She left early the next morning. I never saw her again.
Chapter 33
She was one of those declared to be “missing”, for they never found her body or any trace of what became of her. In a way it was harder that way, not knowing for sure, and I tried to keep myself from thinking impossible things, like that she had run away to South America under an alias because she couldn’t bear to live in England without her brother. I knew it wasn’t true or possible. If she were alive she would have gone to Ashford, or let us hear from her. Partly I blamed myself. Why had I not tried to persuade her to stay? But she would have gone in any case. I understood that in my clearer moments, as I also understood that somehow she had known what would happen. Somehow, whether by premonition or simply by a surrendering of herself into the hands of fate, she had known. Her manner when we parted had been that of one who had set aside her fear and looked death squarely in the face, no longer cowed by it. In her way she had been victorious. The war went on. She and Tristan together in their unmarked graves had found their peace before the rest of us.
But I was not ready for the peace of death. I wanted to live. To survive the war and live long and happily. To live at Ashford. I could think of no other home.
The tide began to turn, and we all started breathing again, but hesitantly, like newly released prisoners who mistrust the fresh air as some new trickery of their captors. The hospitals were still full of wounded soldiers, mothers still lost sons and children fathers. The politicians could say what they liked, they could show us lines on maps and talk about pressing forward as much as they wanted. For us, for the little people of the world, the war would not be over until our men and boys stopped coming home with missing limbs, or not coming home at all.
The rats also remained, as wretched, mean, and difficult to catch as ever. Often, as time went on, I felt a great deal of gratitude towards those rats, for they kept both my mind and my hands busy. They kept me sane in a time of insanity.
I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing the day we heard of the German surrender. Ella and I, who usually worked together on especially difficult jobs, were gassing under the floorboards at a farm where the resident cat had recently died and the rats had decided to have a holiday. We had our handkerchiefs over our faces, and looked, I thought, like the least glamourous types of bandits. Suddenly we heard a noise outside and ran to the window to see what was going on.
It was one of the young boys who worked on the farm, old enough to lift and carry but too young to enlist. He was calling and waving his arms to get our attention. We opened the window, breathing deeply of the clean air, and before we could ask him what was going on he had yelled one word, “Victory!” and run on to tell someone else.
Ella and I looked at each other stupidly, hugged each other, coughed, laughed, and ran outside. It had been more than five years, and now it was over. Soon the soldiers would come home. Life would never be what it had been. Things had changed too much for that. But now perhaps we could begin to start fresh.
We were given the rest of that day and the whole of the next off in honour of the occasion, and last-minute plans were put together for a celebration at the inn.
At the hostel that afternoon I groped to the back of the closet and pulled out my party dress. I had not worn it since that memorable Christmas, when I had witnessed one death and heard news of another. I would smooth out its wrinkles and it would be worn again, and this time there would be no tragedy to mar it, no pain but the pain of memory.
As I dressed I found myself thinking of them all -- of Private Simkins, who had died as I sat beside him, of Tristan, of Violet, of two French boys whose fate I would never know -- as if the dress held memory of them in its folds. For a moment I wavered, hesitant to wear this thing which held so much remembrance of pain to a celebration of victory.
Then I heard the other girls calling me from the next room and I shook off the fancy. The dead were gone and could not be recalled. There was nothing further I could do for them. My concern now must be for the living.
The common room of the inn was brightly lit and crowded. None of the candlelight of that Christmas I had been remembering, but tonight, in spite of my love of candles and the thoughts of Ashford they brought, I was glad of the contrast. It was bright and loud, and there was little opportunity for soliloquy.
It was close to midnight. A young soldier strummed a guitar, and a Captain with a scarred face and the Victoria Cross on his breast stood and began belting out “God Save the King”.
Silence came over the crowd as the chatter ceased and all attention was turned to the singer. Slowly everyone began to join in. I heard a man’s voice singing to my right above the others which sounded familiar, but it was only when the song was over that I turned and saw that it was Perry.
For a moment I couldn’t speak or move, and he stood there smiling at me, enjoying my joy and confusion. Then in an instant I threw myself into his arms, caring nothing for the crowd around us. He picked me up and held me there, my feet inches from the floor, and when I moved my head from his shoulder to look at him he astounded me with a kiss.
At almost the same moment we remembered the milling throng around us. He put me down gently and we let each other go. Suddenly I no longer wanted to be there.
“Perry,” I said, laughing a little because it sounded so childish, “I want to go home.”
He laughed back at me.
“Come then,” he said.
“What? Now?”
“Unless you’d rather stay here.”
Through my surprise I shook my head emphatically and followed him to the door.
“There won’t be a train for hours,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter.”
We left the inn, and then I saw Mr. Bertram’s car. I looked around for someone else. There was nobody.
“But you don’t drive.”
“I do when it’s important. I shouldn’t, I suppose. It can be…interesting. Stop staring like that and come with me.”
I shook myself.
“I’m coming, but I’m driving.
I got into the driver’s seat. Perry got in beside me and we drove away. Sometimes Perry slept. Sometimes we talked. Of what hardly matters. Often we said nothing, only kept tryst with the beauty of the night.
We arrived at Ashford in the grey light just before dawn and parked the car at the foot of the garden. Together we sat waiting until, just as the sky was turning pink, we saw the first glimmer of candlelight in the kitchen window. Then we climbed out of the car and started up the footpath. Suddenly I felt nervous. I had not seen them all in so long, and so much had changed. I stopped and looked up at Perry. He must have seen the shrinking in my eyes.
“Adorable coward!”
He took my hand. Together we walked to the front door.
###
About the author
One day in her childhood, Melanie Rose told herself a story about the apple she was eating. It was a planet, inhabited by one tiny man-like creature who kept having to move house as his various residences were devoured by a giant alien. It was a tragedy, of course, ending in the planet's destruction, but the author has been telling herself stories ever since.
Melanie Rose currently resides in Chewelah, Washington, with her husband, singer/songwriter Aaron Gabriel, their dog Leo, and a hedgehog named Ferdinand. She is the author of two works of WWII era historical fiction, Ashford (2011) and Violet Shadows (2012) and as well as a children's book, An Amazing Alphabetic Anthology. Melanie loves to dance and travel.
Ashford was awarded the BRAG Medallion in 2012.
Connect with me online:
Website: http://melanieroseauthor.wix.com/melanierose
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MelanieRoseAuthor
Blog: http://www.roseandwren.blogspot.com
Ashford Page 17