Letters From the Past

by Erica James

  Annelise had been eleven years old when Hope made the comment and all these years on, she could still feel the sting of the criticism. Silly really to be bothered by something so trivial when there were far bigger issues in the world to deal with.

  She had received a letter from Stanley yesterday inviting her to join him on a protest march organised by CND. If she could spare the time from work, she would go. Before she’d left Island House to return to Oxford, Stanley had apologised for his behaviour that night at Meadow Lodge and while she was still saddened at what he’d said, she had promised him it changed nothing between them. She would do all she could to ensure that he didn’t feel awkward around her. It would be awful if they couldn’t retain the closeness they’d always enjoyed.

  She reasoned that it was not unusual for those who grew up closely together to develop strong emotional attachments to each other; perhaps it was to be expected. She herself had had a crush on Stanley as a young girl, but had eventually grown out of it. She couldn’t remember exactly when it happened; certainly there had been no conscious decision on her part. Maybe it was no more than growing up.

  There had been nothing in Stanley’s behaviour towards her to indicate that he viewed himself as any more than a devoted big brother. Not once during any of his visits to see her in Oxford had he betrayed himself.

  Stanley hadn’t been the only person on her mind since the night of the party at Meadow Lodge. Evelyn had been a source of concern too. Annelise had told no one of what she’d overheard in the garden. How could she, when she had been blatantly eavesdropping?

  At the top of the stairs on the landing outside her rooms, Annelise breathed in the familiar scent of Romily’s favourite perfume – Joy by Jean Patou.

  ‘Romily!’ she exclaimed happily when she let herself in and threw off her rain-soaked woollen coat, which smelt of an old dog in contrast to the delightfully floral air she had walked into. ‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.’

  Dressed in a stylish and perfectly fitting two-piece suit – probably Chanel – Romily rose elegantly from the armchair by the gas fire and hugged her. ‘Don’t give it another thought. I’ve been thoroughly entertained by your wonderful porter who took pity on a poor bedraggled old woman.’

  ‘What a preposterous thing to say! You’re incapable of looking bedraggled and you most certainly are not old. And for the record, Roberts is completely smitten by you. If you want someone to walk on hot coals for you, he’s your man.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind. Now then, sit down and warm yourself by the fire and tell me all your news, and then I shall take you for dinner. It’s been ages since we had the chance for a proper chat.’

  ‘I agree. I still haven’t heard in any detail about your time in Hollywood and Palm Springs, other than,’ she added as she made herself comfortable in the armchair opposite Romily and kicked off her shoes, ‘you were approached to have your first Sister Grace novel made into a film.’

  ‘An idea that came to nothing in the end,’ Romily said dismissively.

  ‘You know Isabella is furious you didn’t pursue the idea; she says she would have been perfect to play Sister Grace.’

  ‘Lord yes, she has made her feelings very vocal on that account!’

  ‘It’s a shame though that things didn’t work out. What was the reason?’

  ‘An incompatibility issue with the scriptwriter the studio wanted me to work alongside. The whole thing would have been a disaster.’

  ‘That’s unlike you. You usually find a way to get on with people.’

  ‘There’s a first time for everything. Anyway, that’s of no consequence, I’m much more interested in making amends for neglecting you these last few months. Isabella too. Now tell me all your news.’

  Where to start? thought Annelise, staring into the fire and listening to the gentle hiss of the gas. More than anything she wanted to talk about Harry, to confide in Romily and pour out her heart. Instead she settled on raising her concern about Mums and asked if Romily had noticed anything wrong.

  Drawing her brows together, Romily rested her chin on her thumb and forefinger and nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’d only been home a few hours when I became aware of some kind of friction between Hope and Edmund. I’ve tried asking Hope several times if there’s anything worrying her, but you know of old what she’s like. Rather than deal with a problem she buries herself in her work. They move into their new house at the weekend, and so I’m hoping that will ease the situation. Maybe that’s all that is at the bottom of the problem, Hope’s impatience to be settled at Fairview.’

  Not entirely convinced, Annelise said, ‘Have you been to see the house?’

  ‘Not yet, I haven’t had time. But I hear Stanley has made a fine job of it. Just as I knew he would.’

  It was during dinner that Annelise decided to be brave and broach the subject of Harry with Romily. ‘Do you suppose love is ever a truly happy state of affairs?’ she asked.

  Romily put down her wineglass. ‘My dear girl, what on earth makes you say a thing like that?’

  ‘Because I’m in love with somebody and if I’m honest, at times the pain of it far outweighs the pleasure.’

  ‘Are you saying it doesn’t make you happy? Because if so, take it from me, that’s not love.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  St Gertrude’s College, Oxford

  November 1962

  Romily

  Early the next morning Romily greeted the day with drained relief.

  All night she had drifted like the tide in and out of sleep, one hectic dream following another. But the most unnerving dream was the one that saw her back in Palm Springs. She was lost in the desert and with the light fading she caught the sound of her name being called. It was no more than a faint whisper carried on the cool evening breeze. But she recognised it instantly. Yet rather than be pleased that Red had come to rescue her, she hid behind a large rock until he was gone, and she was again alone in the dark and rapidly dropping night temperature. Shivering with cold, she had suddenly felt unutterably bereft. The feeling was with her still, giving her the sensation that she had lost something of great value. What irked her more was the irrational feeling that she was entirely to blame for getting herself lost in the desert.

  It was only a dream, she told herself as she slipped out of bed and went to run herself a bath in the adjoining bathroom. But adding some scented bubble bath to the water before stepping in, she reluctantly acknowledged that, as Freud and Jung would say, there was no such thing as just a dream.

  Logically she could work it all out. What had gone on between her and Red was that on a subconscious level there had been a spontaneous and mutual attraction, which, when reluctantly realised, had surprised and rattled them both, and for differing reasons. Or maybe for similar reasons. Perhaps they each had become too used to being autonomous and doing things their own way without ever being challenged.

  She could go on theorising ad infinitum, but her time in Palm Springs was of no matter now. She had more important things with which to occupy herself following dinner with Annelise last night. It would appear that a lot had gone on in her absence from Island House. Which only came to light when, and as if opening the floodgates, Annelise had let it all pour out.

  Firstly there had been Annelise’s worry about Hope, which Romily felt was not misplaced. After what she had witnessed herself, she had been tempted to speak in private to Edmund, but had decided against it. What went on between a husband and wife was nobody’s business but their own.

  Stanley had his problems too, it now transpired, and that upset Romily hugely. More shocking though was what Annelise had told her about Evelyn, that she had received an anonymous letter implying Kit wasn’t Pip and Em’s father. Not only that, somebody with whom Evelyn had clearly been close had shown up at the party – and that somebody just happened to be called Max who had worked with Ev
elyn during the war.

  Max Blythe-Jones. It had to be. Romily just knew it. And could it really be possible that Evelyn had had a relationship with Max, a man who had what could be politely called a colourful reputation when it came to women?

  Before Romily met Jack, Max had flirted outrageously with her whenever their paths crossed at some party or other in London. It went without saying he was an attractive man, and Romily, even though she was a few years older, had enjoyed flirting back with him. But after the war she never came across him again. Last night, when Annelise had confided in her, was the first time in years she had thought of Max Blythe-Jones.

  Romily had always suspected that the work Evelyn did during the war was not of the straightforward clerical variety, as she had claimed. With Evelyn’s fine mathematician’s brain, she would have been put to far better use than merely shuffling papers. Romily’s closest friend, Sarah, had a cousin who worked at Bletchley and he had dropped a number of hints at what went on there, that it was a hothouse of top-secret activity. It would have suited Evelyn and Max perfectly.

  Just as she had considered speaking to Edmund about Hope, Romily now wanted to talk to Evelyn as soon as she left Oxford and returned to Island House. But again, was it any of her business?

  But what concerned Romily most about everything Annelise had told her last night was her being involved with a college professor. She had clearly fallen for him badly and had shyly taken out a photograph from her handbag to show Romily.

  ‘His name’s Harry,’ Annelise had said, ‘and I’m afraid I’m very much in love with him, despite him being married.’

  The full story told, every protective instinct in her made Romily want to confront the man. She would guarantee he had no intention of leaving his wife – he would have done so by now if he was serious about Annelise. The sooner she realised that, the better. No wonder the poor girl spoke of the pain of being in love.

  Much as Romily wanted to intervene, she knew she had to leave well alone. But it was hard not to throw herself into the fray and fight Annelise’s battles for her. She was not, as she often had to remind herself, some kind of saviour. It was not her job to fix everyone else’s problems. But a wily voice inside Romily’s head whispered that it did stop her from thinking too deeply about her own mistakes.

  Seldom did she waste her emotions on worrying about doubts and regrets, seeing it as futile. Which was what she had kept telling herself during the journey home from Palm Springs. What was done, was done. In her parting conversation with Gabe and Melvyn she had made a point of not blaming Red in any way for her declining the offer to collaborate on a film script.

  ‘What if we found another writer?’ they had suggested. She had refused that too, because otherwise it would look as if Red was the problem.

  She was very much of the opinion that there was a lot more going on inside his head than he cared to reveal. Perversely she almost wished she had stuck around to dig a little deeper, to find out what he was hiding.

  There she went again, always trying to fix things! When would she ever stop meddling and take a moment to consider that Red St Clair was not the only one to be hiding something?

  She took a modest breakfast with Annelise in Hall, then leaving her to prepare for a tutorial, Romily returned to her own room to go over the notes she’d made for the talk she was giving that evening in Blackwells on the Broad.

  The event had only been arranged a couple of days ago when her agent was approached to beg a favour of her. Could Romily, always such a good stick, be persuaded to step into the shoes of Ngaio Marsh who had been forced to cut short her book tour and return to New Zealand due to a family emergency? Romily had readily agreed to fill in, seeing it as a chance to spend some valuble time with Annelise.

  She was currently between novels, having finished one before her trip to America, and was now playing around with a few ideas before knuckling down to work. She wasn’t like Hope who hardly drew breath between finishing one book and starting another. They were very different in their writing habits. Romily had a more relaxed attitude, perhaps because she enjoyed the creative process so much and didn’t like to rush it. Hope wrote as though her life depended on it.

  Satisfied now that she was sufficiently prepared for her talk that evening, and looking out of the window and seeing that it wasn’t raining, she decided to go for a walk in the park.

  She had only made it to the far side of Chapel Quad when the lodge porter, Roberts, came towards her. ‘I have a message for you, Mrs Devereux-Temple. The Dean wondered if you’d like to join her, and a few others, in the Senior Common Room for coffee.’

  ‘I’d be delighted,’ she said brightly, despite preferring the idea of going for a walk, followed by an hour of shopping before meeting Annelise for lunch.

  The Dean greeted her warmly. She was a stately woman of ample girth with a head of grizzled curls. Her name was Dr Drusilla Spriggs, otherwise known as Spriggsy according to Annelise. While pouring Romily a cup of coffee from an urn on a white-clothed table, she set about introducing her to the college bursar, Dr Daphne Mallow, and a gaggle of Fellows and Tutors, whose names Romily forgot in seconds flat.

  Predictably the conversation turned to novel writing.

  ‘Please do tell us about your excellent mysteries,’ the Dean said. ‘I’m sure we’d all love to hear how you go about writing your Sister Grace novels.’

  No sooner had Romily embarked on a brief description of the process, than through the window she saw Annelise hurrying across the quad towards the porter’s lodge. She stopped short when a man carrying a briefcase appeared. Romily had the distinct impression that he had been waiting for Annelise. Was this the man with whom she was having a secret affair?

  Summoning to memory the photograph which Annelise had shown her last night, Romily was sure it was. It took all of her willpower to remain where she was and continue talking, and not rush outside to give the man a hefty piece of her mind.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chelstead Preparatory School for Girls, Chelstead

  November 1962

  Evelyn

  Evelyn stood at her office window watching Miss Gillespie, Head of Latin and Classics, chastising Camilla Stewart and Lorna Fairfax for some playtime misdemeanour.

  It was a cold blustery day, the sort of day that brought out the worst in the girls. For some reason the gusting winds made them high-spirited and prone to doing silly things, like letting off stink bombs, painting red dots on their skin to feign illness, or flicking ink at each other during lessons. The tomfoolery would escalate as the end of term drew to a close for the Christmas holiday, and by the last week of term the girls would be at the height of giddiness and the teachers at their wits’ end.

  Evelyn raised the mug in her hands to her lips and pulled a face. The coffee was stone cold, and the milk had formed a disagreeable skin on the surface. How long had she been standing here lost in thought? Too long was the answer. And it would never do. She had to pull herself together.

  Since receiving that first anonymous letter and then Max turning up out of the blue the night of the party just over a week ago, she had been thrown off balance; the equilibrium of each day thoroughly destroyed.

  Some mornings she woke with such a weight of dread hanging over her she could hardly drag herself from her bed, the thought of driving to school to tackle the demands of two hundred and fifty lively girls and a staffroom of teachers too much for her. Many a time she found herself struggling to find the necessary patience and tact to deal with what she regarded as petty staffroom politics. Or the unruliness of a wilful child. Or an overly critical parent who could bore for England on the subject of how a school should be run.

  In the past none of this would have taxed her in the slightest, but today it all felt too much. Which was why she was keeping a low profile by staying – hiding – in her office. Before setting off for Chelstead
this morning, and thankfully after Kit had already left for a day of ground school teaching at the flying club, the postman had made his first delivery of the day. Amongst the mail was another vile letter accusing her of having been unfaithful to Kit.

  Who was doing this to her?

  Was it Max?

  But he’d sworn it wasn’t him. Who then? And why? Was it somebody from their Bletchley days? Somebody who had a score to settle?

  The second letter was in her handbag, as was Max’s card. He had been one of the last to leave the party and when he’d been saying goodbye he had given her his card with his telephone number. ‘Come and meet me in London,’ he’d said, ‘let’s have lunch. Or dinner if you’d prefer. For old time’s sake.’

  Despite keeping his card, she had no intention of telephoning him. She had promised herself a very long time ago that she would never contact him again and she wasn’t about to break that promise.

  Nor was she going to compromise the vows she made the day she stood in front of the altar with Kit and married him. Saying the words I do had banished Max to the past.

  Just as those same words had pushed Bletchley Park out of her life, including everything that had happened there.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Bletchley Park

  January 1942

  Evelyn

  Max Blythe-Jones made his appearance at Bletchley at the end of January in 1942.

  He immediately attracted an above average rate of interest amongst the women at the Park because of his exotically good looks (his mother was half French and half Hungarian), and for being so charming. Within a short space of time, not only was he causing hearts to flutter at a considerable rate, but he had gained a reputation for being one of the best of the elite in Hut 6. It was widely understood that these codebreakers were of a superior breed of intellect and ability. Max was perfectly at home amongst them.