by Julia Kelly
The moment should have been light—even filled with a warmth she’d never shared with her employer before—but Stella couldn’t laugh. Instead, she finally said the words that that been stuck in her throat for days. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“How to do what?” Mrs. Symonds asked gently.
“Be a mother to him.”
She knew she should feel something—and she did feel things. She missed her sister. She was furious at the bomb that had fallen on Joan’s flat. She was angry that Joan had died and scampered out of yet another responsibility. But mostly she felt an absence of love for this little boy.
Aunts weren’t supposed to pour their lives and souls into a child the way mothers did. Were they?
“You don’t have to be a mother to Bobby. That was your sister’s role,” said Mrs. Symonds.
“He’s all alone in the world,” she said.
“Doesn’t he have family on his father’s side?” her employer asked.
“No. None that Joan talked about, anyway.”
“Well, your nephew is not alone. He has you,” said Mrs. Symonds.
“I don’t know if I’m enough,” she confessed.
“None of us is. I believe that Father Devlin would say that that’s why we meet so many people in our lives,” said Mrs. Symonds.
Stella frowned. Never in all her years of working at Highbury House could she imagine that she would have a conversation like this with her employer.
As the empty brick pillars that had once held the gates of Highbury House came into view, Stella spotted Bobby leaning against one of the brick columns that framed the drive. He was huffing and puffing, as though he’d run a great race. Stella had a sneaking suspicion that when they got inside, she would also find him streaked with dust from the road that had stuck to splatters of syrup from the store.
“It will not always be this difficult. It will become easier,” said Mrs. Symonds.
“Thank you.”
As they crossed over into the drive, Mrs. Symonds nodded crisply. “Miss Adderton, I wanted to speak to you about the tea. You really must find another solution for the scones. The last two batches have been hard as rocks. I refuse to believe that there’s no good flour to be had in all of Warwickshire.”
Any bond that Stella felt to Mrs. Symonds beyond that of employee and employer crumbled.
Balance had been restored.
• BETH •
Thursday, 1 June 1944
Southampton
My darling Beth,
Already I miss you, and I’ve only just arrived on base. The journey from Highbury was long and slow and made more difficult by the fact that I knew that every mile traveled was a mile further away from you. You won’t forget me, will you, all the way up in the Midlands while I’m staring at the sea?
Love,
Graeme
Saturday, 3 June 1944
Highbury, Warwickshire
My dearest Graeme,
I still can’t quite believe that you’re gone, but every time I worry about when we might see each other again, I can’t help but feel grateful that you’re in Southampton and not in Italy. You must forgive me if that sounds selfish. I know there is nothing you want more than to be with your men again, but Stella tells me that a newly engaged woman is allowed to be a little bit selfish.
I am not too proud to admit that I cried the entire afternoon you left. Mr. Penworthy took pity on me, dear man that he is, and sent me to Mrs. Penworthy. She just shook her head, told me she was sorry to see two young people separated, and set a stack of onions in front of me to slice for soup, since I couldn’t possibly cry any more than I already was. Petunia stopped by as well and sat with me awhile, and even Ruth is being very kind about the whole thing.
But don’t worry. I’ve decided to be very brave. I will keep to my duties on the farm and go to the cinema with Petunia and continue to sketch in Mrs. Symonds’s garden. Everyone has been incredibly kind to me—even Mrs. Yarley in the village shop has stopped eyeing me when I come in to buy drawing pencils. (I am saving yours for something special, don’t worry.)
Enclosed in this letter is a drawing of the garden where we first kissed. Maybe it’s a little sentimental to send you such a thing, but I want you to remember what it’s like here with the flowers in bloom and the summer sun heating the pathways. I don’t think there is a place more beautiful on this earth.
Love always,
Beth
Saturday, 3 June 1944
Highbury, Warwickshire
Dear Colin,
I still have not heard from you, and I fear that my letter may have been lost. Or maybe you simply don’t want to talk to me. I could understand that.
I have no excuse for Graeme. Know that I didn’t intend it to be this way. I didn’t want to hurt you.
All I can ask for is your forgiveness.
Please try to understand.
Affectionately,
Beth
Monday, 5 June 1944
Highbury, Warwickshire
My dearest Graeme,
I hope you will not mind me sending you another letter when I haven’t had one back from you yet. I know that it must be difficult for you to write as you settle into your new role. I remember how long it took me to learn how to do all of my tasks under Mr. Penworthy’s supervision.
Today I wasn’t just a land girl but also a shepherd. Ruth and I were sent over to Alderminster, where Alice is assigned to help Mr. Becker, the shepherd, with the last of the shearing. Petunia was there as well. (She says hello and asks when she can expect to be a bridesmaid.) It took some time to learn how to hold the sheep down and use the clippers. Ruth was nearly kicked in the face, but instead the hoof hit her shoulder. I know I’ve told you that she whines terribly sometimes, but she had good reason today. When we came home, her entire shoulder was black-and-blue. If we had any beef to spare, Mrs. Penworthy would have made her hold a steak to it, I’m sure.
For all of the hard work it was, however, I enjoyed it. We helped weigh and draft the lambs into different fields. It’s hard not to be charmed by them. They are such dear things, and my hands feel the softest they’ve been since I became a land girl thanks to all of that wool.
I’ve been thinking about our wedding. There is no point of having it in Dorking. I don’t know if you would prefer Colchester, but maybe it would be possible to marry here in Highbury. I’ve only been to the church a handful of times, but the vicar seems a very decent sort of man. Also, so many of my friends are in Highbury, and I know that the doctors and nurses from the hospital would be delighted to wish us well on the day.
I’m getting too far ahead of myself now. I should set this letter aside and go help Mrs. Penworthy with dinner.
Love always,
Beth
Tuesday, 6 June 1944
Highbury, Warwickshire
My dearest Graeme,
Another day without a letter in the morning post. I’ve told myself not to worry, but I can’t help it. There is so much for us to learn about each other…
Forgive me my shaking pen. I wrote the above just before heading to the fields, intending to pick it up again if nothing came in the afternoon post, either. Instead, I’ve learned of the invasion underway. Mr. Penworthy carries a wireless radio in the tractor, and we were listening to the BBC while having lunch in the field when John Snagge read out a special bulletin. I will never forget how my stomach dropped when I heard the words “D-Day has come.”
I cannot help now but worry that you were sent to the beaches of Normandy. That this is why you haven’t written to me in days, when you promised you would write every other day at the very least. I will listen to the king’s broadcast tonight—as the entire country will—and pray that you are safe.
I love you. I should have told you that in the garden, but I was so shocked and happy and stunned that you wanted to marry me.
I love you, I love you, I love you,
Beth
Tuesday, 6 June
1944
Highbury, Warwickshire
Dear Colin,
Please write to me and tell me that you’re safe.
Affectionately,
Beth
Wednesday, 7 June 1944
Highbury, Warwickshire
My dearest Graeme,
I do not expect a letter back from you. I can only hope that you are not in Normandy, but I fear from your silence that you are. I can only pray for you and your men.
I love you,
Beth
Thursday, 8 June 1944
Highbury, Warwickshire
My dearest Graeme,
We are all praying for you. Everyone.
Mrs. Symonds was in the kitchen when I made my delivery to Stella, and when she asked for word of you, I could hardly speak through my sobs. She wrapped her arms around me and held me close to her, saying nothing.
Come back to me, Graeme. Come back to me.
I love you,
Beth
“I hate laundry day,” Ruth groaned.
Beth hauled up a basket of wet sheets and balanced it on her hip. “Open the door for me, will you?”
Ruth rushed forward. Since D-Day, everyone seemed to be tripping over themselves to be kind to her. Beth appreciated it—she did—but she would happily work doubly hard to trade away the constant worry for her fiancé’s safety.
Every morning she scoured the newspapers that Mr. Penworthy drove to the village to buy for her. Everyone in the farmhouse gathered around the wireless, hoping for some scrap of information. None of them expected to hear Graeme’s name on the radio, or even much detail about the Pioneer Corps he had been assigned to after being discharged from Highbury House, but it gave them something to do. Something to hope for.
Setting her washing down in the sweet-scented grass under the clothesline, Beth pulled a bunch of pins out of her pocket and clipped them to the arm of her blouse. Ruth picked the top sheet off the stack and unpeeled the wet fabric from itself. Together, they tossed one end over the line, and Beth pinned it in place.
“There’s a dance in Leamington Spa tomorrow evening,” said Ruth.
Beth made a noncommittal noise.
“Petunia will be there,” Ruth tried again. Now that was a sign of how worried Ruth was about her. Her roommate hated Petunia and had once called her one of those horsey girls who couldn’t talk about anything but breeding lines and county hunts. Beth suspected that the truth was that, for all of her resentment of the Women’s Land Army, Ruth liked being the poshest local land girl. When Petunia was around, it was hard to compete.
“If I went, none of you would enjoy yourselves,” said Beth.
“You can’t just sit on your bed and mope.”
“I can, and I will if I want to,” she said.
“Fine,” said Ruth, throwing the next sheet over the line so forcefully that it would have ended up on the ground if Beth hadn’t dived to catch it.
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” said Beth, softening. “I really do.”
“Beth! Beth!” Mrs. Penworthy came running out of the house, flapping her hands about.
“What is it?” Beth asked, her hands stilling on the washing.
“You have post! Two letters!”
The sheet slipped from Beth’s hands and pooled in the grass as she ran toward Mrs. Penworthy. Meeting her halfway, she snatched up the letters, recognizing the handwriting on the top one.
“Graeme,” she breathed, dropping the other letter to tear it open.
Monday, 19 June 1944
My darling Beth,
I cannot tell you where I am or what I am doing but know I’m safe.
Yours forever,
Graeme
P.S. I’ve loved you since I saw you on top of Mr. Penworthy’s tractor.
Beth’s knees gave out. “He’s safe.” He’s safe, and he loves me.
Ruth and Mrs. Penworthy dropped into the grass next to her, engulfing her.
“I’m so glad, pet. I’m so, so glad,” said Mrs. Penworthy.
The three women stayed like that, rocking gently back and forth, until finally Beth loosened her grip on them both.
“The second letter,” she said.
The other women let her go, and Ruth reached behind her to pluck it up off the ground. Beth’s heart sank when she saw the handwritten address.
“It’s from Colin,” she said.
“You need to open it,” said Ruth.
Beth nodded.
“Come on, let’s give her some privacy,” said Mrs. Penworthy, wrapping an arm around Ruth’s shoulders and guiding her toward the house.
With trembling hands, Beth opened Colin’s envelope and drew out the letter. There was only one word written there: No.
• EMMA •
JULY 2021
Emma pulled off her hat and used a handkerchief to wipe her brow, a habit she’d picked up from helping her father in the garden. He would stand, wipe the sweat from his neck, and declare that it was time for a cool drink. She would bound up the garden path to the kitchen, where Mum, who liked to sit at the window while they worked, was already pouring tall glasses of lemonade.
What she wouldn’t give for a lemonade.
All of England and Wales and most of Scotland was in the grips of a heat wave. They’d become a certainty in recent years, and everyone suffered for it in this country with so little air-conditioning. Bow Cottage had remained hot all last night, and she’d hardly slept, even with the rotating fan. When she’d greeted Charlie that morning, he’d told her he’d slept on the roof of the narrow boat, under the stars, and woke up to his mooring neighbor’s dog licking his face.
Still, she was glad to be in the wilds of the winter garden today. It was peaceful here, which certainly had its appeal, but it was more than that. Different garden rooms had different feelings. The children’s garden was playful with its wildflowers and delicately blossomed cherry trees. The tea garden felt formal and proper. But the winter garden held a sobriety that gave her the same sensation as walking into a church. No matter what she encountered outside, she could hitch her leg over the wall, climb down the other side, and the weight of the place would press gently, comfortingly on her shoulders.
Charlie felt it, too, but he wasn’t drawn to it the way she was.
“There’s something about it I just don’t like,” he’d say, shivering as soon as his feet hit the ground. “It feels sad.”
Reverential maybe, she’d decided, thinking of the faint penciled-in name. Celeste’s garden. A remembrance.
“Knock, knock!”
Emma spotted Sydney at the top of the ladder. “Hi.”
“I hope you don’t mind me climbing this, only I wasn’t sure if you would be able to hear me from the gate,” said Sydney.
“So long as you don’t fall off. My insurance couldn’t afford it,” she said.
Sydney laughed. “I promise I won’t.”
“Do you want to come down and see it?” Emma asked.
“I’d love to.”
Sydney scrambled over the top of the wall before Emma could warn her to be careful. She breathed a sigh of relief when her employer’s feet were firmly on the ground again.
Sydney pushed her hair out of her face and gazed around. “It’s like a jungle in here. If I didn’t know better, I would think I was in a forest.”
“I’m afraid forests do a lot better at regulating themselves. This is completely overgrown,” she said.
“I think it’s spectacular. Look at all that you’ve already done.”
“Thanks,” said Emma, genuinely appreciative. “Was there something you needed in particular or were you just curious?”
“Nosy, more like it. No, I actually did have something to ask. Andrew and I were talking, and we wanted to know if you would consider doing the kitchen garden.”
“The kitchen garden?”
“I know it’s not as historically significant as this one, but we’d really like to get it up and running again. W
e just don’t really know where to start,” said Sydney.
“A kitchen garden that size was designed to feed the house’s family and staff, food for a dozen or more. Are you sure you want something that large?”
“It wouldn’t just be for us. I’ve been talking to a teacher at the local primary school, and she said that the kids would get so much out of spending a term in the garden as they learn about plants. I thought it could be part functional garden, part teaching tool.”
It was a fantastic idea. The younger that children got into the garden, the more passionate they were likely to remain when they grew up.
“What would you do with the extra produce?” she asked.
“Henry’s offered to take it on. In addition to his main distributors, he does some community farming initiatives, sells directly to restaurants, things like that.”
She had walked through the kitchen garden only a dozen or so times, but already she could envision what to do with the space. They’d need to rebuild the raised beds and rig up a durable system of netting to keep cabbage butterflies and wood pigeons out. Succession planting to make sure that there was always something ready for harvest, and—
No. She was getting way ahead of herself. She’d already booked her next job after Highbury House—a contemporary bonsai garden for an influencer in Berwick-upon-Tweed—and there would be no room in the schedule to add the kitchen garden in, no matter how tempting the extra money would be.
“I’m really sorry, Sydney, but I don’t think I can extend the job. Besides, kitchen gardens aren’t really my specialty. Charlie has some experience in urban farming, though,” she said.
Sydney’s face fell for just a second before her bright smile popped up again. Still, Emma clocked it.
“I can refer you to a few colleagues who are very good at that sort of thing,” Emma said quickly.
“That would be great,” said Sydney graciously. “Sorry to barge in while you were working. I did try to text.”
“Did you?”
Emma dug her phone out of her back pocket. She saw she’d missed Sydney’s message as well as a string of texts on her family chat: