The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley

by Susan Örnbratt

  It wasn’t fair running off like that. But there was no other choice and she couldn’t regret her decision when it was made to save him. Though she’d considered going back to find him too many times to count, especially in those moments of weakness when she sat crumpled after enemy planes thundered above, Gillian always pulled herself together. But it was in their last kiss, a kiss that felt remarkably different from their first, that she sensed he could feel a good-bye in it. It was the love behind it that she hoped he would remember. All she asked of her auntie, if anyone had come looking for her, was to let things remain in the past. Somehow she knew her auntie had understood. There were no more words spoken about it.

  But there were words written in a scrawly sort of writing, the letter Gillian dusted off and brought out to the edge of the crag with her, a letter she’d read only once before, a letter that her auntie had forwarded to her fourteen years ago.

  November 30, 1932

  Dear Gilly,

  Every evening, I walk over to Big Tub Lighthouse hoping you might show up. But you never do. I listen to the loons calling out to each other hoping you’ll answer. But you never do. I sit in my rowboat watching the beavers like we used to, thinking I’ll hear your laugh again. But I never do.

  If somehow this letter finds its way to you, I want you to know that I would have asked you to stay. And I would have only asked once. You have a mind of your own; trying to change it is too big a job for a crop duster on the Bruce Peninsula, I think. So maybe I’ll never know if I did something wrong, something to drive you away. I figure it was just easier for you to leave the way you did. I’m okay with that now. I was pissed as hell before, but I’m okay now.

  Gilly, I’m not even sure what to write except that you changed my life forever. Truth is, few ever get to know a love like we had, and it doesn’t take an old soul to figure that out. If I could wish it twice for just one person, it would be you. Ours may have only been meant for a summer, but I want you to know it was the best summer of my life.

  I’ll always love you,

  Christian

  As the letter flapped in the breeze, mixed emotions toyed with Gillian. She could still see ghostly words slumbering between the lines all these years later—a man calling out to her but hearing no reply. She was sure this acute nostalgia would only last a moment, and then she could return to the life she had now. Maybe she really should consider a relationship with Dr. Pilkington after all. He was a good man, and it was a good life despite the war. Hers was now a life cloaked in honesty and hard work with hidden hopes that one day Gillian could live with the choice she’d made—a callous choice that no matter what would have hardened Christian over time. She had to live with it because one thing was for certain, Christian Hunter could never learn the truth about what really happened that summer.

  Chapter 5 - 1946

  In winter sitting by the fire,

  We dwell on things to be.

  The earth no longer robed in white,

  But dressed in tender green.

  Bringing us as days pass by,

  Nearer our summer dreams!

  The fury of the winter storms,

  Gives place to calm blue seas,

  The gulls no longer claim the shore

  Where they have reigned supreme!

  But summer days are very few,

  The sun a buttery cream.

  So while hoping for the best,

  We’ll ready for the worst.

  By heeding common sense,

  That to prepare oft time prevents.

  Chapter 5

  1946

  The partygoers had worn themselves out. They’d already teetered back to their cabins before the clouds opened up showing off the real night sky, the one known only to the open sea. A smattering of men on the lido deck were engaged in deep, meaningful debates while their ritual of preparing a cigar, gazing at it tenderly before slicing its head off with a polished guillotine cutter, secretly summoned its own string quartet. Puffs of smoke swirled from their dialogue topped with a nightcap of cognac now that the women were long gone. Christian leaned against the railing wondering about their lives, wondering if these men were as settled as they wanted everyone to believe.

  They were all so formal even during the day, dressed in their suits that Christian thought looked strangling. Some pranced around in their argyle vests hoping to woo a pretty stranger, not always sure if gender mattered. He felt disconnected to them as though he’d been watching some moving picture for the past seven days. Frolic whirled along the decks—something that surprised him. He’d expected at least a dash of misery considering the liner was headed to a land crippled from six years of warding off the Nazis. But the spirit on board was infectious, naïve perhaps. High society at sea with a somber mood waiting for them on the other end, he was sure.

  Each day, Christian would watch passengers poaching deckchairs then saving them for others. It made him laugh the way they snapped straight up, on the lookout like meerkats poking their heads from their burrows. He was glad he wasn’t that way at all. On the other hand, he thought it was wonderful that people were seizing the day, making their own joy in what could easily be considered a cauldron of mixed emotions with the end of the war leaving a tragic mess to clean up. They certainly wouldn’t be able to breathe spirit into the ruins without an air of cheer in their stride.

  He turned from the gruff voices that now broached the subject of England’s state. They seemed to be guessing just as he was doing. It bored him quickly, each wanting to sound more up on the current status of England’s people. Christian hoped that Gilly had come to her senses and returned to Ireland, safer from the turmoil and constant threat of bombers—although even Ireland’s neutrality couldn’t stop all attacks. As much as he hoped she was safe, he knew she’d never have left somewhere she felt needed. In the same breath, he found himself admiring her stubborn trait even as it drove him mad. Her affect on him hadn’t changed.

  Christian’s eyes widened when he noticed a young couple tucked away under a staircase that led to the bridge, the aroma of the captain’s pipe no doubt wafting through the grated treads. Either they were considerably daring, or the passion outweighed the risk. He was envious of their reckless joy and knew that would have been Gilly and him all those years ago. He sighed feeling a certain peace in that, then turned away knowing the moment was meant only for this couple.

  The ship was nearing the English Channel. Although he couldn’t make out any sign of the coast, being so dark, Christian knew the morning sun would bring it to light. His eyes sailed freely up the ship’s black smokestack, its white stripe sharp against the sky, then over to the crow’s nest that climbed into the stars. A great ocean liner with a history, he thought. He’d overheard an officer mention how it served as a hospital ship until just recently and how it had brought his brother back home where he belonged. There was something admirable in that. He could feel his lips curl at the edge—a silent understanding among wounded soldiers. Christian glanced down remembering.

  The night air was cool now—a little too cool. He pulled his tweed flat cap down slightly at the front trying to stay warm then turned up the lapels on the jacket he’d worn a hundred times, drawing them together with his hands.

  “Excuse me, sir?” a lanky steward said approaching him. “I’m afraid this deck is for first class passengers.” Christian felt himself grimace, wondering how the steward had known he wasn’t one of them. Then he smiled widely. He could see in the steward’s eyes that both men were cut from the same stone. Just when Christian was about to say good night, the steward had slapped him on the shoulder and offered him a cigarette. Christian took it in gratitude even though he would never put one of those things to his lips.

  “Thanks.”

  “Have a good night.” The steward nodded then moseyed off, his hands crossed at the back. Christian turned to the railing again for one last look. He studied the rolled-up paper of the cigarette pinched at the ends, appreciating the gesture
, then flicked it into the crests of waves all trying to snatch it at once.

  When Christian opened his eyes, he could feel it instantly, a force pulling him to the deck, drawing him toward something special. He threw on his trousers, his undershirt barely pulled over his sinewy abdomen while making his way toward the gangway. The sky was clear and the railing free from what he’d suspected would have an onslaught of passengers wanting to get a glimpse of the Isle of Wight. The deck was surprisingly calm with just a smattering of people. When he looked up and felt a rush of cool air brush his shoulders, the Isle seemed an arm’s length away. It was enormous. Christian felt like a child seeing something magical for the first time even though the Isle wasn’t new to him at all.

  The chalk cliffs were as stunning as he remembered, slicing straight into the water. He recalled how they wrapped around much of its coastline and was pleased to see it again, especially from this angle. From the air it affected him differently. At first sight, Christian thought the island resembled a colossal iceberg strangely topped with the greenest of green grass. There was a mist in the air today that made it feel like something from his imagination—a beauty that couldn’t possibly be real. But it was real. He glanced at an elderly couple next to him who were equally as taken by the sight then smiled, a kindly nod in return. He wondered if moments like these needed to be shared with at least one other human being to be truly appreciated—otherwise what was the point?

  The Port of Southampton was waiting for him at the end of that stretch of water now staring down the bow. Christian curled his hands around the railing of the deck, feeling its moisture. The mile-wide inlet that sheltered the port was hardly the spectacle that the Isle of Wight was. No, that island could well be accused of impersonating a Venus flytrap. Its beauty snared you, slowly feeding you to the bowels of England.

  Christian had once visited Southampton, and even though it wasn’t a pleasing town with inspiring buildings, it was surrounded by some of the most beautiful countryside he’d ever seen—not a rare beauty in these bowels either. There was plenty of English landscape to be admired—that was if you could overlook the devastation in the height of the war. Christian could see it all best from his Tiffy when his squadron would fly low over the countryside on its way back from the mainland. That Hawker Typhoon was the only thing between him and meeting the rain gods in person, so he got rather chummy with that fighter plane and did something in it he never thought possible—pray. Pray to whoever up there would listen. He didn’t care who or what, just that they’d listen. So he’d met Southampton from the air and from the ground and appreciated this place, filled with hardworking folk and some of the humblest tramp steamers on the water.

  The ship was now approaching the docks, so Christian returned to his berth to arrange his one and only bag, a backpack that he’d saved from his time in the military. He didn’t need much, just a change of clothes—something warm and something to keep him dry—for the rain was sure to come. He was able to strap his outerwear to the backpack and knew he’d manage to wash his clothes one way or the other. His toiletry bag, coupled as a first aid kit, fit in the front pocket of his canvas backpack nicely. It was roomy—huge compared to civilian packs he’d seen on the road. It had a rugged construction and served him well, but the best part was that it freed up his hands. It was just what he needed on this trip.

  Christian made his way to a communal washroom—toddled would be more accurate—with the floor feeling like a conveyor belt. He took a moment at the mirror above a small sink. He turned the tap cold then felt the running water rush over his hands, scooping it up to throw into his face. His bristle was short enough not to bother shaving today. He never liked that chore and would sometimes go weeks without bothering. He could get away with it being so fair in color. It didn’t really matter what anyone thought anyway—except maybe Gilly. He sighed heavily, feeling the ship rolling underneath him and finding it tricky to steady himself at times. Staring almost through the mirror, his mind drifted back to another time, to a moment when life was perfect.

  The humidity remained high all week in Tobermory, but there was a light westerly breeze coming in from the bay that caught folks off guard every so often. Granted, that day the only two people by the shoreline, well on Earth for that matter, were Gilly and Christian.

  “Like this?” she said in a velvety voice as she scraped the straight razor along Christian’s jawline. He could feel the sharp edge taking the hair and cream along with it and gazed into her eyes knowing she had him right where she wanted—under her spell. A sudden glint in her eye and he knew she was up to no good. She couldn’t have had more power, a straight razor in hand, her hair falling perfectly without even trying, and a sundress conveniently falling off one shoulder. His eyes sprinted from her plump lips down her skin to the clavicle and just beneath, her breast swelling with each breath she took. Her scent in the thick air drove him mad.

  “So you think I’m a leprechaun do you?” she said reaching over to the tree stump on which sat a well-used washbasin and just under its rim, a frothy shaving brush. She swirled the brush in more cream then drew it down his naked chest, daring to shave what little hair his twenty-year old body had. Flicking the blade in and out of its handle, she stood in front like a panther waiting to pounce, her loose dress provocatively pulled above her knees.

  Christian felt an eyebrow rise while he calmly smirked from one side of his mouth, lather left on the other side of his jaw. “I’d be careful if I were you. That thing’s pretty sharp.”

  “You know,” she said glancing over her shoulder at the bay just steps away, “leprechauns can make things disappear.”

  Both eyebrows rose this time, “You wouldn’t.”

  “I think you look rather charming with half a beard. If you’re not careful yourself, you might just walk around like that for the rest of your life. Leprechauns can be quite mischievous you know,” she said with a cheeky leer.

  Gilly slowly backed away, clearly knowing she didn’t stand a chance, and swiftly turned running like a feline as fast as she could through the reeds, tossing his razor to some rocks on shore. Straight after her Christian ran, both of them waist high in lily pads and soaked from head to foot with all the splashing. When she lost her balance from his playful push, she struggled to plant her feet firmly in the softened stones underneath, so instead she managed to make her way to a large rock sitting just under the surface. She sat there catching her breath, a moment of quiet.

  “Don’t move!” Christian hushed.

  “What is it?” she asked, returning his whisper.

  “Can’t you feel it?” Gilly shook her head while the sun danced on her skin, her wet nutty-brown hair running down her back. “There’s a dragonfly sitting on your shoulder.”

  When the words left his lips, the world stopped. He could see in Gilly’s eyes how intoxicating it was for her. She smiled at Christian in a way he’d never seen before. The iridescent wings of blues and greens rested their quiver against her skin. She looked sensual and completely relaxed.

  Christian drew in a long, deep breath then threw back his head. He’d carried that image of her framed in his mind for fourteen years.

  A bellowing of the ship’s horn drew Christian from his trance, bringing his image back to the mirror. It sounded again, only this time long and guttural, a pending doom in its call. He rubbed his jawline, noticing that his blister wasn’t sore anymore. He studied his palm. It was finally healing.

  A basket of facecloths sat on a ledge just above the sink. As he dried his skin, he looked into his eyes and for the first time had doubts, wondering if what he was doing was crazy. She would surely have a completely new life, maybe even her own family. A small part of him hoped she had, for he wanted to find her happy with a full, rich life. He wondered what he’d do if he found that to be the case—smile perhaps and wish her well. He couldn’t really know.

  Christian had no sooner stepped off the gangplank when he noticed a series of what looked like Morri
s Tens, five of them in a row, sitting along the dock. He knew this model first hand since he’d driven one when he was here during the war. In his search for Gilly, he had met a couple that lived in the New Forest District. Percy and Pickles Spooner. He’d never forget names like those, and he’d certainly never forget two of the most eccentric people he’d ever stumbled upon. That same couple was at the top of his list now to visit. They may not have been able to help him four years ago, but he was certain they knew the coastline and would recognize the landmark in the article. Christian reached into the chest pocket of his jacket then sighed knowing the article was secure. He’d need it this time.

  He spent the morning in town revisiting sights that remained standing and getting his bearings straight. It wasn’t easy. Poor old Southampton from the bottom of the Avenue to the docks had been more or less flattened just about as badly as four years earlier… except Bargate. There it was still standing, stubborn and proud—a building that didn’t just mark the main gateway to the city but to Christian represented the strength of the people in it. The center of town reminded him of a great phoenix that could rise from the ashes. And it had already, on more than one occasion. He remembered how vulnerable it was, a port like that. It was a target that even the English Channel couldn’t ward off. Christian could see in the eyes of the residents—morale here couldn’t be broken, only bent. His eyes traveled over the rubble that hadn’t yet been taken away and stopped every so often to admire the buildings that withstood the attacks. The air grew thicker with tiny droplets as the day wore on. And as the salty, industrial trail followed him, the clouds couldn’t decide whether to gush down or not.

  Christian preferred being by the docks, inhaling the heady odor of fish and oil and found himself heading back in that direction. He passed a long line of workers dangling their legs over the dock and eating lunch from brown paper bags. He expected that he’d feel like a foreigner, whatever that meant, but he didn’t. He felt connected to these people and liked that they nodded to him and tipped their caps.