Suddenly overcome by melancholy, I took a seat at the back of the hall, happy to watch and from somewhere, remembered my promise – a promise to the megalith to take an offering in return for my wish – for Juliet to find her compass – which, to my great relief, had been granted. I thought of the ammunition box, and the ruby engagement ring. I looked down at my own engagement finger, at the wedding ring. I would borrow Fenella’s car tomorrow and take my offering, the only gold I had. It was time.
I was just gawping wide-eyed at the only couple who were genuinely able to jive and had taken the floor like a couple from Strictly Come Dancing when the music changed. A woman’s voice – a beautiful deep, smoky voice – rang out, singing one of Juliet’s songs. It wasn’t a record this time, it was live music. The band from the pub had taken to the stage and when I glanced up I saw that the woman singing, was Fenella.
Well I never!
A clean-shaven man appeared in front of me, blocking my view of the stage. He seemed familiar, but different. It was Sam, I realised, and although he was looking like he hadn’t slept in a week, he also looked rather lovely.
‘You were dancing to this two nights ago, when I arrived,’ he said, glancing towards the band. ‘Which means it’s kind of our song, and I was just wondering – if your dance card is free, of course – if you would do me the honour of dancing with me?’
I smiled up.
‘My dance card is most definitely free, Mr Lanyon, and I would love to dance with you.’
I took his hand and that moment had the definite feeling of another hand slipping away, and for the first time in three years, I didn’t reach out in a panic to take it back.
***
By ten thirty, the evening came to a natural close and after helping Fenella clear the room, we headed down the road.
‘Did you finish Juliet’s story, yet?’ she asked, folding my arm into hers.
I shook my head. ‘No, not yet.’
We ambled down the narrow little Cornish lane, past the pub and the school to the harbour and stood outside of her front door. We glanced up towards Juliet’s cottage. The lights were on.
Fenella gave me a hug and simply said, ‘Yours.’
I pulled away and laughed.
‘Mine? What is?’
‘It was the name of the song, you nincompoop.’
‘What?’
‘The name of the song – Yours.’
‘You’ve lost me now.’
‘One day,’ she said, fumbling in her handbag for the door key, ‘when you try to remember the first song you danced to … remember, it was Yours.’
We hugged again but I didn’t let go this time.
‘Thank you for looking after me, Fenella. I love you.’
She sniffed. Pulled away. Nodded her ‘I love you too’ and shuffled through the door.
‘Now get yourself up to that cottage,’ she said, ‘He shouldn’t be on his own tonight. I’ll see you when I see you. Drink some wine, play some songs – do what Juliet did?’
‘Which was?’
‘Live, Katherine!’
She closed the door behind her and left me standing in the street. I heard the radio in her kitchen sound out through the old cottage window – It’s Beginning to look a lot like Christmas and you know, I really think it was.
I walked up the lane to stand in front of the old cottage that had begun to feel like home. Sam opened the door with a warm smile, beckoned me inside and my time in Angels Cove ended, almost, as it began. With a glass of whiskey in one hand and a memory from Juliet in the other – the very last one.
Chapter 43
Juliet
Christmas 1944
Going home
Flying over the French coastline felt so very different this time. For a start, it was daytime and easier to navigate, but previously, as I had looked down from my viewpoint, six thousand feet above, I had felt an overwhelming sensation of heading towards a world shrouded in oppression and sadness. A world where, across this patchwork of fields beneath me, lay pockets of deeply unhappy people, forced to live-half lives in absolute fear. Nazi occupied France had seeped into the aircraft like a noxious gas, and didn’t dissipate until I was back over the channel again, heading for home.
But now, although the war on a global scale was not yet done, here at least, in this little corner of France, those crucial axioms of liberty, equality and fraternity, could once more be celebrated, and as I began my final descent towards a Brittany field in winter, I no longer noticed the harsh concrete of the German coastal defences beneath me and no longer imagined a Gestapo agent hiding behind every wall, but noticed church steeples and pretty farmhouses, instead. And even though we were surrounded by the detritus of winter, the sense of oppression had lifted, and was replaced by the indefatigable traces of the beginning of new life.
It took less than fifteen minutes to run from my landing field to Le Ferme de Bray. I landed close by this time and headed directly down the road, no longer evading the Germans, excited but nervous at the thought of seeing Edward again.
I ran into the familiar farm courtyard but suddenly paused for a moment, because quite unexpectedly, at seeing the farmhouse again – the dovecote, the ancient slate roof that dipped in the middle, the shabby green window shutters, the cobbled path leading to the old oak door – I began to cry. During my stay I hadn’t noticed the beauty of the place, so caught up was I with anxious thoughts. But now, looking on, for the first time since my father died, I experienced that feeling of being home, because home, I realised, really is where the heart is, which is why more than one place can feel like home at one time, because the heart really is capable of being flooded with love when it comes across the right people, capable of leaving a little piece of itself in the corners where love lies waiting for you to come home.
The door opened. Cecille stepped out. Neither one of us rushed to greet each other at first, but simply stared. We both needed that moment, to soak each other in, to look on at the other, to allow the euphoric feeling of knowing that despite everything, we had each survived. She held out her arms and like a lost child running back to its mother, I ran across the yard and fell into her, only to feel Monsieur Bisset wrap his bear-like embrace around us both a moment later. And for a moment my happiness was whole, absolute and complete – for a moment.
Edward was upstairs, in bed. How he had survived the journey across France was both a mystery and miracle to Monsieur Bisset. But once embraced at the farm, a fever had taken hold and he had collapsed into bed. A doctor had been sent for and the suspected diagnosis confirmed – typhus – a shocking disease spread by lice that had run like wild fire through the dirt and deprivation of Nazi concentration camps.
His clothes were burned to eradicate the lice, but the local doctor could not source the medicine needed to combat the disease. I should prepare myself, Cecille said, for the sight of a very sick man.
But no words could have prepared me for the sight of Edward today. During my flight to France I had played out a completely different reunion in my mind’s eye – a scene that cast me as the rescuing heroine, with Edward, understandably a shadow of his former self but very much alive, walking down the lane to greet me, before wrapping me in an embrace and declaring that he would never ever again let me go.
The third step creaked as I knew it would as I edged upstairs alone, leaving Cecille at the foot of the narrow curving staircase, looking up, her eyes full of concern and tears. I tiptoed along the landing and rested my hand on the door handle. Edward – my Edward – was behind this very door.
The body beneath the sheets was so emaciated it barely made an outline. Wearing one of Monsieur Bisset’s frayed nightshirts, Edward could have been a child dressed in his father’s clothes. One arm rested above the bed sheet. I took the wooden chair that always sat against the wall next to the window, placed it at the side of the bed, sat down, took Edward’s hand in mine and waited.
Half an hour passed by until he stirred, but when he d
id, a trace of the vibrant, dynamic man I once knew, flashed briefly into his eyes.
‘Juliet?’ he breathed, desperately trying to sit up, his frail arms outstretched, trying to grab a hold on me.
I leant forwards and allowed my face to brush against his.
‘Yes, my love,’ I whispered. ‘I’m here.’
‘I knew you’d come,’ he said, over and over again. ‘I knew you’d come.’
Yet more tears ran freely down both of our faces as we embraced. I sat forwards in my chair and held his hand. His eyes rested on my face but then took in my flying jacket.
‘You flew?’
I nodded, wiped my nose with the back of my hand. ‘In the old Tiger Moth, but …’
I couldn’t continue. Edward’s eyes betrayed his acceptance of the truth.
‘Take me home, Juliet,’ he whispered. ‘As soon as you can. Today if possible.’
I shook my head.
‘You’re not well enough for an open canopy flight. You’ll freeze.’
He ignored my answer by smiling.
‘That’s how I always imagined you, you know, in the Tiger Moth. In Dachau, when I … I tried to remember you – I imagined you that day, in the field, with the cows.’ He lifted a hand to stroke my face. ‘Just like a pixie queen. I loved you from very first moment.’
The tears began again.
‘It was exactly the same for me too,’ I whispered. ‘There was only ever you, Edward. There will always only ever be you.’
‘Take me home?’
My upper body fell forwards into a broken heap of sobs across him on the bed.
Edward stroked my hair.
‘There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you,’ he said. ‘Remember that day we sat in the church together, when we wondered what the angel in the window was asking God?’
I pulled myself up to look at him and wiped my eyes. I tried to muster a smile.
‘I remember.’
Edward tried to sit himself up. I took the cushion from my stool to rest behind his head.
‘The thing is, I met him, on the beach. I met the angel, Juliet.’
Edward’s eyes suddenly burned brighter. I wondered if delirium was setting in.
‘You met him?’
‘Yes, incredible, but there he was,’ Edward explained, struggling slightly to catch his breath. ‘He was on the beach– the same face, long blonde hair … we spoke. Water …’
‘Water? Oh, yes. Sorry, darling. I’ll hold it. Here you are.’
He paused to take a sip. I waited.
‘What did he say,’ I asked. ‘The … angel.’
‘We talked about so many things. It was wonderful, Juliet. I can’t tell you. But listen, he said, I wasn’t to worry about you, when I was gone. He’s going to look after you. Never be scared, my love because there really is an angel at the cove. There really is. And he’s watching over you.’
‘But, Edward …’
‘No, I know it seems crazy. But I know it.’ Edward took my hand. He was excitable, feverish. ‘You once said to me, you have to believe – and that’s what I’m saying to you now. You have to believe – in us. Our time may not be now, but we will not be apart, not really, and one day, we’ll be together forever.’ He started to cry. His tears were impossible to describe. Pain, joy, but most particularly – love. But not just a love for me, but a universal kind of love. As if he finally understood – everything. ‘The poem,’ he said, closing his eyes and resting back into the pillows. ‘Never forget my poem. I’ll wait for you.’
Reluctantly leaving Edward to sleep, I returned to the kitchen and wept into Cecille’s arms. I wept for all that we had lost, rather than all that we had won. I wept for Edward, for me, for Anna, for Lottie, for the stranger whose blooded head had rested on Marie’s knee that day at the dance, and for Mabel, too, the little orphan girl who I knew would be sitting in the drawing room at Lanyon playing with Amber, watching the skies as I told her, waiting for me to come home.
Monsieur Bisset sat in his chair smoking his pipe, the reassuring smell of his tobacco calming me into a rested haze. I explained about Edward’s wish to go home. They did not try to persuade me to stay, but at two p.m. Monsieur Bisset put on his coat and stated that he would be back by nightfall – that he would arrange everything to enable Edward and I to leave first thing the following morning. He said his goodbyes with a smile and closed the door behind him. I grabbed my coat, threw open the kitchen door and ran after Monsieur Bisset as he readjusted his hat and headed out of the farm gates towards the road.
‘Monsieur Bisset,’ I shouted. He paused at the gateway until I caught up.
‘I’m sorry to hold you up,’ I said, catching my breath, ‘but I wondered if you could point me in the right direction, I need to find a field, you see.’
‘Oh?’
‘On the night I arrived, the first time, I crashed into a field not far from here, do you know it?
He nodded, confused. ‘Oui.’
‘I wonder, could you perhaps tell me how to walk there. I came here by quite a convoluted route across the fields that night, and there’s no way I could retrace my steps now. But I left something … something very special to me, nearby. I buried it in a fox burrow, in a copse, and I’d very much like to see if it’s still there.’
He smiled his understanding. ‘I’m going by that way myself,’ he said. ‘Walk with me, if you like?’
After dashing back to explain my plan to Cecille, and after having her green beret pressed into my hand, I walked with Monsieur Bisset down the bare-branched Brittany lanes, side-by-side with a man whose courage and kindness I could never repay. He talked of the relief of finally being able to walk freely – to actually enjoy a walk – to listen to the birdsong, to imagine the rising sap deep within the avenues of twiggy trees, to talk openly and freely with a friend without fear of oppression, but most importantly, he could now leave the house knowing that his wife was safe. He talked of the joy of being free to wonder in life’s simple things again, and just as I would be eternally grateful to him for my freedom, so, too, would he be eternally grateful to the men and women of the allied forces who had never given in, who had fought on and eventually given the French their freedom too.
We reached the field within the hour. The skeleton of the burnt-out Lysander was still there, albeit robbed of any part that was remotely salvageable after the fire. The deep drainage ditches were clearly visible. I stood for a while, remembering. Monsieur Bisset, reading my confused thoughts, placed a hand on my shoulder and said, ‘We will lose the light soon. I must leave you now if I’m to arrange everything for tomorrow. Look for your things, and get yourself home. Don’t dwell too long in the past.’
I nodded.
‘Thank you.’ I took his hand in mine and squeezed it. ‘Thank you, so very much, Monsieur.’
It took me just ten minutes to find the copse with the fox burrow and by some small miracle, in a hole beneath the roots of a beech hedge, there was Anna’s jacket. I delved into an inside pocket for my ultimate prize and felt the familiar coldness of gold brush against my fingertips.
My father’s compass.
I fell to my knees and pressed the compass to my chest. It wasn’t just about my inheritance – a inheritance hidden deep within the inner working of the face – but about years of wonderful memories. Memories locked up inside that quirky old thing, now returned to me. I opened the face and saw the needle sitting in a neutral position. Had the time come to ask my first question? I heard my father’s voice: ‘You already know the answer to any question, Juliet. There’s never any real need to ask.’
And I did know.
I put the compass in my pocket, tucked Anna’s coat under my arm and ran the whole way back.
The following morning, after having spent every possible moment by Edward’s side – either reading to him while he slept, or sleeping on a mattress by the side of his bed – Monsieur Bisset prepared Edward for the journey. Monsieur Bisset, blessed with th
e silent strength of three men, carried Edward down the stairs wrapped in layers of coats and clothes that he had either donated himself or acquired from neighbours the previous evening. He carried Edward out into the courtyard and placed him in the cart. A tired old mare snorted her approval and with Monsieur Bisset at the reigns and Cecille and I seated either side of Edward – holding his hands and steadying his weak and lifeless body – we travelled in silence on the short journey to the waiting aircraft.
As if handling a baby, Monsieur Bisset lifted Edward into the front seat of the Tiger Moth, kissed him on both cheeks and without ceremony or displaying her grief-stricken emotion – just as I had asked her to behave – Cecille returned to the cart, flicked the reigns and waited from a safe distance on the lane to watch us depart. Her husband stood by the nose of the aircraft, waiting for the signal to turn the propeller.
All that was left was for me place a helmet on Edward’s head and goggles over his eyes and strap him in. Standing on the footplate, I leant across Edward and allowed my face to brush his as I secured the straps. Despite my resolve to keep my emotion at bay for the flight, the tears would come.
Edward found the strength to lift an arm free of the blankets. He touched my face and smiled through his obvious pain.
‘On the far side,’ he said. ‘Don’t ever forget.’
I looked into Edward’s eyes.
‘We’re just going coddiwompling, that’s all, over the rainbow, this time.’
I rested my forehead against his, kissed him one final time and climbed into the aircraft. I gave Monsieur Bisset the signal to spin the propeller and the familiar sound of the Moth’s engine filled the still winter air. I knew that Edward would hear the engine and smile, because I knew he would remember that I had once called the sound of flight the sound of freedom, and today, more than ever before, that was exactly what it was.
The Last Letter from Juliet Page 29