by Erica Nyden
The captain knelt. “These were the major’s identity discs, Mrs. Morgan.”
In her hands, their warmth startled her. The markings on the green and red discs were indecipherable in the bright sun, but once shaded, the word Morgan took her breath away. The last time she’d seen these discs, they’d been hanging around William’s neck.
“Knowing my relationship with the family, Colonel Adams contacted me personally with the news,” Captain Dinham was saying. “Apparently, an offensive on the Mediterranean coast northwest of Cairo went terribly awry. German patrols attacked in large numbers. Those who weren’t killed in the ambush were taken prisoner, though a handful were not. Once the area was reclaimed several weeks later, these discs were found next to the burnt remains of eight men. It’s believed the major was amongst the dead. I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Morgan.”
Her mother took a dramatic breath.
Jaw tight, Olivia remained quiet. She kept her eyes in steady line with the captain’s as William’s suffering clouded her vision: Eight brave men, each one bound to the next, awaiting the flames that would end their lives. Their screams rose under the enemy’s satisfied gaze. Was William conscious when the fire consumed him?
The birds still chirped, and the breeze continued to blow. Time stood still until finally, her daughter’s wail whipped Olivia’s head back to the scene she’d forgotten she was a part of. She stared at the pram blanketed lovingly by the shade of an enormous Cornish oak. Beside it sat the regal form of William’s ever-faithful Labrador, sniffing the air, sensing a change.
Olivia stood and squeezed her mother’s arm before running to her daughter. For the infant, it was mealtime.
Keldor’s stunned inhabitants stirred in a daze. Mrs. Pollard, informed of the tragedy secondhand, stared quietly out a window in the sitting room. Her posture, stiff like armor, kept all who passed well away.
Olivia found her mother in the kitchen and told her she’d be out for a time. Mrs. Talbot begged Olivia to stay; clouds had gathered and threatened a downpour. Olivia won the argument by not engaging in it. She deposited her daughter into the arms of her grandmother and dashed out the kitchen door and down the stone steps.
As quickly as her legs would take her, she ran across the expansive garden and through bramble and vines obscuring the path to Steren Cove. The cove was their place, the place where William told stories of his family and the area’s history, where they had picnics and made love.
She smiled at the recollections. And then she cried.
“Damn it!” she shouted into the gathering winds.
She teetered, and the sand drew her down. Her bare knees made contact first, stoking her rage. The wind taunted her, whipping her hair about her wet face until it stuck there. She groped for anything within reach, closing her fingers around a smooth stone. She hurled it with all her might, frightening a sandpiper looking for food, and she didn’t care. She let loose with angry shouts about how she had known this would happen and the unfairness of this cruel war.
Finally, exhausted, she listed to the left, and her torso met the soft sand with a thud. Head on one arm, her mouth hung open inches from the damp, clinging granules. She rooted into the sand as if it were a pillow.
Out at sea, the turquoise waves darkened to gray; their billowing whitecaps matched the temper of the ceaseless wind. In rhythmic time, they crashed feet from hers, their violence lulling her muddled mind.
William was gone.
She was a widow.
Forever.
All she’d lived for since moving to Cornwall had been torn from her. As often as she’d told herself that this day would come, nothing had prepared her for its arrival. Even if Churchill announced peace tomorrow, with Hitler dead and all the rest, she’d still be without her true love—the one who even during wartime had brought her a happiness she didn’t know could exist.
She sat up and pulled William’s discs from the pocket of her cotton dress. This time she studied them without shying away from the markings. The indented letters and numbers formed a pattern her fingertips would get used to smoothing. She slipped the rope around her neck, where they landed companionably next to her moonstone. Emily would have two more trinkets to reach for when Olivia held her.
Emily. The child may have lost her father, but she still had a mother—a mother with two roles to fill.
In an instant, she was up and running.
“I’m coming, sweet Emily!” she said as she panted up the path. “I’ll be there for you. I promise, I’ll always be there for you.”
The house had quieted after Keldor’s residents retired for the evening. Even little Emily slept heavily beside her parents’ bed in what was once William’s bassinet.
Under soft lamplight, Olivia opened the wooden box left by Captain Dinham. A red paper poppy greeted her. Its wrinkled tissue petals and crooked wire stem suggested a child had made it—his or her contribution to the war effort, perhaps. Aware of its artificial nature, she still brought it to her nose before wrapping the wire stem around her finger. Beneath the flower lay stacks of her letters to William, nestled in their envelopes. Next to the letters was a writing tablet of lined yellow pages affixed to firm cardboard backing. The pages were covered in William’s writing, the first dated 11 April, 1941, just over a year ago.
* * *
My love,
I’ve boarded the train and although I told you I’d sleep, I cannot. You are on my mind and since I have the time, I shall write.
Is it redundant to say I miss you? Hours ago, you were in my arms. Our noses touched and your eyes looked into mine with such fire. I’ll not forget that look or the kisses that followed. They sustain me, as does the taste of your lips and your neck. The scent of your hair is still strong despite the drenching you withstood following me to my motorcar.
I say, Olivia, you scared the bloody hell out of me when I left. I hope I never see you so distraught ever, ever again. Nothing in your life should cause you such torment. Try imagining our lives after the war. I envisage our future at Keldor like a summer Sunday afternoon, the hours stretching as we relax in the lazy sun. I’ll weave you a crown of flowers and watch you laugh as our noisy children chase Jasper through the tall grass. Our lives will change once our children arrive. You’ll be diligent keeping up with their busy feet and growing bodies, but I’ll be there to help. My father barely partook in my upbringing, even after mother died. But I’ve told you before, I intend to be there from their first cry to their first steps, their first lost tooth, and beyond. I cannot wait.
Will you keep your nursing career after we have children? The masses of returning wounded will no doubt enjoy having such an attractive woman caring for them. I promise to rein in my jealousy, and I pledge to support you in whatever you decide.
Meanwhile, I’d like to separate from military life. You might find this shocking, as in the same breath I must tell you how committed I am to my new position and service to my country. And it’s true, I am. But when war is over, I’d like to try something different, like designing and constructing furniture. Did I tell you my grandfather liked to build things? He had a talent for it. He even built that monster of a desk in the library. My father had a go at craftsmanship (I believe he built a bookshelf for my mother), but it frustrated him. I tried my hand earlier in life and quite enjoyed it. Perhaps I could build you a vanity or a bassinet for our firstborn so he or she isn’t subject to sleeping in the rickety one I once used. Ultimately I’d like a specialty shop in the village where I could sell custom-made furniture, tables, and things. Does that sound silly? I hope not.
Ah, I’m tired. Maybe catching a few winks isn’t such a bad idea.
I love you, Olivia.
* * *
She inhaled deeply before turning back to the first page. Wet with tears, the petals of the paper poppy had separated and clung to her fingers, parts of which were stained red. With blurred vision, she reread the entire passage, focusing on William’s desired career change. The idea of her h
usband’s head bowed over a creation of his own design, his meticulous fingers smoothing grooves in the masterpiece he carved himself sent a shock of longing through her. It distracted her from the discomfiture of not already knowing he wished to build furniture, a fact that wasn’t silly at all. It was terribly romantic.
Would she have continued with nursing? Yes, but not until the children were old enough to be without their mother during the day. Babies grew and changed quickly as it was, and she’d not miss a moment of it.
Two lines skipped on the yellow tablet before the next entry, which carried the same date as the first. Olivia’s wet hands returned the tablet to its original state before she tucked it under the pillow behind her. No more would be read tonight. The following entries would give her something to look forward to—perhaps one per day. The tablet was thick.
Hands back in the box, she removed William’s uniform. She frowned at its stiffness. Cleaned and pressed, it held no trace of him. Her hand smoothed over its stitches, embroidery, and buttons as she recalled how handsome he looked in it, especially when they married.
Beneath the uniform, a portion of her orange scarf he’d taken with him when he left blanketed the bottom of the box like a layer of gold coins. She discarded the poppy and wrapped the remnant around her stained hand, futilely wondering what had happened to the rest of it. She pushed the box to the foot of the bed. Envelopes and letters dotted the expanse to her left, and some had fallen on the floor. The poppy lay forgotten like a pulled weed. William’s uniform remained folded and rigid beside her.
After another peek at Emily, Olivia switched off the light and nestled under the bed linens. She brought the silk scarf to her nose. Was it her imagination, or could she catch a trace of William within it? It had lost her scent, he had once complained, only to capture his own. Thank God.
At once he was there in spirit, thinking of her as she did him. She squeezed her eyes shut. She missed her husband, her greatest friend, the man who would never become a craftsman.
Chapter 35
Grief clung to Keldor’s residents like clouds on a craggy moor. The only person Olivia would talk to was Emily, and she managed all her chores, inside and out, with the baby on her hip. Mrs. Pollard kept to the kitchen, making meals and delivering them without a word. Annie tidied house in her usual silence but with less spring in her step, and James simply resigned. He’d been at Keldor since the colonel was a boy, and the death of his son was more than the elderly man could bear.
Only Olivia’s mother, who extended her stay through summer, could penetrate the fog, especially as harvest time approached. She coordinated extra community help, much to Olivia’s silent relief, and made sure the bounty had been distributed appropriately. But by early autumn, she had returned to London. Olivia missed her, to a certain degree, but enjoyed the independence that came with her absence. Now she could try her hand at mothering without her own mother chattering in her ear, filling her with doubt. “Not to interfere, dear,” and “are you certain …” were two phrases Olivia could happily live without.
Midmornings became mummy and daughter time. Walks with Emily, who lay in her pram mesmerized by the changeable skies, helped Olivia begin most days with optimism. As they walked, she talked about William, how they met, and the history of this home they shared. Emily would grab her foot and chew it idly. When their eyes locked, the smile that lit the baby’s face sent Olivia’s heart into successive somersaults.
After their walks, Olivia would take tea and read the latest condolence letters and cards that were still trickling in, many from people she’d never met. They littered William’s desk for months, each reiterating how much her husband had been loved. Peder Werren’s touching sentiments had made her cry: “There was a time when William and I were as close as brothers; I’d do anything for him. This I extend to the woman he chose to spend his life with. If you need anything at all, Olivia, you shall have it.” Peder’s current assignment had taken him far from England but as soon he returned, he’d give his sympathies in person. Even Jenna had sent flowers and a nice note stating that she’d be round to see Olivia and meet new baby Morgan as soon as she could.
Surviving members of William’s company had written as well. These letters were Olivia’s favorites. Over and over, they exalted her husband as a valiant leader who’d instilled allegiance in his men. How dismayed they were by his demise. They mourned as Olivia mourned, and to her surprise, their blatant sorrow comforted her.
Setting aside correspondence, Olivia gave Emily her second breakfast. Eyes closed, the suckling infant breathed steadily through her nose; her hair, lightening by the day, lay feathered across her forehead. War beset the world—homes and cities destroyed, people displaced and starving—yet everything this new life needed was right here.
The wooden chair creaked with the shift of Olivia’s weight. Her eyes surveyed the walls of books, rich-toned oil paintings, and expensive trinkets that had once belonged to Colonel Morgan. He’d been nothing but a lowly ghost before she got to know William. Now he was a member of her family. She wasn’t sure how he’d taken his life or where Mrs. Pollard had found his body. Had he hanged himself? Or was it the revolver? How long had he planned the suicide? Had he planned it at all? Perhaps he awoke one morning and decided to make it his last.
A sour taste crept up her throat. How wrong the colonel had been, assuming the worst. How weak. Waiting without answers was never easy, but surely someone in his position had connections. If only he’d done some digging, he’d have learned the details of his son’s disappearance and that he was actually alive.
Olivia shuffled through the letters, searching for the stack from William’s company. Amidst sentiments of how they would’ve died for William, given the opportunity, many had asked if, after the war, they might visit the wife of the man they so admired. What if she made their acquaintance now? Surely, the last people to have seen William alive would know if he’d had any chance of survival. If their stories held even a glimmer of hope, and surely they would, perhaps through her own connections she could be stationed as an army nurse close to where William allegedly lost his life. Once there, she could learn for herself what really happened that day on the north coast of Egypt.
“Gah!” shrieked the bubbly infant.
A cleansing breath propelled Olivia back to the life in her arms. She touched her nose to Emily’s and smiled as a line of bubbles ran down the baby’s chin. Pudgy fingers tapped Olivia’s cheeks. She caught the baby’s wayward hand and smothered it in kisses.
She’d obliged when William had begged her not to work abroad, but that was long ago. Nothing could stop her from leaving now. Once this little one was weaned, they’d go to London. Hitler had sent his might elsewhere, so the city wasn’t nearly as dangerous as it had been, and her parents would love to have Emily whilst Olivia did her bit for her country and her family.
Intent on making a few telephone calls, she rose to find Annie.
But Annie found her first.
“Mrs. Morgan?” A light knock accompanied her voice as she opened the library door. “There’s someone here to see you.”
“Oh? Who is it?”
“Introduced himself as a doctor. Needs to have a word with you. May I show him in?”
“No, thank you, I’ll come out. Would you take Emily?”
In the foyer stood a man Olivia had not met before. With a lazy smile and eyes that didn’t meet hers, yet rather roved his surroundings, he held out his hand. “Nurse Morgan. How do you do?”
The title took Olivia by surprise; she hadn’t been addressed as “nurse” since she married.
“My name is Dr. Davies. I’m the director of the auxiliary hospital at Hartford House in St. Austell.”
“How can I help you?”
“I’ll come right to the point. Our patient numbers at Hartford are rather high, and I’ve known for many weeks of your estate—Keldor, is it?” He leant forward as if doing so might reveal to him the rest of the house.
“Yes.”
“From what I hear, the size of your home and its location would provide the perfect annex for Hartford—a convalescent annex, if you will.” His smile grew to an unnerving width. “We’d like you to house ten to fifteen soldiers during their recuperation, men with physiotherapy needs—exercise, massage, and occupational therapies.”
Though the doctor kept talking, a ringing in Olivia’s ears drowned his voice until Mrs. Pollard whisked into the receiving room bearing tea.
Remembering her role, she offered the man a seat. “Shall we, Doctor?”
She poured his tea as he continued.
“They’d require general care by sensible nurses equipped with a worthy bedside manner. Dr. Butler tells me you are more than qualified, and your colleagues from St. Mary Abbot’s say the same. The Red Cross is prepared to send you two nurses, and Hartford will send two orderlies. The Joint War Organization will provide someone to prepare meals for your patients and small staff.”
She stopped pouring. “My small staff?”
“Yes. You’d serve as head nurse, naturally.”
“Doctor, I’ve got a baby. I can’t work.”
“How disappointing. We’ve already postponed this entreaty by two months at Dr. Butler’s request. He assured us that if we afforded you time to adjust to motherhood and to mourn the loss of your husband—for which I was sorry to hear,” he added, his voice lacking the sincerity his words claimed to convey, “you’d be more than happy to take on the job. To avoid the alternative, that is.”
“The alternative?”
“Why, yes. You and the other residents here would have until the weekend to vacate the premises. We’d like to get the annex operational right away, you understand.”
“I understand,” she said, lying through her teeth.
That was as much assent as he needed. “I’ll be by tomorrow for a proper tour with members from the JWO. What time would work best?”