We'll meet again

A Friend from the Past

ANOTHER YEAR WAS WITH us and there was still no news of Jowan. I think I was beginning to believe, with others, that he would never return.

We had made a great effort to have a merry Christmas with the men and had succeeded fairly well. Everyone joined in, including my parents, who had come to Tregarland’s to spend Christmas with us.

It was wonderful to see them. There was so much to talk about. My mother had known nothing about the kidnapping until it was over. She and my father would have been absolutely distraught and I was glad we had not told them until Tristan was safely back.

My mother was busy with all sorts of war work. She told me that my grandmother had opened Marchlands again. She would have liked to go there but she would not leave my father who could not leave the estate. She and my father had considered turning Caddington into a hospital, but it had proven to be very useful for holding meetings for all sorts of projects.

She and my father, I knew, were deeply worried about me. Though they did not talk of Jowan, I was aware that he was continually in their thoughts, and I guessed they discussed my future when they were alone in their bedroom. Dorabella did not, I supposed, give them the same cause for concern, which was something of a turnabout, for usually she was the one to disturb them.

Dorabella had become a devoted mother, which pleased Nanny Crabtree.

“It does you good to see them together,” she said. “Poor mite, he may have lost his father, but he has his mother to make up for that, and he thinks the world of her.”

Then there was Captain Brent. I wondered how significant that was. He certainly had great charm, and Dorabella had acquired that special radiance which I had seen before. At the same time, she was obviously aware that her affair with the captain had brought about the kidnapping of her son and she blamed herself for that. But she still enjoyed being with him, and now it seemed that they were together again. I felt certain that it was one of those wartime romances. Well, perhaps Dorabella needed it; he certainly made her happy. I was the one who was giving concern to our parents.

My mother gave me news of Gretchen, who was now in London because Edward’s regiment was stationed in the southeast near the capital.

“Of course,” said my mother, “the bombing has eased off a little and they seem to have got used to it.”

“It must be dangerous there.”

“Well … yes. But it is dangerous everywhere. Gretchen told me of a family she knew who thought they must get out of town, so they went to Wales. They had come through the London Blitz unscathed; they went to this remote place on the borders and an aircraft returning with its bomb load from Birmingham unloaded its bombs right over their house. They were all killed … the entire family. That’s how life goes.”

“And Gretchen is happy there?”

“I think so. She was upset over the suspicion about her.”

“I know, it was terrible for her.”

“In London it’s different. There’s not so much petty gossip. People are more concerned with their own affairs. Hildegarde is a great joy. Of course, nannies are almost unobtainable and looking after the child herself in a fairly small house without much help is a full-time job.”

“She has friends, I suppose.”

“Oh yes, and Edward has a certain amount of leave. He can get home, if only for a day or so. And she is near the Dorringtons. You remember them.”

“Yes, of course. How are they?”

“Very much the same. Richard is in the army. Like Edward, he is stationed not far from London. His mother is doing good works.”

“And Mary Grace?”

“She works in one of the ministries. Everyone without home duties is being called up to work, as you know. Not that Mary Grace would want to be idle. Oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could all get back to normal?”

She was looking at me wistfully. I knew what she was thinking.

There had been a time when she had hoped I would marry Richard Dorrington, the barrister friend of Edward. He had, in fact, asked me. I admit I had been uncertain then. I had been seeing Jowan in Cornwall, but there had never been any reference to love between us and I had not really understood my feelings at that time. I had liked Richard very much, but I had realized even then that my feelings did not go deep enough for a lifetime partnership. Perhaps subconsciously I had known that it must be Jowan.

Now my mother was thinking that Jowan would never come back and there was Richard, still a bachelor and an eligible one. Perhaps old fires could be stirred.

I knew she was concerned, too, about my brother Robert, who had just joined the army. He was younger than Dorabella and I were, and full of high spirits; she must be missing him. She wanted to tell me that I could not go on grieving for Jowan, but she must be aware that I could continue to hope for his return as long as there was the remotest chance.

However, we certainly tried to be bright that Christmas and to make this one as normal and lively as they used to be.

Mrs. Jermyn had asked Dorabella and me to put our heads together and devise a program which would entertain the men. We thought at first of a treasure hunt, but many of the men were disabled and would not be fit to take part, so we decided that we would put on a play in which some of them could take part.

We had chosen The Importance of Being Earnest and the result was a great deal of fun. Captain Brent played Jack and Dorabella made a fascinating Gwendolyn; I was Cicely; one of the old sergeant majors was the real star of the show as Lady Bracknell.

We all seemed to forget our troubles briefly during that day—which was, of course, the whole object of the enterprise.

In due course, my parents left us with many regrets at the parting and insisted that Dorabella and I must come to Caddington soon.

We assured them we would as soon as possible, but it would be difficult to get away as we had our work with the invalid soldiers. Moreover, it would mean taking Tristan and Nanny Crabtree, for I was sure that Dorabella, in her present maternal role, would not agree to leave him; moreover, I believed that, if there was news of Jowan, it would go to Jermyn’s first, and I should be wondering if it had come all the time I was absent.

One March day there was a message for Gordon from Bodmin. Would he come as soon as possible? His mother’s condition had changed.

When he returned, I was waiting for him. I went to his study where I found him looking upset and perplexed.

“What happened?” I asked.

He stared ahead and replied: “She … she’s changed. She is remembering.”

“You mean … what happened?”

“Not everything … some of it. She is different now. She talks of Tregarland’s. It crops up again and again in her rambling conversation. She keeps saying ‘Where would it have been without you, Gordon? You saved that place. It should be yours.’”

“Did she remember … what she had done?”

“She mentioned Tristan. She looked … haunted.”

I though of her creeping into the nursery, preparing to kill him because he stood in the way of Gordon’s inheriting Tregarland’s, and she would have done so if Nanny Crabtree and I had not been ready to prevent it. Tristan … so young, and yet at the center of such dramatic events … fortunately he knew little of them.

Gordon was saying: “I am afraid for her. With the return of sanity, there will come remembrance, when she realizes what she planned to do and would have done, too. Murder! Oh, Violetta, I do not know what will become of her.”

I felt a great urge to comfort him. “This may be a phase through which she is passing,” I said. “And she might not remember …”

I thought what a terrible thing it was that we should hope for her return to that clouded world which she inhabited with people who were similarly afflicted.

“You have done everything you can for her,” I went on. “She could not have had a better son.”

“And I had a mother who was ready to commit murder for me. I often think how different it could have been. She might have married someone … someone in circumstances like her own; she might have had a happy life. But she met my father and he took her to Tregarland’s, to grandeur such as she had never known before. And she wanted a place for me in all that. It was an obsession and it led her to this.”

“It might have been different, yes,” I said. “But that is the way life works out. It is the same with all of us. Dorabella and I might never have gone to Germany, never have met Dermot. Life hangs on chance. We might never have known Tregarland’s existed.”

“There is one good thing at least which came out of it all,” said Gordon. “You came to Tregarland’s.”

He took my hand in his and held it. I let it rest there because he was so distraught and seemed to draw comfort from the gesture.

Gordon went to Bodmin the next day. I impatiently waited for his return. I could not help hoping that Matilda had lapsed into her previous state.

The news was surprising. She had been out in the grounds of the Bodmin establishment; she had left her coat indoors and the wind was cold. A little later, she had become feverish, and the doctor had diagnosed pleurisy. She was now quite ill.

“She said little,” Gordon told me. “She just smiled at me. She was quiet and the wild look had gone from her eyes. She looked sad. I shall go again tomorrow.”

It was two days later when we heard that Matilda was dead. She had developed pneumonia and there had been little hope after that.

Gordon went to Bodmin and remained there all day. When he came home, he looked more tired and strained than I had ever seen him before.

He said: “She looked peaceful in death … more so than I remembered seeing her. It is over, Violetta. I think I should not mourn too much for her. It is happier so.”

I sat very still, my mind going back once more to that time when she had meant to kill Tristan. And I saw that this was the best thing that could happen to her, for if she had realized what she had done, she could never have been happy. She would have had to live out her life tormented by remorse.

We had to realize that this was a release, not only for Matilda, but for all of us.

Old Mr. Tregarland was very upset when he heard of Matilda’s death. I think he had loved her in his way. He had treated her badly and he knew it. He had to blame himself for his part in the tragedy which grew out of that.

Since Matilda had been taken away, he had changed; he had softened; life was no longer a game to him in which he played with other people’s lives for his amusement.

He ordered that Matilda’s body should be brought to Tregarland’s and buried at West Poldown in the family vault. She would have been pleased by that—acknowledged in death as she had not been in life. He insisted on going to the funeral, although he was hardly in a fit state to do so and the doctor had advised against it. I was deeply aware of his melancholy as he stood among the mourners.

Since then he had not left his bed for several days and Gordon called the doctor, for he was sure that the old man was more ill than he would admit.

The doctor came and said Mr. Tregarland was tired. He should not have attended the funeral and stood in the cold wind.

One afternoon, Jane, one of the maids, came to me with a message from Mr. Tregarland. He would like to see me.

When I went to his room, he was lying propped up on his pillows; he looked small and very frail, but I caught the old look of mischief in his eyes.

“Ah,” he said, “the good Violetta—the sensible one. I noticed that from the start. It is kind of you to come to see me.”

“But of course I came.”

He nodded. “Things have been happening here, haven’t they? Odd, isn’t it, how we go on for years in the same old rut and then suddenly everything erupts into drama. Well, that’s happening all over the world now, and events in Tregarland’s are mild enough when compared with most of today’s tragedies. ‘Every prospect pleases, and only man is vile.’ Not true. There is much good in man. Don’t you agree, wise Violetta?”

“I don’t know why you call me wise. I am as foolish as most people, I suppose.”

“Not you. That is why I want to talk to you before I shuffle off this mortal coil singing ‘Nunc Dimittis.’ How I indulge in quotations this morning! That’s a sign of something. When one looks back and considers one’s past, one remembers those lines which suddenly assume a significance. Is that so, do you think?”

“I imagine it could be so.”

“When a man is drowning, they say his past life flashes before his eyes. Well, so it is with a man who has come to his end in any other way. There is the past mocking him, saying: ‘You should have done this.’ But mostly: ‘You should not have done that.’ Ah, there’s the rub. I’m back again, Violetta. The time has come for repentance. I look back on my life and I say, ‘What good have you done, James Tregarland?’ A little, perhaps, but the balance weighs more heavily on the other side. And now I am a sick man preparing for the last journey. I am bowed down by my sins and the havoc I have created … mostly for others. Not a pleasant conclusion, Violetta.”

“I don’t suppose you have been much worse than most people,” I said.

He looked solemn for a moment.

“‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars but in ourselves that we are underlings.’ That man Shakespeare had a tab to stick on everything, didn’t he? This is a sort of confessional.”

“To be made to me?”

“Why not? You are the most suitable person in this house. You will be here after I am gone. You know a little about me. I have noticed you observing me in the past. You know my wickedness, how, when I was infirm, my life changed so that I was confined to this place for my last years. I liked to watch others—particularly Matilda. She was a source of interest to me because I was never sure how she would act. You see, she was brought up in a puritanical home, but there was nothing puritanical about Matilda underneath that veneer. Her parents had fitted her into a mold. She was bound to break out sooner or later. When we met there was a spark which ignited the future.”

“She willingly did what she did, I suppose.”

“It was not as simple in that age. Matilda had been brought up in fear of offending against the laws of the Church, which meant the laws laid down by Père and Mère Lewyth. When she was about to produce an illegitimate child, they turned their daughter out. Imagine that! I set her up in a place and when my wife died I brought her here as housekeeper. That’s an old story which you have heard already. There was Dermot and there was Gordon; how much more fitted Gordon was to be the heir of Tregarland’s. I watched her. I teased her. I might make her son my heir … and I might not. It was like that all the way through. My poor Matty, she was in despair and she set about making possible what she believed would never be if she did nothing about it.”

“Why did you not tell her your intentions right away?”

“I wanted to watch what she would do. To have told her would have spoiled the fun.”

“The fun of tormenting her?”

“You could say that—and yet I was fond of her. And now that I have come to the end, like many before me I wish I had acted differently. The awful thing is that if I had, Matty would have ended differently. I wanted to see what she would do. And I did. I drove her mad and made a murderess of her. Do you think I am responsible for what she did?”

“You have been wrong. You have been heartless, but I am sure you never thought for one moment that there would be murder.”

“I can say with honesty that I did not. But it was only when I understood what she was ready to do to the child that I understood what I had done.”

“It is over now,” I said, “and there is nothing you can do about it.”

“Only regret. I have made reparations as far as I can. The estate will go to the boy. It must. It is his by right. As for Gordon, he should have been the one. It is sad that he was born on the wrong side of the blanket. Dermot was no good. He was weak and pleasure-seeking … oh, a charming young man. Rather like his father and grandfather. But Tregarland’s needed a strong steady hand to keep it on course. Gordon had that. It was one of those tricks of fate. The bastard is the one the place needed and the rightful heir is useless. Why couldn’t it have been the other way round? Perversity of life, I suppose. Poor Gordon has suffered; but I will tell you this, wise Violetta. I have made what reparations I can. I have acknowledged Gordon as my son in this will of mine, and I am leaving him capital so that he can start up his own place, but I shall express the hope that Gordon will stay until Tristan is of an age to manage.”

“Then it will be too late for him to start on his own.”

“When Tristan is twenty, he will be close to fifty. Not too old for a man of his energies … if he keeps his health. However, it is what I shall do.”

“Do others know of this? Does Gordon?”

“He will know when the will is read.”

“Why do you tell me?”

He was thoughtful for a moment, then he said: “I think you have an interest in people … very like my own, but yours is benign where mine was mischievous. You would never have done what I did. You are too good-hearted—and, shall I say, too wise to meddle? You see, I am now brought to this stage of repentance because of what I did, and that was foolish of me, for I am now mourning as I approach death and asking the Almighty not to punish me as I deserve. How much cleverer I should have been if, at this stage to which we all must come, I could have had a balance sheet with the good deeds outweighing the evil? And you are here—part of the scene. Perhaps you will continue with the saga after I have gone.”

“How?”

“You have become part of Tregarland’s. Your sister is the mother of the heir. Violetta, that young man of yours … you are still waiting?”

“I am still waiting.”

“And hoping? It is a long time.”

“It is nearly two years since Dunkirk.”

“This war will be over one day, and when it is and he has not come back you will spend your life in mourning for someone who is lost to you forever.”

“I cannot see so far ahead.”

“Forgive me. I am making you sad. It is the last thing I want to do. You are a serious young lady. I knew that from the first. It would have been different if Dermot had married you.”

“It would have been different whomever he had married.”

“The wayward delectable Dorabella was not the one for him, but she is the mother of my grandson. I should like to say a word for Gordon. He is a good man; he would make a faithful husband. If the Jermyn boy does not come back … and in time you must cease to hope … Gordon will be waiting, I am sure.”

I could find no words. I could only think of a bleak future without Jowan.

“I should like to think of you here at Tregarland’s,” went on the old man. “Gordon is calm … level-headed … a little like you, my dear. It would be pleasant for me, looking down from heaven, or more likely from the fires of hell, to see you at Tregarland’s with Gordon, and my grandson growing up under Gordon’s guidance to love the place. Here I am again, arranging people’s lives for them. But, of course, they must arrange them themselves.”

We were silent for a while before he continued: “I often think of how your mother wanted to take Tristan back with her and how she procured the good Nanny Crabtree to look after him. And thank God she did. There is another sensible woman. Do you remember how I refused to let the boy go?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“If I had not done that, he would have escaped danger. It is yet another sin to be laid at my door. When I am gone, you must take him to your mother. My dear girl, you will be happier away from this place. Memories of Jowan come back all the time. You will never escape from your grief here. You need to get away … you, your sister, and the child. I should have let you go before.”

He was tired, I could see, and I told him he must rest a while and I would come and see him again. Our talk had been very interesting, I added.

“Not very productive,” he said. “But what is there to produce? Confession is a sort of self-indulgence. It is good for the soul, they say. One talks and the listener, because he or she has been specially selected by the confessor, makes the necessary comforting excuses, which you have done admirably, my dear. Thank you. Do you believe in premonitions?”

This abrupt change of subject disconcerted me a little.

“I am not sure,” I said.

“Nor am I, but I have just had one. The end is nigh, it says. I have unburdened my soul—and now, my dear, it is farewell. I hope your future will be a happy one. I fancy it will be. This evil war must end, and when you have made your decision, I am sure it will be the right one.”

I stooped over him and kissed his forehead.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, and closed his eyes.

Three days later he had a massive stroke from which he did not recover. The premonition of which he had spoken had proved to be a warning of what was to come.

So there was another journey to the cemetery.

When we were back in Tregarland’s the lawyer from Plymouth read the will. Tristan had become the owner of the estate; Gordon was acknowledged as James’s natural son; he was to remain administrator of the estate and was to inherit forty thousand pounds. Glasses of sherry were served and there was a hushed atmosphere throughout the house.

It was amazing how we missed the old man. We had not seen a great deal of him, but we had always been aware of his presence. What changes there had been since I had first seen Tregarland’s, although it was not so very long ago. For so many years it had gone on in the same way and then, suddenly, the changes had come … drastic changes, death, and disaster. And what now, I wondered?

The days were passing. Summer … autumn. My mother wrote often. She thought I should get away … come back home for a while. I knew she was thinking I would be better somewhere else that I might escape from memories of Jowan.

They had all made up their minds that he was lost forever. I guessed what my mother was saying to my father:

“The sooner she gets away from that place the better. She ought to be meeting people … young people. Dorabella is very interested in that nice Captain Brent, and it seems he is in her. Perhaps she will marry again. But Violetta, she is different. She doesn’t shrug off these things like her sister does. She should get away.”

I had my work which I took very seriously. We had made over rooms at Tregarland’s to the convalescing soldiers and were kept busy. I was glad of that. I tried to stop brooding, and the long talks with Gordon helped. He told me he had shelved the idea of getting a place of his own and would not leave Tregarland’s until he could pass it over to Tristan.

I wondered what he would have said if he knew his father had talked of our getting together. I believed that he did have tender feelings towards me, and sometimes I let myself imagine that Jowan did not come back and that I married Gordon. No, I thought. That could not be. And Jowan would come back. There were two of us—his grandmother and myself—who believed he would, though perhaps we forced ourselves to do so because we could not bear it to be otherwise.

In September Dorabella had one of her frequent visits to the Poldowns during which she was away for a longish time. I knew that she was with Captain Brent. She came back in a state of depression.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“James says he is leaving the area in a few weeks’ time.”

“Where is he going?”

“He’s not sure.”

She looked wretched. I could never be sure how serious was this attachment to Captain Brent. I had thought it was a light-hearted wartime affair which had come about because they both happened to be in the same place at the same time and liked each other.

But she was certainly downcast.

“What shall you do?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Everything is so uncertain. James is in an important job, you know.”

“I guessed that. I suppose you will be hearing which part of the country he’s in. That won’t be a secret, will it?”

“He will let me know.”

“I suppose you will keep in touch?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Do you really care about him, Dorabella?”

“Quite a bit.”

“Have you talked … about the future?”

“My dear prosaic old Violetta, you don’t change. How does any of us know what our future will be?”

She was right in that.

Later she heard that he would be somewhere in the southeast, not far from London, and she was slightly less depressed.

Letters were arriving from our mother. Why did we not come home for a while? Surely they could do without us for a bit?

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could come to Caddington and bring little Tristan and Nanny Crabtree with you?”

“Why shouldn’t we?” said Dorabella.

“We have our work here.”

“We’re not indispensable. Mrs. Jermyn could find plenty of others to take our place. There are many women round here who would like to find some work to do … something that would help the war effort. Mrs. Pardell, for one, would give a hand.”

“I don’t think the men would find her a good replacement for you, Dorabella.”

“She would be very efficient, and they would be amused by her North Country frankness.”

“A little different from your flirtatious chat.”

“A change is always welcome.”

“Only if it is a change for the better.”

“Well, there is that Mrs. Canter staying at Seaview Cottage. She could get someone to look after her little girl. She goes to school most of the time anyway. Now she is flighty enough and Mrs. Pardell would make a nice contrast.”

“I see you are determined to go.”

“You’d love it too, Violetta, so don’t pretend the desire to see them all is one-sided.”

“Of course I’d love to go. But …”

“But me no buts. Will you explain to Mrs. Jermyn? It would be better coming from you.”

So I sat with her in the solarium as I had so many times, and over a cup of tea I said: “My family seems to think that Dorabella and I should go home for a little while. They think it would be good for us … for me mainly.”

“Yes,” she said. “I see.”

“Of course, we could not go unless we were sure there was someone to take our places.”

Mrs. Jermyn was silent for some moments, and I thought she was going to protest and say we could not possibly go.

But she said. “They are right. You should get away, Violetta, and I know how it is with you and your sister. Dorabella seems self-sufficient, but she depends on you … far more than you do on her. And Captain Brent has left. Well, I understand. And you, my dear, are not happy. How could you be? The memory is here all the time. I am selfish and should like you to stay, but your parents are right. You should be with them. You must go. I tell you this: if I have news of Jowan, I shall be in touch with you … instantly.”

“I know you will.”

“We are going to get that news one day. I feel sure of it. I have to feel sure of it, Violetta. It is that belief which keeps me going. We shall all be happy again … someday. Believe that, Violetta, and go to your family. Take an interest in what is going on there. It can’t be much longer, and we shall be happy again. Then these years will seem like a bad dream. Now let us consider the practical side of this. Who can take your places?”

“Dorabella suggested Mrs. Pardell and Mrs. Canter.”

“Mrs. Canter … well, yes, she’s bright and she should get on well with the men. Mrs. Pardell … a little grim, don’t you think?”

“But very efficient. I think she might be an asset. There are, however, one or two other wives on the estate with time on their hands. I think they would all be eager to do something useful.”

“There won’t be a great deal of difficulty, I’m sure. Of course, it won’t be the same. It has been a joy having you around, Violetta, and Dorabella has always been such a favorite with the men. But these things happen, and I know a respite from this place will be a help to you. What of Gordon Lewyth?”

“What of him?”

“What does he say about your going?”

“Nothing has been said yet.”

“He must know you are thinking of it. I am sure he will be rather sad if you leave Tregarland’s.”

She would have heard of the friendship between Gordon and myself. There was certain to be speculation.

I said as lightly as I could: “We shall be back. It is only a stay with our parents.”

She took my hand and pressed it.

“God bless you, Violetta,” she said. “I have a feeling that everything will come right for us one day.”

As we thought, there was no difficulty in filling our places. Mrs. Canter readily accepted and Mrs. Pardell hesitated only for a day or so. It was good work and she approved of it. There were, in fact, one or two who were piqued because they had not been asked. So the way was clear for us.

Nanny Crabtree was delighted.

“It’ll be like going home,” she said. “I’ll have my old nursery—I never really took to this place anyway. You’re almost falling in the sea half the time … and after all that’s gone on here. It’s no wonder my nerves get on edge … and you wonder what’s coming next.”

I must admit that my spirits were lifted at the prospect of going home.

My parents were at the station to meet us. There were hugs, kisses, and cries of delight. It was all wonderful. My mother could not stop talking; my father stood there smiling in that way I loved so much, and then his arms were round me.

“You’re home at last,” he said. “We’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”

What a homecoming that was! I said it was worthwhile being away for so long to get such a welcome.

“It is your home,” said my mother emotionally. “It always will be. And here is Tristan … hello, my little love. And Nanny. Welcome, welcome!”

Tristan hunched his shoulders to show his pleasure.

“It’s nice,” he said.

We walked into the ancient hall, which was not at all unlike Tregarland’s. The two houses had been built round about the same period. There was a fire burning in the great fireplace and flowers at both ends of the hall. A feeling of peace came over me. If I must go on mourning for Jowan, I could feel great comfort in those who had been left for me to love.

We went to our rooms.

“Just the same as ever,” said Dorabella, gleefully.

She put her arms round our mother and danced with her round the room.

“Steady,” said our father. “She’s not so young as she used to be!”

“Ungallant wretch!” cried my mother happily.

“It’s so wonderful to be home,” said Dorabella, and I could not help wondering if she was already planning some rendezvous with Captain Brent.

In the nursery Nanny Crabtree was, as she said, “settling in.” She was crowing with delight.

“That old cupboard!” She turned to Dorabella. “That’s where you hid one day … just to tease us and give us a fright. You were a pickle, you were. And those beds side by side. You remember, when you were little. Look, Tristan, this is where your mummy used to sleep … Auntie Violetta too, when they were your size.”

Tristan gravely examined the beds and it was clear that he found it difficult to imagine us his size.

Of course, it was wonderful to be home. My parents had been right to insist that we come. It would help me, not to forget, of course, for I could never do that, but to get through those days of waiting and to find some happiness in the love of my family.

At least I hoped so.

Dorabella had written to Captain Brent, who was delighted that she was near to London; we had not been at Caddington more than a week when he wrote to say that he could get away for a few days and could she come to London?

My mother suggested she could stay with Gretchen, who would be delighted to have her.

And so it was arranged.

Dorabella came back radiant, with presents for us all. Gretchen was well, she said, and so glad we were at Caddington. It was wonderful to know that we were nearer and in fairly easy reach of London. She was hoping to come down to see us sometime when Edward could get enough leave to make that possible.

“London has changed,” said Dorabella. “That ghastly blackout! One is more conscious of the war and there is that awful air raid warning going off at odd moments when it is wise to take cover. But it is still dear old London—always that little bit more exciting than anywhere else.”

A few days later, my mother said: “I’ve got a surprise for you. Who do you think is coming for the weekend?”

“I can’t guess,” I said. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Remember Mary Grace?”

“Mary Grace!” I cried. “How is she? What is she doing these days?”

“She’ll tell you all about it when she comes.”

“That will be wonderful.”

“I thought you’d be pleased.” She was smiling a little secretively, and I guessed something was pleasing her in addition to the reunion with Mary Grace.

At last my mother’s secret came out.

“It is possible that her brother may be coming with her. He’s Major Dorrington now, you know. He may … just may … be able to get a little spell of leave, and if he does, he knows we shall be pleased to see him.”

I must say I felt rather disturbed. Richard Dorrington had at one time been interested in me, in fact, enough to suggest marriage, and I must have liked him sufficiently not to give him a direct no. It had not worked out very satisfactorily. I had discovered my true feelings for Jowan, and Richard and I had seen nothing of each other since before the war. It would be strange to meet again. My parents had selected him as a very desirable husband for me and, like most parents, they had an urgent desire to see their daughter make a good marriage; Richard Dorrington was, in their eyes, a very sensible and reliable man. After Dorabella’s disastrous adventures in matrimony, naturally they hoped to see me safely settled.

I could always read my mother’s thoughts. She was very much hoping that Richard would be able to come and that we would reconsider our feelings for each other. In her heart she believed that Jowan would never come back.

On the other hand, to see Richard’s sister Mary Grace would be a great pleasure. I had always liked her, since her shy, retiring days when I had first discovered that she could paint exquisite miniatures. She had done one of me, which I gave Dorabella, and one of my sister which Dorabella gave to me. The miniatures were important to us not only because they were delightful but because of what they had done for Mary Grace, who, through the notice she had received for them, had been commissioned to do others.

The weekend was almost upon us and we were still not sure whether Richard would be with us. We had been told that he had leave but it could be canceled at the last moment. So it was in a mood of uncertainty that we went to the station to meet the London train.

It arrived on time and when Mary Grace stepped out, with her was the tall figure of her brother.

We hurried to meet them. Richard looked splendid in his uniform. He grasped both my hands and said with fervor: “Violetta, it is marvelous to see you again.”

We drove back to the house where my father was waiting to receive our guests, and he immediately expressed his delight that Richard was able to come.

“Everything is so uncertain nowadays,” said Richard. “But my luck was in. It is good to be here.”

We sat long over dinner that night. Everyone had so much to say. My father and Richard talked earnestly about the progress of the war.

“Everything has changed since Pearl Harbor,” said Richard. “Even the most pessimistic can’t doubt that we shall win.”

“Hitler must be growing very uneasy,” remarked my father.

“I think he made a mistake in starting up the second front. It is clear that he is not going to have an easy victory in Russia. I imagine he thought he would plough through as he did in Belgium, Holland, and France. He ought to have given the matter more thought. Lucky for us that he didn’t.”

“And now the Americans are in.”

“And it is only a matter of time,” Richard assured us.

“Meanwhile it goes on and on,” put in my mother. “It was supposed to be over by the first Christmas.”

“We were unprepared,” commented Richard. “Now the whole country is working all out.”

“Even I,” said Mary Grace.

She told us about her ministry. Everyone had to work, of course, who had not domestic commitments. She was looking after her mother to some extent, although they had a housekeeper who had been with them for years and was too old to be needed for war work. However, Mary Grace worked part-time. It was interesting, she said, and she enjoyed it.

“And your painting?” I asked.

“I am still doing that, too.”

Richard could, naturally, tell us little of his activities, but he did say that he would have to be ready to land on the Continent when the time came. We still had to see the outcome between Germany and Russia, and there was a great deal of activity in the Middle East. But the outlook was certainly more cheerful than it had been for some time.

They had arrived on Friday and would have to leave in the late afternoon of Sunday. It was a very brief visit but we did manage to get a good deal into it. On Saturday Dorabella and I went riding with Richard and Mary Grace; we stopped for lunch at one of the inns we knew well, where we were warmly welcomed by the host.

We talked and laughed a great deal, and I was sorry they had to leave. We all went to the station to see them off and wish them a quick journey back. Trains were rather uncertain and they could not be sure whether they might not be diverted. Such things happened in wartime and Richard had to be back by midnight.

“Let us do this again … as soon as we can,” said my father, and my mother added: “Remember, the first opportunity you get, you must come down.”

“Perhaps you would like to pay a visit to London?” said Richard, looking at me.

“My mother would be delighted to see you,” added Mary Grace. “She often talks of you.”

The train came in and we stood on the platform, waving it out of the station.

My mother looked pleased.

“A very happy weekend,” she commented, and I knew that when she was alone with my father she would say that it had done me a world of good.

Mrs. Jermyn wrote. All was well at the Priory. Mrs. Canter was quite a success and the men seemed rather amused by Mrs. Pardell. They wouldn’t allow her to bully them and they teased her rather shamefully. Mrs. Jermyn was afraid she might have objected, but oddly enough, she seemed to like it.

“Your sister tells me that being in your old home seems to agree with you,” she wrote. “I guessed it would be a help. Dear Violetta, you must stay there as long as you feel it is necessary. I know how happy it makes your parents to have you, and I am sure Dorabella is enjoying being there, too.

“You will always be welcome when you come back, but much as I should like to see you, I believe it is best for you to stay where you are.

“Don’t forget. The first hint of news and you shall know it.”

They were right, of course. I did feel better away from those places where Jowan and I had been together.

A letter came from Mary Grace.

My mother was so interested to hear about our weekend. She wanted to know every detail. She is always saying how much she would love to see you both. It would be fun if you came up. There is still a great deal to see and be done in London now that we are only getting the occasional air raid. I talked to Gretchen about it. She said how pleased she would be if you came and stayed with her. I think she is rather lonely at times. She has only one maid living in who is a great help with Hildegarde, but it does mean that Gretchen can’t get about very much and she hasn’t all that many friends. She would simply love to have you.

When I showed that letter to my mother, she said: “Yes, I do worry about Gretchen. It’s not easy for her. That business back in Cornwall upset her a lot. Poor girl. She was not wanted in her own country and here … well, there’ll always be that tinge of suspicion. I wish she would come and stay here, but she wouldn’t be near enough for Edward’s brief leaves.”

“I think we should go up and see her,” I said.

The idea certainly appealed to Dorabella. She would be on the spot to see Captain Brent at short notice. As for myself, I should like to be with Gretchen for a while.

“Well,” said my mother. “Tristan will be all right. He’ll have his grandparents and Nanny.”

So it was arranged that we should spend a week with Gretchen in London.

Gretchen was delighted to see us. She hoped Edward would get leave so that he could be with us, if only briefly. She was comfortable in the house they had acquired before the outbreak of war. The maid was very useful, both in looking after the house and Hildegarde, but even so Gretchen was fully occupied. I knew she brooded constantly on the plight of her family; she might never know what had become of them. It was touching to see her pleasure in our being there.

Dorabella was full of high spirits. She was delighted that her love affair with Captain Brent was continuing; I think the nature and secrecy of his work added to the excitement of the romance.

We were very soon invited to the Dorringtons’ house where Mrs. Dorrington greeted us warmly and, during the evening, Richard arrived unexpectedly.

“When I heard who your guests were,” he told his mother, “I did a lot of contriving … and it worked. How are you enjoying wartime London?” he asked us.

“Enormously,” cried Dorabella.

“And Violetta?”

“The same,” I replied. “Particularly this evening.”

There was a great deal to talk about and everyone was in a merry mood.

Richard said to me: “If I can get the time off, would you come to a theater with me one evening?”

I said we should love to, and when the evening was over, as Edward and Gretchen lived only a short distance away, we walked back through the blacked-out streets.

The next day there was a telephone call from him. He could get away on Thursday. Were we free?

Dorabella answered it. She always dashed up when it rang, expecting Captain Brent.

She said: “Richard is asking us to the theater on Thursday.” She looked a little sly. “I can’t make it,” she said into the mouthpiece. “Another engagement, but I know Violetta is free.”

I said to her afterwards: “Have you a date on Thursday?”

“What does it matter? He was hoping I had. I couldn’t disappoint the poor man.”

“How do you know?”

“Of course I know. The trouble with you, sister, is that you have no finesse. He wants to be with you … not the whole family. I can see what is before my eyes, if you can’t. The role of chaperone or unwanted guest is not for me.”

“You are an idiot.”

“I may well be in some respects, but in matters like this I am a sage.”

That was how I came to be at the theater with Richard that Thursday night.

I don’t recall the name of the play. It was a light comedy, but I did remember that the theater was full of uniformed men who laughed heartily at the jokes, however feeble, as though they were determined to enjoy the evening at all cost.

During the second act a man came to the front of the stage and announced that the sirens had started and any of those who wished to leave the theater should do so quietly so as not to disturb those who wished to remain.

No one left and the play went on as before and in about forty-five minutes the man came back to say that the all-clear had sounded.

After that we went to supper. We sat in the darkened restaurant and there I found the same air of determined merriment which I had noticed in the theater. We had been shown the table almost deferentially, which was due to Richard’s uniform. Everyone was much aware of what we owed to the airmen, soldiers, and sailors of Britain.

We talked about the war, the hopes of a not-too-distant victory, of my parents, his mother, and Mary Grace.

He said he would never forget what I had done for his sister. She had changed when she did that miniature of me. Did I still have it, he wanted to know?

“I gave it to Dorabella,” I said. “And I have one Mary Grace did of her. They are very good indeed.”

“Yes, I fancy she is quite an artist and none of us realized it until you pointed it out. She changed from then on. She gained that confidence which she had always lacked before. You did a great deal for her and now she seems quite to enjoy being at this ministry. It was a good day for us when Edward introduced you.”

“I worry about Gretchen.”

“Poor girl. It’s sad. I fear she constantly broods about her family. It’s natural, of course.”

“What could have become of them?”

“I do not like to think. The fate of the Jewish people in Germany sickens me to contemplate. If there ever was a reason why we should fight this war, that is it.”

“We must succeed in the end.”

“We will, but at what a cost!”

I liked Richard. He, too, had changed from the man I had known before the war. Then he had been sure of himself in a rather self-righteous way. Now he seemed different. I hesitated to apply the word vulnerable to him but it came into my mind. There were times when I thought he was about to tell me something … something important which was bothering him. It was almost like a cry for help, which surprised me since Richard was always so self-sufficient.

When we parted, he said: “I can’t get any more leave this week … and then you will be going back to Caddington.”

“Well, it is not so very far away.”

“You’ll come up again? There is room at our house and Mary Grace would be delighted to have you. Shall you go back to Cornwall?”

“I am undecided … my mother does not want me to. She thinks I am better with them and the occasional visit to London. I had my work in Cornwall, as you know.”

“You could do something up here.”

“I suppose so. There has been no difficulty in finding replacements for me.”

“You must consider it. Cornwall is a little tucked away and travel is not easy in wartime. It has been such a pleasant evening for me.”

“For me, too.”

“We must do something like it again.”

“That would be enjoyable.”

“It is a promise, is it?”

“Of course.”

He kissed me lightly on the cheek and I went in. Dorabella was waiting up for me. She looked expectant.

“Well!”

“Well what?”

“How did it go?”

“The play was not very memorable; there was an air raid warning during it, and we had supper afterwards.”

“And Richard … how was he?”

“Very nice indeed.”

“And?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“In the circumstances, no.”

“What circumstances?”

“He’s very attractive.”

“Oh, good night, Dorabella.”

“Nothing to report then?”

“Nothing.”

“You disappoint me.”

“There have been occasions when I felt the same about you.”

Banter, I thought. What did she expect? She was like my mother. They were both hoping that I should give up grieving for Jowan. They could not believe I would never forget.

The Dark Secret

MARY GRACE HAD TALKED A great deal about her work at the ministry and the people she met there, and she thought I might be interested to meet her special friends.

“Don’t get the idea,” she said, “that we are doing very vital war work—involved in top secrets and such like. This is the Ministry of Labour and our work has a great deal to do with putting papers in alphabetical order and finding jobs best suited to the abilities of the people who are registered with us. Those who work with me are rather like myself—inexperienced. Some have never been out to work before and what we have to do is simply the sort that anyone could do.”

I said I thought she was being modest.

“No, no,” she answered. “That is not so. You will see I am right when you meet my special colleagues. We all sit together at a table, sorting out our papers, making notes of information, watched over by our supervisor. The supervisor is, of course, a bona fide civil servant.”

I realized what she meant when I met the girls. They often lunched together in a Lyons or A.B.C. teashop. There were four of them including Mary Grace. She was what was called a “part-timer” on account of certain responsibilities concerning her mother. The others worked full-time—nine until five.

The Ministry was in Acton, not so very far from the center of town, and I was to meet them in the Lyons teashop at twelve-thirty.

No sooner had I entered the restaurant than Mary Grace rose to greet me. Seated with her were the three I was to meet. They all surveyed me with interest.

“Mrs. Marian Owen, Mrs. Peggy Dunn, and Miss Florette Fields,” said Mary Grace with dignity. “And this is Miss Violetta Denver.”

“Oh, that’s a classy name,” said Miss Florette Fields. “I like that. I was Flora but I changed it to Florette. Professional reasons, you understand?”

“Florette,” I said. “That’s charming.”

She flashed her rather toothy smile in my direction. There was something very friendly about her.

“We’re ordering the Home Pie,” said Mary Grace. “The ingredients may be a little mysterious, but it’s tasty.”

Everybody laughed. I was to discover that they laughed easily and in this they reminded me of the soldiers in the theater.

“You are staying in London for a while then?” said Marian. She was different from the others and I realized that she was eager for me to know this.

“Yes,” I told her. “I shall be going back to my parents’ home at the end of the week.”

“Lucky you,” said Florette.

They were all a little stiff at first but it was not long before conversation was flowing easily. We spoke mainly about the Ministry. There was a Mrs. Crimp, who was called “Curly,” and a Mr. Bunter, who was known as “Billy” for obvious reasons.

Mary Grace, I discovered, had a hitherto unsuspected gift for making people talk. I think she was very eager for her friends to reveal themselves and over Home Pie, which was indeed surprisingly tasty, and coffee, I glimpsed something of the backgrounds of Peggy and Florette, though Marian Owen was quite reticent.

Peggy and Florette were quite different and both had the gift of being able to laugh at themselves. Florette was a girl without guile or pretense. Within fifteen minutes of our acquaintance, I knew of her ambitions. She was going to be what she called a “star.” Peggy admired her as someone she herself could never be. She listened avidly, watching her as she talked, with wondering eyes full of admiration.

“Florette won a competition once,” Peggy told me. “Came first, didn’t you, Florette?”

Florette smiled broadly.

“Tell Violetta about it,” said Peggy. We were on Christian-name terms by that time.

“Well,” said Florette. “There was this talent-spotting competition, wasn’t there?”

I was reminded of Charley and Bert. She was not asking me to recall the occasion. It was just a form of speech.

“There were big posters outside the Music Hall. The Empire, wasn’t it? ‘Try your luck,’ it said. ‘This might be your road to fame.’ Everyone was saying, ‘Go on, Flor, you can sing with the best of ’em.’”

“She’s got a lovely voice,” put in Peggy.

“Well,” said Florette modestly. “It’s not bad. You should have seen me. Practicing for weeks, I was.”

“And she won it,” cried Peggy, impatient for the climax.

“Well, I got up there, didn’t I? Was my knees shaking? You can bet your life. I was like a lump of jelly. I thought, I’ll open me mouth, and there’ll be nothing but a squawk. Well, there I was. ‘Blue skies over the white cliffs of Dover.’ You can always get away with that one, and then an old-fashioned one. ‘After the ball was over.’ My mum always wanted to go on the Halls and she used to sing that one to me. Well, I got in the first six … and then we did it all again.”

“And she was the first,” cried Peggy again.

“Five pounds I got. First prize. Thought it was a fortune. It was a start. Well, I reckon I’d be on my way if it wasn’t for this old war. Where can you get in times like these? Still, I made a start. I’ve always got that. Gave me a certificate, they did, to say I’d won first prize.”

“It must have been wonderful,” I said.

“You wait. You’ll see me in lights. My mum used to talk about Marie Lloyd. That’s what I’ll be. You wait until this war’s over.”

While this conversation was going on, I was listening with earnest attention. Peggy was as excited as Florette herself and Mary Grace was watching me, to see if I were enjoying meeting her friends. Marian Owen was sitting quietly by, with a faint smile on her face. Every now and then she caught my eye, as though to say, “We must be lenient with these people. They are not as we are. They have not had our advantages of education.” At least, that was the construction I put on it. I would share the impression with Mary Grace in due course.

“Then I changed my name to Florette,” went on the owner of that name. “Well, Flora … mind you, it’s a nice enough name. I’m not saying anything against it. But it’s not quite show business.”

“Florette will look better up in lights,” said Peggy.

“It is all very interesting,” I said. “I hope you succeed. I am sure you will.”

Florette nodded agreement and Mary Grace said: “Violetta wanted to meet you all. She thought you sounded so interesting.”

“You won’t find me very interesting,” said Peggy. “Poor old me.”

“I am sure you have had an interesting life,” I said, and I meant it. Peggy was small, thin, and I guessed her to be in her mid-forties. Her face was prematurely wrinkled, and her hair had been dyed—not very expertly—a deep black. Her face gave me the impression of one who had lived through much—mostly tribulation. One only had to look at Peggy to see that life had not been easy for her.

Her past was revealed—if not all at that first meeting, soon after. She had married young—not very satisfactorily—and had had two children. One had emigrated to Australia five years before the war; the other had married and gone “up north.” Her husband had drunk away his wages every Friday night, and there was nothing to do but keep the house going. She had some odd jobs cleaning other people’s houses and so it had gone on. And now, here she was—husband dead, children far away and not really taking much trouble to come and see her; she admitted that it was a great pleasure to her to have this “cushy little job in the Ministry.” I admired her. She was irrepressible. Her wizened little face would light up with a smile and find something amusing in most situations. I supposed life had been so hard to her that she had learned to appreciate what she now had. Florette was her ideal, and she was as certain of her eventual success as Florette herself.

“What I’ll do,” she said, “is stand outside that theater and look up at her name and say, ‘I used to know her at that Ministry.’”

She smiled at Florette blissfully, who said: “Get away with you! I’ll have you back stage and you shall have free tickets for the orchestra stalls. Who knows, I might even introduce you to someone who is looking for a pet.”

This was a well-worn joke, I realized. Peggy had once said she had watched the dogs in the park, and all the fuss that was made of them—little pekes with fancy haircuts, diamond collars—and she had thought, “What a good time these dogs have … nothing to do but be a pet. I wouldn’t mind being a dog like that. I wish somebody would make a pet of me. Do you know anyone looking for a pet?”

That had amused Florette and it had become a joke.

“Peggy’s looking for someone who wants a pet,” she said to me. “Do you know anyone?”

And everyone, including Peggy, laughed hilariously.

Peggy and Florette were easy to understand. It was not the same with Marian. She did not come from the same background as the others. She had made it clear to me from the start that she, Mary Grace, and I were of a kind—and apart from the other two. Marian’s hair was probably touched up, but discreetly so; she wore tailored suits and spoke with the utmost care.

She told me that her husband had been an army man; she had been a widow for fifteen years. She managed, but things were not as those she had been accustomed to. She had a small flat in Crouch Hill and had had to adjust her standards.

I saw at once that there was something rather secretive about her; she was faintly uneasy. I felt sure she was harboring some secret.

When we emerged from the teashop, regaled by the mysterious but tasty Home Pie and two cups of hot coffee, I realized that I had been completely taken out of the doldrums and been absorbingly entertained. This happened to me very rarely.

Mary Grace and I said goodbye to the others, who had to return to the Ministry as they were “full-timers”; Mary Grace and I went to the tube and back to Kensington.

“Well?” said Mary Grace when we were alone.

“Very interesting. Amusing, some of it.”

“I like them all very much. They were strangers to me a little while ago and I see them every day now—far more than I see my close friends. One really gets to know people well in such circumstances.”

“Florette is amusing,” I said. “Poor girl, I wonder how far her dream will take her. And Peggy … well, one should be sorry for her. She must have had a hard life, and yet she is not really in the least downcast. As for Marian, she is something of an enigma.”

“Oh, poor Marian. Seen better days. I am always sorry for such people. They spend so much time regretting the past that they cannot enjoy the present. If only she could stop worrying whether we can see the difference between her and the others. They don’t mind being as they are … nor does anyone else.”

“Well, thank you, Mary Grace. It really was a most interesting lunch.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed the Home Pie.”

“Enormously—but most of all the company.”

When we returned to Caddington, my mother wanted to hear about everything that had happened.

“There is no doubt in my mind that the holiday did you the world of good,” she commented.

When I considered it I supposed she was right. I did feel more remote from Cornwall where the constant murmur of the waves and all the surrounding country reminded me of Jowan. And the days were passing. What hope could there be of news?

Both Dorabella and I were helping our mother with the work she was doing with the Red Cross; but working at the convalescent home was different—a definite occupation, which every able-bodied person should have in wartime.

I supposed I should have to go back there.

When I suggested this, Dorabella protested. Mrs. Canter and Mrs. Pardell were doing our work very satisfactorily. She did not want to go back, of course, but we could not stay away indefinitely. She could not plead immunity because Nanny Crabtree was looking after her child. Moreover, Captain Brent had suggested that she might work in one of the offices connected with his unit. It would be a part-time job, not very significant office work, but she would have to be in London, though she might get down to Caddington for weekends.

“And what of Violetta?” asked my mother.

“Perhaps Mary Grace could suggest something,” I said. “I gather her job is to find suitable places for people to work.”

I spoke half-jocularly. I realized I did not want to go back to Cornwall. They were right when they had said it was better for me to get away. I supposed I could stay at Caddington and help my mother, but I did feel I should be doing something more.

We were in this state of uncertainty when Mary Grace came down to Caddington for the weekend. We talked about it and she immediately said that she was sure it would be possible for her to get me into the Ministry.

“I know they are short of staff in my department,” she added.

I had a sudden picture of sitting at a table, filing papers with those I had met at lunch. I thought of going to the restaurant with them for lunch—Home Pie, coffee, and talk, and my dear Mary Grace would be there. I felt a tremor of pleasure at the thought.

Mary Grace noticed my interest and went on: “I could try … if you’d like me to.”

We talked and my mother, sensing a certain enthusiasm in me, came down in favor of the idea.

“I’ll make enquiries,” said Mary Grace. “It would be wonderful to have you there.”

It was not until the New Year that I joined the Ministry. I had spent the intervening time between London, with Gretchen, and my parents at Caddington.

Dorabella had a part-time job in London which pleased her very well. Most weekends we spent at Caddington and we were with Tristan for a great deal of that time. It seemed a very satisfactory arrangement and Dorabella was very happy with life.

Richard Dorrington and I met fairly frequently—whenever he could get away—and I found our encounters very pleasant. He seemed quite content to let our friendship drift along. It was different from the way he had been when he was courting me with marriage in view. He was more restrained and never referred to the past or suggested a resumption of our previous relationship. Indeed, there were times when I thought he was on the point of sharing some confidence. This undemanding friendship suited me perfectly.

As we came into that year of 1944 there was an air of hope throughout the country. Germany was losing the war on the Russian front; we heard stories of the hardship their armies were facing, not only from the Russians but from the weather, which was more severe than any they had been prepared for. For the first time since he had made his bid for power, it really seemed as though defeat would be Hitler’s reward.

The chance of an invasion of Britain seemed remote. There were still raids from the air and some of our cities had been severely devastated, but hope was everywhere. The Americans were now our allies and we no longer stood alone.

In the middle of January, I joined the Ministry. I received a warm welcome from the friends I had already met during the preceding months for I had on several occasions lunched with Mary Grace, Florette, Peggy, and Marian.

It was fortunate that there was room at their table and, as I was a friend of theirs, I was given a place there.

We were in a large room with windows on either side taking up almost the whole of the wall space, which made the room very light but was something of a hazard if bombs were dropped in the vicinity. It was actually a table for six at which we sat, and, as there were only five of us working, we had some space to spread out our papers and work with ease.

Seated at his desk in the center of the room was Mr. Bunter, supervising the arrangements and instructing us in our work.

It was all very easy and I picked up what I had to do in a few days. I fell quickly into the routine, sharing the jokes, laughing often, joining in on the treats, when anyone had “a bit of luck.” Marian Owen, surprisingly, had what she called her one vice, which was backing horses.

“Just a shilling or two here and there, you know, to liven the days—and sometimes it comes off.”

When it “came off” we were all invited to have a drink at the Café Royal or some such place, and there was a great deal of bantering talk about the “racing millionaire.” Unfortunately, the wins were not very frequent but that made them all the more exciting when they came.

Florette brought her book of cuttings to show us; they contained pictures of actresses and were arranged to indicate their rise to fame. On the first page of this book was a cutting from a paper which informed the reader that Miss Florette Fields had won the singing competition at the Empire Music Hall with her outstanding rendering of “The White Cliffs of Dover” and “After the Ball Was Over.” She had been awarded the first prize of five pounds. Good luck, Florette.

We all admired it, and I told her not to fill up the book with cuttings about others, for she must save it for those about herself.

That delighted her. She said she kept the book by her bedside in case there was an air raid. I think the most precious thing in Florette’s life was that newspaper cutting announcing her triumph.

And we never failed to laugh when Peggy, overcome by some momentary annoyance, would cry: “Wouldn’t anyone like to take me as a pet?”

Little things amused us then.

It was March and I had been two months at the Ministry. My mother said it was the best thing I could have done. Dorabella agreed with her, and I was inclined to think that they were right. I very much enjoyed the company during working hours. Mary Grace was greatly admired for her ability to draw, and if any little incident occurred she would make a cartoon of it, depicting the people concerned in caricature. These used to be passed round the department and were greatly appreciated. When one of them fell into the hands of Billy Bunter, he tried to look stern, but he could not repress a smile and ever after referred to Mary Grace as “our artist.”

We never knew when we should hear the air raid warning. They came fairly frequently and were given in the first place if enemy aircraft were detected crossing the Channel. We were then supposed to leave our room with the many windows and descend to the basement, but very often these aircraft were prevented from getting very far and so much time was wasted trooping up and down to shelters, so that what was called an “Imminent” was instituted which meant that we should only be warned when the enemy aircraft were almost upon us. Then we should make all haste to take cover.

How quickly those days passed! The working week, the weekends at Caddington, meeting with Richard when he could get away, lunches at the teashop. Life was pleasant as it had not been since Jowan had failed to be among the survivors of Dunkirk.

It was the end of March when I noticed that Dorabella was brimming over with excitement.

“Something has happened,” I said.

She shook her head from side to side in a maddening fashion.

“I shall tell you … with the others this time. I shall make an announcement … at supper, I think … when both parents are there.”

She pursed her lips together, as though fearing to betray her news.

We were never sure at what time we should arrive at Caddington, so my mother always had a cold supper awaiting us and my father made a point of being there, so there were just the four of us—unless Mary Grace happened to be there with us for the weekend.

We would sit in the darkness, so that we did not have to draw the black-out curtains, and we would talk about the week’s adventures. They knew of Florette’s secret ambitions, the dark secret which we believed Marian was guarding, and Peggy’s desire to be adopted as a pet.

As we sat down, I could see that Dorabella was finding it hard to restrain her excitement, and as soon as we were seated she said: “I have an announcement to make. James and I are going to be married.”

There was a brief silence. Then my mother went to her and kissed her.

“Oh, my darling, I hope …”

“It’s all right this time,” said Dorabella. “I am sure. James is sure. And so, it must be right.”

She was clearly so happy that we had to share in it. It was only because we had seen that other disaster that we hesitated.

“You’ll love James,” said Dorabella. “Everybody likes him. He is the most wonderful man in the world. Don’t look at me like that, Violetta. It’s right this time. I’m experienced now. I know what love means. Stop worrying.”

My mother said: “Well, you have known him for a little time.”

“For ages!” said Dorabella. “It’s perfect. I want Tristan to love him.”

“That is very important,” said my mother solemnly.

“Oh, come on!” cried Dorabella. “This is supposed to be a matter for rejoicing. Daddy, why don’t you suggest champagne?”

“I think there are a few bottles left,” he said. “Yes … we must drink to this. I am sure you will be very happy, my darling.”

“And I,” said Dorabella firmly, “know I shall.”

I knew my mother would come to my room that night when I retired. It was a habit of hers when she was worried about Dorabella.

“What do you think?” she said.

“One never knows with Dorabella.”

“You’re thinking of Dermot?”

“Of course. She gets these wild enthusiasms and in wartime people can do rash things.”

“Dorabella can do rash things at any time.”

I laughed and nodded.

“This young man …”

“He has an important job with the army, as we found out when Tristan was kidnapped. He is very charming and Dorabella has been fond of him for some time.”

“And he cares for her, I suppose?”

“He must to suggest marrying her.”

“Your father and I feel a little uneasy about her after what happened before. There was that jaunt to France … and all she did …”

“She may have learned some lessons. She was very upset about Tristan and ever since she has been absolutely devoted to him. She is very happy now …”

The door opened suddenly and Dorabella came in.

“I have been listening to you two … putting your heads together,” she said. “I can tell you, it’s all right. I’m happier than I’ve ever been before. I adore James and he adores me. So, stop acting like a couple of old witches prophesying gloom, and rejoice with me.”

Though we could not help our skepticism, I think both my mother and I felt it must be all right this time. Dorabella was so happy now and she carried us along with her.

We decided that if Dorabella was happy, that was all that mattered. We would take care of the future when the time came.

The following weekend James Brent came to Caddington. My parents had not met him before and they were favorably impressed. Captain Brent was urbane, much traveled, and an expert in many matters. He knew something about estates as his family owned one on the West Riding of Yorkshire, and before the war he had helped to run it.

My father obviously liked him and there was some interesting talk about the war, though guarded on the captain’s side, which made it the more exciting.

He said that there would have to be a landing on the Continent, and that now the enemy was in a weakened state, in his opinion it would not be long delayed.

They discussed the wedding. There was no reason for delay. I gathered that he expected, when the invasion of the Continent began, he would go overseas. There was a feeling of urgency in the air and we understood that, before the great battle started, he wanted to be sure of a little happiness with Dorabella.

Before the weekend was over, my parents’ doubts were diminished and they were caught up in the excitement of the preparations for the wedding. It should be a quiet affair and take place within the next few weeks.

Tristan liked Captain Brent from the start, and it seemed that everything was working out in the best possible way.

They were married in a registry office at the end of April; several others were married on the same day—men in uniform with their smiling brides.

Naturally I thought of Jowan and could not help the pangs of envy which beset me.

There was a small reception afterwards in a hotel in Kensington and I asked the girls from the Ministry to join us.

My mother was eager to meet the people of whom she had heard so much. Florette was rather flamboyantly attired, as became the great star; Peggy looked like a mournful puppy watchful for a home; Marian was at her most graciously refined and was very impressed to converse with Sir Robert and Lady Denver.

Afterwards my mother said: “They were perfect. Just as you described them. It was lovely to meet them in the flesh.”

And then a radiant Dorabella and her very attractive husband went off to spend a brief honeymoon at Torquay.

Richard had two days’ leave. I met him as usual and he was rather excited because a friend of his, who had a little service flat just off Victoria, had offered it to him to use at any time he cared to. The friend had been sent off to the north of England so the flat would be vacant and Richard might find it useful during his occasional leaves.

“Of course,” said Richard, “I could always go to the family, but I think that puts a burden on Mary Grace, without much help in the house.”

“I am sure she is always delighted to have you there—your mother, too.”

“There are times when one has a fancy to be on one’s own. It’s a pleasant little place, and easier to get to than going out to Kensington. In any case, I’ve accepted. I wonder if you would like to come along and look at it?”

I said I would and we went.

It was certainly an attractive little flat. There was one bedroom, a small box-room, a sitting room and kitchen, which was large for the size of the flat, and, being at the top of the building, was light and airy. The kitchen cupboard was stocked with tins of soup and food’—wartime variety, of course.

“I’m to take what I want and of course I can replace it when I go.”

Richard was enthusiastic. Often he had only one day off and he liked me to go there with him. I would select something from the array of tins and we would enjoy preparing a meal together. Richard said it was more comfortable than going to a restaurant.

The girls were aware of this and I guessed they talked about it when I was not there. I think they had decided that I was going to marry Richard, and of course my going to the flat would give rise to more speculation.

They were all dreamers, especially Florette, of course, who lived in a world of spectacular theatrical success, whereas Peggy, who had very little hope of achieving her ambition, was ready to dream for others. As for Marian, I was convinced that she lived in an atmosphere of perpetual apprehension that some fatal secret from her past would be discovered. Mary Grace, I knew, would be delighted if I married into the family.

I was not in the least discomfited by any significance they might assume in my going to Richard’s flat and cooking meals for him. I talked freely of Jowan to Richard and he understood my feeling. He was practical, full of good sense, and I think he had decided long ago, when we drifted apart after I had declined his offer of marriage, that we were not completely suited to each other. But that was no reason why we should not be good friends, and that was what we were.

So I looked forward to those days when I was able to experiment in the kitchen of the little flat, and how triumphant we both were when I made a good meal from the material at my disposal.

Spring was on the way. In September it would be five years since the war had started. Everyone was saying, it won’t be long now.

Richard was cautious. He thought the landing would not be successfully accomplished in a few weeks. There was a good deal of fighting power left in the Germans and they were a formidable race.

Dorabella returned from her honeymoon deliriously happy. She had the gift of being able to live entirely in the present. Impressive events were about to burst upon us, but she paid no heed to that. And so the days went by.

Marian had a win on one of her horses and we went to the Café Royal to celebrate. The nights were light now, which was a blessing, for traveling through the black-out was a tedious business.

We sat with our glasses of sherry before us and were very merry.

“This is lovely,” said Florette. “This is where they always came in the old days. All the old stars. Marie Lloyd, Vesta Tilley … and the mashers would meet them here.”

“What’s mashers?” asked Peggy.

“Come on, Peg. Don’t show your ignorance! You know the mashers … the stage-door Johnnies. Always hanging around after the actresses. They’d be in the theater every night, picking out their favorites. Those were the days. No war then.”

“There was one in 1914,” I reminded her.

“Oh that! That was nothing compared with this.”

“I expect it was rather awful while it lasted,” said Mary Grace.

“It wasn’t the same. Won’t it be fun when it’s over? I reckon there won’t half be some goings-on.”

“People don’t take things as they used to,” commented Marian. “In the old days …” She sighed. “There was the Queen’s Golden Jubilee. There was a day’s holiday from school. There she was … a little old lady in a carriage. She was a queen, though. Anyone could see that.”

Suddenly she stopped and a look of panic came into her eyes.

“Do you feel all right, Marian?” asked Mary Grace.

“Oh yes … yes, I’m all right. Just felt a bit strange for a moment.”

“It’s the sherry,” said Peggy.

“I don’t know. It just came over me.” Her hands were shaking.

“You were telling us about Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee.”

“Oh no … no. I didn’t mean the Golden Jubilee … it was the Diamond.”

“Sit quiet for a bit,” said Florette. “Then you’ll feel better.”

Marian did so and closed her eyes. We all watched her in consternation, but after a few minutes she opened her eyes and smiled at us.

“It’s all right,” she said. “Just a bit of a turn.” Then she started to talk about some horses she fancied for a coming race.

“It’s all a matter of form,” she said. “That’s what you have to study.”

We understood. She did not want to talk about the “bit of a turn.”

Mary Grace and I discussed the incident afterwards.

“Something upset her,” I said. “It was when she was talking about the past.”

“I think something must have happened. Some tragedy that she was reminded of, and it was connected with the Golden Jubilee.”

“That was years ago. I should have thought she wasn’t born then. She said the Golden Jubilee … and then seemed anxious to tell us that it was the Diamond one. It must have been the Diamond. If she had been at school, which she rather implied, she would be over sixty and they don’t have people in the Ministry over that age. I wonder what it was that happened?”

Marian became a cause for speculation at that time because both Florette and Peggy had been very much aware of the shock she had had in the Café Royal.

Whenever Marian was absent we talked about it. They fantasized about her. Peggy thought she had been “crossed in love.” She had met a young man who was above her in station.

“You know how she is about station and that sort of thing? He promised her a grand future; she thought she’d have a beautiful home where she would be petted and made a fuss of for the rest of her life. Then, right at the altar, he jilted her. Then she married Mr. Owen.”

Florette said: “He was a good husband, but he was not her true love and she never forgot. She had this rich lover. He was a great musical hall star and all the women were crazy about him. He saw Marian and she was different from all the rest. Those actors fall in and out of love very easily. He seduced her and there was a child. She gave the child away and then one day at this Jubilee thing she saw her child, grown up into a beautiful young woman.”

“She couldn’t have been more than five years old at the time of the Diamond Jubilee,” I protested.

“Oh, it wouldn’t have been that then. It was some other procession. There was the coronation of Edward VII, wasn’t there? I reckon it would have been that.”

“Well, whatever it was,” said Mary Grace, “it was undoubtedly there and we must not try to probe. She might tell us in time. Let us be especially gentle with her until she does.”

So we were. I wondered whether Marian realized this. There was certainly something stricken about her and it became more apparent since that outburst at the Café Royal.

It was about three weeks later when we discovered Marian’s secret. It happened in an unexpected way.

We came in one morning to hear that an inspector had arrived at the Ministry. There was a good deal of gossip about this.

“He’s come to investigate,” said one of the women.

“Do you think there is a spy here?” asked another, looking round suspiciously.

“Something like that,” said the first speaker. “Well, it’s ever so exciting and there’s a war on anyway.”

As the morning progressed, I noticed that Marian was in a state of increasing uneasiness. Mary Grace noticed it too.

“I am sure she is worried,” she said to me. “I wonder what it is she has done … or is doing?”

“I could not imagine Marian as a spy, or involved in anything dramatic,” I said.

“You never can tell,” said Mary Grace. “I could not imagine it either, but sometimes the most unlikely people do these things.”

Two or three days passed. We heard that the inspector was to be at the Ministry until Thursday. No one had any idea what he was doing. Billy Bunter was now and then called to his office and came back looking more important than ever.

Poor Marian was in a nervous state, I could see. Every time the door opened and someone came into the department there would be panic in her eyes. I tried to think of what misdemeanors she could have committed, and came to the conclusion that they must be serious to have this effect on her.

Thursday came. The inspector was leaving that day. She was safe. I could sense her relief. But then, during that morning, Billy Bunter came to our table.

He said: “Mrs. Owen, the inspector would like a word with you.”

I saw the color rush into her face, and then she turned so pale that I thought she was going to faint. I wanted to run to her but restrained myself. Billy Bunter was smiling his urbane smile. We watched her as she followed him through the door, then we looked at her in dismay, too shocked to speak.

We just sat there, pretending to work, shifting our papers round and seeing nothing but Marian’s stricken face.

And then, at last, she returned.

We stared at her. We had not expected to see her. We had imagined her handcuffed and taken away to prison. Spying for the enemy. Or perhaps she had murdered someone years ago and it had just been discovered.

She was smiling as I had never seen her smile, and she looked at least ten years younger.

We waited breathlessly. There was a new air of confidence about her.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I’ve been worrying about nothing.”

“What was it?” demanded Florette.

Marian looked around the table.

“I shall not tell you now,” she said. “I want you all to come as my guests to the Café Royal this evening. Is that all right? Free, are you?”

“Oh, you are mean, making us wait to know,” cried Florette. “We’re dying to hear.”

“You must be patient,” said Marian.

She picked up her papers with a happy smile on her face and began sorting them.

Florette was right when she said we were all eager to know. We all sat at our favorite table and Marian ordered sherries and then she started.

“You see, I was very worried. I’ll tell you frankly. I needed this job badly. I had my little pension, but I just could not make ends meet. Then the war came and they wanted people for work. This was the kind of job I fancied. I didn’t want anything menial. This was a nice office job where you met nice people.”

“All right,” said Florette. “You wanted the job. What else?”

“They didn’t want people over sixty. Well, I have a confession to make. I lied about my age.”

“Is that all?” demanded Florette.

“It’s lying,” said Marian. “It’s a terrible thing to do in wartime, and when this inspector came, I thought, he’s going to find out. He’s vetting us all and you know how thorough they are? I thought he’d turn me out and then what would I do?”

“And what happened?” I asked.

“Well, I went along and Billy left me with him. He was a nice man. He had a ledger open on his desk and he said, ‘Sit down, Mrs. Owen.’ I was shaking all over like a leaf. Then he said: ‘It’s this matter of age.’ Then I knew it had come. He was going to send me away, I thought, and I just wondered what I would do. It’s made such a difference. It was just what I wanted.”

“Yes, yes,” said Florette impatiently.

“‘According to your records,’ he said, ‘you are sixty-two.’”

She looked at us searchingly, to see what effect this information was having on us.

“You see, I’d let them believe I was ten years younger. Nobody had doubted it. You didn’t, did you?”

“Never thought of it,” said Peggy.

“None of us did,” I said.

“I never think about people’s ages,” added Mary Grace.

“Then he laughed,” went on Marian, “and I burst out, ‘I wanted the job. I needed the job. If they had known my real age, they wouldn’t have had me.’ ‘Well, Mrs. Owen,’ he said, ‘it’s always best to tell the truth. But I suppose you’re right. There would have been some question about employing you at that age. Well, you’re here now and Mr. Bunter tells me you are as good a worker as the rest. I don’t think Mr. Hitler is going to care very much whether you are too old for the job, do you?’ He laughed. That seemed very funny, so I laughed with him. I thought I’d burst into tears if I didn’t. ‘Let’s say no more about this, Mrs. Owen,’ he said. ‘I don’t blame you for knocking off those years. Nobody would guess.’ Then I came away.”

“Is that all you’ve been worrying about all this time?” demanded Florette.

The four of us looked at each other and smiled, remembering what we had imagined.

“How did you know I was worrying? Was it so obvious?”

“Poor old Marian,” said Florette. “People in show business always knock off a few years. It’s all part of the game.”

We all laughed. That was a very merry evening at the Café Royal.

The End of a Dream

MAY HAD COME AND there was a feeling of anticipation everywhere. Great events were about to burst upon us and people were saying that the end of the war was not far off.

Richard was reticent about his activities and I guessed that he was involved in some secret operation. His leaves were less frequent and when they did come we made the most of them.

He very much enjoyed those evenings we spent in the Victoria flat. He would send a message to me and I would be there, going through the cupboard so that I could make supper by the time he arrived, for it was always uncertain how long he would stay or even if he should be called back almost immediately. There was a telephone in the flat and on one occasion he was called back when we were in the middle of a meal.

It was a beautiful day and I had had a message during the previous one. He could get away. Could I be there? I think we all felt at that time that we must be free when a soldier friend wanted to see us. There was always a possibility that it might be the last opportunity for a long time.

I went to the flat and let myself in, for Richard had acquired a key for me. I went into the kitchen and prepared the meal. It was almost ready by the time he arrived. He looked a little strained, I thought.

“Has life been hectic?” I asked.

“I should say so. Hardly a minute when one isn’t rushing somewhere. I think these little respites are going to become fewer in the weeks to come.”

“Let me wait on you,” I said, and I poured a drink for him.

“It’s good to be here,” he said. “I’ve grown fond of this little flat. Have you, Violetta?”

“Yes, I have.”

“I have never experienced coming across an oasis in the desert, but I imagine it is like this.”

“I have the supper all ready.”

“That sounds like bliss.”

“So you think something is about to break?”

He lifted his shoulders.

I went on: “All very hush hush, I suppose.”

“Top secret.”

“I see. I hope you are going to like your supper. I’ve had to improvise a bit.”

“It will taste delicious, I am sure.”

“Don’t be too sure. Just hope.”

I sat down with him while he finished his drink. I thought he looked a little uneasy. I tried to amuse him with gossip about the Ministry and made much of Marian’s drama.

Suddenly he said: “Violetta, I want to talk to you seriously. This may be my last visit to the flat for some time to come.”

I was alert. There was something different in his attitude.

“I can’t tell you how much our meetings have meant to me. You remember how it was in the past.”

“I remember,” I said.

“I asked you to marry me then. If only you had …”

“We both felt it wasn’t quite right, didn’t we?”

“There were misunderstandings. We could have cleared those up … and then there was this Cornish man.”

“There really always was,” I said.

“Do you think he will ever come back?”

“I have to think that he will. I have to hope.”

“There is only one hope. If he is a prisoner and Europe is liberated, he might be able to get back.”

“I feel sure he is alive.”

“That’s because you want to believe it. It’s highly improbable, Violetta.”

“Lots of highly improbable things happen.”

“I think you must know that I love you.”

“I know-we are very good friends. We always were.”

“One can love one’s good friends, can’t one? All these days we have been together, I’ve had to stop myself from telling you everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yes. I have a great deal to tell.”

“Do you want to tell me?”

“I must.”

“Well, I am listening.”

“It isn’t easy, Violetta. When the war is over and it is absolutely certain that Jowan will never come back, would you marry me?”

“Oh, Richard!” I cried. “I can’t let myself think of his not coming back. I don’t think I shall ever want to marry anyone but Jowan.”

“You can’t spend the whole of your life mourning for someone who will never return.”

“I suppose some people have done that. In any case, I can’t believe that he is dead. His grandmother feels the same. We understand each other absolutely.”

“It could be that you are deluding yourselves. Perhaps, when the war is over and he has not come back …”

“He will come back. I know he will.”

There was silence for a while, then he said: “I daresay you have wondered how things could have been so different between us … different from the way they were, I mean. You remember how in the past I urged you to marry me?”

“Yes, but it didn’t happen.”

“I had a reason for not asking you again … not, as they say … pressing my suit.”

“I just thought we were good friends and all that was over.”

“It is not over for me. But I will tell you why I could not ask you to marry me. It is because, Violetta, I have done a very foolish thing. I am married already.”

I stared at him in amazement. “Then where … ?”

“Where is my wife? I have no idea. I have not heard of her for more than a year. It was a disastrous mistake. The war had just started. I had made friends in the army. One of them had a sister. She was a very accomplished young lady. Lady Anne Tarragon-Lee was her name. She was sophisticated, clever, somewhat haughty, and I was rather flattered, I think, that she should show me some attention. I don’t know how I could have been so foolish, but those were the first days of the war when everything seemed exciting. We were all waiting for the battle to start, and you know there was the long wait. It seemed like an unreal war. For me, army life was like being at school again. I felt irresponsible, I suppose, and I can’t quite explain how it happened. It seemed wonderful at the time.”

I was so amazed that I remained silent. Richard, whom I had always thought to be so practical, so full of common sense, to have married rashly! It was hard for me to believe.

He understood my feelings, for he said: “I see it is difficult for you to understand. It was the times, I suppose. We were all a little bemused then.”

“And you are no longer bemused?”

He nodded. “I soon realized the folly of what I had done.”

He paused and, as he did so, I heard the air raid warning, faint at first but growing louder.

He disregarded it. After all, we were accustomed to hearing its frequent wail.

I said: “And now … where is your wife?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you not see each other?”

We started as the crunch of a falling bomb hit the air.

“Not far off,” commented Richard, then: “I hope they are not coming this way.” He went on: “I think she is as eager to be free as I am.”

“There will be a divorce?”

“I expect so. There are many like us. We rush into these wartime marriages and then have to concern ourselves with getting out of them.”

“Well, if you both feel that way, it will be easier, I suppose.”

We heard the bomb fall, nearer this time; we sat listening to the sound of falling masonry.

Richard said: “That was very close. I think we had better get out of here.”

I rose, prepared to go down to the basement which was used as a shelter for the flat dwellers. I picked up my coat and handbag and we went to the door, but we did not reach it, for suddenly the earth seemed to open and I was falling. Richard was not there. My eyes and mouth were full of dust. I was lying down and then the darkness descended.

I awoke in a bed in an unfamiliar room. I noticed other beds. When I saw the girl in a nurse’s uniform, I realized I was in hospital. Then I vaguely remembered being in the flat and hearing the falling bombs.

Richard, I thought immediately. Where was Richard? We had been together on our way to the basement… and then this had happened.

The nurse came and stood by my bed.

“Hello,” she said. “Feel all right?”

“Where am I?”

“St. Thomas’s.”

“Hospital?” I said.

“That’s it. Nasty shock, was it?”

“We were bombed, of course.”

“That’s it … along with others. It was a bad night.”

“My friend?”

“Oh yes, he’s all right. I mean he’s here. He came off worse than you did.”

“Can I see him?”

“Not now, dear. See if you can drop off. A sleep will do you the world of good.”

“What time is it?” I asked.

She looked at the watch pinned on her blouse.

“Just on two.”

“In the morning?”

“In the afternoon, dear.”

“So all this time …”

“Now, you get some rest.”

“But I must know.”

“You’re all right. You’ve been lucky.” I could see she was not prepared to give me any more information.

I felt tired and dazed, unable to remember in detail what had actually happened.

I must have slept and when I awoke it was to see my parents at my bedside. My mother was watching me anxiously.

“Oh, she’s come round,” I heard her say. “Violetta … darling … it’s all right. We’re here, your father and I and Dorabella. We came as soon as we heard.”

“It was a bomb,” I said.

She sat there, holding my hand; my father was on the other side of the bed. I saw Dorabella and the concern in all their faces.

I felt too tired to think, but I was certainly comforted to know they were there.

The next day I felt a great deal better. My mother said I had been in shock. Apparently the bomb had demolished a house nearby and what we had felt was the force of the explosion. It had damaged the block of flats considerably; the roof had fallen in and the windows were all shattered. We were lucky not to have been nearer to the bombed house. Two people had been killed and a number injured.

I was told I could leave the hospital the next day.

Fortunately, I was able to see Richard before I went. Although he had suffered more than I had, I was relieved to see that he was not seriously hurt.

His face was grazed and he had lost a certain amount of blood through a wound in his leg, but nothing was broken and the doctors said that in a week or so he could leave the hospital, though the leg would undoubtedly need further attention.

My mother said that when he was well enough he must come down to Caddington. She was taking me off at once.

It was wonderful to be at home. I was greeted rapturously by Tristan and by Nanny Crabtree with a mixture of tenderness towards me and fury against “that Hitler.” She declared that if she could get her hands on him she would know what to do. There were tears in her eyes as she surveyed me.

“I never did hold with that going off to work in ministries. Well, you’re home now. We’ll soon have you fattened up.”

Nanny’s cure for all things was “fattening up.”

They were lazy days. After my ordeal I needed a rest. I did have one or two dreams in which I would be back in the flat, when I heard the crunch of the bombs and felt myself slipping down into darkness. I suppose the memory of that sort of experience stays with one forever.

I thought a great deal about Richard’s revelation. It was difficult to imagine his making a disastrous marriage. I should have thought he would have considered such a step very carefully before he undertook it. He had always seemed to me to be so prosaic, and practical in the extreme.

I supposed she had been very attractive. Lady Anne! He might have liked the title. Beautiful … seductive … poor Richard, he seemed to be unlucky in love. It occurred to me that one could never really know people. They so often stepped out of character and did the unexpected.

And now he was married to her. He must have been contemplating divorce seriously as he had suggested marrying me. I felt sorry for him. He had obviously not wanted it known that he had married unsuccessfully. Richard was the sort of man who would hate to be thought unsuccessful in any way. So he had kept that marriage a secret,

He must have thought he owed it to me to make his confession. He had to explain why he had not asked me to marry him. Those visits to the flat, I supposed, had been a little unconventional and he wanted me to know that he still cared for me. He was really hinting that, when he was free and I was sure that Jowan was not coming back, marriage between us might be possible.

It all seemed very sensible, put like that. Yes, sensible was the word I had always applied to Richard.

Dorabella was back at Caddington for the weekend. She was glad that I was home for a while. We had a pleasant weekend and when she went back I knew that my parents were uneasy. They did not like one of their precious daughters going into danger, and what had happened to me had enhanced their fears. One could be in danger, of course, anywhere in the country, but the capital was particularly vulnerable.

Dorabella was ready to face any danger to continue to live her exciting life; she took great pleasure in hinting that her fascinating husband was a man of great importance who guarded the nation’s secrets.

Richard was released from hospital and had a week’s leave before rejoining his regiment; he spent half of it with us, the other half with his family in London.

Then, finally, the tide of events turned. I remember that June day well. It was the sixth—a day never to be forgotten. There was expectancy in the air, and most people must have been aware that great events were pending. We all gathered round the wireless for news and listened eagerly.

And there it was.

“Under the command of General Eisenhower, Allied naval forces, supported from the air, began landing Allied armies on the northern coast of France …”

We all looked at each other, emotional, tense. The necessary invasion of the Continent had begun.

People could talk of nothing else. At the end of his leave Richard joined his regiment, though he was not considered fit yet to go abroad, and the following week I went back to London to resume my work in the Ministry.

There was an air of euphoria everywhere. People talked constantly about the landings. It was the beginning of the end, they said. We were coming out of the darkness which had enveloped us for the last five years and soon everything would be normal again.

This mood persisted, although the Prime Minister warned us against too much optimism. We had made an excellent start, but there was a great deal to be done. We eagerly waited for any news we could get. Several of the Channel ports were now in Allied hands. Nothing could convince us that the news was not good and we were on the road to victory.

Although I had been glad to be home for a period when I might recover, I was looking forward to seeing the girls again.

Mary Grace had kept me informed and it seemed that nothing had changed except that Marian was like a different person and was quite merry. It amazed me that her life could have been so overshadowed by such a trivial matter; but, of course, what are trivialities depends on their importance to the people concerned with them.

I was due to return to London on a Sunday evening and it was on the preceding Friday that we heard the news of a new weapon which was being used against us. It was called “Hitler’s Secret Weapon” by the Germans; we called it his last desperate throw.

On the night of the fifteenth there had appeared for the first time over Britain a pilotless aircraft—a kind of flying bomb—which crossed the Channel and, when the engine stopped, exploded. This did little harm, we were told, and would in no way halt the progress of the war. They were officially called Flying Bombs, but the people soon had a name for them. In those early days, they became known as Buzz Bombs because one could distinctly hear them as they approached. If the engine was very loud, it meant that the thing was overhead and if it stopped suddenly, one was in danger because it was about to fall. We soon became familiar with them. This was a new hazard, but the mood stayed euphoric and we were all sure that victory was in sight.

I was given a vociferous welcome by them all when I returned to the Ministry. Everyone came to congratulate me on my lucky escape. Billy Bunter referred to me as “our heroine,” which was too much praise, I thought, for having done nothing heroic.

Marian thought my return should be celebrated, so of course we went to the Café Royal to drink our sherries.

It was strange to see Marian almost jolly, her dark secret revealed to be of no great importance. For as long as the war lasted, she need no longer conceal the dreadful truth that she was sixty-two years of age. Apart from that, little had changed.

Then, as I was leaving the office one day, a young woman-approached me.

“You are Miss Violetta Denver, I believe,” she said.

I admitted that I was, and she went on: “I am Anne Tarragon-Lee. I wonder if I might have a word with you?”

I felt shocked. Richard’s wife! I could not understand why she wanted to talk to me.

“What do you want to say?” I asked.

She looked round. “We can’t talk here. Let’s go and sit somewhere. Could we have a drink or a coffee somewhere?”

Bewildered still, I looked round. The only place was the teashop where we had our lunches.

I said: “We could go in there.”

She wrinkled her nose slightly and said: “There seems no alternative.”

She was very elegant. Her suit was of a pale gray fine material; her toque, shaped with smooth gray feathers, came down on one side to her eyebrows and accentuated the fineness of her large gray eyes. She was tall and slender and her features were finely chiseled, as though cut out of stone. There was something very cool and unruffled about her.

We sat and ordered cups of coffee.

“I expect you are wondering why I am here,” she said.

“Yes, I am. I have no idea why you should want to see me.”

“You know who I am. I can see that. I suppose Richard has talked to you of me.”

“He did mention you,” I said.

“And he has told you all, I suppose?”

“I do not think so. Really, he has told me very little. He mentioned you only just before we were caught in an air raid.”

“Yes, I know about that raid. You were in a flat together when it happened, weren’t you? It must have been a great shock.”

“Naturally, that sort of thing is.”

“And how is Richard?”

“Do you not know? He is out of hospital and has rejoined his regiment.”

“But I believe he has not gone overseas.”

“It may well be some time before he is well enough for that.”

“Our marriage was a mistake,” she said, looking rueful. “We didn’t fit. It’s strange how one thinks one does and quickly discovers one is wrong.”

“It happens to many people.”

“You know Richard well?”

“He is a friend of my family. I knew him some years ago.”

“He had this flat…”

“Yes, it belonged to a friend who lent it to him. He found it useful for his leaves, although his family has a house in Kensington.”

She smiled a little slyly. “I know. The mother and the sister are there. The flat must have been very convenient for you.”

She was an enigma. It seemed odd that I should be sitting here, drinking coffee as though we were old acquaintances.

She was looking beyond me into the distance, almost speculatively. She was a strange woman, and I could not understand what this meeting was about, but I sensed there was something important behind it. Surely it was not idle curiosity to inspect one of Richard’s friends?

“I think he will be all right,” I said. “He is not really badly hurt.”

“No.” She put down her cup and said: “It has been most interesting meeting you.”

“How did you know … who I was?”

“Well, I heard about the bombing, of course, and that you were there with him when it happened. He had mentioned your family to me once or twice. So … I thought I’d come and see you. I wanted to know how badly hurt he was.”

“As his wife, I should have thought you would have been told,” I said.

“Oh … I haven’t seen him for some time. We were not together for long, you know. I took my maiden name. It was like that.”

“I see. I don’t think you need worry about him. He’ll be quite fit again soon, I am sure.”

“Thank you for giving me your time.”

She stood up. Several eyes were upon her. Elegant creatures such as she was were not seen in the teashop every day.

We came out into the street.

“Goodbye,” she said in that cold way of hers.

I was still a little bewildered. I could not understand why she had contrived this meeting, yet I was sure it was not without some purpose.

Richard did not go overseas immediately but was posted down to the coast before I could tell him that his wife had been to see me.

I could not tell Dorabella or my parents that I had met Richard’s wife because I did not know whether he wished his marriage to remain a secret, and I felt it was not for me to divulge it.

I tried to put the thought of that meeting from my mind. It was not easy. There was something about Lady Anne which repelled me, something a little sinister. But still, I laughed at myself. I was building up some drama.

Life slipped back to normal. There were the same jokes, the same lunches at the teashop, but now, whenever I entered the place, I thought of that cool slender figure in gray.

We had the additional menace of the Flying Bombs which were coming over in large numbers. Many of them were disabled at the coast, which was not much use, as the damaged objects just went on their way, dropped, and the bombs exploded anyway, so they were as lethal as the sound ones.

They were just an added trial. People said their unmistakable “hum-hum” as they went along meant “you, you,” because, if you heard the noise, you were in danger and the thing might be intended for you.

But the cheerful mood held. The Flying Bombs could not affect the people’s morale while there were successes on the Continent. But the tragedy was to continue.

I remember the day well. Indeed, it was one which I shall never forget. June had passed and it was a sultry July afternoon. We sat at our tables working, now and then gossiping in quiet voices, for while Billy Bunter knew it was impossible to stop the whispers he did not want our voices to become too audible.

Florette was very happy that afternoon. A week before she had met a young man who was “in the business”; he was a conjurer and had appeared in Blackpool for a few weeks—not exactly top of the bill, but at least halfway down. He was working on munitions because he was not quite fit for the army; but he had great hopes for the future.

So she had found a soulmate with whom she could share her dreams and learn a great deal about theatrical rules.

Peggy was looking forward to Florette’s future as such as she could never have for herself, and, with a guilt-free Marian and Mary Grace her usual steady self, fitting in with everyone’s mood, that began as a very happy afternoon.

Terry Travers, the conjurer, had given Florette some cuttings about his show in Blackpool; she had stuck them in her book and brought it along to show us. There was no room for it on the table, so she had left it in the cloakroom.

Halfway through the afternoon the sirens wailed forth their warning. As usual, no one took much notice of this. Then suddenly a shrill whistle was heard throughout the building. It was the “imminent.” That meant that whatever was coming our way was very close indeed.

We stood up, and, as we did so, we saw the object come into view. I had never before seen a Flying Bomb at such close quarters. It was almost on a level with the window and moved in a lopsided way which indicated that it had been damaged.

We stared in horror. It was too late to take cover now. The thing was upon us.

Florette cried: “I’ve left my cuttings book in the cloakroom,” which would have made us laugh because she could think of such a thing at a moment when death was staring us in the face. But this was no laughing matter.

“You, you,” said the thing very loudly. We scrambled under the table. Any moment now it would drop and that would be the end of us and everyone in the building. I was aware of Mary Grace beside me. She gripped my hand. I started to think of the past: the miniatures she had painted of Dorabella and me, the day I had given mine to Dorabella, the time when we had thought my sister was drowned … waiting for news of Jowan after Dunkirk …

Time slowed down. There was no sound in the room except that of the relentless engine which could stop at any second … and that would be the end.

“You, you.” It was slightly fainter. Billy Bunter was standing up.

He cried: “It’s gone past, but keep under cover.”

He himself did not. He went to the window.

Florette said: “I’m going to get my book. I thought I’d lose it. I shall always keep it with me now.”

“Wait!” I said, but she was off.

Then Billy Bunter, who was at the window, called out: “Hey, I do believe … Good God! It’s coming back!”

There was silence.

“You, you, you.” It was louder.

Billy was right. The thing had turned and was limping its way back, which meant it was immediately outside the building.

“Get under cover!” shouted Billy, and we darted once more for the tables. Slowly, deliberately, the sound was increasing; the damaged bomb was coming our way.

Nearer, nearer and then … the dreaded silence.

It was like that time in Richard’s flat—the explosion, the crump, crump, and then the rumbling that continued. Something was falling onto the table under which we were crouching. It must have been part of the ceiling. The tables stayed firm, so it could only have been fragments that fell.

Had the building been hit? It was not exceptionally tall but a long and rather sprawling one. I felt dazed. This was the second time this had happened to me within a few weeks. I felt doomed, that fate was pursuing me.

I heard people shouting. There was Billy Bunter, taking charge, as he had always done. Mary Grace was beside me. I saw that Peggy was trembling. Marian looked shaken. But they were all alive … under the table with me. That strong table had saved us from being hurt by those pieces of falling masonry.

The sound of sirens and fire engines filled the air. It was like a nightmare. I am not sure how long it lasted. These were familiar sounds in our war-torn city. So many times we had heard them. This was different. This was us.

It is difficult to remember exactly what happened. I just know that there was tremendous activity. We were numbed, bemused … and amazed to find that we seemed to be unhurt.

Then I heard Peggy crying: “Where’s Florette? She wasn’t with us. She’d gone to get her cuttings book.”

Billy Bunter started to speak. We would leave the building as soon as possible … just in case it collapsed. The bomb had apparently not hit the building but had fallen close beside it. There was considerable damage and it would be better for us to get out. There was nothing we could do but wait for instructions.

“You’ll be looked after, and as soon as possible. There’ll be a bus to take you home. You’ll have to report to the hospital for a checkup, but the main thing is to attend to the injured. You won’t leave the usual way. You’ll have to be shown. Go quietly, please. That’s the best way you can help.”

We stood huddled together. Peggy was very anxious. She kept saying: “Florette. Where’s Florette? Why did she go off? Why didn’t she stay with us?”

“She’ll be there in the cloakroom,” said Mary Grace.

“I hope she got her cuttings book all right,” said Marian.

It seemed a very long time before we were led out of the building. The bus was there and we filed in.

I looked back at the familiar building as we drove away. It was not the same; it would never be. One end was gone completely and there was a jagged gap. I saw a part of a room with filing cabinets standing in it—open to the sky.

There were people everywhere. I saw the ambulances and a stretcher being carried into one of them.

Then we were off. I was glad. I did not want to look any more at the scene of devastation.

It was two days before we heard the news about Florette. The cloakroom was at that end of the building which had suffered most from the blast of the bomb and Florette had died, clutching the book of cuttings in her hand.

The news shocked us all terribly, but Peggy I think was most affected. She looked shriveled and bewildered.

We all met again afterwards. Mary Grace took us to her house. We could not have met in the Café Royal; that would have been too heart-rending. We should have pictured Florette there all the time. It was sad enough in the Dorrington house.

All the gaiety had gone. We were all so unhappy thinking of bright Florette with her dreams of a future which now would never be. We tried to talk normally but it was impossible.

Marian should have been happy because both she and Peggy were being transferred to another branch of the Ministry. It was very near home for Peggy and not so very far for Marian, and they had both dreaded losing their jobs; but there was no happiness for either of them, particularly Peggy.

I told them that I would be going back to my parents for a while and then I would plan what I should do. Mary Grace would not be returning to the Ministry.

It was no use trying not to talk about Florette. It was almost as though she were there with us.

“If only she hadn’t gone back for that book,” said Peggy. “She’d have been with us under the table. Why did she want to go?”

“None of us knew the thing would turn back,” I said. “Oh, why did she?” wailed Peggy. “If only …” Her poor face looked older and more tired than usual, even more wistful than when she was yearning to be someone’s pet. She would not have lost her friend had Florette not gone back for the book.

“That’s life,” said Marian. “It all works on chance.” And we sat there in silence, thinking of Florette, who had had such dreams and had died so cruelly before she could try to make them come true.

A Hint of Scandal

I HAD VISITED THE hospital. No bones had been broken, but a rest was suggested, particularly as I had recently suffered a similar experience.

My parents were delighted to have me home.

“I only wish Dorabella was not up there,” said my mother. “Those wretched bombs are worse than the other kind, it seems to me.”

I spent a lot of time with Tristan. Nanny Crabtree was inclined to treat me like an invalid and attempted to “fatten me up,” but there was no doubt of her joy in having me back in the fold.

I did not want to be idle and so I helped my mother in her work with the various organizations in which she was involved.

There was a great deal of discussion about the progress of the war, which seemed to be going well in spite of certain setbacks; but clearly the end was not going to come as quickly as we had hoped.

I thought that, if Jowan were a prisoner of war and the Allies were advancing, it might be that they would come to where he was held, and free all the prisoners. Every day I waited for news with mounting hope. It would go first to Mrs. Jermyn, of course, but she would inform me immediately.

My mother knew this and was afraid for me. I guessed that in her heart she did not share my optimism.

She said to me one day: “Violetta, you still believe that Jowan will come back, don’t you? It is four years now.”

It was one of those days—they came now and then—when my hopes seemed to fade. It was a long time. Sometimes I wondered if he would be the same man when he came back. People change. Would his love still be as strong for me as mine was for him?

I hesitated and she was aware of this.

“Time is passing,” she went on. I knew what was in her mind. I should be twenty-five in October. I was no longer very young. She was wondering whether I was going to spend my life mourning a lost lover. She had known a friend who had been engaged to be married to a young man who was killed on the Somme during the last war. My mother had spoken of her occasionally. It was not only that she had missed marriage and family, but she had spent her life mourning for a man she had lost when she was eighteen. She did not want a similar fate for me.

She said: “I am sure you are better here than in Cornwall. I wonder if Richard will have to go overseas. Gordon is lucky. Not that he isn’t doing an excellent job. They couldn’t have done without him on the estate. Oh, I do hope this wretched war will be over before Richard has to go out there.”

I could read her well. She was thinking: here were two good men, either of whom, with a little encouragement, would be ready to marry me, and yet I went on mourning for someone who might never come back.

There was a telephone call from Richard. My mother took it and when she came to me she was very excited.

“Who do you think has just telephoned? Richard. He’s got a little leave and wants to come for the weekend.”

“And you said you would be delighted to see him, I am sure.”

“I did.”

“Is this leave because he is going overseas?”

“I asked him that. He said no, they can’t make any decision about that. He said the wound is playing up a bit and they won’t let him go while he is in that state.”

She looked pleased and excited. I knew she was hoping.

Richard arrived. My father was delighted to see him and my mother was more pleased than she had been for a long time because my brother Robert had leave too, though I feared that might mean that he would soon be going with his regiment to the Continent.

Richard arrived in the evening on Friday and would have to leave on Sunday afternoon to be sure of being back in the barracks by the appointed time.

He looked a little strained, I thought.

We sat round the dining-room table and talked about the progress of the war, and I was not alone with Richard until the following morning.

He suggested we take a ride and we went off together in mid-morning, telling my mother that we would have lunch out at some inn on the road.

Richard was able to ride with ease, in spite of his leg injury, but as we rode through the roads which I had known all my childhood, I sensed a certain restraint about him.

We found an inn, “The White Stallion,” with a sign depicting a splendid-looking horse over the door.

Over the food, Richard blurted out what was on his mind.

He said: “Anne is going to divorce me.”

“That is what you both wanted, isn’t it?”

“She is determined to do it her way.”

“She came to see me.”

“What!”

“Yes. It was when I was at the Ministry. I came out of the building and there she was, waiting for me.”

He stared at me in astonished dismay.

“I couldn’t understand it,” I went on. “There didn’t seem to be any point. She talked about my friendship with you. She asked about the flat.”

“The flat!”

“She said I would know it well.”

He closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath which I could not hear.

“I’d better tell you right away. She is going to divorce me on grounds of adultery.”

“Oh,” I said faintly, “I see.”

“My adultery … with you.”

I stared at him. “How can she possibly? It isn’t true.”

“That won’t concern her. I think she has been having the flat watched. It is known that we were there together. Then, of course, there was the raid. It was late in the evening and we were there alone together. It may be that will be considered evidence enough.”

“Oh, but it can’t be.”

“She’s tenacious. When she wants something she goes out and gets it. She had put off acting because she thought I might be at the Front and the chances of survival would not be great. That would have been a smooth and easy way to end the marriage. But I’m here and she believes the war will be over before I am sent out, that I shall stay on in comparative safety and her nice easy way of being rid of me will be denied her.”

“Do you really believe she is as calculating as that?”

“Calculation is second nature to her. I know her well. This is amusing her. She used to laugh at me … the virtuous barrister, she called me. So it will amuse her to see me caught up in an unsavory divorce.”

“Oh no!”

“It is what she has in mind. This is the quickest way to end the marriage and that is her aim; she is tired of it and she wants it ended and to come out of it in the best possible way herself. The bored wife who wanted to divorce her husband who was serving his country would not be viewed with sympathy. But if he is unfaithful to her, she has every reason, of course.”

“But it is so false. We were just good friends. It was only natural that I should go there and cook something for you.”

“Not to her. She knew we were friends in the past. She knows how I felt about you. She will stress that.”

“What can we do?”

“Nothing. Just wait.”

“When … when will it start?”

“I don’t know. Anne will have been working on it for some time. It was the air raid which made her see she had a good case. These things take time, you know.”

“I must tell my parents.”

“Would you like me to be with you?”

“No … no. I will tell them when you have gone. I think that would be best.”

My hand was lying on the table and he leaned forward and pressed it firmly.

“I am so sorry that you have been brought into all this,” he said. “It is wretched for you.”

“For you, too.”

“Me? Oh yes. But I have brought it on myself. One must pay for one’s acts of folly. But that I should bring it on you … that worries me. I would have done anything to have avoided that. You see, Anne is well known in some circles. Her exploits are recorded. When we were married it was reported in certain papers. There may be some publicity over the divorce, and it is possible that your name will be mentioned.”

“I see. I should be branded as a loose woman, I suppose. That is what you mean?”

“It would be expected that we should marry when I am free.”

“Richard, you know …”

“… that you are waiting for Jowan’s return. But when, Violetta, when? Soon you will have to decide. When Europe is liberated … and suppose he does not come back?”

I was silent and he went on: “I shall be waiting. And, Violetta, don’t worry unduly about the divorce. These things are a nine days’ wonder.”

“Perhaps Anne is just threatening.”

“I do not think so. She wants a divorce quickly and she sees this as the easiest way to get it. It may well be that she wants to marry again and is eager to be free to do so. That might be very likely. It is clear that she is regretting our marriage as much as I am.”

“I can see I’ve been very foolish,” I said. “I should never have come to the flat as I did.”

“Don’t say that. Those little suppers were wonderful. I can’t tell you what they meant to me. I looked forward to them so much. Well, whatever happens … in time I shall be free … and when …”

He meant when I was sure Jowan would not come back. But I could not contemplate that. Since the Normandy landings, my hopes had been high.

I said: “I think we should go now.”

He called for the bill and we left.

It was difficult to get through the rest of that weekend. Fortunately my parents were preoccupied with Robert, who was eager to talk about life in the army and the prospects of going overseas shortly, which seemed to excite him but naturally had the opposite effect on my parents.

We all went to the station to see him off. He left in the late morning of Sunday. Richard stayed until the early evening.

When he had gone I felt exhausted. I kept thinking about Anne as she had been when I had met her—so elegant, so cool, so sure of what she wanted. She would be formidable. I could see how she had attracted Richard. That cool acceptance of superiority, just the wife to be an asset to a rising barrister; he no doubt had visualized her at the head of his table entertaining the Lord Chancellor. I was sure she would have done so in perfect style. So Richard had been lured into committing that act which he now called folly.

Somehow it endeared him to me a little. I had thought him so sensible; to find him vulnerable made him more human. I did not blame him as he blamed himself. I just wished that I had not become involved.

My mother had guessed something had happened and, that night, just as I was about to retire, she came to my room. She sat on the bed and surveyed me.

“Well,” she said. “What is bothering you?”

It was no use trying to keep anything from her. I had decided to tell her in any case.

I said: “Richard is married.”

The shocked expression on her face turned to dismay. She had decided that Richard was the man for me and eligible in every way.

“Has he just told you?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“He told me in London. It was the night of the air raid. It was a disaster. She is going to divorce him on the grounds of adultery … with me.”

Her expression changed to one of horror.

“It is quite false,” I said quickly. “There has never been adultery … I think not with anyone, certainly not with me.

I explained about the flat and the suppers and how he had always known I was waiting for Jowan. I left out nothing; I told her about his wife’s visit to the teashop which had puzzled me at the time, though now I knew why she had come.

“Good heavens!” my mother cried. “I don’t believe this of Richard. He is the last person …”

“People often do unexpected things.”

“I should not have thought Richard would. But … er … when it is over, Richard will be free and …”

“He has asked me to marry him then.”

“It would be best,” she said. “Mind you, there wouldn’t be much talk about this. In wartime these things are trivial.”

“Richard says she is a socialite and that her actions are reported in the gossip columns so there could be some publicity.”

“I see. And you might be mentioned. Well, these things happen. If you marry him it would not seem so important.”

“I wouldn’t want to marry him just because …”

“No, of course not. Well, we shall have to wait and see. I shall tell your father. He would know more about these things than we do. I saw that Richard was very upset.”

“He is, of course—mainly because he has involved me.”

“How do you feel about him, Violetta? You like him, don’t you?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“And if it were not for Jowan …”

“I can’t think of that. I still feel he will come back.”

She sighed, then smiled suddenly.

“Half the things one worries about never happen,” she said. “This divorce, it might pass quietly. People are not as interested in that sort of thing as they used to be. There’s a war on and we are not living in the Victorian age when everyone was so prim and prudish. Don’t worry. You’ve been through enough lately. I think this may be like a storm in a teacup. I am sure your father will agree with me. I’m glad you came home for a while. It will all come right, I am sure. So try and get a good night’s rest.”

“I certainly feel better now that I have told you,” I said.

She kissed me tenderly and waited until I was in bed. Then she tucked me in, as she used to when I was very young.

My parents were wonderful during those days. Dorabella came for weekends, which was helpful. There had been no news of Richard’s divorce and Dorabella said: “That sort of thing is happening all the time. I doubt we shall hear any more of it.”

Richard was still declared unfit for active service and the war was progressing satisfactorily for the Allies.

Paris had been liberated and General de Gaulle was now there. General Montgomery, speaking to the men in northwest France, said the end was in sight and we must finish it off in record time.

It was August and we had had almost five years of war. Surely, I thought, if Jowan were alive I should have heard something by now?

I knew my mother was most concerned about my future and I guessed it was the main topic between her and my father. They had both been dismayed to hear that Richard had made a hasty wartime marriage which was in the process of being dissolved. It was out of character for him, but they had both decided that he was the best husband for me, though they had considered Gordon. Gordon was an honest, upright man, but he had a mad mother; also he was something of an enigma. So they had set their hearts on Richard, for I was sure they had long ago made up their minds that it was unlikely that Jowan would come back.

Even I was beginning to wonder. The time was passing. The invasion of France had begun in June and it was now nearly September. Hope was beginning to fade. Should I be one of those sad women who lose their lovers during the war and spend the rest of their lives grieving?

It was the third of September—the fifth anniversary of the war. Everywhere the Allies were triumphant and this was a day of prayer throughout the country.

We were dining early because Dorabella was with us and would return to London that evening. My father was saying: “It cannot last much longer. Our forces are only forty miles from Brussels and the French and Americans are in Lyons. This is great progress.”

Then the telephone rang. Dorabella was on her feet first. “I’ll get it,” she said.

In a few seconds she came back.

“It’s Mrs. Jermyn from Cornwall. She wants to speak to Violetta.”

My heart was pounding. Could it be news at last?

My mother glanced at me anxiously, fearful that I should be disappointed.

I dashed to the telephone.

“Violetta,” Mrs. Jermyn’s voice was breathless. “I’ve had news.”

“Jowan …”

“Yes, dear. He’s in this country. I’ve just had a call. They told me he was here … and he was on the telephone. I’ve spoken to him. He’s coming home!”

I could not speak. I was too overcome with emotion.

At last I stammered: “I shall come … right away …”

“Yes, yes,” she said.

I went back to the dining room. They were all looking at me expectantly.

I said: “It … it’s happened. Jowan is coming home.”

Reunion

MY FATHER WOULD HAVE driven me to Cornwall, but we decided it would be quicker by train. My mother wanted to come with me, but I said I should prefer to be alone. However, we agreed they could drive me to London where I could get the train from there to Cornwall.

I was overcome with joy. This was the day I had been waiting for.

My parents stood on the platform at Paddington waving to the train as it went out and the long journey to the West Country began. How slowly the train seemed to travel! It was impossible to sleep. I could only think of seeing Jowan again. He would have changed. Had I changed? I was four years older. So much had happened since we last met. I could not imagine what had happened to him, but I should learn. I should talk to him again, be with him, make plans for the future.

Then suddenly into my mind came the thought of Richard’s divorce. It was such an unpleasant subject that I thrust it aside. Nothing was going to spoil this wonderful time.

It was seven o’clock when the train pulled into the station. To my surprise I saw Gordon on the platform. He seized both my hands and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

“I’ve come to collect you,” he said. “Mrs. Jermyn told me the news.”

“Is Jowan there?”

“Yes. He came in late last night.”

“You … you have seen him?”

“No. Mrs. Jermyn just telephoned, told me, and asked me if I would meet the train. I wasn’t sure whether it would be this one.”

“I came as soon as I heard.”

“I guessed you would.”

“Oh Gordon … it’s such wonderful news!”

“Mrs. Jermyn could scarcely speak for excitement.”

“It was good of you to come, Gordon.”

“It was nothing … the least I could do. I suppose you may be staying at the Priory, but if you want your old room at Tregarland’s it is ready for you.”

“Thank you, Gordon. I hadn’t thought of that.”

When we reached the Priory it was nearly eight o’clock.

Gordon stopped the car and said: “I’ll leave you now. If you want transport at any time, let me know.”

“Oh thank you, Gordon. You are good.”

“Good luck,” he said.

They were waiting for me in the Priory great hall.

Mrs. Jermyn cried: “It’s Violetta.” Beside her stood a tall figure. It was Jowan himself… and yet different. He was very thin, a little haggard, and he had lost his healthy color. He was subtly different from the man who had gone away … and yet he was Jowan.

We looked at each other in wonderment for a few seconds, then I ran to him and he held me tightly in his arms.

“Violetta,” he said. “After all this time …”

“The waiting is over now. It has been so long … so very long …” I sounded muffled, incoherent. “I’ve often dreamed …”

“I too. I can’t believe it. I’m afraid I’ll wake up and find I’m dreaming still …”

Such banal words after all those years of waiting. But our emotions were too strong to let us say all that was in our hearts.

Mrs. Jermyn broke in.

“You two will have such a lot to say to each other. And, Violetta, you must be hungry. There’s nothing much in trains these days. Now I am going to have something sent to you. Come into the little sitting room. Then you can talk … I think you two would like to be alone.”

There were tears in her eyes and I saw that she was desperately trying to control her feelings and be practical.

“Thank you, Grandmother,” said Jowan. “That would be good.”

He was holding my hand tightly, as though he would never let it go.

I was happy. I had never been so happy in my life. If only I could rid myself of the terrible fear that I was dreaming and this might not be true.

There was so much to tell. Jowan insisted that I start first, so I related what had happened since that tragic day when I had been forced to admit to myself that he was not one of the survivors from Dunkirk. I explained how I had worked for a while in the Priory, which had been turned into a convalescent home for soldiers, and afterwards in London in the Ministry. I told him about the air raids in which I had been involved—not an uncommon occurrence for people who lived in London—and how I had been recuperating at Caddington when his grandmother had telephoned to tell me he was back. He listened intently.

“We heard little scraps of information—which were often exaggerated to make it really bad. We were told that London was in ruins, together with the airfields and the docks. We didn’t believe it, of course.”

“I want to hear about you, Jowan. I want to know everything.”

“I want to tell you everything, Violetta … every little detail.”

“We have a long, long time to talk.”

“First I will give you the bare bones,” he said. He told me how he and his company had been trying to get to the coast. They knew the Germans were in control and there was nothing they could do but get back home and build up new strength in order to be ready for the enemy when they came to attack Britain.

“There was not much chance of getting to Dunkirk,” he said. “The enemy were too numerous. Our company was surrounded. We were somewhere near Amiens when we were all taken prisoner. We knew what that meant. My corporal, Buster Brown, was with me. He is sharp-witted, a wiry little Cockney. He is a good cook and could work all sorts of miracles with our meager rations. He had a way of disappearing and returning with a couple of chickens. He’d concoct some dish with them, which was a luxury after tinned fish and meat of slightly mysterious origins. He admitted he raided farms for the chickens, and he used to say: ‘Well, what’s a bit of nicking? Ain’t we saving them from the Hun? Small price to pay for that and you’ve got to feed the boys that lay the golden eggs.’

“He was a great character and I never saw him disconcerted in any situation. He had always been my special servant and I often thought how different life would have been without Buster Brown.

“Well, we were surrounded and put in lorries. There was a great deal of confusion in the dash to the coast, and the gathering up of small groups of prisoners was left to young and inexperienced men newly arrived on the battle scene. We were close to a small deserted château which was probably intended to serve as a temporary prison, but perhaps because we were not a large company and there were more pressing matters to occupy the German headquarters, we remained there. In most cases there would have been some notification that we were prisoners of war but there are occasions in such times as we were living through when those matters are overlooked.

“Life was not too bad in the beginning. We had periods of exercise, strict rules of course, and not very adequate food, but most of our company were housed in the château and we were among our own people. We planned our escape continually. We knew there would be no early release. We were aware that the French were beaten and that we had lost much of our equipment and would concentrate on getting our men out. We did not know how fortunate we had been in that evacuation.

“Well, we started building our tunnel. It lent a spice of adventure to the days. We each had a turn at it. It was an arduous business—most would have said it was a hopeless task—but we lived on hope in those days. We had our little concert parties, and the Germans looked on at us in bewilderment. There was complete misunderstanding between us. They were amazed by our hilarious laughter at the jokes—usually jibes against them—and the amateur efforts of our ‘artistes.’ What amused us so much was that it was during these concert parties that the larger part of our tunnel digging was in progress.

“This went on slowly. Imagine our dismay when we thought we were near completion—that must have been over two years’ work—to find that we had come out on the wrong side of the wall and were still inside the castle! But we were resilient. We kept going. We made plans for our final success. We arranged how people should escape—not all at once, but two by two. We would have a rota. That was how it went.

“We kept a certain discipline amongst ourselves. We had to stay cheerful and hopeful. Someone had a pack of cards and we played some evenings; but the cards became dogeared and having only one pack was constricting.

“It was the tunnel which was the great excitement. And then there came the Normandy landings. We were not sure what was happening, but everything had changed. The attitude of our guards was different. They were jumpy, nervous. There was less food. There would be occasions when the guards were almost lax and others the opposite.

“We knew something was going on. Some of our men had a smattering of German and they picked up one or two things through eavesdropping. So we learned that the Allies were now in France. You might have thought that, after waiting four years, we could wait a little longer to be released. But it wasn’t like that. The fervor to be free had increased. We had more opportunities to get on digging the tunnel and we seized them.

“Then … it was completed and this time it came out outside the château. Several of the men escaped and we believed they had got safely away. We only went two at a time, but it was not long before absentees were noted, in spite of the slackness of control. A guard was set at the top of the tower to keep watch throughout the night. At any movement they would shoot immediately. Sometimes during the night we would hear shots and wonder if those who were attempting to escape had got away. We were never told, of course.

“And then it was my turn. I was to go with Buster Brown. He looked upon me as his protégé. He reminded me of a nanny I once had. He thought I needed looking after and there was no question of one of us going without the other.

“Violetta, I shall never forget that night. The watch was in position and there was a crescent moon which shed enough light to reveal our escape at any movement, I feared. We preferred the moonless nights, of course, and clouds were welcome; but on this night the sky was cloudless.

“We could take little with us and we had no money; but we did have a little food which we had been storing over the days and which was given to those who were attempting to escape.

“We got through the tunnel—not the easiest of feats, for it was very low and in some places too narrow for comfort—but we were agile and determined. Then there was that glorious moment when we emerged into the open—no longer prisoners, but, for the first time in more than four years, free men.

“The searchlight moved quickly over the expanse of grass outside the château. We crouched on the ground when the light came our way.

“It was not easy. I heard the shots ring out and I was aware of a sudden burning pain in my arm. I thought, I’ve had it. This is the end. Then I heard Buster whisper, ‘Keep still. Flat on the ground. Don’t move a muscle.’ I obeyed and the searchlight passed over us and went on.

“‘Now,’ whispered Buster, and with a tremendous effort, for I was beginning to feel faint, I rose and ran. Buster was pulling me on. ‘Get a move on, sir,’ he whispered. ‘Want the Jerries to get us?’

“We crouched in the bushes. I was aware of the searchlight and that we were beyond its range.

“‘Cor Blimey,’ said Buster. ‘That was a close ’un. Thought it was goodbye, home and beauty. Come on now, or we’ll miss the boat. Got to get going.’

“My sleeve was wet. I touched my arm and my hand came away red with blood.

“‘You’d better go on, Buster,’ I said. ‘I think I might …’

“‘Don’t talk tripe, sir. Begging your pardon,’ said Buster. ‘Course I’m not going on without you. Who’d look after you? We’re going to make it. They’ve had their bit of fun. They won’t come after us now. They’re kidding themselves it was a fox they saw. Makes life easy that way.’

“He was half dragging me along with him. I was beginning to feel rather vague. We were on a road and I saw the lights of a lorry in the distance. Buster dragged me into a hedge until it had passed. Then we went on. I hardly knew what was happening; I think I must have been delirious. Buster told me later that I kept asking where I was and saying, ‘Where is Jermyn’s? Where’s the Priory? I’m coming home.’ ‘You was saying your own name over and over again,’ he told me, ‘and talking to some bird called Violet … or something like that.’

“I think he must have carried me, which would have been awkward as I am considerably taller than he is. He probably dragged me most of the way. We had great good luck because in a field he found a wheelbarrow. He was very good at improvising and I had seen him make good use of the oddest things. Now the wheelbarrow proved to be a carriage for me. It was easy just to push me along. I think that wheelbarrow probably saved our lives. He would never have gone on without me. He’s a marvelous fellow, old Buster. He was as clever as he boasted he was. He used to say he could get round anyone, from commanding officers to the shyest bird. He saw himself as a powerful manipulator of everything, including women. I used to call him Casanova Brown. He had never heard of Casanova, but he was pleased when he realized the implication.

“In any case, I shall always believe I owe my life to Buster Brown.

“We came to a house, some way back from the road. Buster took a chance. He told me afterwards he thought I would pass out if he did not get me somewhere quickly. I was losing a lot of blood and he couldn’t push a wheelbarrow in daylight.

“The house had been a farmhouse and was set in the midst of several acres; there were some chickens pecking round, a pig in a sty, and a donkey in a field. This I discovered later, of course, for I was not in a state to notice anything at this stage.

“When the door opened I was faintly aware of a woman speaking rapid French, of which I might have understood a little if I had been in a better state of health. Buster’s knowledge of the language did not go beyond ‘Ooh la la.’

“However, he must have managed to convey to her that he had escaped from the château, that his friend was wounded, and that he needed help.

“What good luck we had that night! Marianne, as we later discovered her to be, had an intense and abiding hatred of the German invaders. They had shot her husband before her eyes and if she had an opportunity of harming them in any way she would eagerly have taken it.

“We also learned that she had helped others from our company to escape to freedom. She took in the situation at once—our clothes, our state, Buster’s sign language, my blood-soaked sleeve—they all told the story.

“Briefly, she took us in. She attended to me first; she bandaged my arm, got me into a bed, and gave Buster a hunk of rye bread and something which bore a resemblance to coffee.

“I think I was delirious. I was not sure where I was and most of the time thought I was in the Priory. Buster slept well on the floor beside my bed.

“He said afterwards: ‘I knew that Marianne was a good ’un. Some might have took us in and then given the alarm. Not this one. She’s going to get her own back on the Hun, and his enemies are her friends.’

“Well, Marianne was indeed a ‘good ’un.’ She was so good to us and without her I could not have survived. Through everything she did, she showed her hatred of the enemy. Otherwise she was a placid sort of woman, good-looking in a rather blowsy, dreamy way—except when she was giving vent to her hatred of Germans. Then she would look fierce and mutter what she would like to do to them.

“Buster and I smiled on these occasions. ‘All the better for us,’ was Buster’s comment. I believed she would have taken any risk to work against them.

“But she was tender and sympathetic. When she dressed my arm she would murmur, ‘Le pauvre petit garçon.’ It comforted me, for the pain could be great.

“We learned a little from Marianne of what had happened, how the great General de Gaulle was going to save France, of the Allied landings in Normandy, of that villain Pétain who had betrayed France and become a slave to the cruel conquerors. The English and the Americans were ‘magnifique’ and here they were, back on French soil to rise against the conquerors and betrayers, to wipe away the country’s shame and make her great again.

“It was her duty to help escaping prisoners, she said. She was doing it for France and she had liked so much the charming men who had come her way. There had been two airmen. They had dropped from their parachutes. She had kept them for two nights. There had been men from the château. She could tell them about the country … she could get clothes for them. She had some which had belonged to her husband who could no longer wear them because of the cursed Hun.

“I could see that I was a handicap for Buster and I said he should go on without me. We were too near the château for comfort. What if the guards discovered that we were in this house? Not only should we suffer, but Marianne herself would.

“Buster turned this aside, and so did Marianne. She would not allow me to go with such an arm, though she could do but little for it, alas. It needed a doctor. She could not call one, for how could she trust him? No, she would do what she could. At least it was something.

“Then we met Lisette. Lisette had been staying at her uncle’s farm and had now come home to her mother. She was a younger version of Marianne—with the same plump and shapely figure, the same hooded eyes and full lips and overwhelming femininity. She smiled warmly at us. She must have been accustomed to her mother’s helping men to escape: she could speak a little English which was helpful.

“She said: ‘Escape. You? From the château?’

“We told her we had and that her mother had been very helpful.

“‘My mother like much English and Americans. I too.’

“‘Lucky for us,’ said Buster.

“We were at Marianne’s for several weeks. Much of the time I was hardly aware of my surroundings. It seemed so unreal there. My arm began to fester, but Marianne was afraid to ask the doctor to come. She was wonderful to us. She kept us there and fed us, though we had no money with which to pay her.

“‘She do for France,’ declared Lisette dramatically. Buster worked on the farm, which I am sure was a great help, but I was unable to do anything.

“There was a time in the beginning when I suffered from delirium. It was a sort of fever …”

Jowan paused, as though looking back. I guessed he was seeing the old farmhouse, and recalling the strangeness and uncertainty of those days.

“The Allies were advancing,” he went on, “and there seemed to be numbers of Germans everywhere. We had to be very careful not to be seen. Marianne had a big cupboard in which she proposed to hide us if they ever came to the house. It contained heavy farm implements and we were to crouch behind some sacks if it was ever necessary. I was sure, if they ever came, we should be discovered at once. Fortunately, we did not have to hide.

“I was always urging Buster to get away. It would be easier for him if he did not have an invalid to look after. He would not go, of course. I think he was enjoying his stay at the farmhouse. It was clear that he liked Marianne and her daughter. He had mended and painted the wheelbarrow and it was placed on the farm. It was almost like a shrine.

“‘Our savior,’ he called it. ‘Do you know, sir, we couldn’t have got by without that? Makes you think.’ He would go and look at it every day and, as he left, blow it a kiss. There was an unsuspected sentimental streak in Buster’s nature.

“I think he was on rather special terms with Marianne. He told me once that Marianne was ‘a bit of all right.’ This was always accompanied by a wink. He was equally devoted to Lisette.

“There was something cozy about the atmosphere of the farmhouse, in spite of the danger which was lurking all through the days and nights.

“They used to get me to talk in the evenings when we sat in the dark. Buster was always alert for noises which might suggest the arrival of unwelcome visitors. I told them about the Priory, the old monks who used to live here. I described the wild Cornish coast. Lisette was enchanted. Her slight command of English made it possible for her to ask questions, and she would convey the answers to her mother. Buster would sit there listening, smiling on us all. He always regarded himself as the man of the house. I didn’t qualify because of my wound. He was the one who would look after us all. It was a strange set-up, but we all knew that it was transient and could disappear at any moment.

“Inevitably it came to an end. Marianne came in one day with the news that the British soldiers were only a few miles away. She took out a tattered tricoleur from one of the drawers, muttered fiercely over it, and hung it from one of the windows.

“Lisette told us: ‘Her great-grandfather hung it there when the Germans came in 1870.’ The cloth was fluttering from the window when we left. I said to Marianne: ‘I do not know how to thank you.’ She began to speak rapidly and Lisette translated: ‘She is happy to have you here. It is her duty to France … and she like you.’

“‘We owe her our lives,’ I said. ‘We shall not forget.’

“‘When war is over, maybe you come back,’ she said.

“Violetta, you will come back with me? I want to show it to you.”

“We shall go together,” I said. “And what about Buster?”

“He will want to see it again, I daresay.

“The rest is predictable,” he continued. “We joined the army which was getting closer every day. Buster thought they’d want him to stay but they sent us both home. We had been all that time in a prison camp and they thought we should both be checked. They set in motion the necessary arrangements and we left. Before we did so, the army doctor looked at my arm and did not much like what he saw. He said it needed attention long ago. When we arrived in England, Buster went his way and I went mine. I am to report to Poldown Hospital without delay. So, here I am.”

“I still can’t believe it.”

“Nor I. We’ll go ahead with our plans, shan’t we?”

“Oh yes, Jowan.”

“And the war can’t last much longer. We must be near the end. It will be as we planned it. We’ll forget the years between.”

“We will.”

“You haven’t thought of changing your mind?”

I laughed. “No. I always believed you would come back. I could not have borne it otherwise. Others thought you never would, but your grandmother and I went on believing.”

“And I believed you would be waiting for me. That belief helped me through. I used to recall details of those meetings we had. Do you remember the first time at Smithy’s … all those years ago? And I thought of you, wondering … and there was no means of getting a word to you.”

“It is all over now. This wretched war has brought misery to millions. One man’s mad dream and a deluded nation following him! Well, disaster is overtaking them now and we can only rejoice. But enough of that. Let’s talk about ourselves.”

So we talked. He was not sure what his future would be; it might well be that he would rejoin his regiment.

“I wonder what happened to Buster,” he said. “He must have been undernourished after those years in a prison camp, although his energy had not flagged in the least.”

“You must ask him to our wedding,” I said.

“He would love that!” He looked blank, and went on: “Do you know, I haven’t got his address. I could get in touch with him through the regiment, I suppose.”

“I should like to meet him.”

“He’s a fine character. You’ll be impressed.”

“He saved your life. That will be my main reason for liking him.”

And so we talked and planned.

Life was wonderful. When I went into the town, people rushed up to congratulate me. Gordon was very kind. I thought what a good man he was and remembered that, in the beginning, I had been suspicious of him. But in those days everything at Tregarland’s had seemed uncanny.

Dorabella rang often. She said how happy she was for me. She knew what it was to be happy and she wanted the same for her twin sister. My parents were constantly in touch. They urged me to bring Jowan to Caddington, but they understood that that was not possible immediately. As soon as it was, we would come.

When Jowan reported to hospital, they were a little grave about his arm. It needed special treatment and there might have to be an operation when he was considered fit to take it. In the meantime, there must be daily visits to the hospital and there would be no question of his rejoining his regiment just yet. I rejoiced in that.

Richard telephoned.

He had heard of Jowan’s return.

He said: “You were right. I never thought he would return. Are you happy now, Violetta?”

“Yes, Richard, I am.”

“Well, I must congratulate you.”

“Thank you.”

“I wish you great happiness and the best of luck. I hope everything goes well with you. If …” He paused for a few seconds. “If, any time, you need me … if I can help … just let me know.”

“Thank you, Richard, I will,” I said.

That night I dreamed I was in the teashop near the Ministry and Richard’s wife was sitting opposite me. She was smiling her cold smile, saying, “I want a divorce and I am citing you. You are very pleased with life, but what will this wonderful lover of yours have to say when he knows you are being cited in a divorce case?”

I awoke and sat up in bed. I felt a terrible foreboding. Jowan would have to know. I had assured him I had waited for him and that never had I swerved in my fidelity to him. I had said that vehemently and he had assured me that it had been the same with him. And now it was very likely that Richard’s wife would be granted a divorce because of her husband’s alleged misconduct with Miss Violetta Denver.

I had recovered a little from the first shock of this revelation when Richard had told me what was happening. I had convinced myself that there would be no publicity which would affect me. Perhaps there would be a reference to it in some little-read gossipy publication—no more. I had been lulled into thinking this would be a trivial matter.

But it did not seem so now. All through the night I lay awake. What should I do? In the morning I had made my decision. There was only one way. I must tell Jowan.

He knew something was wrong. I could not stop thinking of that woman with her cold, calculating eyes.

I had driven Jowan into the hospital where they had examined and dressed his wound, and when I was taking him home, I went instead to that field where we had first met. I pulled up the car and we sat there.

“Tell me all about it,” he said. “What’s troubling you? Have you changed your mind? Are you going to tell me that you are having second thoughts about marrying the poor old invalid?”

I forced a laugh. “I want to marry you more than anything. I have something to tell you, though.”

“I guessed that,” he said. “Well, what is it?”

“It was when I was working at the Ministry with Mary Grace. Her brother is, of course, Richard Dorrington.”

I heard him take a deep breath and his manner changed slightly. He would remember the time when Richard had come to visit me in Cornwall and he knew that Richard had once asked me to marry him. That was before the war had started.

“I saw Richard now and then,” I went on quickly. “He would have short leaves. Just a few hours sometimes. He knew that I was waiting for you. There was nothing but friendship between us. Someone lent him a flat and we used to go there, and usually I prepared a meal for him.”

“It sounds rather … intimate,” said Jowan.

“Richard always knew that there could be nothing but friendship between us.”

“I expect he hoped I wouldn’t come back.”

“I want you to know that what I am telling you is the truth.”

“And what happened?”

“I was caught up in an air raid when we were in the flat together. Richard was hurt … not really badly, but badly enough to prevent his going to France for the landings which he would otherwise have done. Richard was married.”

“Married! But I thought …”

“So did we all. He had just kept it secret. She is a society girl and often mentioned in gossip columns. The marriage was a failure and they both wanted to be free of it. She was waiting because she thought he might go to France and not come back and that would be a way out of it for her. But when she heard he was not going, she decided to get her divorce in the quickest way possible. She is using the incident of the bombing to support the evidence that I was in the flat with him. You see, it was late in the evening. The fact is, she is divorcing him on a charge of adultery … and …”

“With you?” he said.

I felt a certain withdrawal and he murmured: “Good heavens!”

“It worried me,” I went on quickly. “But Richard said it would very likely go unnoticed. Before the war, the papers reported these cases in detail. It is different now.”

I was watching him closely and I could see a hint of doubt in his face.

I said vehemently: “You must believe me. There was nothing … nothing …”

He turned to me and kissed me fiercely. “Violetta … my love … of course I believe you. And suppose it were … It was a long time … a long and weary time. I would have gone on loving you whatever you had done.”

My relief was intense. I had told him. It no longer seemed of any importance.

“Oh, Jowan!” I said. “I love you so much! I could not bear it if anything went wrong now.”

“It can’t if we won’t let it.”

“But you believe me?”

“I believe you. Well, now that’s over. You can smile again. We are here together, aren’t we? We love each other too much to allow anything to upset that. We know what it means to have been separated and we will never allow that again.”

“Jowan, I am so thankful.”

He took my hands and kissed them. “I don’t think we should delay our wedding, do you?” he said. “This wretched arm of mine will be cleared up soon, but we won’t wait for that.”

“I don’t want it cleared up until the war is finished,” I said.

We sat for a moment in silence; his arm was round me, holding me close to him.

Then he said: “There was something that happened in France. As this is the time for confessions, I should tell you, I suppose. It is all rather vague, and I am not sure … but I’d like you to know.”

“You mean … ?”

“Let me explain. I told you about Marianne … I mean, the sort of woman she was. She had loved her husband dearly, but I doubt whether she had been entirely faithful to him. There was something earthy about her. She was motherly and deeply sensuous. I think Lisette will be the same. Marianne had a deep tenderness for men. She regarded them as little boys. I think the soldiers whom she had helped had comforted her in more ways than one. There was one night when my arm was particularly painful. I vaguely remember her dressing it for me; she settled me into bed, murmuring tender sympathy … and there she was, beside me, her arms around me, holding me tightly and kissing me to make the pain better … just as you hear mothers with their children. It was a disturbed night. I was not sure whether I was dreaming. I kept thinking of you. I thought I was with you. I was only half aware. I thought I was with you … that you were there beside me. I must have been delirious. Someone was there. I believed it was you … what happened during that night, I could not say. It may be that I was unfaithful to you … I was in that farmhouse … and there was this woman and, Violetta, I do not know …”

“Strange things can happen during wartime,” I heard myself say uncertainly.

“I cannot say,” he went on. “I fancied she regarded me differently after that. I was never very sure about those nights of delirium. So often I thought you were there with me, and I remember the bitter disappointment when I awoke and found you were not. The longing was almost unbearable.” We were both silent. It was difficult to find words. All I knew was that we must not look back. The war was going to be over. We would be happy. We were determined on that.

The Visitor from France

WE WERE MAKING ARRANGEMENTS for our wedding. I had never seen Mrs. Jermyn so pleased with life. She had seemed so much younger when she started the convalescent home and now, of course, her happiness was unbounded. Jowan was back and her dreams were coming true. I knew she was visualizing a wonderful life ahead with her grandchildren running round. She told me that, if she could have chosen a wife for her beloved grandson, I would have been that one.

We were a little emotional, still very much aware of our good fortune, and one day she said: “I do believe that, if it had not been for this terrible war, I could not have been so happy as I am now, for it has all been brought home to me how precious life is, now that I realize how near I came to losing what I most cared for.”

Jowan’s arm was getting better under treatment. There was still some way to go before it was completely well, but we were not going to delay our wedding for that.

Those were wonderful days. Each morning I awoke with a thrill of excitement. I was staying at Tregarland’s in my old room, but I would be at the Priory every day. We still had a number of soldiers whom we were looking after, but there was an air of rejoicing everywhere, for the Germans were in retreat and the end could not be far off. The future looked dazzlingly bright to me.

It was late one afternoon. Jowan and I were in the solarium with Mrs. Jermyn. She liked a cup of tea at this hour and for us to have it with her if possible. We were, of course, discussing the coming wedding, when the maid came in to tell us that we had visitors.

“Who is it, Morwenna?” asked Mrs. Jermyn.

“Well, ma’am, it’s a Mr. and Mrs. Greenley seemingly. I’ve never seen ’em before. They’s got a young girl with them. They do want to see Mr. Jowan Jermyn, they said.”

“Well, you’d better bring them up. I don’t know a Mr. and Mrs. Greenley, do you, Jowan?”

“Like Morwenna, I’ve never heard of them,” said Jowan.

“Well, let’s see.”

When the trio were brought in, there was a cry of astonishment from Jowan.

He stood up and went towards them.

“Why … Lisette. What are you doing here?”

Lisette, her dark sloe-like eyes wide with pleasure and her thick black hair falling about her shoulders, cried: “Jowan … darleeng, I am here. I have come because …”

She hunched her shoulders and raised her eyes to the ceiling.

“And Mr. and Mrs. Greenley,” began Jowan.

“We’ve been living in France,” explained Mrs. Greenley, “since ten years or so before the war started. We couldn’t get out until now. Lisette had to come, so we took her under our charge and promised her mother to bring her here.”

“And Lisette, why …” said Jowan. “You … your mother … ?”

“She think it good I come. And Monsieur and Madame Greenley … they say we take. They are good …”

Jowan was clearly bewildered, and Mrs. Jermyn said: “You’d better sit down. Violetta, will you ring for more cups and perhaps some fresh tea?”

The Greenleys said they would not stay. They really had to get on.

“In the circumstances … we thought we should bring Lisette,” they said.

I had by this time noticed something about the girl. She was very young and there was that slight thickening of the figure. Could it really be that she was pregnant? If so, why had she come here? Perhaps her mother had thought it would not be good to have a child in present-day France, but why … ?

Lisette was explaining in her broken English. “I am going to have a little baby.” She smiled dazzlingly at Jowan. “Yours … and mine.”

There was silence in the room. Jowan was stricken with amazement. Mrs. Jermyn had turned pale.

Then Mr. Greenley said: “Well, if you will excuse us, we’ll be off. We promised Lisette’s mother to bring her here and we have done so. Goodbye.”

I roused myself and said: “I will show you down.”

Mrs. Greenley turned to me when we had left the room and said: “I think this is rather a shock to you. But, of course, the poor girl needs to be looked after, and it seems only right.”

“I think there must have been some mistake …”

“These things happen. Apparently the young man stayed at the farm. Marianne had been good to our men all through the war. She saved many of them from capture and imprisonment … death most likely. It is a poor reward to seduce the daughter. The girl is only sixteen. So it’s only right that something should be done about it. Marianne was really distressed and, when Lisette said who was responsible, we thought the young man should be aware of it. So we promised to bring her with us … and so, here she is.”

“This can’t be true,” I insisted. “It must be someone else.”

“She knew his name and where he lived. It seems it was so.”

I was glad when they had gone.

I went back to the solarium.

Jowan was saying: “It’s impossible, Lisette. You know it is. You know there was nothing …”

“Oh, but yes,” she insisted. “You were ill and I come to comfort. And then I am in bed with you … all through the night. I am there … not one night only, I make you very ’appy. I did not think this would be … but it is …”

“It was you,” murmured Jowan disbelievingly.

“Yes … and we have the little baby. I say to my mother, ‘Jowan, ’e is rich man … good man. ’E will look after little baby.’ My mother say it not good to have a baby in France now. Not enough to eat … not good. There must be father for baby.”

Jowan was stricken, as we all were. Only a short while before we were thinking how happy we were. I could not believe it. And the girl was only sixteen. Yet he had been there. He had told me of that incident with the mother. It seemed it had not been the mother but the daughter.

And this was the result.

Our consternation and bewilderment were great. We could not believe this which had suddenly been thrust upon us. Jowan was astounded.

“It is not possible,” he kept saying. “You cannot believe this.” But remembering what he had told me, I thought it was just possible, and so did he.

Mrs. Jermyn was practical about the matter.

She knew that Jowan had stayed at the farmhouse after his escape; she knew that this young girl had been there. Even she believed that it was possible.

She busied herself with details. The girl must be looked after. A room was made ready for her. If her story were true, we must do our duty by her, she said.”

As for Lisette, she showed no great concern. It was clear that she was excited and was enjoying the situation in which she found herself. The house overlooking the sea was a delight to her, and she seemed to view this as a great adventure.

“Thees beautiful ’ouse,” she said. “This will be my baby’s ’ome. Oh, darleeng Jowan, we will ’ave our little baby. He will be big and strong like you.”

She giggled a great deal and then I began to notice there was something strange in her attitude which mystified me. That frequent, high-pitched laugh—was it a little nervous? Once I found her laughing to herself and, when I looked closely, there were tears in her eyes.

I said: “What are you laughing at, Lisette?”

“I laugh because I am ’appy. My baby will live in this grande maison. It is very good.”

“You are not really happy though, are you?” I insisted.

She looked scared for a moment.

“I very ’appy. It makes me ’appy to have my little baby who will live in this grande maison.” She added almost defiantly, “That makes me ’appy.”

I wondered what was on her mind. She was too young to conceal her thoughts successfully. She was not yet seventeen. She would remember little of what it was like before the war, I guessed. It was now over five years since it had started. Children grew up quickly in such times. She would be wise in certain matters, though ignorant of other ways of life.

I felt sorry for her in spite of the trouble she was causing us. She alternated between moments of deep satisfaction and a certain desperation. At times she was like a sleek cat, sophisticated in the extreme, yet at others she was like a scared kitten.

On more than one occasion I tried to probe her inner thoughts.

I said: “You are not really happy, Lisette. You are worried about something.”

She opened those sloe eyes very wide and shook her head. Her protestations of her happiness were too vehement to ring entirely true.

Mrs. Jermyn, deeply disturbed as she was, continued to make plans.

“What are we going to do about this child?” she said. “It’s a most extraordinary situation. The mother saved your life and the daughter is threatening to ruin it. But we won’t let that happen. We shall look after her until the child is born and, if necessary, keep it. I think she has some idea of marrying you. Quite out of the question. We shall see that she is all right. Money, of course. She could go back to France and we will look after the child.”

I often thought how easy it was to settle other people’s problems, and I am sure Mrs. Jermyn knew that as well as anyone. As she spoke, she made it seem a simple matter. We would send Lisette back to France, compensated; the child would remain and we would try to forget what Mrs. Jermyn purposely called, to give it less substance, “this unfortunate matter.”

We were all miserable. Jowan could not bear to look at Lisette and every time he did so I could see the incredulity in his eyes. He had to accept the fact that it was possible that, in a moment of oblivion, he may have become the father of Lisette’s child, and yet he could not believe it.

It could have happened as Lisette said and there was to be a child. Nothing could alter that.

In the circumstances, we could not proceed with our wedding plans. We lived uneasily through those days.

It was difficult to know what steps had been taken.

In the midst of all this, I heard from Richard. The divorce had gone through. It had all been accomplished speedily and unobtrusively as no objections had been raised and it was desired by both parties.

I need have no fear on that score.

It seemed of no great importance now.

One morning a letter from Buster Brown arrived. Jowan showed it to me. It was written in a large scrawl.

Dear Captain,

Here I am and glad to get your letter at last. Must say, I’d like to see that home of yours. What a time we had, didn’t we?

I’m at Lark Hill now. They’re giving me duties at home for a while. I could come on Wednesday. Stay a couple of nights if that would be convenient to you. I expect you’ve got room for a little ’un.

It will be good to see you. Your humble servant,

Buster Brown

Jowan was cheered at the thought of seeing him, though I could see he was thinking about the difficulty of explaining the situation regarding Lisette.

He drove to the station on the Wednesday morning and came back with Buster.

I ran down to meet them. Buster was exactly as Jowan had described him—of medium height, rather wiry with dark hair and lively eyes, and a smile which appeared frequently and gave a comical and endearing look to his face.

“You’re Miss Violetta,” he said. “Have to say I’ve heard about you.”

We took him into the hall. He gazed at the vaulted ceiling and his eyes ranged around. He stared in wonder at the tapestries on the walls.

“Blimey,” he said. “Never seen nothing like that before.”

“They belonged to my ancestors,” said Jowan.

Buster was about to say something when Lisette appeared on the staircase. Buster stared at her and she at him. Buster opened his mouth, and I believe he controlled some expletive.

Lisette had turned pale.

Then I heard her say in a somewhat stifled voice: “Bustaire.”

She ran to him and flung herself at him.

“Here,” said Buster. “Steady.”

“Oh, Bustaire … Bustaire,” she cried.

Buster held her tightly and gazed over her shoulder at Jowan.

“Lisette is staying here,” said Jowan.

Lisette was crying and laughing, clinging to Buster.

“You ’ave come,” she cried. “I knew you come. You ’ave come for me.”

It was salvation.

Lisette had exhausted herself with emotion and we told her she must rest, for the sake of the child.

Buster explained to us what had happened.

“This is a real turn-up for the troops,” he said. “I come to see you, and find Lisette here.”

He went on: “You know how it goes? We was there and she was young and the fruity sort. It was natural that we took to each other. We got up to tricks. Just human nature, after all. Then you and me went off. I often thought about her. Nice kid. Needs a bit of looking after, and I’m tickled pink about the little ’un.”

I realized that Buster had difficulty in taking life seriously.

“You see, sir,” he said to Jowan. “This ain’t none of your business.”

Jowan explained how Lisette had arrived with English people who had brought her from France with them.

“They were determined that justice should be done and she had told them I was the father of her child.”

“Cor, what a nerve! You wasn’t never near her.”

“It was difficult. There were times when I had been unaware. There were times … Marianne …”

“She was a real one for coddling the boys. She had a way with her. Made you feel you was a little ’un again. She’d slip in beside you and give you a cuddle. True, she wouldn’t be above a little bit of fun. But Lisette, no … she kept an eye on her. We had to pick our times, I can tell you. And we did.”

Buster looked rueful.

“I reckon that kid’s mine,” he went on. “Do you know, I rather fancy a nipper—half Lisette … half me. I reckon that’s a mixture hard to beat. I’ve been thinking. It’s time I tied myself up with a bit of trouble and strife and now, well, there would be this nipper …”

I found myself laughing spontaneously for the first time in weeks.

During Buster’s two days’ stay he made up his mind. He was going to marry Lisette. He was fond of her. She was a “dainty little piece,” he said, and he’d look after her. Crafty little box of tricks, too.

“Coming over here like that and blaming you. Well, you can understand that. Just imagine how Marianne would have gone off when she heard. Frighten the life out of the kid. What’ll the priest say, and all that. It’s all right to have these little flings as long as there’s no result. Poor kid! She knew a lot about you. Remember how you used to talk? Lapped it up, she did. She’s told me, she didn’t know what to do. She never thought she could find me, so she hitched on to you. Well, I could do worse. I couldn’t sleep at night if I let her down.”

We could not make enough of Buster. Mrs. Jermyn took a great liking to him, apart from the fact that she regarded him as our savior from a really very uncomfortable situation.

“You must come and see us when this wretched war is over,” she told him.

“I’ll bring the wife and kid,” he said.

Mrs. Jermyn made rapid plans. They should be married from the Priory. They could put up the banns and be married in three weeks.

“Then,” added Mrs. Jermyn practically, “Lisette’s condition would not be so very noticeable.”

They could have their honeymoon at the Priory.

She was so grateful to Buster for appearing when he did—like the god out of the machine—that she wanted to shower him with blessings. She forgave Lisette for her deception because she knew what a desperate situation she must have been in, and it was so fortunate that that nice Buster had come along and sorted the whole thing out.

It was an incongruous relationship between her and Buster, but they seemed to understand each other and she was immensely entertained by his method of expressing himself.

As for Jowan and me, life had become wonderful again.

There was a double wedding in February of that triumphant year of 1945. Jowan and I were to have a week’s honeymoon in Devon while Lisette and Buster were guests of Mrs. Jermyn.

It was all rather amusing, and to crown it all the papers were writing about the final defeat of Germany and our Prime Minister was going to meet President Roosevelt and Marshal Stalin at a conference at Yalta.

It was a wonderful honeymoon, more so because of the ordeals through which we had passed to reach it. The weather was somewhat wintry but we were together. There was a new hope in the world. No longer did we have to listen to the warning wails of the sirens. In his inimitable manner, Field Marshal Montgomery had told his men that we had our opponent where we wanted him and he would now receive the knockout blow.

There was no doubt that the end of our tribulations, suffering, and anxiety was near.

In May of that year Lisette’s baby was born. Buster was very proud and excited. He and Lisette were in London now where they had set up house. Buster was still in the army, of course, but he was planning to resume his calling as an electrician as soon as he was free to do so.

They had a little flat and Buster was getting plenty of time off because he was a newly married man and no more men were being sent overseas. The war in Europe was over.

They were very proud of their baby, a little girl who had been named Victoria. She was born in victory and it seemed appropriate.

I cannot describe the feeling of contentment which was with me at that time. Only those who have lived through those six years could understand that.

I shall never forget that day in May of 1945. People gathered in the streets and among them at Buckingham Palace we saw the King and Queen with the Princesses on the balcony. The Prime Minister, addressing the crowds in Whitehall, declared: “In our long history, we have never seen a greater day than this.”

Jowan and I walked back to our hotel together. The nightmare was over. The long days of waiting for Jowan were past. We were together and the future looked good.