by Cathy Kelly
‘Thank you,’ Izzie said, hugging her aunt again. ‘I knew it was going to be hard, but being here,’ she sobbed, ‘it’s so difficult.’
‘I know.’ Anneliese held her tightly. ‘Do you want the diary and the box, Izzie? I don’t want to upset you more.’
‘Oh no, I want it.’
Anneliese nodded. ‘Just stop reading if it’s too much for you. I have no idea what’s in it, but if Lily wrote it, it’ll be wise, that’s for sure.’
When Izzie drove off in her father’s car, the precious box with the diary inside it sat on the passenger seat beside her.
She wasn’t sure if she was going to be able to read it. Reading Lily’s diary now would be like saying both hello and goodbye to her at the same time.
The small room on the ground floor of the Laurel Gardens nursing home was very pretty even though it was mostly occupied by patients who couldn’t open their eyes and admire the wallpaper with the blush roses on it. Heavy cream curtains kept the chill out at night, and although the bed itself was a standard hospital one, the covers were not standard, being a soft dusky pink that went with the walls. Bits and pieces from her grandmother’s house decorated the room: a china vase with a rabbit on it stood on the dresser, filled with daffodils. Several silver-framed photographs, one of Izzie standing hugging her grandmother, were placed on the locker beside the bed. A tapestry cushion of an elephant, that had once rested on the armchair beside the fire in the Forge, was placed on the chair by the bed, as if waiting for Lily to get up and sit against it.
But Izzie knew that her grandmother would never sit in the chair or admire how thoughtfully Anneliese and the nurses had arranged the room. As soon as she entered the room, Izzie felt the sense of death in it.
There was nothing left of her beloved grandmother now. Lily might have been frail in Tamarin Hospital the previous year, but now she was a wraith under the covers, as if her corporeal form was dwindling day by day. Her once-beautiful face was hollow, a mask of death like the old pharaohs’ faces Izzie had once seen in the Cairo Museum of Antiquities.
Izzie put her hand over her mouth to stop herself crying out loud. She’d cried so much all night as she sat up with Lily’s diary, deciphering the handwriting to read a story she’d never heard before.
‘I’m sorry,’ the nurse said, gently patting her shoulder. ‘I did tell you she was a lot worse.’
Izzie nodded. She couldn’t speak. The nurse, a reassuring middle-aged woman named Rhona, had said the pneumonia Gran had developed had taken a lot out of her, but she hadn’t expected this.
Izzie turned back to the door. ‘I can’t,’ she sobbed to Rhona.
After reading the diary, Lily was so vibrant in her mind – the strong, passionate, young Lily – not this frail woman slipping out of life.
‘Of course you can,’ Rhona said briskly. ‘I’ve heard all about how she practically raised you. Think of her, that woman, and you can do it.’
Somehow, Izzie stopped crying and managed to sit holding Gran’s hand. It was too much to bear, watching her like this. How selfish had she been to want Gran to remain like this, a living death, just so she wouldn’t have to face the actual death. She’d been living her life and her darling Gran had been hanging on by a thread.
‘I’m sorry, Gran,’ she said. ‘Please forgive me for not being here with you.’
She touched the curve of Gran’s eyebrows, thinking of the pictures of her as a young woman with lustrous hair shimmering about her face, and those clever eyes sparkling out at the world.
Izzie felt angry with herself for daring to think that age was cruel at forty – it was crueller now.
‘I promise I won’t waste my life, any more,’ she said. ‘That’s what you learned, wasn’t it? Sometimes you have to let go.’
That was what the diary had told her, that and so much more. There were so many lessons in there: lessons she’d need to reread to digest. Her grandmother’s life had been so full of stories Izzie had never heard before, stories about life, death and survival.
But the strongest feeling she had after reading it was the sense that she’d made the right choice in letting go of Joe. It was as if Gran had been reaching out of the diary, patting her hand and saying: ‘You did the right thing, my love.’
For the past six months, Izzie had tortured herself over Joe, wondering if she should have stuck it out in the hope that, one day, he’d be free.
Her grandmother’s words made her see that there were no simple answers, no black and white. Just as Gran knew that Jamie Hamilton could never be hers without hurting others, Izzie could see that it was the same with Joe.
There was too high a price to pay for their love, and the only thing she could have done was walk away.
Izzie thought of the world she’d been brought up to believe in – a modern world with rights. The right to have a baby, the right to love whoever she wanted…yet it wasn’t so simple, after all. Gran’s world had been ruled by conventions Izzie could barely understand: the fierce power of the Church hanging over people and the barrier that was class. The modern world might have abandoned some of those strictures, but it had created new ones. Like the awareness of how divorce affected children, for a start.
Leaving Joe was the hardest thing she’d ever done, but last night, reading her grandmother’s diary, Izzie felt the comfort of knowing that her beloved Gran understood.
‘Gran,’ she whispered now, ‘I wanted so much to tell you about Joe, but I thought you’d never understand. Now I know I was wrong, you’d have understood totally.’
If only her grandmother could answer her, Izzie thought.
‘I know about Jamie now,’ she went on softly, ‘I know it all. Thank you. Thank you for leaving your diary for me. I wanted to tell you how much it’s helped me.’
Izzie wiped away a tear. She was not going to cry, not yet.
‘You’ve seen so much, Gran, and I’m sorry I never sat you down and asked you about it all, about the war, about Rathnaree. I was young and selfish, but I love you so much, I hope you know that.’
For a moment, she sat silently, watching Gran’s beloved face, hoping for some response. But there wouldn’t be any, somehow she knew that. She had to face it. No point running from the truth.
‘I love you, Gran,’ she whispered again.
Lily’s fine white hair was mussed up and Izzie went to ask Rhona for something to brush it with. Gran had always looked beautiful; she should look beautiful today too.
Rhona produced a soft pink baby’s brush that she used on patients like Lily.
‘Thanks,’ said Izzie, and went back into the room.
Gently, she brushed the fine white hair.
‘You like your hair nice, Gran,’ she said as she worked, smoothing the flyaway hairs down. Next, she took her moisturiser out of her huge handbag and warmed a few small droplets in her hands. Slowly she soothed the cream into the papery skin of her grandmother’s face, petting and stroking as delicately as she could. Her hands were next. Izzie had a wonderful Aveda handcream that smelled of flowers.
‘This stuff is the best there is, Gran. The hand models use it, you know, but your hands are more precious.’
She took a frail hand between her two, stroking softly until the cream was absorbed, before turning to the other hand. She thought of the times those hands had held hers, and the comfort she’d drawn from that touch. It must have been so hard to be mother and grandmother to a motherless girl, but Gran had done it.
‘Perfume next. I don’t have any of that Arpège you love, but I have this.’
This was L’Occitane’s honey perfume. She spritzed it on to her own hands and dabbed a little on to her grandmother’s wrists and temples.
‘Now, isn’t that better?’ she asked, then sniffed the air.
It was strange: she’d used the honey perfume and yet the dominant smell in the room was of lavender. It brought back a faint memory of her grandmother’s closets and the scent of lavender that some of her clothes g
ave off. It seemed as if the lavender was stronger than any other scent in the room, a heady, soft smell that reminded Izzie of the lavender bushes outside the Old Forge.
Gran loved the purple herb and was assiduous in caring for her lavender bushes, cutting them back carefully, removing the woody stems and replacing the plants when necessary, so she could smell the cool scent wherever she stood in her home.
Izzie sniffed, taken back to her childhood. Where was the scent coming from?
April 1945
In the mews house off the Bayswater Road, Diana danced around the room, prouder in her mended gown than she’d ever been in any of her coming-out finery. The violet silk dress was the result of three women’s sewing skills and meant more to her than any other dress because it was the dress she was wearing to her engagement party.
Tonight was the first step in becoming Mrs Anthony Smythe, and Diana had never been happier. The party was being held in Claridges and everyone was coming, even her parents from Beltonward, which was a miracle in itself.
‘You look beautiful,’ Lily said, smiling at her friend. She was sitting on the floor with a pincushion on her wrist for any last-minute alterations.
‘So do you, darling,’ beamed Diana. In her pure happiness, she wanted everyone to be just as happy. ‘We ought to go, you know. I’ve made such a fuss to everyone about being on time, it would be ghastly if I was late.’
Lily hid a smile. Anthony had said he knew his beloved would be late.
‘Just one more thing I love about her,’ he’d said mistily to Lily the day before.
He was a sweetheart, Lily thought. Almost as gorgeous as Jamie. She allowed herself to close her eyes and think of him for one bittersweet moment. The war was nearly over, everyone knew it.
Soon Jamie would be back in England and he’d want to talk about their future and then Lily would just die. There could be no future for them for so many reasons.
Her faith came first. She wondered how she’d ever be able to explain to Jamie about Catholicism, about what it was like to grow up in a world where faith mattered.
No matter how she railed against God for what He was doing, letting innocent people die every day from this stupid war, she believed in Him. And God didn’t believe in half-measures when it came to marriage: it was for life. In her mind, Lily tried to imagine her darling mother and father hearing about Jamie, that he’d been married before, and that he loved their daughter.
First and foremost in their minds would be the fact that Jamie was not a Catholic and, worse, he was divorced.
She could almost hear her mother’s words: ‘If you marry him, you’ll be excommunicated, Lily. For the love of God, don’t do it!’
Jamie might be able to talk her round on an intellectual level, but on a soul-deep level, it was different. Loving Jamie went against every tenet of her religion, and when he wasn’t with her, when she wasn’t in the white heat of passion, she felt the weight of that betrayal.
Then, Diana had inadvertently stuck a rapier into her side when she was talking about her forthcoming wedding.
Dear Diana, whom Lily was sure still knew nothing about Jamie, was discussing the wedding guest list. Most of the people who’d been there when Sybil got married would be coming. Diana was trying not to obsess over the details of her wedding but still, she carried her list around with her and added to it when she remembered someone.
‘Gosh, must ask dear Jamie and Miranda,’ she said one day, and Lily, who was used to Diana’s name-checking, stood very still, afraid to speak in case she betrayed herself in some way.
‘Bit of an odd fish, Miranda,’ Diana went on blithely. ‘Not the sort of girl one would see Jamie marrying. Entre nous, Mummy’s always said she’s very highly strung. Jolly pretty, though. Mummy was up in Oxford and says she bumped into Miranda there – she’d been staying with Jamie’s grandmother and he’d wangled some leave so he could see them both. Mummy says Miranda looks marvellous.’
Lily now wouldn’t have been able to speak even if required to. Jamie had been with Miranda at his grandmother’s house in Oxford. He hadn’t mentioned it to her. And he wouldn’t either. No matter what he said, he was still tied to Miranda.
Jamie’s visit hadn’t been for the purpose of telling his wife about Lily: no woman would look marvellous if her husband had just told her he was in love with someone else.
And then Sybil, nasty, cruel Sybil had plunged the last poisoned dagger in and made Lily see that it was over for her and Jamie: it was simply up to her to let him go.
She and Sybil could barely cope with being in each other’s presence, and Lily did everything she could to avoid it.
But Sybil was in London for the engagement party and although Lily had pleaded exhaustion when Sybil had rolled up to take her sister out for dinner, she’d still had to endure half an hour of her company. Sybil waited until they were alone, when Diana had gone to fetch her coat before going out.
Lighting a cigarette, she stared hard at her sister’s friend.
‘Daddy’s been to your home, you know,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Rathnaree, isn’t it?’ Sybil went on. ‘You were always very coy about it all, told us you came from Waterford, but I asked Diana and she told me exactly where your mother worked, where you worked. For the Lochravens.’ Her face was hard now. ‘Daddy knows them, went to a big birthday party there once for Lady Irene. Total darling, he says. The thing is, I wonder how Jamie’s family will feel when they find out he’s sleeping with a lady’s maid? Not too impressed, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Why do you do this?’ asked Lily tiredly, knowing that Sybil was only putting words to her own darkest fears. ‘Why do you want to hurt me so much?’
‘Because you look down your nose at me as if I’m some spoilt child!’ shrieked Sybil. ‘Well, I’m not the one sleeping with someone else’s husband, am I?’
There was no answering this. Sybil’s condemnation was nothing compared to the recriminations she’d levelled against herself. There were so many obstacles to her and Jamie ever being happy. On their own, each would be enough to finish them off. But together, they made it impossible.
This, combined with what Diana had inadvertently let slip about Jamie seeing Miranda, made the end inevitable.
‘Sybil, you’re not worth fighting with,’ Lily said tiredly and left the room to sit on her bed and cry.
It was over between her and Jamie, over almost before it had time to begin. It was up to her to end if before it destroyed them both.
Sitting on the bed where they’d made love so many times, she remembered the last time she’d seen him in the hotel in Torquay. It had been the only night in their whole relationship where they had managed to stay together until dawn.
Torquay was a perfect place for them to be together; there was so much military movement on the coast that nobody would look twice if they happened to see Lieutenant Jamie Hamilton walking with a woman they didn’t recognise.
In her head, she knew what she was doing was wrong. She lay, open-eyed in the dawn, feeling the length of his naked body next to hers, warm despite the chill of the room. She’d never slept naked before, and now wondered how there was any other way.
Of course, you needed another body beside yours; a body like his, hard with physical exercise, taut and lean, not an ounce of flab on him, and fiercely strong.
Yet he was so gentle with her. His hands with their tender pianist’s fingers had drawn whorls on her pale skin the night before, his eyes shining in the soft light of the dim bulb.
With his hands on her skin, her body became like nothing she’d ever known before: a treasured thing made for being wrapped up with his and adored.
‘You’re so beautiful. I wish this moment could go on for ever,’ he’d said in the low voice she loved. There wasn’t anything about him she didn’t love, really.
He was perfect.
And not hers.
Their time was stolen: a few hours here and there, holding h
ands under the table at dinner, clinging together in the vast hotel bed like shipwreck survivors on a raft. For those hours, he was hers, but she was only borrowing him.
The awfulness of separating rose up again inside her. It was a physical ache in the pit of her stomach.
He’d wake soon. He had to be gone by seven to get his train.
If she had been the one who had to leave the hotel room first, she knew she simply couldn’t have done it. But he would. Duty drove him.
It was dark in the room and only the gleam of the alarm clock hands showed that it was morning. She nudged her way out of the bed and opened a sliver of heavy curtain to let some grey dawn light in. It was raining outside; the sort of sleety cold rain that sank cruelly into the bones.
There were early-morning noises coming from the street below. Doors banging, horns sounding, traffic rumbling. Ordinary life going on all around them, like worker ants slaving away in the colony, nobody aware of anybody else’s life. Nobody aware of hers.
He moved in the bed and she hurried back into it, desperate to glean the last precious hour of their time together. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend it was night again and they still had some time.
But he was waking up, rubbing sleep from his eyes, rubbing his hands over his jaw with its darkening stubble.
Soon, he’d be leaving.
She was crying when he moved hard against her, his body heavy and warm.
‘Don’t be sad,’ he said, lowering his head and kissing the saltiness of her tears.
‘I’m not,’ she said, crying more. ‘I mean, I don’t mean to. I’ll miss you, I can’t bear it.’
‘You have to, we both have to.’
She’d never known that love could be so joyous and so agonising at the same time. Every caress took them closer to his leaving. Each time he touched her, she couldn’t block out the thought: Is this the last time he’ll ever do that? Will I ever see him again?
She could barely stop the tears. But she did, because she had to.
In the end, she lay silently in the bed watching him get ready. Just before he left, he sat beside her, pulled her close and kissed her as if she was oxygen he was breathing in.