by Liz Fenwick
‘No, you weren’t, were you? Mother, Amelia and me. Don’t we count?’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘It wouldn’t be like that if it was someone else, maybe, but Margaret?’
He looked me in the eyes then down at his hands. I once thought them capable, strong and clever, but now I saw them as the hands of a man who thought only of himself. Margaret could have her pick of men, available men. He hadn’t even considered my mother.
I stood up. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t condone this.’
He stood up as well, reaching out to me. ‘Don’t make a scene.’
I smirked. A scene! ‘Don’t worry about that,’ I whispered. ‘You are doing quite well on your own.’
‘Don’t tell your mother or Amelia.’ He shook his head. ‘I know the two of you communicate without words, but don’t tell her.’
‘What? You can’t bear to fall from the heights she has put you on?’ I laughed softly. ‘Father, you should have thought about that before you took my aunt to bed.’
I turned and walked away. As I left, I heard a quiet, plaintive ‘Please’ behind me. But I did not turn back.
Windward, Mawnan Smith, Falmouth, Cornwall
23 September 2015
‘I’m so glad you were here.’ Jack smoothed the hair on the back of his neck then left his hand there, his shirt riding up, revealing a large patch of taut skin on his waist. Lara tried not to look. ‘When I went to give our neighbour Martha a hand with her car, I hadn’t realised it would take so long.’
‘Well, don’t worry. You couldn’t have stopped the stroke, if that’s what it was, and she’ll be fine for now.’
‘But not much longer.’ He turned to her. ‘The pneumonia has accelerated her end, I think.’
She nodded. The doctor was with Elle. It had been decided it was best not to take her in to hospital, despite the belief that it was a mini-stroke. Elle did not want to go and had promised the doctor that she would rest.
‘What’s going on?’ Jack dropped his hand and stuck it into his jeans pocket.
‘She’s old and tired.’
‘True, but it’s all happened so quickly.’
Lara walked closer to him. ‘It’s hard.’ She bit her lip, thinking of Grandie. ‘But it may be a blessing.’
His eyes filled with unshed tears.
‘I know how hard it is to let go,’ she said.
He nodded and she reached out and touched his hand. He took hers in his and held it tight.
Chelsea, London
9 May 1945
I’d tried to ring Bobby but there was no answer. So I wrote a note and set out to drop it off where he was staying. The flat in question wasn’t far from where Angus’s mother, Mrs Lambert, lived in Cadogan Gardens; I’d rung her earlier that morning, asking for a bed without much explanation. I think Angus might have said something because she didn’t query my request and was very welcoming.
Knocking on the door of Bobby’s flat, I was greeted by a dishevelled officer I didn’t recognise. ‘Sorry to disturb you – I’m looking for Captain Robert Webster?’
He gave me an odd stare. ‘He’s gone. He left this morning.’
I glanced at the note in my hand. The captain was looking at me as if he’d seen me before, but I knew I’d never met him. ‘Could I leave this for him?’
‘You can, but he’ll be gone for a while. If it’s an important letter then sending it might be best. I can give you the address.’
I frowned. ‘I have it already.’
‘I hope you enjoyed your night.’ He smiled.
‘Thank you, I did. It was a wonderful celebration.’
‘Yes, it was.’ He leered at me and I shivered as I walked away.
Putting the letter in my pocket, I stepped back out onto the pavement. What a peculiar comment that had been.
As I continued, on the road ahead I saw Margaret’s long-time friend Lady Hall. This was a meeting I didn’t want to take place so I took a right turn and slipped down Moore Street. Thankfully there had been no sign of my aunt when I’d left to meet my father, which was a relief. I had no idea what more I could say to her. No doubt she would hear from Father how I felt.
How could I not tell Amelia what I knew? How could he ask that?
But then I hadn’t told her much about Bobby, so I’d kept things from her before. He hadn’t entered her sphere. But Father and Aunt Margaret were different, and this had changed everything. We would be left taking care of Mother. Or, truthfully, Amelia would – I would soon be on my way to the States as Mrs Robert Webster, as long as all went to plan.
I was sorry that I had missed Bobby last night, but pleased that he hadn’t witnessed my father’s betrayal. Angus had handled it well and none of the others with us had known anything was amiss. We had left the 400 and ended up at the Embassy Club. The words to ‘Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree (with Anyone Else but Me)’ ran through my mind as I made my way to the Lamberts’ flat. I thought of that glorious May weekend with Bobby, and him singing to me as we sat under the fading apple blossom. My hunger for him was greater, if that was possible, knowing there was now a future for us.
On the bottom step, a stab to my gut stopped me. Amelia. What of her future? She was in pain right now. I looked around, feeling she must be close, but I was alone on the street. Where was she? I shivered and focused on holding her near. But I sensed she was pushing me away. The front door opened and Mrs Lambert stood there with a beaming smile. ‘Adele, do come in!’ she said. ‘We’re about to have tea and then Angus must head back to his unit.’
Windward, Mawnan Smith, Falmouth, Cornwall
23 September 2015
My sister was dead.
She had to be. Bobby was already gone, and now Lara was looking to find out more about Amelia. The letters my sister had written to me sat on the top of the desk, but I had no power to move. The pneumonia had weakened me. From downstairs I smelled the aroma of butter and onions and garlic. I imagined Jack and Lara in the kitchen and smiled. Peta was right – Jack needed Lara. He was beginning to trust and let her in because of me. If she could help him to live then what difference did my secrets make? None at all.
My sister was dead. Bobby was dead. And I would soon join them.
The need to know about my sister’s life was awake. It had been forcibly put to sleep by me so many years ago, and now it was like a persistent itch that wouldn’t be soothed. I tried to move my legs but they shifted only inches. What would those letters tell me? What was I afraid of now?
‘Hey, Gran,’ Peta whispered as she came through the door.
‘Peta.’
She went straight to the desk and picked up the letters. ‘This is what you want.’
I nodded and she came and sat beside me on the edge of the bed. ‘OK.’ She looked at each letter addressed to me. ‘From A. Webster of Falmouth, Massachusetts,’ she read. ‘Why did you never open these?’
‘Simple. I didn’t want to know what was in them.’
She laughed. ‘But you didn’t throw them out.’
‘I did, but my mother – who didn’t know what day of the week it was by then – fished them out of the bin and saved them in my old suitcase.’
‘Dementia?’
‘I’m not sure.’ I coughed and she handed me a glass of water. ‘Certainly a nervous breakdown when my father moved in with my aunt, her sister-in-law.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Yes, at first they were discreet but that didn’t last long.’
‘Divorce?’
I shook my head. ‘That would have been kinder in the long run but Grandmother wouldn’t have it.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘She told my mother to just turn a blind eye and count her blessings. As a divorcee she would be worse off. Her husband having a mistress would make her an object of pity but not an outcast.’
‘Strange times.’
‘Very. The war turned our world upside down.’ I looked at my sister’s letters. A. We
bster. She hadn’t written Mrs R. Webster. ‘People did things they never would have considered before the war.’
‘I bet.’
‘Even you, Peta, have no idea.’ I looked at the letters. What would they tell me? How wonderful life with Bobby was? How delightful the baby was?
‘Gran, be brave. We love you.’
I tried to squeeze her hand but mine was too weak.
‘You need to rest.’ Peta picked up my hand and kissed it. ‘I almost couldn’t believe what I was seeing.’ She grinned. ‘In the kitchen Jack was acting as sous chef, cooking without a recipe.’
I raised my eyebrows.
‘I know,’ said Peta. ‘She’s making him taste ingredients and make decisions from taste alone!’
‘Wonderful.’ I smiled. There was hope for him.
‘Yes, and now you’ll sleep and grow stronger.’
I nodded.
‘It will be OK.’
I shook my head.
‘Trust me.’
I knew I had no choice. Events were taking their own path, as they had done seventy years ago. But if I died, would these letters tell the story?
Thirty-Eight
10 May 1945
On the train I sat looking out of the window at the Dorset countryside with a blank sheet of paper in front of me. I had so much to say to Bobby but didn’t know where to begin.
Finally, I started to write:
My dearest love,
I can’t believe I missed you on VE Day. I know I said this in my note that I posted to you. I hope you managed to celebrate without me. What did you do?
I pictured him in the crowded streets dancing and celebrating with everyone. My heart stopped. He wouldn’t have kissed anyone else, well, at least not seriously. I laughed, thinking of all the men who had kissed me that day – but then I thought about Father. It was twisting my insides. I couldn’t write to him about Father and Aunt Margaret yet I needed to talk to someone about it.
I was afraid to call home. It would be there, in Mother’s voice – the knowledge of what had happened. Knowing why she was depressed didn’t help. Before I knew the reason, I had thought it was because Father was away. Of course, the war was still at fault for his absence from her life. It had made the most of people’s weaknesses. Yet many had found strength they hadn’t known they had. I never imagined that Father could have landed on the beaches, let alone what else he witnessed in Europe. His night-time screams were not the surprise; simply the person reporting them. It should have been Mother comforting him.
I missed you. I eventually made it to the Savoy but hours after we’d said. Fortunately I bumped into an old friend, Angus Lambert, and a few of his flyboy friends. It was a good evening, but not truly fun without you.
The landscape was bursting to life outside the window, as if the land itself was rejoicing, and part of me was too. The war was over. There was a future that wasn’t bleak. But then I thought of Amelia.
I longed to be in your arms and feel your lips on mine. I know we have waited for this moment. We can now plan. Last night I dreamt that finally we had made love, knowing the future was ours. I know if it had happened it would have been wrong, but it also would have been so right. On my way to Aunt Margaret’s
I stopped writing, leaving off in the middle of the sentence, and winced, thinking about the walk back to Aunt Margaret’s house, knowing what I’d seen. The fear that she might be there when I arrived.
I saw couples love making and I hungered for you. The ache inside nearly had me crying out. I miss you so much and I know I must be patient. The war isn’t over yet. I’m praying they won’t transfer you to the Far East now.
I can barely breathe for wanting to hear from you. All my heart is hoping we can be together soon. I can hear you whispering to me to be patient. I have been patient, darling, and I will try to be a bit longer.
Kisses and hugs and so much more,
Xxxx
As the train pulled into the station, I twisted the ring he had given me. I folded the letter, then sealed it with a kiss.
Mawnan Smith, Falmouth, Cornwall
24 September 2015
The rain had eased and the bread was baking. Peta had arrived at Windward and was sitting with Elle, while Jack and Lara were walking to the nearby farm stand for potatoes. Lara’s wellies squelched through the mud on the track, but Jack was silent as they walked. She guessed that his thoughts were with his grandmother. He sighed and she turned to him. ‘When did you take up cooking?’
He looked at her, startled. ‘When I was in university. Why do you ask?’
‘I thought university was all beans on toast over here.’
He smiled. ‘It was, but that becomes dull very quickly. When Peta gave me a recipe book my first Christmas at uni, I began to cook.’
‘And you followed them to the letter.’ She turned and strolled along backwards, facing him.
He smiled. ‘Yes.’
‘What happened if you didn’t have an ingredient?’
‘I didn’t make it.’
She laughed, then fell into step beside him. ‘You’re an accountant.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘It makes sense then.’
‘Why do I feel like you are damning me?’ A grin played on his mouth.
‘Not at all. It’s not anything I could ever do.’
‘So by implication I could never cook.’
‘Touché, but no.’
They left the track and walked along the road. Leaves were spinning down from the trees and landing in the puddles. Lara jumped in the next one and water splashed Jack. He followed suit and soon they were puddle jumping until they reached the junction. Mud had splattered all the way up her jeans and she was laughing like she hadn’t in a long time.
‘You’re mad,’ he said, and looked down at the muck that had made its way up to his shirt.
‘Yes, and it feels so good.’
He nodded.
Once they reached the farm stand they bought potatoes and admired the vegetables for sale, then they raced back to Windward just as the heavens opened and the rain started to pelt down.
HMS Attack, Portland, Dorset
10 May 1945
It felt like Mary, the new girl in our cabin, would never finish telling me about the VE Day celebrations at HMS Attack. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to hear them, but in my hand I held a letter from Bobby. Our letters must have crossed with each other. I could almost imagine the envelope being red hot, burning my fingers as she went on and on. I kept a smile on my face while all I was thinking of was Bobby. Could he now say where he was and how soon I would be able to see him again? I had leave coming up. I didn’t want to go home to Cornwall. I wanted to go away with him. Maybe we could slip off and be married? Surely it could be possible? I would talk to the padre.
‘Did you hear a word of what I said?’ asked Mary.
I blinked. There was no use lying. ‘No.’
‘I didn’t think so. Is that a letter from your Yank?’ She looked at my hand.
I nodded.
‘Fine,’ she snapped. ‘Read it. It’ll just be worthless words of passion. He’ll let you down, these Yanks always do.’ She wandered down the gangway. I’d heard why she felt that way, but Bobby was different. He was the one who had held our passion in check and talked of our future. He wanted to do things the right way around. He had principles, unlike Father.
Turning the letter over, I slipped my nail under the edge to break the seal. Holding it up to my nose as I wedged my finger between the envelope flaps, I sniffed to see if I could smell him, but there was nothing but the dry scent of paper.
My dearest angel,
I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know if you will ever forgive me. You fled before I woke, before I could apologise, before I could say anything.
I put the letter down. This made no sense. What was he talking about?
After a moment, feeling a twinge of fear, I continued reading.
I was
wrong, so wrong to make love to you when we were both so drunk. It’s not what I ever wanted for us. I cannot forgive myself and I understand if you can’t forgive me for treating you in this way. The first time I touched you that way I wanted to be fully there, not fumbling through a haze of whiskey and beer. I can only begin to imagine what you think of me and what you must think I feel about you to treat you in such a manner.
I understand why you didn’t want to wake beside me in the morning but I wish you had. Then I could have begun to repair this. I want to fix this. We can, I know we can. I love you so much and I believe that despite what happened we love each other.
More than anything I didn’t want to make the mistakes my father made. And here I have gone and done that. You cannot begin to understand how low I feel. How utterly sorry I am.
I dropped the letter from my shaking hands. He’d slept with someone else on VE night and he was asking me to forgive him. My hands moved to my heart and I looked at the scattered pages on the bed. Could I bear to read the rest?
You looked so beautiful in your green dress and I ruined everything. I wish I could go back to that moment when I spotted you in Trafalgar Square and instead behave how I should have done. I am not proud of what happened at all. I just ask that you forgive me.
I want you to be my wife. I need to see you but I’m not sure when I can get back to London. Please tell me you are well and that you will at least see me.
I love you more than life itself.
Yours forever,
B xxxx
I ran to the loo, making it there just as the dry retching began. My stomach tried to release but nothing emerged aside from a stream of bile.
Bobby thought he had made love to me.
Amelia.
Flood Tide
Just lost when I was saved!
Just felt the world go by!
Just girt me for the onset with eternity,
When breath blew back,
And on the other side
I heard recede the disappointed tide!
Therefore, as one returned, I feel,
