focus should be on the ingredients and what you were doing with them. This was a lesson she understood more today than she had all those years ago when she had made blueberry muffins with Grandie. Years at culinary school and in the kitchens of top restaurants had taught her this and more.
Behind her on the table were the final agreements of her divorce. Her marriage was almost finished. She hadn’t really paid attention to the details. For years she’d worked twelve-to thirteen-hour days six days a week. On the seventh she slept. She hadn’t known Pierre anymore, and hadn’t really known herself outside of a kitchen.
Lara put the kettle on the stove and jiggled the gas knob. The flame burst into light under it and she watched it discolour under the metal base of the kettle. It was the same one that had always been there. Once it would have been something she would have wanted from the house. She would have prowled the kitchen grabbing the old mixing bowls along with the dog-eared copy of Good Housekeeping’s Best Recipes and the battered La Veritable Cuisine de Famille par Tante Marie. Locating the French cookbook on the shelf, she picked it up and leafed through the pages, wondering when Grandie had acquired it. Lara had practised her high-school French while trying the recipes. What she’d loved most about the Tante Marie book were the handwritten notes in pencil in the margins, with ideas for alternative ingredients. In some ways she could credit the hours spent with this as the inspiration for her career.
Flicking through to the back of the cookbook, she reached the end papers, where there were many handwritten recipes inscribed in pencil. This wasn’t Grandie’s or her grandmother’s writing so it had to be the book’s first owner. Running her hand over the careful script she smiled at the recipe for rosehip syrup. Outside the window the garden was filled with sea spray roses. They produced beautiful hips. She wouldn’t be here to harvest them this year. She had no idea where she would be come September and October.
She knew she wouldn’t take any of these books now. They would be hauled off to the local charity shop for resale. Despite the memories, there was no point holding onto the past. She had nowhere to put them. Pierre was getting the house they had bought five years ago here in Falmouth. Lara was taking a bit of cash and not much more than the blurry memory of the hope she’d felt on their wedding day.
She shook her head. That had been ten years ago. The kettle whistled an uneven tune and she shut the gas off, watching the flame collapse into the burner. It disappeared so quickly once it was starved of fuel, a bit like her marriage. Love ha
d died without daily care. She pulled the brown teapot down from the shelf. Grandie might have brought this back from England after the war along with his bride Amelia. The spout had a small chip but otherwise it was sound. Maybe this would be the one item from Eventide that she would ask for.
The screen door swung open and in walked Leo. Lara’s eyes filled. Never had he looked so good nor had seeing him felt so welcome.
‘Hello, Runt.’ He dropped his bag on the floor and opened his arms.
Lara walked into them. ‘You’re just jealous you were second born.’ This old joke never seemed to end despite their twenty-eight years.
‘True.’ Leo held Lara away from him to look into her eyes. ‘How is he?’
‘Leaving us.’
‘At his age that’s not a surprise.’
She frowned. ‘I know.’
‘How’s the life of leisure going?’
She blew out an exasperated sigh.
‘Face it, you needed a break.’ He grinned. ‘Alright, I’ll admit that calling your boss an incompetent tyrant and then walking out was not the ideal way to do it.’
She laughed and rolled her eyes.
‘Six months’ paid leave isn’t something to complain about,’ he said.
‘True, but …’ She tried to find the words to express her worries.
‘You’re too good a chef not to be hired again.’
She looked up at him, briefly tearful that, as always, Leo understood. He threw an arm around her and they walked through the house.
‘Enjoy the time off. You’ve had a lot to deal with.’ He tugged on her ponytail. ‘You’ve always been impatient.’
‘True,’ she laughed.
They met the nurse on the stairs. Leo continued up to Grandie and she watched him go. He would need his time alone with their great-grandfather. She turned to the landing window. Clouds had rolled in and the afternoon had become cooler than the blistering heat of the morning. There might be a thunderstorm before long. She picked up the picture on the sill. It was of Lara and Grandie on her wedding day. He was walking her down the aisle as her father had died ten years earlier when she was just eight. Grandie had done his best to fill the gap in their lives.
