by Liz Fenwick
‘What?’ She placed the basket on the kitchen counter with unsteady hands.
‘You tilt your head at the same angle as she does. And you wave your hands in the same expressive manner.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ He paused, studying me. ‘You know, now that I’ve noticed it, it’s difficult not to see the resemblance.’
‘That picture you mentioned,’ she said, carefully, ‘of her, on VE Day – may I see it?’
He nodded and placed his basket down. ‘I’ll just grab it.’ He left the kitchen.
Lara went to the fridge and made sure there was sufficient butter before they began the tart.
‘Would you like another cup of coffee?’ Jack had returned, and was holding up the picture.
‘I’d prefer tea,’ she said.
‘Of course.’ He put the photo down on the table and placed the kettle on the Aga. She picked the photograph up, and instantly her hand shook. It was her. It was as if someone had put her in a uniform and posed her.
‘The similarities are quite strong, aren’t they?’ Jack said, watching her staring at the photo. He reached into a cupboard and took out a brown glazed teapot just like Grandie’s – and right then, she felt her great-grandfather’s presence in the room, and found herself looking over her shoulder as if he might be standing there. Sensing him like this was odd – but maybe if he had had his wedding reception here, there might be a link.
‘What’s your grandmother’s name?’
‘It’s Elle Rowse now, but her maiden name was Seaton.’
‘Elle? That’s unusual for a woman who avoids French cooking.’
‘Not just French, all foreign cooking. She eyes garlic as suspect, but since we grow our own she tolerates it.’
She laughed.
He poured the tea. ‘Milk?’
‘A bit, please.’
‘So where do we begin?’ he said, and leaned against the counter.
‘How are you with pastry?’
He tilted his hand back and forth.
‘Then let’s start there,’ she said.
‘If you insist. I usually use pre-made.’
She smiled. ‘Great if you’re short of time, but we’re not, are we?’
‘Not today. I was up at five and completed what I needed to do so I could give you my full attention.’
She spluttered in surprise as a mouthful of tea nearly went down the wrong way. ‘Impressive,’ she finally managed.
‘That’s the plan.’
‘A star pupil in the making?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I bet you will.’ She grinned. He could be charming, clearly, when it suited him. ‘Right, now we come to the great debate.’
‘And that is?’
‘Do you use puff pastry or shortcrust for a tarte tartin?’
He shrugged. ‘I do what the recipe calls for.’
‘Personally I prefer shortcrust, but I have to say puff is delicious if you are eating it immediately.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s delicate and melting but can become soggy if left too long.’
‘Makes sense.’ He grinned. ‘Many things do.’
‘True.’ She laughed, and wondered where this bantering, light-hearted Jack had come from. She pulled a Julia Child cookbook off the shelves to the right of the Aga. ‘Are these yours?’
‘No, my grandfather’s.’ He came to her side. ‘You need a recipe for the pastry?’ He frowned.
‘Not at all – but I wanted to show you a few different ones, because they all have their merits.’
‘But what is your favourite?’ He was standing so close, the scent of his aftershave circled around her. It was fresh and touched with citrus. She sniffed again: lime and sandalwood, with a hint of something she couldn’t place.
‘Again, this all depends on the ingredients you are using, like the apples themselves. Cookers or eaters, as you mentioned. Their sugar levels, textures and tastes.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Sounds complicated, which is why I follow the recipe exactly. It makes it simple.’
‘Then it takes the joy out of cooking and working with ingredients that are fresh.’ She picked up one of the apples, turning it around in her hands. ‘Very sweet apples need less sugar and might require lifting with a spice like cinnamon or even salt.’ She held it to her nose. ‘Earth and rain and a slight musk.’ The texture of the fruit was firm with no give. She looked at Jack and wondered what had turned him from sweet to hard. Those blue eyes were shielded except when he laughed or spoke of his grandmother. What spice would she add to him to make him balanced? The heat of chilli and the warmth of cardamom, maybe.
She flushed. She was supposed to be thinking about apples and not about the attractive man in front of her. A slow smile spread across his face. He might not need the chilli to add fire. It was simmering under the surface already.
It was hard for me to stand still and not make a sound. Jack was practically dancing with this woman in the kitchen. He was interested in her. His glance never left her, as if he was mesmerised. I stood there silently and watched the whole process of them making the pastry. I saw him dust flour from her cheek. The intimacy. I closed my eyes and memories of attraction danced through my veins. Excitement, that hollow feeling in my belly.
The desire in them sparked even if they couldn’t see it. She made him taste everything. It fed the old hunger in me. Who knew I could still want? From this distance I could smell the sharp tang of lemon and knew from the expression on Jack’s face when the apples she gave him were sour. She asked their names, and he didn’t always know, but I did.
It was as if I was watching myself, and that made the longing harder to bear. I wanted Jack to find love, to break out of the cage he’d placed around his heart. Closing my eyes I remembered the stomach-turning anticipation of waiting for Bobby, of just simply watching him breathe.
She placed a piece of apple in her own mouth and the juice ran from the corner of her lips. Jack stared and his fingers moved at his side. He wanted to touch her. If I didn’t know better I would swear they were lovers. I knew they weren’t, yet it was just a question of how long before they were.
My breath caught and the hall swayed. I reached for the doorjamb and missed.
Thirty-Two
Weymouth, Dorset
18 June 1944
We were in the White Hart with a few of the US Army officers. We’d come here because the Golden Lion was too packed, but this wasn’t much better. These officers had survived and therefore I had hope, quiet hope, that Bobby had too. Dot knew that her pilot was fine. He’d called her last night. His bombing raid had done its job. Having thought loving a flyboy was the riskiest choice, right now I envied her. We were due to head on to the dance but had stopped to have a drink first. The boys were full of talk about the invasion, but weren’t saying anything I hadn’t read in the papers. The more they spoke the whiter Pat became. These men were not in the same company as Joe, yet I watched the colour leave her face with each word they uttered.
‘Ladies, let’s go dance and forget,’ said a captain and I looked at the beer in my glass. Pat stood and wobbled and I knew it wasn’t from the drink. The tall Texan steadied her and led her out into the beautiful spring evening. I went through the conversation in my mind and tried to figure out what had caused her so much distress. A few more acquaintances came up and joined the group and a major attached himself to Pat and the Texan. As we approached the hall Pat stopped and shook her head.
‘I can’t do this. I’m heading back to Attack.’
I stepped forward. ‘I’ll take you.’
‘No, Tim will. Thanks, Adele.’ She took the Texan’s arm and they walked away. Something had been said and it wasn’t good. With heavy feet I entered the dance with the others. It was crowded as always and before I could dwell on my own fears I was swept into someone’s arms and was dancing to ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’.
I was panting by the time I came off the f
loor five or six dances later. My head was spinning and I barely noticed the glum faces at our table. Dot sat stony-faced, which was so unlike her. ‘Most of the Rangers we knew including Joe are gone,’ she whispered.
‘Gone?’
‘No survivors. None cleared the beach.’
My hand flew to my mouth. I had heard the words of dying men months ago. The Rangers’ voices wouldn’t have been any different.
Our cabin was in darkness when I returned and I could hear Pat’s breathing. It wasn’t the regular rhythm of sleep, it was the ragged breath of someone who had been crying. I stopped in the doorway. I might be doing the same any day now. I turned around, saying a prayer as I left her in peace to try and fall asleep.
It was eleven and the brightest stars were beginning to appear. The moon looked translucent against the darkening sky. First I picked out the Plough or Dipper. I smiled and tried to hold onto hope, but as each day of silence passed my worry increased. If he survived – and that was a big ‘if’ – he wouldn’t have time to write. None of the men tonight knew if he had. As we’d left the dance I couldn’t hold back my questions any longer, but sadly they had no answers.
Orion’s Belt. Could he see it tonight too? Would he sense that I was leaning against the hillside looking up and thinking of him?
Dear God, please keep him safe.
I paused in my prayer to watch a shooting star race across the sky.
Keep Eddie safe too.
A shadow fell across the hillside and I saw someone walking towards me. I sat up when I realised it was Commander Rowse. His shoulders were slightly dipped.
‘Evening,’ he said. ‘Don’t stand up.’
I relaxed.
‘Enjoying a moment of quiet?’
I couldn’t see his features. ‘Yes.’
‘Me too.’
I heard the exhaustion in his voice. It was his job to keep things running smoothly and with all the activity that was no small task. He nodded then walked on.
He needed his wife right now, someone to help ease the worry even for an instant. But who knew when any of us would have leave? Maybe Mrs Rowse should visit. Or would that make it worse? One moment of being together, then separation. A taste and nothing more.
I walked back to quarters. I would settle for the smallest taste just to know that Bobby was alive. As I entered the cabin, Dot was heading to her shift. She held out something to me – an official-looking envelope. Taking a deep breath, I took it, my hands shaking.
‘This was caught under some other papers.’ Her voice was quiet. She too thought it was the worst possible news. ‘Would you like me to stay?’
I shook my head. I needed to face this alone. ‘You have important work to do.’
‘I do.’ She smiled and gave me a quick hug before she set off. Bless her, she understood.
My hand shook so much it was difficult to rip the envelope open.
Darling,
I won’t talk about D-Day. I’m sure you’ve seen things in Portland. To have left the beauty of the Helford to land on Omaha Beach was like leaving heaven for hell. Everything was against us including the tide. That is all I will say. Thoughts of returning to you keep me focused. I am too tired to write more.
I love you
Xxx
The letter dropped to the floor and I leaned against the wall. Tears rolled down my cheeks. He was alive.
Thirty-Three
HMS Attack, Portland, Dorset
20 August 1944
Having been given permission to swim on the beach below, I hoped the break would clear my mind and refresh me. The heat of the day had caught me off guard. My duty over, all I could focus on was the brilliant blue of the sea. Bobby was in London but I didn’t have leave. Somehow this was fine. If he was in London then he wasn’t dead.
The path down to the beach was steep and the urge to run down it squealing like a child was enormous. I had spoken to Amelia last night. Eddie was good and Mother wasn’t. Father was vague about what his role was now. She wouldn’t take heart from the fact that he was no longer on the front line. His surgical skills were needed further back.
I began to hum ‘Roll Out the Barrel’ once I reached the deserted beach. Scanning the horizon, I noted where the waves were breaking far from the shore. It looked safe. I had put my swimming costume on before I left quarters so I discarded my shorts and my top quickly. The water was clear and cool. A lone crab scuttled along the beach. I couldn’t tell if the tide was coming or going as the waves repeatedly hit the same spot.
I wasn’t sure how quickly the water would become deep, and suspected the beach under me might drop off sharply. The other girls had already been swimming but I hadn’t been able to join them. My feet numbed and once I was up to my knees I dived in, gasping for air as I broke the surface. Everything tingled and I was thankful to be alive. I turned onto my back and gently kicked against the current pulling me away from the beach. It wasn’t strong so I was confident my efforts would keep me in one place.
The mackerel sky above me told of a weather change. I was almost glad – much more of this heat would be unbearable. How I missed Amelia and lazy summer days without a care in the world. Flipping over onto my stomach I looked around myself, and back the way I’d come. The shore was further than I’d expected. Much further. Panic surged inside me as I realised that I’d drifted too far.
Even though I was a strong swimmer I knew what must have happened. I was caught in a rip current. I tried to keep calm, and remember what the best thing was to do. These currents happened off the Cornish coast frequently. Swimming as hard as I could, I struggled against the force of the water, but the more I tried the further out I went. Adrenaline and panic impeded any clear thoughts. I glimpsed a figure on the beach. I waved, but then the water pushed me even further out.
My limbs ached as I tried again to fight against the current when I saw the man wave back. He pointed to further along the coast and I knew what he meant. I stopped trying to battle the flow and instead let the water take me out. It felt wrong but I forced myself to allow it to happen. The man ran down the beach.
Slowly the current dropped off, losing its strength, and I regulated my breathing until I felt able to begin a gentle breaststroke parallel to the shore. It was a long way but I knew the man on the beach was swimming out towards me.
I only barely registered him reaching me and helping me back to shore. Once I was back on the sand of the beach, coughing and sputtering, I opened my eyes and finally recognised Commander Rowse looking down at me, dripping wet, his face full of concern. Water drops clung to his long black eyelashes. ‘Welcome back,’ he said.
‘Thank you, sir,’ I managed, between dragging in great gasps of air.
‘That was all a bit touch and go.’
‘Thank you.’ My voice was breathless. I wasn’t sure I could say anything else. I tried to sit up but everything went out of focus.
‘Don’t rush.’ He pushed my hair off my face and then hesitated for a moment. ‘I’m sure you’ve been told this a thousand times but your eyes are extraordinary.’
I smiled. From anyone but Commander Rowse I would have taken that as a chat-up line, but not him.
‘Ah, here come some Yanks. I bet they have a bit of sugar in some form with them. Just the thing.’
‘Commander, I see we were too late to be of help.’ The man winked. My skin crawled. I didn’t know him nor did I want to. However I knew the lieutenant with him.
‘Do either of you have any food with you?’ asked Commander Rowse. ‘Leading Wren Seaton has had a nasty shock and nearly drowned. I think before we tackle the hill, food would help.’
‘It so happens we do.’ The lieutenant produced a bag and pulled out some sandwiches and a thermos.
The commander helped me to sit up. A chill ran across my skin despite the heat of the sun. With a shaky hand I took the half a sandwich given to me. I could see it included jam but wasn’t sure what the other ingredient was. I took a bite. My eyes widen
ed. The saltiness of the peanut butter mixed with the grape of the jam was unexpected to say the least.
‘What do you think of the monkey butter and jelly sandwich, ma’am?’ asked the American with the leering eyes. He had stripped down to his swimmers and although quite muscled he looked unfit compared to the commander.
‘Interesting.’
The commander chuckled. I smiled. The combined flavour wasn’t bad but it wasn’t good either. I was thankful that Bobby hadn’t subjected me to this ‘treat’ on our outings. The lieutenant poured some lemonade from the thermos and I sipped it.
‘Better?’ The commander spoke quietly.
‘Yes, sir.’
He smiled. ‘Good, when you feel ready I’ll walk with you up the hill.’
I was about to refuse but knew it would be foolish. My hands were still wobbly. ‘Thank you.’
Windward, Mawnan Smith, Falmouth, Cornwall
20 September 2015
I opened my eyes and looked at the sitting room ceiling. Something icy cold was pressed against my head, and Jack was hovering nearby. ‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ I blinked, trying to pull everything into focus.
He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘That was some entrance.’
I must have fallen forward into the kitchen. That explained the pack of peas on my head. Nothing else felt too sore.
‘The doctor’s on his way.’ Jack came closer with a torch in his hands. ‘Sorry about this, Gran, but you gave yourself a great knock. Need to check for concussion.’
I closed my eyes.
‘Open.’
Obeying, I glared at him, and squinted as he aimed the torchlight at my eyes.
‘Your pupils are responding.’ I tried to sit up, and he held out a hand and pulled me upright. Things around me seemed to swirl. I held the peas back in place. ‘We’ve made some lunch and I want you to eat it. That’s probably why you fell. No energy and being out of bed when you shouldn’t be.’
You’ve no idea. I sighed. Standing watching the two of them for so long without moving had been the problem. Food was not the issue. Jack helped me to my feet and brought me out of the sitting room, into the kitchen. The rain outside was pelting from the south. It was a dismal afternoon and standing in Windward’s kitchen was the replica of my youth. Lara.
