The Last Summer

by Judith Kinghorn

  Somehow, amidst all of this, life continued. Father slowly recovered and began to come downstairs in the evenings. He listened to me play my new pianola, and we played bridge and piquet. We read The Gates of Doom, and then From China to Peru, with my mother and I taking it in turn to read a chapter out loud. When Papa was stronger we went out to the pictures and to the theater. London hadn’t shut down. We saw The Flag Lieutenant at the Haymarket and A Girl Like Me at His Majesty’s. We joined in the fervor of patriotism, celebrating our troops’ victories and sending parcels out to our boys taken prisoner in Germany. Each evening in London there was an atmosphere of camaraderie and defiance; we were stalwart, ready for anything, we thought. If our sons and brothers at the front could cope, so could we.

  . . . Why have you not written? Why have you not replied to my letters? I know that you’re out there, I know in my heart that you’re alive, & I pray to God every single night to keep you safe. Please, please, if this reaches you, get word to me—somehow, let me know that you are still mine, for I am yours, & shall always be YOURS.

  I’d known Charlie Boyd almost all of my life. He’d been at school and at Cambridge with Henry; was one of the Set, as Henry called it. In physical appearance he was the opposite of Tom: shorter, broader and fair, with freckles, blue eyes and strawberry-blond hair. He was without doubt the funniest of Henry’s friends and took delight in sending himself up. I liked that about him more than anything else. I thought, underneath all that bluff and bravado there was something very decent and, perhaps, rather vulnerable too.

  My parents knew the Boyds well, and Mama adored Charlie. He’d written to her about Will, assuring her that his death would have been instantaneous; that it was far better for him to have died a valiant hero’s death than to have been left disfigured, traumatized or disabled for life. He succeeded in making Mama believe that Will’s life had not been in vain, that she must be proud of her son’s sacrifice and, though I remained unconvinced, I was grateful for the comfort his words gave my parents.

  . . . We are all in shock & utterly bereft at our loss, and though I feel the aching void in his passing, a part of me feels equal to the country now in my suffering. And yet what strange justification—to offer up our sons & align ourselves in grief, as though our sacrifice were all the more noble by its magnitude. But I hold steadfast & will not succumb to self-pity, and I could not have lived through these past few weeks without your words, so wise, so considered, & so true. He was, as you say, a radiant force for good . . .

  I can’t remember when I began to write to Charlie, but I imagine it was shortly after Will died, after he’d written to me. I began to look forward to his letters, they were always upbeat, and there was always something reassuring in the words he chose to write. He’d been in our lives for so long, was a part of a continuum; part of our family, I suppose. At first our letters were the letters between dear friends, or brother and sister, but they quickly became something more. It was inevitable. The war heightened all emotion, every sentiment was amplified, every longing accompanied by a sense of urgency. There was no time to ponder, to reason or to speculate; each thought and feeling had to be recorded and passed on. It was our duty as women, we were told, to keep our boys’ morale high: to let them know that they were missed, that they were loved; that someone was waiting for them back at home. And in a way I think I truly believed that my letters and thoughts would keep Charlie safe, keep him alive.

  It had been almost a year since I’d last heard from Tom, and though I still thought of him, wondered where he was and included him in my prayers, I’d begun to wonder if I’d ever see him again. And the thought that I might not, the thought that we might never again know each other, had slowly begun to reduce me, eroding my hopes, and the potential of my life. I knew I could survive without him—yes, I would survive—but the thought of a lifetime without him made the path ahead narrower, dimmer.

  Over the course of one year my life had been irrevocably altered. I had changed and I knew he would be changed too. We would never again be the sweethearts who’d sat upon the steps of the boathouse looking up at the stars. And even if we did, if we could return to that place, if we could recapture that moment, would we see the same stars? Would he look at me that same way: tilting his head to one side, staring at me sideways through a wave of almost black hair, smiling? We could never again be who we were; and we would never be the people we’d once been destined to be. He would always have a special place in my heart, but he no longer held it, I reasoned. And I could not allow him to. I could not have that breadth and brightness back—only for it to disappear once more. For that, I knew, would surely kill me.

  . . . He is raging about the newspapers & says it will be a bad thing for us if America declares war on Germany, but—after the Lusitania—I’m not so sure. The feeling in America seems to be very strong, but at least the newspaper editors here are being restrained—for once . . . In the meantime, I am v busy with my district, the refugees have been moved and now we have POWs in their place, and all sorts of criminals! And London continues to stand tall.

  Chapter Thirteen

  . . . I have no wish to describe this place to you . . . except to say it is Hell, a squalid, sickening & rancid Hell, inhabited by brave-hearted lunatics. I close my eyes & try to imagine you, so perfect, so beautiful. You remain my vision, my beacon of hope . . .

  It was just after Christmas, the second Christmas of the war. Charlie had had one week’s leave and was returning to the front. He’d come to stay overnight with us in London, and had already asked if I’d see him off the next day, and it was the thing to do. That evening, after dinner, my parents retired to bed unusually early, leaving Charlie and me alone in the drawing room. We’d been sitting side by side on the sofa when he took my hand in his and said, “You must know, I think, how terribly fond I am of you, Clarissa.”

  “Yes, yes, I think I do,” I replied, looking down at my hand in his and wondering what was to come.

  He cleared his throat, turned toward me. “I’d like to think that perhaps you feel the same way . . .”

  “Oh yes, of course. I’m very fond of you too, Charlie.”

  He smiled, his pale blue eyes suddenly quite misty. “Thing is, Clarissa, I think I’m more than fond of you. Thing is, I . . . well, I love you.”

  For a moment I thought he was going to cry. He looked down, squeezed my hand tightly. “You see, I’ve always rather liked you, but it’s grown into something more . . . and your letters, well, they’ve kept me going, you know. A letter from you, your name, it somehow makes me feel invincible.” He looked up at me. “You mean the world to me, Clarissa, the world . . .”

  I pulled my hand from his, lifted it to his face, and ran my finger down his cheek. “Dear Charlie, you are adorable.”

  And then he leaned forward and kissed me.

  His kiss was different to Tom’s: tentative, gentler; less passionate, but perhaps kinder. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to him. And then, in a playful and overly effusive way, he began to cover my face in kisses, telling me, between each one, that he loved me. The way Papa used to do when I was a child. I began to laugh and then he did too. “I’m so happy,” he said, looking at me and smiling. “If I die, I shall die a happy man.”

  “No! Don’t say that. You’re not going to die, Charlie Boyd, do you hear me? You are not going to be killed in this wretched war. Otherwise I shall be very, very cross with you.”

  He laughed again. I loved to see him laughing like that. There’d been so little laughter in our home for so long and Charlie had brought it back.

  We sat in silence for a moment, and he held my hand once more. Then he moved from the sofa down to the floor, and on to one knee. He took hold of my hand again, looked up at me with newly serious eyes.

  “Clarissa . . .” he began, and I knew what was coming. “This may be a little premature, may not be the perfect time, but I have to ask you . . . will you do me the honor . . . will you marry me?”

/>   I wasn’t prepared. I hadn’t expected a proposal that evening. And what could I say? I couldn’t say “no.” I couldn’t let him return to war burdened further by my rejection. I thought of Tom, and I heard my mother’s words: Nothing could ever come of it . . . a truly pointless and impossible liaison . . . only lead to heartache—for you and for him . . . I stared back at Charlie, into those kind blue eyes.

  “Yes, Charlie . . . yes, I will marry you.”

  —

  The foyer of Waterloo station that evening was chock-a-block: parents seeing off sons, wives clinging to husbands, children wrapped around the legs of their fathers.

  “This is a bloody nightmare,” Charlie said. “Let’s get a cup of tea or something.”

  We walked arm in arm across the heaving concourse to the station restaurant, and inside we managed to find a table tucked away in a corner. As Charlie summoned over a waiter and ordered a pot of tea for two, I removed my gloves and unbuttoned my coat. When I looked up, there he was, sitting a few tables away from us, with a girl.

  I didn’t quite know what to do. Charlie had his arm around me, was busy saying something about his train and without thinking I moved my chair away from his and looked in the opposite direction. I felt sick. I didn’t want to see him with that girl; didn’t want him to see me with Charlie.

  A moment later he was standing in front of us.

  “Oh, hello, Tom,” I said, as though we’d seen each other quite recently; as though I didn’t really care. “I think you may have met Charlie at Deyning. Charlie, you remember Tom, Tom Cuthbert . . .”

  Within a minute the four of us were huddled around the small table: Tom; his girl, Gloria; Charlie and me; looking for all the world like reunited old friends.

  “I’m so sorry about William,” he said. I nodded but said nothing. I still wasn’t able to talk about Will in the past tense. In fact, I didn’t like to speak about him at all.

  “You know the trains are all cock-a-hoop, old boy? With a bit of luck we may find ourselves stuck here for some time,” Charlie said, and then he turned to me and added, “But poor Clarissa so hates these wretched good-byes. Don’t you, darling?” And he pulled me to him in an overly tight embrace.

  He and Charlie would be traveling on the same train to Dover and as they discussed the journey ahead of them, what time their crossing was likely to be, Gloria leaned toward me. Wide eyed and smiling, she said, “Tom’s only had a few days. But we’ve made the most of it—if you know what I mean,” and I felt my face tingle. I glanced over to him, caught his eye.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, of course.” I didn’t know what else to say to her, didn’t want to talk to her.

  “You haven’t seen him in a while, have you?” she asked, quietly.

  “No, it’s been . . . been some time,” I said, pretending to look for something in my bag. It had been sixteen months.

  “I could tell. He looked like he’d seen a ghost when you walked in here,” she whispered.

  “So, what have you two lovebirds been up to?” Charlie asked, smiling at Gloria, who giggled. “Making up for lost time, I’ll bet!” he added.

  I glanced at Tom again, who looked awkward and attempted to smile back at me. And then I stood up and excused myself. In the ladies room I lit a cigarette and smoked it slowly. I was in no hurry to return to our impromptu little tea party and Charlie was irritating me with his bon vivant manner. As I sat in front of the mirror, swaddled in my new fur-collared coat, smoking, I pondered on Tom and his girl: they’d quite obviously spent his entire leave making up for lost time, as Charlie had so succinctly put it. What on earth did he see in her? She wasn’t his type at all, I thought, and then, as I stubbed out my cigarette, she appeared.

  “I do so like your coat, Clarissa,” she said. “And I bet it cost a bob or two.”

  “Thank you,” I said, rising to my feet, picking up my bag.

  She was short, a good few inches shorter than me, and curvy in a way that was no longer fashionable. Perhaps he liked that shape. Perhaps I was not his type after all.

  “Have you and Tom known each other long, Gloria?” I asked, glancing at the mirror and tucking an imaginary curl back in place.

  “Oh no, not long at all. But you know how it is—when you feel as though you’ve known someone forever? That’s how it is with us.” And then she disappeared behind the lavatory door.

  When I returned to the table, Charlie and Tom were drinking glasses of beer.

  “You’d better not let anyone see you drinking,” I said as I sat down.

  The king, along with various members of the government, had recently vowed to abstain from alcohol for the duration of the war, to set an example and encourage others to do the same.

  “Ha! I hardly think one beer’s going to lead to ruin. And apparently we’ve another hour, darling. I’m sorry, I know how much you hate these places,” he said.

  “No, not at all,” I replied. And then I leaned over and kissed him on his cheek.

  He looked quite bashful for a moment, glanced at Tom, and said, “Golly, what it is to be loved, eh, Tom?”

  Tom said nothing, and I didn’t look at him; I continued to stare at Charlie with what I imagined to be love-struck devotion. And even when Gloria sat back down at the table, I kept my gaze resolutely upon Charlie, who glanced back at me with a look I can only describe as muted excitement.

  “Would either of you girls like a little something?” Charlie asked, beginning to seem agitated by my continued gazing. “Clarissa? A cocktail, perhaps? I’m sure they’ll be able rustle you up something . . .”

  “Not for me, thanks, Charlie. I don’t on Sundays,” Gloria said.

  “Darling?” Charlie asked again.

  “Yes, why not. A glass of champagne, please,” I replied.

  Gloria giggled again.

  “I’m not sure they’ll have champagne here, sweetheart . . .” Charlie said, looking about for our waiter. “But I shall go and inquire.”

  I watched Charlie get up from the table, kept my eyes on him as he moved through the crowd toward the bar, as though mesmerized by some vision just beyond the khaki uniforms. I heard Tom say my name, “Clarissa . . .” but I continued staring in Charlie’s direction. I don’t know why. But I couldn’t bear to turn and look into his eyes.

  Then she spoke. “Clarissa . . .”

  I turned to her, smiling.

  “I think Tom was trying to talk to you, Clarissa.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, Tom?” I said, finally looking directly at him, into his solemn, unsmiling eyes. And for a moment, as he held me there, in silence, I knew that we both wished away our sweethearts. I knew that we were both in agony.

  “How is your father? I heard he’s been quite ill,” he said.

  “He’s much better now, thank you.”

  “And your mother? Is she well?”

  “She’s quite well, thank you. And yours?”

  “Yes, she’s also well.”

  He glanced down at my hand, resting on the table, moved his own toward it, and then looked up into my eyes. “And you, Clarissa . . . how are you?”

  I stared at him, unable to speak. From the corner of my eye I could see Gloria glancing from me to him then back to me.

  “Sorry, darling, no champagne, I’m afraid, so I’ve ordered you a sherry . . .”

  I wrenched my gaze away from Tom to Charlie. “That’s perfectly fine,” I said. “And perhaps more appropriate. After all, we have nothing to celebrate. Not yet.”

  Charlie turned to me, smiling, took hold of my hand and said, “Or perhaps we do . . .”

  I shook my head, mouthed the word “no.” We’d agreed to keep our engagement quiet, at least for the time being, and so no one apart from our respective parents knew. He squeezed my hand, nodded. I glanced over at Tom; he was watching us and I wondered what he’d seen, if he knew.

  We sat there for what seemed to me an interminable time. I hardly uttered a word, but Charlie and Gloria chatted animatedly, an
d Tom managed the situation with a quiet calm. I was aware of him watching me as I sipped my drink, as I glanced about the place, as I smiled from time to time at Charlie and at Gloria, feigning interest in the conversation. I tried not to look at him. I tried but I couldn’t. And when I did, when I finally allowed myself to look back into his eyes, I could barely breathe. My longing for him simply overwhelmed my senses, blocking out all other sight and sound.

  “I imagine Clarissa’s changed somewhat since you last saw her, eh, Tom?” Charlie said, and I realized he must have noticed Tom staring at me.

  “Yes. Yes . . . she’s quite grown up,” he replied, still looking at me.

  Charlie picked up my hand, kissed it. “And you know what? I think I’m the luckiest chap in all of England.”

  Gloria laughed. “Aah, isn’t that lovely,” she said, addressing me. “You’re a lucky duckie and a half. I wish someone would say that about me,” she added, winking at me, and then she glanced at Tom, who’d turned away and was looking across the restaurant.

  I pulled my hand away from Charlie and said, “I think we’d best get going now, dear.”

  And as Charlie finished his drink and summoned the waiter for the bill, he said, “Allow me to get this, Tom.” Then he turned to Gloria and said, “It’s been a rather pleasant surprise to have had this little seeing-off party to ourselves, has it not?” and she laughed again.

  I glanced once more at Tom as Charlie settled the bill, but he didn’t look at me. He stared out of a window behind me, frowning, his jaw set. I wondered what he was thinking, and I yearned to touch him: to reach out and take hold of his hand. When we stood up and moved outside to say good-bye, before those final, private adieus on the platform, he simply shook my gloved hand.