The Last Summer at Chelsea Beach

by Pam Jenoff

  The cab stopped on Porchester Terrace and Teddy helped me out. But I was able to manage the steps on my own. “He was flying over Munich,” Teddy said in a low voice when we were inside my flat. Without asking, he put on the kettle, then turned back to me. His brow furrowed. “I thought Charlie was part of the unit flying sorties out of Duxford. He should have been over northern France or Belgium.”

  “That was a cover,” I confessed. There was no point in hiding the truth anymore. “He was flying reconnaissance missions on his own.” I waited for Teddy’s anger that I had not told him the truth about Charlie or the real reason I had asked him to kill the story. But his expression remained calm. “Has there been any word of him?”

  “None.”

  “The embassy.” My voice cracked with desperation. “Surely they can help.”

  “I put in a call but so far nothing. Claire said she would check with her uncle as well. We’re working with all of our contacts.” Gratitude rose in me. Teddy had not liked the fact of Charlie, but he was doing everything he could to help. “But crashing over Germany...”

  Changed everything, I finished silently. He continued, “They’re going to fly over the site to try and check, when they can do it without jeopardizing operations. Of course, we must consider the Germans could have captured him.”

  Which would be worse. My stomach turned as the full weight of the situation crashed down on me. “Oh, no.”

  “We don’t know that, Addie,” he said earnestly, taking my hand. He used the Connally boys’ nickname for me now, the one he had always eschewed. Teddy might have been conflicted: Charlie had been his biggest rival for my attention. But his voice was filled with genuine sadness, which scared me more than perhaps anything else. “He could be hiding in the woods. But that’s very dangerous territory. I’m afraid you must prepare yourself for the worst.” I buried my head in his chest and wept.

  I set down the book I’d been reading carefully so as not to get it wet, then sank deeper into the bath, closing my eyes. It was Sunday night, the murmur of a BBC program and the faint smell of coriander coming through the floorboards from the Dashani kitchen below. For a moment I could almost imagine I had just arrived in London and life was like it was back before I’d met Claire, when I used to spend all of my nights like this, alone. Back before everything had happened.

  But it wasn’t. It had been more than six weeks since Charlie’s plane went down. My stomach churned as it did every morning when I woke up and remembered. There had been no further word of him. “At this point,” Claire had said on one of her brief visits back from duty, “we have to assume that he is gone.” She spoke kindly but firmly, not wanting to hurt me needlessly but unwilling to give me false promise.

  “But we don’t know. He could be arrested, or injured somewhere, or in hiding.” It was the last of these, the most hopeful thought, that I kept anchored firmly in my mind. Charlie had crashed in a wooded area and was simply staying out of sight until he could make his way back safely. I could not bear to think of anything worse.

  Claire had not pressed further to wipe away the last of my hope. She came back as often as she could between her own missions, keeping me busy with dinner and films, quieter fun more suitable than the clubs and parties she otherwise might have frequented. Teddy helped when Claire was away, offering his company in an unassuming way when I was amenable, and retreating graciously when I was not.

  Of course, I hadn’t given up on Charlie. I’d done my own digging, visiting the War Office and other government agencies that might have information, using my press credentials and Teddy’s connections to gain access. But when the bureaucrats in their dusty offices would finally see me, they would offer me weak tea, then tell me that they had no information about Charlie’s mission or whereabouts. Really, their raised eyebrows and barely veiled exasperated tones implied, the British government had better things to do than find a lone American.

  Finally, I’d gotten an appointment with the military attaché at the US embassy, Colonel Miller, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a deeply lined face. “I understand that you’re trying to find out about Sergeant Charles Connally.” He pulled out a file. “We don’t even have his mission listed officially. He was supposed to be flying out of Duxford.”

  “He was working on some confidential matters,” I said.

  Colonel Miller’s eyebrows rose. Clearly he knew about Charlie’s work, though I was not supposed to. “Miss Montforte, we have hundreds of thousands of men in combat, and official channels for sending news of their well-being. I cannot simply hand a file to anyone who walks through the door.”

  “Please.” I cut him off before he could refuse me. “I’ve known him my whole life.” That wasn’t exactly a lie; in reality I’d only met the Connallys a few years earlier, but some part of me felt as though I had known them forever. “We were supposed to be married. I just need to find out what happened.”

  “Very well.” He thumbed through a file, then pulled out a sheet and handed it to me. “I’m terribly sorry.” The paper gave Charlie’s date of birth and aircraft identification, as well as the date and location from which it had taken off. My blood turned to ice. Missing, it read. Presumed deceased.

  That had been four days ago. I dropped the paper and staggered numbly from the embassy, not bothering to thank Colonel Miller. The report had told me nothing conclusive, I reminded myself as I hurried down the cool granite steps of the embassy, which occupied one side of Grosvenor Square. I averted my eyes from the soldiers’ hotel opposite it. Of course Charlie was missing; the rest was just a guess. But I wondered why they presumed him dead, the facts and information not contained on the paper that had led to that conclusion.

  I had not yet told Claire or Teddy what I had learned. Saying it would only make it more real. With no further inquiries to be made, Charlie missing was the painful status quo. I stepped from the tub now and dried, then put on my gown. Charlie’s image had grown clouded in my mind. I still thought of him constantly. But I had stopped dreaming about him, just like my parents and Robbie. That—even more so than the information I had seen at the embassy—was the surest sign that he was gone.

  And yet still I could not accept it. It was easy enough to pretend he was simply off fighting. Hope of his recovery had faded like a dying ember but some part of me wasn’t ready to acknowledge that he was gone in the same way that Robbie was, to begin grieving for him. I thought about what might have been between us. We had come so close. Our night at the hotel played over and over in my mind. We had not known it was the last time.

  I put on my nightgown, then walked to my desk, eyeing the stationery box. What did the Connallys know? Though I knew how news of those killed in the fighting was conveyed from my time in Washington and the Dennison boy, I was unsure if the War Department sent letters when one was only presumed missing. I should have been the one to write and tell them. But anything I’d said would have been guessing, and that would only make things worse.

  Beside the stationery box sat the package containing the visas Lord Raddingley had gotten for me. I’d waited for weeks, hopeful that Teddy would be able to make a connection to get the visas to the children. He’d tried as tirelessly to do that as he had to help me get word of Charlie. But though the Allies had pushed inland, the children were in an area that was surrounded by fighting and the Allies weren’t authorizing anyone to go in there now. My optimism grew fainter as time passed and promising leads did not pan out. Even Sister Jayne had stopped asking when I visited.

  Looking at the passes now, my frustration grew. Every day that passed meant heightened danger for the children. They might already be gone. This wasn’t like Charlie, missing and beyond reach. We knew where the children were, or had anyway. If they were still there, we could help them. Impulsively, I changed into my dress and shoes, then started from the flat. I walked downstairs and phoned the bureau but Teddy’s line r
ang and rang.

  Forty-five minutes later, I stepped from a taxi at Hampstead and started up the fashionable High Street, its darkened shops shuttered and sandbagged, pavement deserted. Mindful of the curfew I was breaking, I hurried in the direction of Teddy’s flat. It was three blocks north, the ground floor of a single Georgian house, set back from a quiet street by well-tended gardens.

  I rang the bell. As he opened the door, his eyes widened. “Addie, what is it? Is something wrong?”

  Everything, I wanted to say. But I forced a smile. “Not at all. May I come in?”

  He stepped back, the correspondent too caught off guard to ask further questions. I had been here once before, dropping off papers. His two rooms were elegant, with dark oak trim and high windows, and overstuffed red leather couches that suited his bachelor lifestyle. His walls were as bare as those at the bureau, no photos or personal mementoes. Unlike his office, his flat was neat, tabletops clear of papers and cups. It wasn’t just that he had a housekeeper come in and clean—between long hours at the office and chasing stories, he simply spent no time here. It was as if he could not bear to be alone.

  Except now. He was wearing a smoking jacket and a bottle of brandy sat on the table before him. Duke Ellington played from the record player on the bookshelf.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t ring first,” I said, suddenly a tinge nervous. “I just wanted some company.”

  “Would you like a drink? I’ve got a chardonnay that’s almost passable. Or there’s some Ribena, if you’d prefer.”

  “That would be lovely.” He poured a bit of the black-currant syrup into a glass and added water before passing it to me.

  I followed him into the sitting room. “I tried the bureau. I thought I might find you.”

  “Yes, well, now you have.” His normally bright eyes were dark.

  “It’s about the children.” A disappointed look crossed his face, as he realized I’d come for more than just company. Then his expression turned guarded. “I know we’ve had no luck with the correspondents. But someone else, the church maybe, or the medics, surely someone can help.” My voice rose pleadingly.

  “Addie, come sit down.” I started to protest, then lowered myself to the leather sofa he indicated. “There’s something else.” His face bore that bearer-of-bad-news look I had come to know only too well. But I was nearly immune to pain, like a wound that had not healed properly but had grown callused and scarred. “You know I reached out to a Red Cross contact.”

  “Yes.” He had told me the plan a few days earlier. Though so many leads had fallen through before, I could not help but hope.

  “They can’t manage it. The area where the children are has been cut off by the Germans as they’ve fallen back. Not even food or other basic aid can get through.”

  My heart sank. Leo’s sister and the others were not only trapped, but hungry. I cleared my throat. “So what’s next?”

  His shoulders slumped and he looked away. “There is no next.” His voice was scratchy. He was more upset than I had ever seen him at the idea of disappointing me. “We can’t chance putting the visas in the mail, and none of our couriers are going now.”

  “What about taking them yourself?”

  “What are you talking about? One can’t just go sailing across the Channel these days.”

  “It’s possible. You’ve been over dozens of times.” I looked him squarely in the eyes, challenging him to deny it.

  He shook his head. “That was before the invasion.”

  “But you could manage it now. You have enough clout to get a pass. If we come up with a story about why we’re traveling together...”

  “We? You want to come with me?” He stared at me disbelievingly. Perhaps this time I had gone too far. “You can’t be serious.”

  “You said yourself the photos are awful. I can take better ones for you.”

  But he refused to take the bait. “It’s nearly impossible to get accredited. Especially if you’re a woman.”

  This last bit rankled me. How many times had I heard that as a reason why I could not do something? “But just think of the stories we could get. The photographs alone could win a Pulitzer.” He blanched, offended by the notion that a prize was what he was after. “I mean, think of all the people we could help by telling their stories to the world.”

  “You’re not a correspondent, goddammit! You’re a secretary.” His words cut through me like a knife. Ever since the Tomaszewicz interview, Teddy had treated me like an equal partner. But his words were not intended to hurt—he was just trying to stop me from going.

  “Addie,” he said, more softly now. “This isn’t about your being a woman.”

  “Then what?”

  “You’re Jewish.” He blinked hard. “And with the things they’re doing to Jews...” I turned away, not wanting to hear what was coming next. “You heard Tomaszewicz, interviewed him yourself.”

  The story of the Jews being gassed was never far from my thoughts. “That was just one village.” But my voice was hollow and I knew even as I said it that it was not true.

  He shook his head sadly. “Only it isn’t. There have been reports just like it of killings all over Europe like the one he described. Jews. Gypsies and homosexuals and clergy, too, but mostly Jews. In trucks and factories and camps—by the thousands.” My stomach turned. There were stories in the papers of Jews being relocated and detained in camps, but if what he was saying was true, then why was no one writing or screaming about it?

  He raised his hand, cutting me off. “It’s out of the question. I’m not taking you. It’s too dangerous. And I’m not going myself,” he added before I could jump in again. He took both my hands in his.

  Teddy was forever chasing stories. So why was he refusing the challenge now? “I thought you wanted to make a difference.”

  “By reporting the news. Not becoming part of the story. Addie, this is daft. You know I’d do anything for you. But I’d be jeopardizing my credentials and risking all the important work we are trying to do. Surely you see the big picture.”

  I sniffed. “I suppose.” His point was a fair one, but all I could see was Leo’s sister and the other children left behind. A few years earlier and one of them could have been me. “But we have to help the children—”

  “We don’t even know if they would still be there when we arrived.” His words were like a slap. With the Germans killing Jews and the children behind German lines it was only a matter of time. “Addie, I don’t mean to be hard-hearted. But children are suffering everywhere, even in Britain. Eighty died in a bombing at a school north of here months back. And that bloody awful bombing at the underground station.”

  I nodded. But he seemed to suggest that these things made saving the orphans somehow less important. For me, it meant more now than ever. “If there’s a chance to save them, we must try,” I pressed.

  “Is this about Charlie?” he asked abruptly, and I saw he was unable to hide the depths of his feelings for me. I still hadn’t told him what I’d learned about Charlie at the embassy. “Saving those children won’t bring back Charlie—or his brother,” he added gently. I wanted to snap back at him: How dare he presume? But looking into his eyes, I realized that Teddy had come to know—really know—me. He was right: I was trying to rewrite the past.

  This was about more than the Connallys, though. And I wasn’t about to give up on these kids. “No, these children really need our help.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t.” His eyes darted back and forth, searching for my reaction. “Addie, I want to help. You know that. Helping a few dozen children isn’t going to change what they’re doing to all of those people—your people.” But it would be something. “And I’ll be goddamned if I’ll let you go, knowing now what they would do to you if you were caught. Don’t be a hero,” he added. “Do you know what they do to heroe
s? What they did to Tomaszewicz’s family?”

  “No,” I breathed. Though I had only met Jan Tomaszewicz once, his family and especially his nine-year-old daughter had become real to me. I often wondered how they were doing.

  “They were hung in the town square.”

  “Stop!” I cried, covering my ears although it was too late.

  “And that is why I won’t help you with this. Even if you hate me for it.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, then closed it again. “Okay,” I said simply. I would get no further with him and neither of us needed a fight right now.

  “I really am sorry about them—and about Charlie, too.” I pulled back, the unexpected mention of his name stinging. “I know how hard this is for you. He was a brave chap, and well, I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.” In that moment, I was drawn to Teddy and his straightforward views of the world. He liked me and wanted me safe; it was as simple as that. I moved closer and let him put his arm around me, draw me close. When I looked up, our lips were just inches apart. For a second I was tempted: Charlie was gone and Teddy was here, wanting to protect me. Why not accept the comfort he was still so eager to give?

  Because Teddy was not Charlie. I could never feel anything close to what I had felt. And it wouldn’t be fair. Instead, I leaned my head against his shoulder and we both sat in silence. The record reached the end and the needle began to skip. Teddy’s weight grew heavier above me. I pulled away and he did not protest, so I knew even before looking that he was asleep.

  I watched Teddy, with his head tilted back on the sofa. He breathed lightly, giving off the faint smell of sour liquor. His face was clear. There were none of the demons I’d seen as I lay beside Charlie. Even at his darkest, Teddy was placid, removed from the tragedy and despair that surrounded him. I reached for the throw blanket at the bottom of the sofa and covered him with it. I looked around. What now? I’d come to try once more to persuade him to help me, but that had failed. My eyes traveled to his coat, hung over the edge of one of the chairs. His press pass dangled from it. If I had one of those—actual correspondent’s credentials, not a secretary’s— for myself, I could find a way to have the visas delivered—or at least I could try.