The Last Letter from Juliet

by Melanie Hudson

  I nodded.

  ‘Has she got to France yet?’ she asked.

  ‘France? No.’

  Fenella refilled my teacup with a knowing glance.

  ‘You’d best get reading, then,’ she said. ‘Because if you think her story has been exciting so far, you just wait till you get to the next bit, and also … well, let’s just say things might become a bit clearer for you.’

  ***

  I declined Fenella’s offer to spend Christmas Eve playing skittles in the pub. I wanted to be alone tonight, to have the time to finish Juliet’s story, and I so desperately wanted to find the compass, too. But this seemed increasingly unlikely now.

  As the sun set over the islands, I prepared the lounge for a cosy evening in – candles, firelight, the memoirs and Lottie’s shawl– and poured a glass of wine. But before settling on the sofa I remembered the pile of vinyl records stored away in the sideboard. One of them had a label stuck to it. Our song was all the label said. I smiled. It was We’ll Meet Again. I ran a hand over the cover and imagined Edward, all those years before, at Christmas, taking the record out of the sleeve, polishing it, perhaps, before placing it on the turntable and taking Juliet in his arms. Their whole story had weaved in and out of Christmas, and it was her birthday, too, after all.

  I heard the church bell chime five times and wandered through to the kitchen to turn the lights off before settling into the lounge for the evening. I stood in the darkness and looked through the window towards the harbour and smiled at the sight of the Christmas lights draped along the harbour wall. Tourist roamed the village, now, and amongst them – finally – there were quite a few children, wrapped in coats and bobble hats, looking on in wonder at the display. There were a couple of market stalls too, all thanks to Fenella, who was selling mulled wine and chestnuts, she never missed a trick, that one.

  But that was their world tonight, and mine … mine was somewhere else entirely.

  Chapter 34

  Juliet

  A surprise visitor

  Two weeks before Christmas Edward telephoned to ask if there was any possibility I might make it to Cornwall before the New Year. He sounded edgy and Edward never sounded edgy. I wasn’t particularly hopeful of bagging an ATA delivery to Predannack as my marriage to Charles could no longer be used as leverage. It also seemed wrong to request leave when the continued pressure on the ATA to deliver was immense. My commanding officer had a different idea and called me in for an interview.

  I was, she felt, flying on the edge of absolute exhaustion since Anna died, pushing myself too hard and by the look of me, not sleeping well or eating enough. I was offered two weeks’ rest and recuperation and for once, I didn’t argue. All I wanted was to be back in Angels Cove with Edward, to be held in his arms and to never let go.

  On 19th December the duty pilot handed me my flying chit in the morning with a smile on her face. ‘Deliver this and then you’re done,’ she said. ‘Happy Christmas!’ I looked at the chit in my hand – a Spitfire to Predannack! This was it, one last flight and finally, after all those months of heartache, I was going home, not to Lanyon, but to Angels Cove – to Edward.

  True, flying to Cornwall evoked a number of heart-breaking memories, but the Spitfire was a beautiful aircraft to fly and as I banked over the cove towards Predannack, I looked down at the angels and smiled. It was my first genuine smile since Anna had gone.

  My smile did not last for long.

  Predannack had become a busy and important air station – an air station that the Luftwaffe were keeping an eye on. As I banked over the cove and began my final descent into the airfield, I saw a trace of bullets fly past my port wing, followed rapidly by another trace, a couple of which managed to hit my underbelly. I glanced over my right shoulder to see a German Messerschmitt sitting on my tail. ATA pilots were not taught how to evade attack, but from somewhere, the aerobatic skills developed during my flying circus days kicked in and having only taken what I believed to be a scratch, I was able to roll the aircraft to the right, then pull hard over into a loop, successfully placing myself to the rear of the German.

  With no ammunition to fight back, a decision needed to be made. Should I attempt to outrun him or try to land at Predannack. The German made the decision for me. He ran! He bloody well ran and disappeared out to sea as quickly as he arrived. It had simply been a cheap shot from an armed reconnaissance aircraft.

  I took a deep breath and repositioned for Predannack. With a mile to run and at four hundred feet I pulled the lever to lower the undercarriage but the wheels did not lower. I tried again. Nothing. The mechanism must have been damaged by the last round of bullets.

  I levelled off at two hundred feet and overflew the airfield waggling my wings. This was a sign to the control tower and the engineers that I was in trouble, but they must have surely guessed this already. I saw engineers running out of the squadron building to take a look as I flew past. A red Verey flare was fired as I turned downwind, presumably to warn me about the lack of undercarriage. I flew a circuit of the airfield and passed over the runway again – as slowly as possible without stalling. I needed to make another decision: should I bail out over the sea or land on my belly at Predannack. Bailing out was not an attractive option. I would have to gain height before bailing in order to have sufficient time for the parachute to open, but even if survived the bail out, I wouldn’t survive the cold of the sea for long if there was no boat nearby to haul me out.

  The decision was made. I would land wheels-up at Predannack.

  I positioned myself for a long approach on finals and patted the Spitfire affectionately. ‘I’m sorry, old girl,’ I said, ‘but this isn’t going to be pretty. We’re in it together now.’

  Three hundred feet, two hundred feet, one hundred … feather, flair, gently, gently …

  And then I was down. Sliding along grass and then concrete. There was nothing for it but to close my eyes, just as I had done once before when lost in cloud above Devon, and brace myself as she slid across the airfield, hoping to God we didn’t burst into flames. I waited for the inevitable stop, which, when it came, came with a bang.

  Three men pulled me from the cockpit. One of them was Edward Nancarrow. He saw the whole thing as it evolved – the attack by the Messerschmitt, my evasion and subsequent crash. There was blood on Edward’s coat, I noticed, as they pulled me well-clear of the wreckage and laid me on the grass, waiting for the ambulance, which arrived moments later.

  ‘You’re bleeding, Edward,’ I muttered, not aware of my injuries at the time.

  ‘Don’t worry about that now,’ he said, supporting my head in his hands, his eyes full of love and tenderness. ‘Just hold on, my darling. Hold on tight.’

  I closed my eyes and passed out.

  I was beyond lucky, that day. My injuries were significant enough for hospitalisation at Predannack sick bay, but not serious enough for my life to be in question. A bullet that penetrated the cockpit had punctured my left arm, hence the blood, and I was also heavily bruised and concussed from the impact. But fear and adrenalin make for a powerful painkiller and I hadn’t even noticed much more than the pain of a scratch on my arm as I positioned the Spitfire for crash landing, but the wound was relatively deep and required surgical attention.

  Two days later I went home. Ma was adamant that I should go to Lanyon, but Lanyon wasn’t home to me, not anymore. Home was where Edward was – at Angel View. We didn’t worry about the repercussions (I was still officially married to Charles, after all), because all I wanted was to lay in his arms, in his lounge, in front of the fire, look across at the angels, and thank them every single day for bringing me home safely.

  It was potentially a scandal in the making – Charles Lanyon’s wife holed up with the mysterious American – but it was a scandal I was prepared to face.

  And then there was Lottie.

  I had written to her to explain about Edward, to say how much I loved him – had always loved him – and that Charles knew and h
ad given his blessing. I received a perfunctory response. Lottie said she didn’t mind about Edward, she was still grieving her husband after all and had never had serious designs on the man, but she was shocked and disappointed that I hadn’t confided in her, my oldest friend, that there was a secretiveness about me that disappointed her since I’d met Anna, who had obviously replaced her as my confidante and all round best friend. Having no idea how to respond to this letter, I fell silent until I wrote again later, to explain that Anna had died. This had merited a response from Ma Lanyon and from Lottie, too, who had both written individual notes expressing their sympathy and their fondness of Anna.

  But I had had no real contact with Lottie for many months until that day, Christmas Eve, 1943, when, at ten a.m. we heard a knock. Edward opened the door and the cottage was suddenly filled with the sound of my favourite Christmas carol – Silent Night. Lottie was holding Mabel, who was dressed in layers of hand-me-down clothes and sporting a bright red beret on her head.

  Despite the bruising and shortness of breath, I pushed back the blanket with my good arm, got to my feet and rushed to the door. Mabel was holding a Christmas present. I tried to interrupt the singing in an attempt to hug them both, but Lottie held up a gloved hand to stop me – Mabel was determined to finish the carol.

  I knew by the look on her smiling face that I was forgiven.

  Lottie stayed at the cottage for an hour of chat that was surprisingly easy-going. We waved them off from the door and watched as they wandered down the lane towards the harbour, hand in hand, singing Christmas carols and swinging arms as they went. For a moment, I almost forgot that the war still raged on our doorstep. For a moment.

  It was mid-afternoon when Edward asked if I felt up to a little walk. As I wandered slowly down the lane, leaning on Edward for support, I thought he would point us in the direction of our little beach, but he didn’t. Instead, we turned into the village and five minutes later, opened the picket gate that led into the churchyard. Edward gestured towards a pew half way down the aisle on the right. We sat for quite some time, holding hands in silence, staring at a stained-glass window above the altar that showed the side view of a magnificent winged angel. His long hair flowed over his wings and he was looking upwards, towards an omniscient, unseen figure. The angel held the same expression a child might have when looking up to a parent when desperate for an answer. His hands were clasped together in prayer.

  ‘The expression on that angel’s face says it all, really, doesn’t it?’ Edward said, looking ahead and holding my gloved left hand in both of his.

  ‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘I’m afraid it does, rather. It’s worrying really …’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Well, if the angels are confused and looking for guidance, what chance do us mere mortals have?’

  Edward turned to me. His face bordering on excitable – feverish.

  ‘Ah, but that’s why this picture is so wonderful, Juliet. We all – every single one of us – need guidance sometimes. But no one – not even God – can tell us what to do in every given circumstance. I think God is smiling at the angel, saying nothing in answer to his question but simply offering love, because if this war has taught me anything it’s that in the end, love really is the only answer. We just have to keep believing in love.’

  ‘Do you believe in love, Edward?’

  Rather than answering my question, he took my face in his hands and kissed me. When he sat back into the pew, he glanced up at the window again. His words took me by surprise.

  ‘I have to go away tomorrow.’

  I turned to face him. ‘But, it’s Christmas Day tomorrow …’

  ‘I have no choice. Listen, don’t be cross, but I’ve taken the liberty of arranging for you to stay with Lottie … at Lanyon. No, please don’t argue. I asked Lottie not to give the game away earlier.’

  ‘Can’t you delay, just for a day?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it can’t.’

  ‘But why can’t I stay on at Angels View? Lottie can pop in from time to time …’

  ‘You can’t possibly stay on your own, you’re not fit enough.’

  I sighed. He was right.

  ‘How long will you be gone?’

  ‘The thing is, I’m not sure when I’ll be back.’

  ‘Are we talking weeks or …’

  He shook his head again. ‘More like months.’

  A rush of panic swept over me.

  ‘Don’t go, Edward. Please. I’m begging you. Become a conscientious objector, you believe in love, you said so!’

  He smiled.

  ‘Why not?’ I went on. ‘I’m being serious. I’m frightened. What with losing Anna, and now …’

  He put a finger to my lips to silence me.

  ‘You need to rest. Oh, and I’ve got a favour to ask, by the way.’ He picked up his hat and brushed an invisible fleck off the brim with the back of his hand. ‘I need to find a poem to learn before tomorrow.’

  ‘A poem? But you’re dreadful at remembering poems.’

  He laughed.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Why do you need a poem?’

  ‘I can’t really explain, it’s something to do with messages, but I need a relatively short one that I can easily memorise. Nothing too over-the-top.’

  I picked up a prayer book that was resting on the back of the pew in front of us. It fell open at a page marked by an insert of a loose leaf of paper. The paper had a prayer typed on it. I began to read it aloud.

  ‘The Prayer of St Francis,’ I began. ‘Do you know it?’

  Edward shook his head. I began to recite.

  ‘Make me a channel of your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love … where there is doubt, faith. Where there is despair, hope …’

  I glanced up towards the angel and smiled my thanks before handing the paper to Edward.

  ‘I do believe that this,’ I said, ‘is for you.’

  Unable to fight off the tiredness after our walk, I slept, waking mid-afternoon to find Edward smiling at me, sitting on the floor by my side, his dog, Amber, sleeping on the hearth rug next to him. It was a picture-perfect moment of complete contentment and I wondered if such perfect moments can only be found when the recipient knows that the situation is temporary. We took Amber for a last walk to the beach and watched the sun slowly dip behind the islands. As the last arc of golden light disappeared behind the horizon, surrounded by twilight, Edward delved into his coat pocket and took out an envelope. He handed it to me.

  ‘For you,’ he said, before tenderly brushing his lips against mine.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, trying to open it with one hand. He took the envelope, opened it and handed me the card. He had made me a birthday card. There was a just enough light left for me to read his words inside.

  Happy birthday/Christmas my darling Juliet.

  I wrote a poem while you slept, after all. But this one is just for you.

  Whatever happens, keep believing in love, my love,

  Always, Edward.

  ‘Where Angels Sing, by Edward Nancarrow,’ I said, swallowing back the tears. ‘A poem? For me?’

  He nodded.

  I glanced up. ‘You actually wrote one, you, yourself?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am, I did! And it took me a whole ten minutes.’

  I laughed. ‘That long? It must be an absolute masterpiece.’

  ‘Oh, it is.’

  I began to read, but soon realised that the poem was a message of love, just in case he didn’t make it home.

  ‘Oh, Edward,’ I said, resting the card on my knee, ‘it’s lovely, but you mustn’t think that you won’t make it back, in fact you must believe that you will! Promise me – promise you’ll keep believing, promise me you believe that you’ll make it back! Belief is half the battle with this kind of thing – that’s how I feel when I’m flying all the time – that I’m invincible, and somehow, it works. But only if you truly believe. You must bel
ieve, Edward.’

  He turned to face me.

  ‘No one wants to survive this war more than me. I want to come back to this little wonderful cove more than anything – anything, Juliet. But this push has to be all or nothing. But I have to tell you – have to be completely honest – that the chance of me making it back, it isn’t great, but what I have to do has to be done. Has to.’

  ‘But …’

  He raised his hand.

  ‘I want you to promise me three things.’

  My tears were flowing freely now.

  ‘Go on.’

  He stroked the dog that sat loyally beside him. ‘First, look after Amber for me. Take her to Lanyon, she loves it there. The guys up at the house have been minding her for me, but it’s not the same as having a proper home.’ He leant down to kiss his beloved dog. ‘She’s probably got two or three good years left in her and I want to know she’ll be loved.’

  My heart broke. ‘Oh, Edward. Of course, I will.’

  ‘Second, always be as you are now.’ He laughed. ‘My brave and daring coddiwompler. Be the woman I met that day on the cliff top, the stunning adventurer who leapt out of her plane, devil may care, travelling with absolute purpose – purpose to be thrilled, to be excited, to live life at the edge of living. That’s the woman I met and that’s the woman I hope you will always be.’

  I laughed through the tears.

  ‘I’ll try my very best.’

  A sea breeze had picked up and was playing with my hair, brushing it across my eyes. He gently tucked several strands behind my ear.

  ‘The third one is easy,’ he said. ‘I want you to promise me you’ll live until you’re a hundred.’

  ‘What!? A hundred! But that’s crazy! How on earth can I promise that?’

  He shrugged, knowingly.

  ‘It’s like you said, if you believe something will happen, half the battle is over. I’m absolutely certain you will survive this war, Juliet, and I want everyone who survives it to live long and very happy lives, because if not, what did all the others die for?’