by Erica Nyden
“Good.”
She stood. A swift pull untied her dressing gown. The fabric fell from her shoulders as gracefully as a petal tumbling from a flower.
“I’m going back to bed. I expect you’ll join me.”
Her ample breasts and the protrusion of her little tummy advised him that only a fool would linger on the floor by himself.
Chapter 33
5 October, 1941
Mrs. William Morgan
Keldor
Mevagissey
My love,
When I think back to where I was last week, my heart aches. After this letter, I’ve no idea when you’ll hear from me, but have faith, Olivia, that I am alive and well. Remember, I won’t be alone: A band of well-trained, intelligent, and level-headed men accompany me. We look after each other. As soon as I’m able, I’ll send another letter. For now, keep sending yours to Durham. Eventually they’ll find their way to me.
Private Schroeder is recovering well. He’s still in the care of doctors and vigilant nurses (thank God for nurses), but he’s conscious and should be released soon. I’m happy to report he holds no grudge against me and promised that with a little more training, it is I who would’ve landed in hospital, not him.
How is our little one treating you? Are you sleeping better or are her movements still keeping you awake at night? I hope your premonition that she (yes, I’m still convinced we’ve got a little girl in there) might be a restless sleeper is false, for then you’d have two of us on your hands. But not to worry, I can care for the angel during the night whilst you get your beauty sleep. In fact, HQ confirmed I’ve been given leave for early January. I’ve put in a special request to stretch my visit at least two weeks past the birth of our little girl. I can’t wait to meet her.
As much as I regret the events that led me back home recently, I am likewise grateful for the opportunity. Time with you heals my soul in inexplicable ways. To hold you in my arms delivered the boost I needed to stay focused on getting back to you as quickly as possible. Remember, if you don’t receive a letter from me in the coming weeks, find comfort knowing I am fighting for you and our family. I’m fighting for our country and our world. May it one day be inundated with peace.
I love you forever, Olivia.
Yours,
William
28 November, 1941
Major William Morgan
Brancepeth
Durham
Dear William,
I hope my letters are finding you well, wherever you are. Though I haven’t heard from you in some time, I expect you’ve been writing and your letters are sitting in a mailbag somewhere on the Continent awaiting safe passage to England. Don’t worry, I shall keep writing and apprising you of the goings-on here.
Pretty Jenna and her brother Peder came to Keldor today. Peder said how grateful he’d been to receive your letters over the summer and how his last visit had him worried that you’d written off a very old friendship. It was an interesting call, actually. Both knew you were away from home, yet Peder was keen to introduce himself properly to the wife of his oldest friend during his short leave, whereas Jenna looked as though she longed to be elsewhere. Neither knew of our expected addition, and whilst Peder embraced me with congratulations and sincere best wishes, Jenna struggled to produce a smile. Has she always worn her feelings so blatantly on her sleeve? The smirk on her face whilst examining my big belly would’ve been discernable to a blind person.
We managed tea, though, as well as two civil women in love with the same man could. For almost an hour, Peder kept me entertained with stories of your rambunctious boyhood whilst Jenna spent much of it chatting with Mrs. Pollard, who adores her. Apparently clerical work for the ATS wasn’t a lofty enough assignment, and she’s training as a nurse in London. She enjoys it and coyly asked if you were still in need of one. You never told me she had a sense of humor. And she is beautiful. Are you sure you made the right choice? I hope you don’t mind that I gave her your address. You’ve been friends for many years. Even your jealous wife shouldn’t stand in the way of that.
Between tending winter crops (nothing too arduous, I promise) and dodging raindrops, I’ve been nesting, getting ready for baby. Mrs. Pollard, Annie, and I have used what resources we have to make clothes and even new curtains to hang in your former nursery. We’ve unearthed some of your old toys, as well as your bassinet. I’ve spent hours of rainy afternoons knitting a baby blanket in your mother’s rocking chair overlooking her favorite garden. How calm I feel in that room, absorbing the lives that once inhabited it.
Christmas is a month away, and I can’t help but to reflect on the magic of last year’s holiday under the mistletoe. I look forward to the ones we’ll celebrate together in the years to come.
Stay safe, William. I love you.
Yours,
Olivia
“Mrs. Morgan!” Annie called up the stairs.
It was morning, before breakfast. Jasper had been following Olivia around the bedroom, waiting for her to take him out. The doorbell rang and now, hearing her name, the toll was for her. In no mood for company, she threw on her dressing gown (much too small) and stood at the top of the stairs.
“Who is it?” she whispered loud enough for to hear.
“A delivery for you. A telegram.”
She hadn’t heard from William since early October. A message could only mean he’d returned safely to England. A rush of joy spurred her down the stairs as fast as her swollen body would allow, with Jasper wagging and trotting behind her. She snatched the envelope from the waiting telegram boy, whose dubious face gave her pause. It didn’t look like other telegrams sent by William. She tore it open.
It wasn’t from William. It was from Colonel Adams.
* * *
URGENT TELEGRAM
15 DEC 41
I REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR HUSBAND MAJOR WILLIAM MORGAN WAS POSTED AS MISSING ON 9 DECEMBER 1941 STOP A DETAILED LETTER WILL FOLLOW STOP
COLONEL ADAMS
151ST INFANTRY BRIGADE
SIXTH BATTALION, DLI
* * *
Olivia backed away from the open door as it pitched to and fro. The tall oriental vase in the corner teetered, threatening to crash into a million pieces. At her feet, tiny tiles swirled in colorful symmetry like images through a kaleidoscope. She lowered herself onto the bottom stair with help from the handrail and put her head between her knees, fighting the rising bile in her throat. Thwarted by her ever-growing stomach, she was forced her to lie on her side, her left cheek kissing the step’s dusty hardwood.
“No,” she panted, “no, no, no.”
A gritty puddle spread the length of her flattened face, pooling near her mouth. He was to be home soon.
“Good news?” came a lilting voice from somewhere. “Mrs. Morgan?”
His leave was just weeks away.
“Is it the baby? Are you in pain? Tell me, what is it?”
The hand on her forehead was warm and soft, smaller than William’s.
“Mrs. Pollard!” Annie’s voice sounded above her. “Come quickly!”
Missing?
“Mistress Olivia! What’s happened? Has she fallen? Is she hurt?”
“It can’t be,” Olivia moaned. “It can’t be.”
The baby was moving, clearly uncomfortable, as was she. Slow to emerge from her fog, she sat up and wiped the wet off her cheek and the bridge of her nose. But the tears kept coming. Through their blurry lens, Mrs. Pollard excused the anxious telegram boy and closed the front door.
Annie, her eyes quivering with sympathy, took Olivia’s hand. “Missing doesn’t mean dead. My cousin was thought missing at first, but they found him in a prison camp. He’ll be home after the war.” Gently, she uncurled Olivia’s fist and smoothed her palm with her own.
Olivia rediscovered her voice. “John was declared ‘missing’ before they found him dead,” she said in a lethal tone. “‘Missing’ means William’s body is shredded so badly there’s nothing recognizable left.�
��
She blinked through an imagined scene where rivulets of blood meandered through the streets of what once was a village where the remains of homes, business, and soldiers lay lifeless in the pink light of dawn.
She looked directly into the eyes of both women, one after another. “Until they find his identity discs—his cold meat ticket. That’s what my brother’s friends called them. That’s what ‘missing’ means.”
“Let’s get her upstairs,” said Mrs. Pollard.
Close to lunchtime the next day, a letter arrived from Colonel Adams. Jeanette Talbot arrived as well. Annie led Olivia’s mother into her bedroom, where she’d been since the previous morning.
“Has she eaten?” Mrs. Talbot asked, sitting on the bed.
“Soup last night, nothing yet today.”
“Olivia, look at me.”
She refused. Who’d called her mother?
“It’s time you returned to the land of the living. The colonel’s letter has arrived, and Mrs. Pollard is on her way up with luncheon.”
Laced with venom, her mother’s voice evoked memories of the row that almost sent Olivia off to live with her grandmother a handful of years ago. So she’d missed her curfew by a few hours; contacting the police was hardly necessary. She was safe. She’d just lost track of time.
“Your grandmother sent this tea.” Her mother shook a small tin she retrieved from a paper bag. “It’s made of oat straw and nettle leaf, meant to calm—and safe during pregnancy, but I daresay it most likely tastes like something that’s crawled from the sewer.” She set the tin down and folded her hands around the crumpled bag. “She almost came with me. I had to convince her to stay home, seeing as I’ll be here for a while.”
Olivia’s head jerked. “A while? What’s a while?”
“At least until the baby is born. And some time after that, I suspect.” Still wearing the navy hat she’d traveled in, her mother tilted her head as though her daughter should have guessed this.
Olivia lay back on the pillows. “I’m fine, really. I don’t need you here.”
“You don’t need me here? Because you can look after yourself and this baby on your own? Because you’re eating regularly, getting fresh air, and keeping energy up for yourself and your unborn child? Is that it?” The pitch of her mother’s voice pierced Olivia’s eardrums like shards of glass. “Listen, I know you’re heartbroken—all of us are sad with the news you received yesterday—but you’ve got someone else to think about. Whatever you deprive yourself of and for whatever cause means you’re also depriving your child. William’s child. Are you listening to me?”
The little one inside her kicked—hard. It seemed the women in her family (if indeed she was carrying a girl) were coming at her from all sides. Her mother was right. Damn it, she was always right—well, almost always.
Olivia seized her mother’s hand and brought it to the side of her great belly.
Her mother smiled as though she’d single-handedly won the war. “There. It seems someone agrees with me!”
Olivia’s eyes met her mother’s; it was like looking in a mirror. “I’m listening, Mother. Will you read me the letter?”
Her mother opened the note.
“ ‘My dear Mrs. Morgan,’ ” she read. “ ‘It is with the deepest regret that I write you this letter. As of December 9, 1941, your husband, Major William Morgan was posted as missing.
“ ‘Let me be clear that a missing report does not mean death. Since his body has not been found, the major has likely been separated from his company and remains in hiding or has been taken prisoner. Official notification of a prisoner taken by the enemy may take days or even weeks to reach us. If we receive word of his whereabouts, we will contact you at once.
“ ‘International law states that any person taken as prisoner has rights to food and humane treatment. If the major is held as prisoner and exhibits good behavior, his captors will grant him permission to contact you directly. If you hear from the major before we do, please forward the notification to us and we will return it as soon as we are able.
“ ‘My thoughts are with you, Mrs. Morgan, as well as my deepest sympathies and regards, Colonel Adams, 151st Infantry Brigade, Sixth Battalion, DLI.’
“A lovely letter,” her mother added. “Very thoughtful.”
Olivia sat back. “International law means nothing to the Nazis.” She spat the last word. “Why do you think William needed a nurse to begin with? If he’s recaptured, it will kill him.”
“I believe you’re underestimating how strong William is. He’s strong because of you, and he remains strong because of you. And the son or daughter he’s longing to meet.”
Right again. William was strong, the strongest person she knew. She nodded through renewed sobs.
“He’s got to survive, dear. People are depending on him, and I believe he’ll do everything in his power to live through this. Have faith.”
She closed her eyes, remembering a similar conversation she’d had with William the night before he left for Durham, when she thought she was saying goodbye forever. But he’d returned. They were having a baby. He’d asked her to have faith that he was still alive even if his letters stopped coming. He’d asked her to stay strong for him, and she’d promised she would.
When Olivia opened her eyes, her mother captured a strand of her hair and tucked it behind her ear—proudly mindful, Olivia was certain, that mother knew best.
Emily Charlotte Morgan was born on the fourth of January, 1942. The shivering bundle, with her torrent of dark hair, was wrapped loosely in a thin yellow blanket and delivered into the arms of her mother by those of her grandmother. Cries of angst poured from the baby at her abrupt removal from her quiet, snug environment into one of noise and infinite openness. Three generations of Talbot women shared an embrace amidst tears and smiles.
“You were like this when you were born,” her mother said, “loud and intent on letting us all know you’d arrived.”
Olivia marveled at the tiny life in her arms. She took hold of her daughter’s crinkled fingers and laid them over her own, making comparisons. Emily’s pinkies curved at the middle knuckle the same way her own did, and the beds of her thumbnails lay wide like William’s. Olivia counted every finger more than once before pressing each tiny cushion to her lips.
She was in love. And still so bloody sad.
William was alive, she didn’t doubt that anymore. But where was he? Did he suffer? She hoped he wasn’t worrying about her or the baby. She’d had enough worry these past weeks for the entire family. Compounding her worry was frustration. Her inability to prepare the vegetable plots the way she wanted caused immeasurable guilt as the staff bore the burden of turning soil and pulling winter weeds. In fact, due to her “condition,” as everyone had called it, they wouldn’t let her do much other than serve tea and knit, which did nothing to take her mind off images of William starving, cold, hurt, or scared.
Her mother was still here, a fact that wasn’t all bad. She’d proved helpful in preparing for the arrival of the new life at Keldor, thinking of all the things that kept slipping Olivia’s mind, like clothing for a growing baby or registering for green ration books as a nursing mother, in addition to registering a book for her child (something she hadn’t even thought of). Now she had first choice to milk, fruit, vegetables, and a double supply of eggs. When summer came, she’d give the eggs and her veg ration away, since Keldor’s chickens provided plenty for its inhabitants, and the patch would be in full swing then.
The daughter William knew they would have had arrived, and everything about her reminded Olivia of him. With each passing day, Emily’s blue eyes grew wider and darker, like storm clouds reflected on the ocean. They warmed Olivia’s heart at just the right moments. So young and helpless, the little girl had powers beyond anyone’s imagination: power to comfort her grieving mother by channeling her father and bestowing her mother with great responsibility.
Despite his absence, William’s spirit a
nd love for her and the daughter he had yet to meet would keep her going. She would wait for him as long as he needed.
Chapter 34
By May, the vegetable patch was keeping all of Keldor’s residents busy, including Olivia’s mother, who’d chosen to extend her visit through spring. Determined to help as much as possible, Olivia pitched in between feedings and changings. Last summer had affirmed Charlotte Morgan’s creed: Nothing was more relaxing than spending time with plants and the creatures that appreciated them as much as she did. Under warm sunshine, busy honeybees called upon pink and purple sweet peas, and ladybugs crawled around dutifully, full, Olivia hoped, of the nasty aphids threatening to infest her roses. Birds provided background music as they hopped from branch to branch. Even Jasper, who was no help at all in the garden, proved to be a marvelous guard dog and companion to the sleeping baby in her pram. Silent breezes stirred the dappled light, peaceful enough that baby and dog remained undisturbed despite the surrounding activity.
It was on such an agreeable afternoon that Captain Dinham arrived. Olivia hadn’t seen him since his congratulatory visit with Mrs. Dinham shortly after Emily’s birth. Today he came alone. Annie ran around back to announce him and then went inside to start tea. Something about the captain’s solemn expression made Olivia wonder if she might need a whisky instead.
Arms outstretched, Captain Dinham carried a brown box as though it led the way.
She met him on unstable legs. She clapped her garden gloves together before clenching them at her side.
“Captain Dinham,” she said finally.
“Mrs. Morgan, I hope you don’t think me interfering, but imagining you learning this news by post seemed particularly cruel.”
The lines of his face were etched with sympathy, sending Olivia to her knees. Her mother came from behind, cradling her as she crumpled to the ground.