She smiles at him, then looks away. ‘Thank you.’
Leaning back against the seat, the rhythm of the train, the clatter and pulse of the track is hypnotic. She can feel herself relaxing, becoming drowsy. Perhaps on this journey she will be the one who falls asleep rather than Ralp. She wonders what Thomas will do. Is he still studying her grandmother’s address or is he tending his horse, their visit receding into the past, already partially forgotten? She sits upright again, ‘What did you say to Thomas? As we were leaving.’
‘I said it is a time for new beginnings. And maybe for finding out more than we expect.’
Chapter Thirty
23 December 1989
Norfolk, England
Alice has done a wonderful job with the village hall, Fran thinks. The Christmas tree already gave the place a festive air, but the gold balloons and streamers adorning the walls are a talking point amongst the guests. Along one side a noticeboard is pinned with photographs while a rather beautiful banner has been strung the whole way across the stage. The message reads, Happy 50th Wedding Anniversary Granny and Grandpa! and is clearly the work of Alice’s daughters, both of whom are looking disconcertingly grown-up in lipstick and tight-fitting jeans.
Fran sips her champagne. Viv and Toby are still not here. Alice insisted everyone arrive by twelve noon sharp so her parents can make something of an entrance when they appear a little later. Fran hopes they won’t be very long. She glances hungrily at the table laid with fancy sandwiches, pastries and a very large cake coated in dark-yellow icing. Drinking on an empty stomach is apt to make her light-headed and this is already her second glass.
The trouble is that she misses Martin most of all when she’s at a party. Being in a crowd of people without him feels lonelier, somehow, than the evenings spent on her own. She yearns for the exchanged look when they were both ready to go home, and the sense of anchor which meant she never felt adrift, or trapped, and could always say to a bore or a gossip, ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve just remembered something I must tell my husband.’
Even though it’s been over a year since he died, she still can’t believe he has left her. And sometimes she thinks he hasn’t. Not completely. Occasionally, when she’s reading by the quiet of the fire or watching television, she could swear he’s right beside her. In any case, most evenings one of the children phones, which occupies a good half an hour. Longer in fact, by the time she has settled again afterwards and allowed the not-quite solitude of evening to seep back. Diana tends to call around 7 p.m., Robert a little later, the habit formed when Martin was alive and able to enjoy the conversation with an after-dinner whisky in his hand. Robert misses Martin dreadfully, she knows that. Both of the children do, of course, but Martin made such an effort with Robert when he was small, creating a wonderful bond, as if to prove to Fran, to all of them perhaps, that fatherhood is a matter of time and love more than anything else.
Fran glances at the window. Rain is smacking against the glass like handfuls of grit and there’s a steel-grey, hood-like quality to the sky. She hopes Alice’s husband had the sense to collect Toby and Viv by car. Her own umbrella could barely cope and is now dripping on the cloakroom floor with one of the spokes bent out of shape.
Not that the weather or the broken umbrella is her real concern.
Fran draws her wrap a little more tightly about her shoulders.
She hasn’t yet shown Robert the letter.
She will soon. Now that Tiffany has seen it, Robert should too. But she can’t tell Robert about the letter without letting him read Martin’s note as well, and while she has come to terms with what happened, she wouldn’t want to do anything that might spoil her son’s memories. After all, he could never begin to understand the complexities of that awful time or realise how grateful she was, in the end, for Martin’s devotion, his unquestioning devotion, when they didn’t know, and could never know for certain, the answer to the most natural, most obvious, question of all.
Despite the wrap, she shivers suddenly.
The village hall always reminds her of that terrible evening, the frantic cycle to the beach and back, the increasing panic as she tried to deny what she already knew in her soul, that Thomas was gone. Gone for good. It doesn’t help either that recently the weather has been so awful. For the last few days there has been one downpour after the other, just like that dreadful winter all those years ago. Except then, of course, the rain soon changed to snow and didn’t stop falling for weeks.
Fran drifts towards the display of photographs. Although she’s friendly with several of the other guests, it’s much easier to look at pictures than to make conversation. Nobody knows whether to mention her dead husband or act as if everything – herself included – is miraculously back to normal again. Only the children and June can be relied upon to say the right thing. Alice had in fact invited June, but it was too much to expect her sister to travel halfway across the country and abandon her own family so close to Christmas.
The photographs, she sees, are arranged on the board in a haphazard sort of collage. There’s one of Viv and Toby dancing on their wedding day, utterly radiant and glorious, of course. Another of Alice as a baby in Viv’s arms, a whole array that feature Alice growing up, followed by Alice and Ben’s wedding, and finally Toby and Viv each holding one of Alice’s twin girls and looking as though they might explode with pride.
Peering more closely, Fran’s gaze fixes on a small black-and-white snap. The picture must have been taken shortly after Toby took command of the camp because he’s standing right beside the whitewashed building that became his office. Gazing at his starched, wary gaze is like dropping straight into the pond of the past. She almost expects Daisy to walk across the frame and wave. Perhaps she should telephone Daisy again soon? She half-thought Daisy might be here today, but her absence is hardly surprising. Even after all this time, the awful taste of what she did, of what almost happened, hasn’t entirely gone away.
As Fran gazes at the photograph, her focus sharpens. Unexpectedly, her wrist begins to tremble and a wave of champagne slops over the rim of the flute. In one swift move she drains the glass and claps her free hand over her mouth. In the truck parked behind Toby, two prisoners are loading equipment. Although the figures are small and rather blurred, one of them is nonetheless recognisable. The shape of his shoulders, the intensity of his gaze is as striking to her now as it was all that time ago, and if the photograph were not in monochrome the blue of his eyes would be the brightest colour in the room. The quaking moves from her wrist to her arm. Soon the whole of her body is trembling. How can glimpsing him now have such an effect? When they haven’t laid eyes on each other for more than forty-two years.
And for forty-one of them she never even knew why he had left.
She found the envelope, his envelope, in the file containing Martin’s will, along with a second envelope that had her name printed across the front in Martin’s handwriting.
She opened that one first.
18 May 1984
My darling Fran,
* * *
I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me for not giving you the enclosed as I was asked, as indeed I promised, to do. If I was able to make you even half as happy as you have made me, then I go to my grave daring to hope that you might.
* * *
Yours, eternally,
* * *
Martin
She began to rip the smaller, yellowed envelope, then stopped. She knew what must be lying inside and for a long while she simply sat holding the letter in her lap. Her life, her married life, had been built on the fact of Thomas leaving without a word, without, perhaps, ever loving her at all. If the reality were different, did she really want to know that now? She fancied she could almost sense Martin, waiting, watching to see what she would do.
Eventually, slowly, she extracted a piece of paper as fine and as thin as baking parchment.
9 March 1947
Meine Liebste
* * *
<
br /> If you are reading these words, it means I am on my way back to Germany. You will think that I do not love you, when the truth is I am more in love with you now than ever. I leave because I have no choice, because I cannot stay and also remain a man who is deserving of you.
My sister is alive.
The letter Daisy spoke of came from the nurse, the English nurse, who used to care for Gisela. After Eisenach was bombed she worried for my family and tried to contact my parents. They did not reply, so next she wrote to many hospitals. She found Gisela without difficulty, but it took her longer to locate me. I should be grateful for her service. Instead I am wretched with despair.
Gisela is in a convalescent hospital near Gotha. Her injuries are many and being frail I think she will not have the strength to sustain them for very long. Dearest Fran, I break my heart to leave you, but I cannot allow my sister to live what remaining life she has alone. I am writing my address in Germany. If one day I receive from you a letter, my unhappiness will be made a little less knowing that you understand.
Although I am returning to my country, to my village, I ask that you do not think of me as going home. My home is by your side and the finest minutes of my life will always be the ones I shared with you.
* * *
Ich liebe dich
* * *
Thomas
‘Frances!’ Alice touches her arm. ‘You look miles away. Mum and Dad will be here any moment, so we’re all going to line up on either side of the door…’ She stops. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course.’
She finds herself beside a couple about the same age as Alice and Ben. The woman has very pale skin with a smattering of very dark freckles. Turning to Fran, she smiles. ‘Do tell me, what’s your connection with Toby and Vivien?’
‘I worked for Toby shortly after the war ended. At the prisoner-of-war camp in the village.’
‘Goodness, how interesting!’ The woman looks surprised, as if she was expecting Fran to mention bridge or a book club. ‘You’ve known them for ever – that was such a long time ago!’
Fran smiles back brightly. ‘Yes, wasn’t it?’ She doesn’t mention that her months at the camp don’t feel long ago at all. That in fact they seem to be pressing upon her now more keenly than ever.
‘Shh… everyone.’ Alice raises her hands. ‘Ben’s car has just arrived and they’re getting out. On the count of three we’ll sing Happy Anniversary to the tune of Happy Birthday. Are you all ready? One, two, three…’
* * *
Almost three o’clock, Fran thinks, is a reasonable time to go home. The food has been eaten, the cake cut, and the anniversary banner has become detached at one end so that the message hangs vertically over the left-hand end of the stage like a kite tail. She glances around the room. She ought at least to say goodbye to Toby and Viv, but they are engrossed in conversation, pointing out one of the photographs on the board to another white-haired couple. Besides, she feels exhausted, exhausted by the chatter and warmth and company of other people, which all at once seems to have acquired the claustrophobic nature of a too-hot jumper.
Collecting her coat, she slips out of the door. The rain has stopped and in its place snow is falling in a gentle, wayward, flurry. She walks across the grass towards the coast road, inhaling the cold shock of the December air and the wide, still silence. To the west the sky is a firepit of pink and orange, while over the marsh the geese sketch ever-changing shapes amongst the clouds. The end of the war might seem a long time ago to the woman with the freckles, but to her the years seem to have lasted merely a couple of weeks, and to the wild expanse of water-logged land, she thinks, are nothing but the quickest, briefest, blink of an eye.
She halts. The snow is becoming heavier and she has left her umbrella in the cloakroom. Even though one of the spokes is broken and retrieving the wretched thing means venturing once again into the party, the alternative is a wet journey home and another trip to the village hall tomorrow. And she has had quite enough of the village hall for a while. With a sigh she begins to retrace her steps.
She almost reaches the side door before she sees him. At first she assumes her sight is playing tricks and then that she must be dreaming or has drunk too much champagne. She wants to walk faster but her feet refuse to cooperate, moving more and more slowly until she’s afraid they might stop altogether.
‘Fran?’ He sounds incredulous.
Although it is she, surely, who should be amazed. She swallows and stares at the face, the exact same face, imprinted on her memory from forty-two years ago.
Or from last week.
‘It’s Thomas. Do you remember me, do you know who I am?’
She blinks away snowflakes. She wants to reach out to touch him, but if she does he will undoubtedly disappear. Besides she’s unable to move. Perhaps unable to breathe.
‘Did you think I could possibly forget?’ Bizarrely her voice sounds strong. Strong and entirely certain.
She sees his eyes, those extraordinary eyes, fill with tears. ‘I thought perhaps…’
She shakes her head. Snow is falling on her cheeks, on her lashes, yet she has never felt so oblivious to the cold, to anything except the person standing directly in front of her. ‘But how?’ she manages, then stops.
‘I came to the village hall because I saw the lights. Because this is where I should have been. Forty-two years ago. Because you were not at home and I needed to find you.’
She steps close to him, inhales the scent of his skin and takes hold of the lapels of his coat. Flakes are melting on his neck, on the wool, magical little crystals dissolving into nothing.
‘I was here,’ she says. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
He reaches inside his coat. ‘I have something. Something I kept.’
She sees a soft, white square in the palm of his hand, watches the cotton soaking up the snow. ‘My handkerchief. The one that I dropped.’ For a split second, she is back before the marching prisoners. Falling, tumbling into the gaze of a stranger.
Closing his fingers, his arms encircle her back. Gently at first and then with a steel-like grip.
‘Fran, do you mind, do you mind that I kiss you?’
She hesitates.
From inside the hall comes music. A peal of laughter, the start of a tune, before someone selects another in its place. A jazzy, crooning number, this time. One she has heard before, many years ago. Frank Sinatra, she remembers, Martin’s favourite, and all at once it feels as if the sun is rising, the birds are singing, and she knows without a doubt that Tiffany was right.
‘Fran, talk to me’ – his eyes hold hers – ‘is it too late?’
For answer, she reaches forwards, cups her hands around his face and tugs him towards her.
If Fran and Thomas’s beautiful story has inspired you with the power of love in the face of war, then don’t miss The Lost Letters by Sarah Mitchell, another heart-wrenching World War 2 story set on the stunning Norfolk coast.
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Available now!
The Lost Letters
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A gripping book club novel about forbidden love, friendship and family secrets in World War Two. Perfect for fans of The Letter by Kathryn Hughes, The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks and The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.
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‘I adored this book, devouring it in a couple of days!… A beautiful and moving story that will stay with me for quite a while. Five shiny stars!!’ Goodreads Reviewer, 5 stars
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What if keeping your loved ones safe meant never seeing them again?
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Norfolk, 1940: Sylvia’s husband Howard has gone off to war, and she is struggling to raise her two children alone. Her only solace is her beach hut in Wells-Next-The-Sea, and her friendship with Connie, a woman she meets on the beach. The two women form a bond that will last a lifetime, and Sylvia tells Connie something that no-one else knows: about a secret lover�
�� and a child.
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Canada, present day: When Martha’s beloved father dies, he leaves her two things: a mysterious stash of letters to an English woman called ‘Catkins’ and directions to a beach hut in the English seaside town of Wells. Martha is at a painful crossroads in her own life, and seizes this chance for a trip to England – to discover more about her family’s past, and the identity of her father’s secret correspondent.
* * *
The tragedy of war brought heartbreaking choices for Sylvia. And a promise made between her and Connie has echoed down the years. For Martha, if she uncovers the truth, it could change everything…
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Books by Sarah Mitchell
The English Girl
The Couple
The Lost Letters
The English Girl: A heartbreaking and beautiful World War 2 historical novel Page 30