“And I love you, Jonnie.” She closed her eyes, unwilling to leave his embrace.
She felt the brush of his lips at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and her body tingled in a way she’d never experienced before. She blushed. “Jonnie.”
He kissed her again, his warm breath caressing her skin and causing delicious goose bumps to rise on her arms.
“Good night, my love,” he said.
She watched him close the door to the library and thought about how wonderful it would be to share his room, his bed, to stay in his arms all night long.
…
Resting on her bed at home, Catherine held the latest letter from Jonnie against her chest and recalled the very intimate subject they’d both alluded to while in Brighton the week before. When she opened the letter, it smelled of him and the Pears’ Soap he used. Her mind went to his kiss on her neck and the desire that it prompted. His letter was proper, simply full of news, but these days, every time she saw his penmanship she thought of his strong hands and what they might feel like—Stop it. You’re going to drive yourself mad!
She fanned herself and giggled, then opened the second envelope addressed to her that day. “Oh, our engagement snap!” she said with delight. The photograph was beautiful. They both looked handsome and happy, and the famous pier showed in the background.
She leapt up from her bed and propped it beside the corsage she had drying on her bookshelf, then took out a note card and wrote, Engagement photo and corsage – 7th July, 1945 Brighton by the Sea. She took a tiny pin from her sewing kit, attached the card to the corsage ribbon, and tucked it underneath.
As soon as the corsage dried, she planned to store it with the rest of her trousseau for safekeeping, along with the linens she and her mother were gathering for her new life.
She gazed at the photograph for a long moment, then blew Jonnie a kiss and sat to write him a letter.
Chapter Seven
Squeals of delight filled the air the moment Catherine opened her door. She joined in as Susan, Mirin, and Poppy wrapped her in hugs.
“Jeepers, seems like it’s been eternity since we were all together,” Susan exclaimed.
Catherine ushered them into the lounge, then stood back and gazed at Poppy. She hadn’t seen her much since Rose’s death. “I love your new pageboy hairdo.”
A wisp of a smile graced Poppy’s mouth, and she shrugged. “It was time to get rid of the snood, and I rather like the fringe across my brow.”
Catherine knew the style also hid the still angry-looking scar Poppy had gotten from the shrapnel, but chose not to bring it up. “Gosh, I might cut mine the same, if you don’t mind. A new style for my new outfit.”
“Has the seamstress arrived yet?” Mirin asked.
“No, the seamstress will be here at one o’clock to begin her work, so we’ve plenty of time for lunch and catching up.”
“Isn’t Jonathan going to be here?” Susan asked, nudging Catherine with her elbow. “I haven’t seen him since the service, and I’d love to lay eyes on him again—you lucky duck!”
Catherine grinned. “Sorry, no. He and his father came by earlier for Dad, and they’ve all gone off to King Edward’s Pub. They didn’t want to have anything to do with being ‘overrun by females,’ as Dad put it.”
“Mirin told me he proposed in Piccadilly on VE Day. That’s so romantic,” Poppy said softly.
Catherine laughed. “He did, and then he did himself one better and proposed again last week in Brighton, because he felt he hadn’t done a proper job the first time. He got down on one knee, very formal, and look.” She held out her left hand. “Isn’t it beautiful? The ring belonged to his grandmother.”
Her friends gave her a chorus of approving oohs and aahs.
“Perhaps one day we’ll all find somebody like Jonnie,” Poppy said. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Thank you,” Catherine replied. She hugged Poppy and noticed how she turned her injured shoulder and arm away slightly and realized her friend must still be suffering some pain. Certainly, she wasn’t her old sassy self.
Before she could ask about her health, her mum and Aunt Vivi came in and greeted everyone, then called them to the dining room. Lily chattered away, describing how she and Vivi had spent the morning preparing a spring salad of root vegetables and greens from the back garden. It was tossed with a vinaigrette and garnished with sliced radishes, grated cheese, and croutons made of homemade wheatmeal bread.
As everyone took their seats and began to eat, Catherine told them her ideas for the bridal party.
“I don’t want to do anything extravagant. As you know, I’m wearing a silk suit instead of a gown, and I’d like you to wear suits or nice dresses. Something practical that can be worn again in other situations.”
Her friends all nodded, and Mirin said, “Slimline halter-top dresses are flattering, and can be dressed up or down, or a shirtdress style would look good on all of us, too.”
“We’ll have to decide on a pattern, but I thought…” Catherine hesitated and looked at her plate before continuing, “I thought a wool gabardine in a soft, dusty rose might be a nice color on all of you, and, well, it would be a bit of a tribute to Rose, of course.”
An emotional pause hushed the room before everyone burst forth in agreement.
Happy chatter continued until everyone finished eating, and Lily stood to shoo them out of the dining room. “The seamstress will be here shortly,” she said. “Vivi, get the young ladies settled in the lounge, and I’ll take care of cleaning up. When I finish, I shall bring in the tea and some apricot tarts. Go on, go on.”
In the hallway, Catherine took Poppy’s hand and gently held her back.
“How are you feeling?” Catherine asked.
“As right as rain,” Poppy said, yet sounding glum. She glanced down, as if embarrassed. “I’ve missed you all so much,” she quietly added. “It does my heart good to be here.”
Catherine patted her arm. “It’s good to see you.”
Poppy nodded and then set off down the hall.
Catherine stood watching her friend’s back, wishing she could help, but not knowing exactly what to do.
To her relief, she entered the lounge to a chorus of laughter.
With a grin, Susan turned to her and said, “We’re having a gab fest about men. Catherine, you’re next. You must tell us every juicy detail about Dr. Brandon—I mean Major Brandon.” She fanned her face. “We unhitched women cannot live by rumor alone. We want facts.”
Catherine appreciated her friend’s sense of humor, but realized Poppy wasn’t joining in the fun. She quickly sat beside her, took her hand, and Poppy squeezed back, giving Catherine a tentative smile.
The seamstress arrived, arms loaded with sample fabric swatches, pattern designs, measurement tools, a notepad, and a prim, serious demeanor. She poked and measured each girl, took notes, and offered suggestions as they weighed the pros and cons of the various styles.
“What about our hair?” Mirin asked.
Catherine sat back and thought about how they might create something similar to one another, especially given Poppy’s new look.
“Victory rolls?” Susan offered.
“Perfect!” Catherine said. “But just in the back. That way, Poppy can keep her fringe, and the rest of us can do as we like.”
“Jolly good,” Mirin said. “And all of us must wear some mascara. My father’s aunt in the States sent me a supply of Maybelline, and I’ll share it with you.”
“Maybelline and Victory rolls! So glamorous, which describes us to a T!” Susan said.
They all giggled as Lily arrived with a heavily charged tea tray.
“The apricot tarts have no sugar in them,” Lily explained, “but I grated some carrot and added honey.”
Catherine tasted her tart. “Mummy, thank you. It’s delicious.”
Her mother looked pleased as Vivi took over and poured a homemade chamomile tea.
Catherine took a sip, considering. Her mum had d
one a good job with what she had in her pantry, the apricot and carrot flavors perfect complements to each other. She glanced at the gathering, and it struck her that the same could be said of her friends. Yes, perfect complements, each to the others.
Mirin and Susan continued to entertain everyone with their gossip, and Poppy suddenly laughed out loud, her enthusiasm unreserved.
Thrilled, Catherine felt a lift to her soul as she reached for another tart.
Chapter Eight
15 August 1945, Stratford, London
The tension England felt throughout the summer changed to a maddening mixture of abject fear and guarded optimism with the announcement of America’s dropping of atomic bombs on Japan, half a world away. Still, everyone held hope such devastation might bring Japan closer to surrender.
Catherine returned from early morning shopping with her ration card, hustled inside with her parcels, and hung up her rain-drenched jacket and brolly. The skies over London that had grown peaceful after VE Day now seemed full of renewed threats, and not just from the thunderstorms. She pulled the collar of her cardigan up to her ears. It wasn’t cold outside, but the morning gloom weighed heavily, and a full week of unrelenting rain was taking a toll on her nerves.
She checked her dad’s desk to see if a letter had arrived from Jonnie. To her delight, she found a postcard, flipped it over, and read, No time to write. Wanted to tell you all is well and to send my love, JB.
She kissed it and whispered, “I love you, too, Jonnie.” How she wished she could speak with him. He would explain what was going on in the world, what it all meant, and he would allay her fears. But he’d only been able to call once since the news of the atomic bombs, and he wouldn’t have a day of liberty until at least Sunday, if at all.
Catherine went into the kitchen, unloaded the cheese, dried eggs, and bacon, and started to help her mother fix breakfast.
She and her mum sat in the lounge and ate in silence as they listened to the drone of local and national news and weather reports that offered little hope for improvement.
Suddenly, static crackled from the radio, followed by what sounded like a mad scramble in preparation for a special announcement.
Catherine stopped eating and leaned forward, as did Lily.
A faraway voice, pitched high with excitement, shouted, “News bulletin! News bulletin! We’ve just had confirmation of unconditional surrender… Victory… It’s over. The war is over!”
Catherine’s cup crashed to the floor.
Alarmed, her father burst into the room. “What is it? What’s going on?”
With tears streaming down her cheeks, Catherine threw her arms around her father’s neck and sobbed. “It’s over, Dad. It’s over. Japan has surrendered!”
…
Excited, Brandon arrived on Catherine’s doorstep in full dress uniform, his arms laden with a bouquet of roses for Lily, a box of chocolates for Catherine, and a bottle of French wine for George. He had to pull some strings to get the flowers and chocolates, and to his relief, a group captain in the RAF had come through for him. The wine was something his dad had put aside long ago. He’d given it to his son and asked that it be gifted to George.
Within seconds of his knock, Catherine stood before him, about to launch herself into his arms. He held out his hands in warning, and she stopped herself in time to save the gifts. Instead, she kissed him on the cheek and smiled.
She looked adorable.
“Greetings like that are exactly why we fought the war,” he said with a grin.
Catherine threw back her head and laughed in delight.
Her parents came to the door, and he handed them their gifts. Everyone congratulated one another on the wonderful news.
“Sir, I’d like to take your daughter out on the town tonight, if you don’t mind,” Brandon said.
Catherine gave a happy cry and ran upstairs to prepare.
The three of them laughed.
“Actually, there’s to be a celebratory midnight Mass, and I’d like to take Catherine if she says yes. We may stop in somewhere for a bite afterward, so I probably won’t have her home by dawn.”
“Not to worry. I know she’s in good hands.” George clapped him on the back and took his hand in a firm grip. “It’s a great day, and Lily and I want to thank you for your part in all of this. You’re a hero, a credit to our nation, and we want you to know how proud we are to have you join the family. It’s an honor. Truly an honor.”
Lily nodded through a tearful smile.
Caught off guard, Brandon mumbled his gratitude, and was relieved when Catherine returned. She wore a green dress with matching jacket, a smart hat, and gloves.
“Here,” Lily added, shoving a large brolly at Catherine. “It’s supposed to rain. You don’t want to be caught out.”
Catherine took the brolly, and they made a quick exit. She put her arm through his as they reached the footpath.
“You look smashing! Where would you like to go?” Brandon asked. “Pub? Restaurant?”
“Gosh, I don’t know,” Catherine said. “Let’s walk for now. This is the first it’s stopped raining in days, and it feels nice to just stroll along and have you all to myself. No waiters, no interruptions. Just you and me.”
They walked, taking in the sights around them. Damaged buildings crowded Brandon’s view, and he and Catherine had to maneuver around piles of fallen stone work here and there. Whatever the state of his city, Brandon felt proud of what Londoners accomplished, and how hard they worked throughout the war to preserve as much of the city as possible.
“I asked your parents if we might go to the Mass at St. Paul’s later on tonight,” he said. “They gave us their blessing. Would you like to go?”
“Oh, yes, I’d love it,” she replied, then pointed down the street. “What is going on?”
He could see there was an event of some sort a few blocks ahead. As they neared, he realized it was an impromptu block party. Someone had hauled a phonograph to their window and turned up the volume, and revelers danced in the street.
Benny Goodman’s song, “Sing Sing Sing,” filled the air. With a sudden urge to join in, Brandon propped the brolly against a wall and swept Catherine into his arms. They danced, too, and celebrated the end of the war.
After an hour, they were both spent and ready to head to London and St. Paul’s. They held each other’s gazes for a moment, and then Brandon said, “I love you, Catherine.”
She grinned, nodded, and then took his face in her hands and planted a big kiss on his lips. “I love you, too!”
He grabbed her hand and the brolly, and they headed for the tube station. On the way, Catherine spotted a brand new shop, so new it didn’t even have a sign.
They glanced through the front window. There was sawdust on the floor of the window display, along with a water bowl, an empty food bowl, and a large box lying on its side.
“Oh, Jonnie! A pet shop! Do you suppose they’ve got puppies or kittens?” Catherine bent over and tried to peer into the box. “I do believe I see… Drat, I can’t tell what it is.”
Brandon couldn’t see anything. “Kittens, I’d guess—”
“Oh, Jonnie, look!” she squealed and grabbed his arm.
He saw nothing at first, then there it was—one tiny paw and the fuzzy rump of a puppy. He hadn’t seen a dog outside the military since the start of the war.
The rump shifted again, then the little fellow tumbled out of the box with a wide yawn.
“It’s an Airedale!” Catherine exclaimed.
Another followed, climbing unnecessarily over the first. And then a third rolled out of the enclosure. Soon, all three were looking back at them and wagging their tails.
Brandon grinned at Catherine’s excitement. “Have you ever owned a dog?”
“No. Aunt Vivi had a darling Westie I considered my own when I was a girl, but even she hasn’t had one in years.”
“Well,” he asked, trying to sound casual, “have you ever wanted one?”
“Not as big as these will become! One of these little tykes would take over the whole house in a few months.” She looked up and smiled wistfully. “But, yes, someday I’d dearly love to have a Westie, or a Cairn terrier. They’re so cute and full of life, and a much better size for living in the city.”
Brandon smiled back and tugged on her arm. They left the puppies behind. Maybe, just maybe, he’d find a way to make that happen.
…
Brandon squeezed Catherine’s hand as they shuffled along in a huge queue of thousands of Londoners heading to St. Paul’s. He gazed up in awe at the enormous dome and twin spires. How had it managed to survive the Blitz? The odds against such a thing happening gave him pause as he surveyed the rubble and ruin still surrounding it.
“It would have been bloody awful if we’d lost it to the bombs,” he murmured.
Catherine nodded. “The fire brigades did themselves proud the way they protected it. Thank goodness the one that did hit missed the dome.”
“Speaking of which,” Brandon said, “did you know the original cathedral was destroyed in Elizabethan times? It had a big, central steeple, not a dome. It was struck by lightning and nearly burned to the ground.”
“Yes, I remember the tour guide telling us about that when I visited for a school outing.”
Brandon leaned in with a grin. “I’ll bet you didn’t know I was born on the 350th anniversary of the strike.”
Catherine turned to him. “What?”
“Indeed. It happened June 4, 1561, and I was born in the evening of that same day, in 1911. Mum said I arrived squalling, even as fireworks were going off all over London in commemoration.”
“You made Rose miss the big event?” Catherine teased. “How very unchivalrous of you.”
“Quite. And she never let me forget,” he deadpanned.
Their conversation ended as they reached the columned portico and then passed inside. Brandon took off his military hat and tucked it under one arm. As they entered the nave, with its checkerboard floor and soaring vaulted ceiling, they gaped at the huge crater where the high altar had been.
“Bloody hell,” Catherine said.
Begun by Time Page 5