The Last Letter from Juliet

by Melanie Hudson

  I fell to all fours, climbed through the stone and wished, with all my heart, for the compass to be found, with a promise – an I Owe You – to return before I left Cornwall with an offering.

  ***

  The next stop was the Minack Theatre for lunch, which meant heading back over the moor to the south coast. I had never been to Minack, but knew it to be a steep amphitheatre high on the cliffs overlooking the beach at Porthcurno. I wasn’t too sure about taking an elderly lady to a wind-blown rocky precipice, but Juliet was determined to go.

  I needn’t have worried. The café was at the entrance and easily accessible by wheelchair. We manoeuvred our way inside, the ammunition box perched on Juliet’s knee, and took a seat at a table looking out to sea. I draped a blanket over Juliet’s legs, sat down and from nowhere began to laugh. She looked questioningly at me from across the box which sat on the table.

  ‘I just can’t believe this is real,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘When I started reading your memoirs, I would have given anything to meet you. And suddenly, here you are, the woman who flew Spitfires. I’m so in awe of you Juliet and I feel so … lucky. And I have so many questions, so much I’d like to know.’

  ‘Such as?’

  I thought about it. What pressing issue would I like this wise woman’s opinion on?

  ‘I know … would you ever have considered Botox?’

  She laughed out loud and shook her head in amusement.

  ‘Let’s have a look inside the box, shall we?’

  It opened easily. I glanced inside, smiling up excitedly to Juliet, whose eyes also sparkled with anticipation. I slowly emptied the contents – a tiny teddy bear, four freezer bags stuffed full with old-style twenty-pound notes and, to Juliet’s absolute delight, a ring box, covered in mould. She opened the box and there it was still, a very pretty gold band with a large ruby set inside.

  Juliet slid the ring onto her bare engagement finger, put the ring to her lips, closed her eyes, took a deep breath and exhaled, happily.

  On a roll, I felt through the plastic money bags to see if the compass was hidden within the money. Please, God, let it be there. It wasn’t. I shook my head.

  Juliet smiled.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said, ‘you’ll find it for me, I know you will.’

  She looked down at the ring again.

  ‘I take it that’s a special ring to you?’ I asked, wanting to know the story but not wanting to pry.

  Juliet nodded. ‘Oh, yes.’ She admired it on her finger. ‘I needed to move on from it for a while, which was difficult, but it’s time to wear it again now, I think. Tell me,’ she began, looking up, ‘how far have you got?’

  ‘Got?’ I swallowed a mouthful of quiche. ‘With your memoirs, you mean?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Let’s see … you’re just about to meet Edward at the Bugle. I can’t wait to find out what happened next.’

  Juliet’s eyes sparkled.

  ‘I’ll tell you now if you like.’

  ‘Now?’

  Juliet glanced around. ‘We have the time, why not?’

  Why not, indeed!

  Chapter 23

  Juliet

  Twenty-four hours in Cornwall

  Edward was nowhere to be seen in the Bugle when I arrived. With the phrase, ‘let sleeping dogs lie’ floating around in my mind, I smiled at the barman, explained that the person I had hoped to find wasn’t in the bar and turned to leave. Which is when I saw him – Edward – standing in the doorway. His left arm in a sling and a deep, angry-looking gash across his jaw line. His expression reflected my own – a perfect mixture of adoration, longing and fear.

  It was this particular expression, as if captured forever in a photograph, that my mind’s eye would return to the most in later years. It was a snapshot of a moment, unplanned and instant, that sealed my fate irrevocably. When Lottie had said he was married, I had placed Edward firmly in the category of one of those men my mother had warned me about – an opportunist, a coddiwompler – who lived in the moment, without thought of the consequences. I had locked him away as the sort of man who could – who would – move on to another woman without pause, never able to develop a deep, lasting, emotional connection, and I had made that assumption, pushing Edward away, in the flash of a moment without thinking it through. But as our eyes locked in the doorway of the Bugle and the energy between us ignited in an undeniable moment of truth, I knew that Edward was deeply in love with me. It was in his eyes, in his shortened breath, his smile. It was a love that could not be mimicked, not at such a spontaneous moment.

  The owner of the Bugle, Mr Palmer, walked into the lounge bar from a private room. He handed Edward a suitcase with a smile.

  ‘Your car has just pulled up outside, Sir,’ he said.

  If Edward heard Mr Palmer, he didn’t respond. Mr Palmer looked in my direction and put the suitcase down on the floor.

  ‘Hello, Edward,’ I whispered, motionless.

  ‘Hello, Juliet. Poor timing seems to be our nemesis.’

  I didn’t respond, mainly because I didn’t know what to say, until …

  ‘Why did you come here?’ I asked.

  He led me by the arm to a corner of the bar.

  ‘I wanted to know you were all right, after the Empire bomb. I was out of mind with worry. I couldn’t find you and …’

  ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ I whispered. ‘Everything is different now. I’m different now. I’m married. And so are you.’

  ‘Who told you I’m married?’ His voice was tired, strained.

  ‘Lottie Lanyon.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘After I left your cottage. On that last day.’

  He shook his head. Mr Palmer coughed by the door.

  ‘I have to go, but it isn’t – wasn’t – what you think. But I can’t tell you about it now – not here. I wish you’d come to see me, to ask.’ He rubbed his forehead, frustrated.

  I sighed with the sadness of it all. The lack of sleep, the strong measure of gin and not to mention the war, was starting to take its toll. I was so very tired.

  ‘None of that matters now, Edward. I should never have told you that I wouldn’t marry Charles. I couldn’t tell you the whole story, but at the time I had no choice. And now, what with the war. Everything is different. I’m not the girl you knew.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘May I write to you?’

  I didn’t respond.

  ‘Please,’ Edward persisted. ‘It’s important. If I write to you at the ATA, at Hamble, will you get the letter?’

  ‘Yes, but really, there’s no—’

  Edward interrupted. ‘There’s every need.’

  ‘You have a wife,’ I whispered.

  Edward didn’t answer but walked to the door and picked up his case. He turned to face me.

  ‘There is no wife, Juliet.’ His shoulders sagged with sadness. ‘I’m no longer married and I wasn’t when I met you. When I arrived in Angels Cove, Lottie would sometimes come to the village and seek me out. I was invited up to the big house a few times, she jumped to the wrong conclusion one day and I let her run with it. It was easier, somehow.’

  He crossed the room and kissed me on the cheek before whispering in my ear.

  ‘I’ve never met anyone like you and I know I never will.’

  A moment later, he was gone.

  A week later two letters arrived on the same day. They could not have been more different. Edward’s was short, but said everything I needed to know.

  Dear Juliet,

  Say you’ll see me again.

  Yours.

  E x

  Charles’ letter was longer. He wrote to inform me of changes that had taken place at Lanyon and he was concerned that I had not been consulted or made aware, it was my inheritance, too, now, after all. Charles explained that the east wing had been commandeered by the Foreign Office for their own particular use during the war. Charles asked if I might be able to find the time to visit Lan
yon to check the old place over, explaining that Pa seemed excessively stressed in his letters. Organising the estate in terms of managing the tenant farmers – many of whom had taken on city children – and organising the Land Army was, Charles thought, perhaps a little too much for him, especially since the accident.

  I read the letter as if I were reading about people I barely knew. I had corresponded with Ma, who had recovered, albeit a weakened woman, and I kept in touch with Lottie, too, who was based at RAF Leeming in Yorkshire, where some of the Canadian squadrons were holed up. Lottie, it seemed, had discovered a renewed life-purpose in the WAAF, and was working tirelessly as a driver for the Mechanical Transport Section while Mabel was looked after by her aunt.

  But to go to Lanyon now?

  The note from Charles ended with a postscript which confused me. He wrote that one of the men in charge of the comings and goings at Lanyon was none other than our old acquaintance, Edward Nancarrow. It was odd, wasn’t it, he said, how things were able to change so significantly within a fleeting moment. He went on to say that such moments should be grasped with both hands – that the war had taught him to run at life, not away from it. He concluded by asking again that I go to Lanyon for a few days and if I felt lonely, I could always seek out that chap, Edward, and perhaps go for a walk or something, just like the old days. Then Charles had signed off, wishing you all the very best in the world, my dear Juliet.

  I held the letter for some time, staring at the wall, thinking. The tone hadn’t been like a letter from a husband at all. No, we had never had the time to develop our marriage and deep down, even though I couldn’t help but desire another man, a man – let’s be clear – I barely knew, but the taking away by the war of my first years with Charles had saddened me, because how on earth could we ever pick up where we left off, when there was no ‘leaving off’ place to pick-up from? It would be like trying to keep a child sitting on a knee it wasn’t familiar with. It would keep sliding off – we would keep sliding off.

  But what to do about Lanyon?

  I was sitting in the mess at Hamble darning a pair of flying socks listening to the radio with Anna when I paused to consider this question. We decided that I really should pay Lanyon a visit, and not just because of the chance of seeing Edward (we both reiterated at exactly the same time) but because of the great piles of money I’d sunk into it. Like it or not, Lanyon – in all its dilapidated but splendid glory – was beholden to me, and I was tied – for better for worse, for richer for poorer – to it.

  But how, and when? It wasn’t like the old days, the days of endless summers when I could jump into my Tiger Moth and nip down to Cornwall for a day’s excursion. Private flying was not permitted and fuel rationing for private cars was fierce, not that I’d ever learned to drive. I could, of course, catch the train.

  Anna had a different solution.

  The South West of England had become increasing vulnerable to attack by the Luftwaffe and so a number of airfields had been built in Cornwall, one of which was RAF Predannack, about five miles from Lanyon. Anna knew this because our Polish friend, Leska, had delivered a Hawker Hurricane to that air base the week before and had complained about the chauvinism she found there. All I had to do, Anna suggested, was explain my personal circumstances to the boss and ask if I could take the next delivery to Predannack. There were bound to be lots of deliveries headed that way, how else would the new squadrons come up to strength?

  Within three days, my wish was granted, which was how I came to find myself flying to Cornwall again – in a Hurricane this time – heading into the afternoon sun, checking off major towns and rivers en route. This time I kept inland, away from anti-aircraft gunners who monitored the south west approaches, and smiled at the wonder of it – me, in a Hurricane – and with a sudden flashback to my stunt-pilot days, decided not head straight for Predannack but threw the rule book out of the window and headed towards Lanyon, where Ma and Pa had been told to watch out for me. I did not fly by the house sedately. No, this time, I – Juliet Caron, the celebrated star of the Caron Flying Circus – paid homage to my parents, and with the speed, aggression and fury of a fighter pilot with a Nazi on her tail, opened up the throttle and roared past Lanyon like a bat out of hell, darting over the cedar trees before turning the fighter on its wing and heading back towards the house, slower this time, waggling the wings as I passed the back terrace.

  No one on the ground who saw the aircraft would have believed the pilot was a woman and as I turned away from Lanyon, glanced down and saw Angels Cove, I couldn’t help but smile remembering one particular day during Christmas week 1938, when I sat on the harbour wall with Edward, swinging my legs and telling him how – as God was my witness – one day I would find a way to fly for the RAF, and in a way, I had (and the fact that Edward may have looked up from Lanyon and seen me showing off, even if he didn’t know it was me at the time, was the icing on the cake).

  After handing over the aircraft and signing the paperwork, I grabbed my overnight bag and headed across the airfield towards the Operations Room in the hope of finding a phone, which is when I noticed a man leaning against the passenger door of an open-topped Morgan.

  It was Edward and he was smiling at me.

  ‘Hello, you,’ he said as I approached.

  It was too familiar. Too intimate. I tried to change to hide my joy and excitement at seeing him again. But I was still buzzing from the flight. He nodded towards the Hurricane.

  ‘Still making a dramatic entrance. I saw you from the house. Is that kind of flying allowed in the ATA?’

  I stopped by the car and put my bag and parachute on the ground.

  ‘I wrote to you,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t write back.’

  ‘No.’

  He touched my cheek.

  ‘Oil on your face, again.’

  I glanced around to see if anyone was watching us, took a deep breath, stepped away and picked up my things. Being near Edward – talking to Edward, seeing his face, his hands, his mouth – was magical. It was the most alive I ever felt with my feet on the ground. But I’d made my bed with Charles and now I had to lie in it – alone, seemingly.

  ‘How long have you got?’ he asked, picking up my parachute with a groan.

  I looked him in the eye.

  ‘Don’t, Edward. Please. I should be heading straight to Lanyon. I promised …’

  ‘Just tell me. How long?’

  ‘Twenty-four hours.’

  He placed the parachute in the boot of the car.

  ‘Now, I know you normally like to walk home from your aircraft, but I told the Lanyons I’d give you a lift. They aren’t expecting you until later. How about we drop by Angels Cove …’

  ‘Edward, stop and listen to me. I can’t.’

  ‘Just for afternoon tea? And it’s a lovely day, we could go out on the river afterwards.’

  It all sounded so perfect and a million miles away from real life – from barrage balloons and rationing and bombs and bullets and the whole utter bloody nightmare of it, all of the time.

  ‘Afternoon tea?’ I repeated, standing in complete impotence, watching him load the car. ‘There’s no shortage of butter and cream in Cornwall, then?’

  ‘There is. But when old Pa Lanyon told me you were planning a visit, I saved my ration coupons and, well,’ he shrugged, ‘there are usually ways to get a little extra. And I managed to make some scones, too … and little sandwiches …’

  ‘You?’ I laughed. ‘You made scones?’

  He nodded, brightly. ‘I sure did!’

  He was so damn sexy. But I didn’t want my resolve crumble. I didn’t want to dishonour Charles. And above all else, I did not want to be a sure thing.

  ‘I’m sorry, Edward. But I really should go straight to Lanyon. Ma will be waiting for me. I haven’t seen her in such a long time, and what with her accident, and as I told you in Hamble …’

  Edward opened the passenger door.

>   ‘I told them not to expect you until dinner … you’re a busy woman. Log books to sign, chits to hand in, that kind of thing …’ He leant in and whispered in my ear. ‘Just one more day. That’s all I ask.’

  I was nothing more than putty.

  ‘Let me change out of my flying garb first …’

  And that was when it began – really began. On a boat. On the Helford River. On a sunny Wednesday afternoon in early August 1941. It was the beginning of knowing for definite that this was the only man I could ever consider loving. Ever truly give my body to. Ever feel this connected to. The fact that I was already married to Charles and that his family were just a couple of miles up the road seemed, at that moment – despite my half-hearted excuses – utterly inconsequential.

  Afternoon tea in the cottage was fun and charged with an increased sense of flirtation and expectation. I did not mention Edward’s wife – or ex-wife – and Edward did not mention Charles. We placed ourselves firmly inside a bubble.

  And yet we didn’t kiss. But does that mean that our day together was an innocent one? No, it does not. How could it when our hearts had already become so irreversibly intertwined? To unravel that tangle of emotion would have been impossible. I’ll never forget the joy in Edward’s tanned, bold face that afternoon as we pootled down the river and out to the islands on his boat, The Mermaid. He was so completely happy. It was like a firework had gone off inside his heart. And it was the same for me, too – that same honeymoon feeling. As if, with two previous false starts under our belts, we were both determined to make the most of every moment together. I’m sure that, if it hadn’t been for poor Lottie’s unexpected arrival at Lanyon that evening – with Mabel in her arms, declaring that her new husband (yes, husband. A Canadian whom she had secretly married after whirlwind romance) had been shot down, presumed dead, over Germany the week before – then, like a thief in the night, I would have dashed down to his cottage after dinner and spent the night. But it seemed that other people – other priorities, other consequences – would continue to get in the way of our taking the final step, of the giving of ourselves to each other and being able to set the affair, irrevocably, in stone.