Never Just a Memory

by Gloria Cook

  His heart gave a peculiar lurch and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Miss Reynolds was in the doorway, framed in a golden haze, come back to turn him out for intruding. ‘Oh!’ His hand flew to his heart. ‘It’s you, Jill. I thought you were a ghost.’

  ‘You look as lost as I feel. Want some company?’

  ‘Come in. Afraid there’s nowhere else to sit unless you care to rest on my lap. I’m wedged in this little chair, not sure if I can get out.’

  ‘What a strange little place.’ She delved into every nook and space. The curtains were moth-eaten. Tom had packed the few dust-laden ornaments, of fine quality, and the cream and brown odds of crockery into a box. ‘There’s not a single photograph. What did the old lady look like?’

  ‘She had snow-white hair in a long plait wound up round her head. Her hands and feet were as small as Pearl’s. She spoke like a BBC broadcaster. I used to think she had a vicious streak, but when I looked at her face as she lay dead she looked quite content. Perhaps she knew no one could ever bother her again.’

  ‘It’s sad though, isn’t it? Wanting that much solitude.’

  Tom’s eyes grew watery. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed, Tom.’ She went to him. Their friendship was so close she felt no shyness at sitting on his lap. He rested his face against her shoulder. She put her arms round his neck. ‘Cry as much as you want. It’s been easier for me. I had Lottie to blubber to.’

  ‘I’m glad she understood your heartbreak,’ he sniffed. He wasn’t going to cry – he’d done enough of that. ‘She loses her patience with me.’

  ‘Don’t you think she has a point though?’ Jill said soothingly. ‘That it’s time you spoke to Louisa? According to Faye, she’s just as miserable as you are. You might be able to sort things out. You’ll continue to find it hard to go on if you don’t thrash out your feelings with her. One of you needs to make the first move. Why don’t you make it?’

  ‘I’m not being stubborn, honestly, Jill. I don’t believe Louisa is either by keeping her distance. We hurt each other badly. I don’t think we can get back what we had.’

  ‘You won’t know if you don’t try. And if you can’t, don’t you think it would be good to be her friend again? Think about it.’

  He did. They stayed wrapped up silently, finding comfort, enjoying the nearness. It was different holding Jill. Her body was just as feminine as Louisa’s but he could have her this close without lusting for her. Had lust been the biggest attraction where Louisa was concerned? Had her aura of purity, her great compassion, the hint of unavailability, made him long for something he’d thought he could never have? If he had really loved her, how could he have kept this long silence? He knew then that his raw feelings had been more to do with his hurts than the need to be forever with Louisa. He told Jill these thoughts. ‘That makes me bloody damned shallow. I compromised Louisa. I asked her to marry me but I didn’t put it to her properly, in a way a woman would want. Then at the first little crisis, instead of trying to understand the motives behind her secrecy, I blew her out. I as good as deserted her. All I’ve done since is to send her a letter to say sorry about her bereavement – that must have seemed bloody insulting. I do need to go to her, Jill. To say sorry and ask her to forgive me.’ He kissed the crown of her head and snuggled her in tighter. ‘Thanks. You’re everything a chap could wish for in a friend.’

  ‘You too.’ She was so comfortable with him she could easily have dozed off into a contented sleep.

  ‘When will you go to Kenwyn?’

  ‘Today. Soon. But not yet. Let’s stay like this a while longer.’

  * * *

  Tristan timidly approached Ursula’s grave. He’d brought flowers, a few carnations, not knowing if he should leave them. He hardly had the right. He was pleased to see there were some there already. ‘Hello, Ursula,’ he whispered. ‘Hope you don’t mind me coming. I’m so sorry. I was too hard on you. If I’d accepted your baby, you might have fought to live. If you knew how I’ve treated your little girl you’d hate me.’

  Despite the crows croaking their everyday treetop graveyard dirge, there was an unearthly hush. A sense of isolation. Tristan swallowed. He was infringing, he had no right to be here. Bruce Ashley had come back to Ursula. They belonged together. He’d leave, take his flowers with him. Then he knew another reason for his unease. He wasn’t the only visitor to this quiet place. Louisa walked round to the head of the grave and faced him. As grim as death. She was pale and thin, her eyes too large for her lovely face. ‘Do forgive me. I shouldn’t have encroached. I, um… just wanted to… say goodbye to her.’

  ‘Why did you come?’ she asked in the softest whisper.

  Her thoughts were unreadable but Tristan feared she’d fly at him. He took a respectful pace back. ‘I’ve wanted to since the day, um, Bruce died. On the way back to Lottie’s reception it hit me just how cruel I’d been to you all your life. And to Ursula. I really did love her, please believe that.’

  ‘I suppose I should feel glad about that. You’ll always hate my father, won’t you? Do you want to see where he’s buried?’ Accusation blazed in her. ‘There’s flowers on his grave too. I’ll never abandon either of them.’

  She expected him to decline, perhaps mumble another pathetic apology and walk away. She was taken out of stride when he said, ‘Yes, I would like to, if you meant that as a serious offer.’

  ‘I didn’t. I was being sarcastic. Why do you want to go there?’

  Tristan shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t have dreamt of it until you asked. To make a sort of peace, I suppose. I’m not feeling noble, Louisa. I hated Bruce Ashley more for taking Ursula away from me rather than for hurting her so much. Sometimes when I look at you, you remind me of her and I remember how much she meant to me. She was once my lifeblood. I adored her. Her betrayal sliced my heart in half. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.’

  ‘Since Bruce died I’ve spent nearly all my time alone, time in which I’ve examined all the facts and all my feelings. I’ve tried to understand things from your angle, although I didn’t really want to. Ursula tried twice to deprive you of Jonny, during a time when you were going through hell in the trenches.’

  ‘It’s no excuse for my years of animosity. Please forgive me.’

  She came round the headstone and gazed at the name, so reviled, so tragic. ‘You and Jonny are my closest links to the mother I never knew, but Jonny doesn’t remember very much about her. If I was to ask you questions about her, would you tell me what I want to know?’

  ‘I might do. Yes, I would. The memories shouldn’t be exclusively mine. It would please Jonny if we started to talk, came to a truce. Oh, God, Louisa, you look so frail and alone. You’ve cut yourself off from everyone except Faye. It isn’t good for you. It’s time your suffering stopped. I’d be privileged to help you in any way I can.’

  She pulled in her face, her chin quivering, close to tears. Concern from the one person who’d always rejected her brought her rawness, all the hurt, to the brink. ‘Put your flowers in with mine.’ Her voice was scratchy with emotion. ‘Then come with me.’

  She led the way to the new grave dug at the end of the row of resting places. ‘He didn’t want his name put on the headstone but I couldn’t allow him to be anonymous. I hope you don’t mind the words.’

  Tristan read the stone. ‘“John Ashley. 1892 to 1944. Reunited with his love.” Was that his real name? Wise of you to leave out Bruce, with people like me around. No, I don’t mind the words. After all, I was the fortunate one. I had Ursula for a few good years and then a very happy marriage with Winifred. And I was the one who watched Jonny grow up into a fine man.’

  Louisa pointed to the verge, just feet away. ‘Bruce liked to sit there. Shall we?’

  ‘I’d be pleased to.’ Tristan tentatively offered his arm.

  She took it and they walked and sat down. ‘Life is strange. I’d never have thought that I’d sit here with you.’

  ‘Before we talk abou
t other things, may I know how you feel about Tom?’ Tristan said. ‘He’s been so wretched. He’s genuinely sorry for upsetting you.’

  ‘I believe he is. I don’t know why I haven’t been in touch with him. I make up my mind to write or telephone, then I just can’t bring myself to.’

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but is it because you need to forgive him? It’s what you did to Bruce, and the others for keeping the secret. You’ve even forgiven me, haven’t you? It’s what you do, Louisa. Your deep feelings for Tom, your disappointment in him, his lack of support and understanding, while you were wrestling with the stress of keeping Bruce’s identity a secret, was too much for you. You know better than I there is a sweet release in forgiveness.’

  She sighed heavily, her whole body sagging. ‘You’re right. I’ve known it all along. I just… with Tom it’s so hard. Was hard. I’ll go to him soon, clear the air.’

  ‘Do you want him back?’

  ‘No. We weren’t meant to be together. I’ve come to realize that I didn’t feel the same way about him as I did David. We should have stayed as friends. It would be good to be his friend again. To be able to go to Ford Farm without worrying I might bump into him.’

  ‘And to Tremore? I hope you feel you can go there. You’ll be very welcome.’ Tristan looked up and was pleased to see someone coming towards them. ‘It’s Tom. He looks as if he’s got something to say to you. I’m sure you’ll sort it out. I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘Tristan,’ she said, before he’d gone. ‘Would you like to wait for me? Come back for tea? Whatever conclusion Tom and I come to, I’d be glad of your company.’

  ‘My dear Louisa, I’d be delighted to.’

  ‘Surprised to see you here, Uncle Tris,’ Tom said, his amazement plain, when they met along the path. ‘How is she?’

  ‘I’ve started to make things up to her. You’ll need to go gently with her, Tom.’

  ‘I will, don’t worry.’

  A short time later Louisa walked back to her house escorted on either side by the two men.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  On the fifth night of June, just as those at Ford Farm were retiring to their beds they were brought out of doors. They were used to bombers making an outward journey at dusk and counting them back in at dawn. Tonight was different. The drone, the beat, went on and on and on, far louder than ever before due to the sheer heavy number of aircraft heading for the south coast. Pinpricks of navigation lights could be seen, like coloured moving stars.

  Half-believing what she was hearing, her heart thundering with awe and pride, every nerve taut with dread, Jill reached for Tom’s hand. ‘This is it.’

  His emotions matched hers. Unable to form any words, he squeezed her hand. He guessed the same thing would be happening up and down all of the south of the country. The bombers were off to make the first wave of assault – for the next twenty-four hours, on average, a bomber would take off in England every three and a half seconds. It meant the ships and landing craft had already left. The massive operation of D-Day had begun.

  Clutching a fretful Paul, Emilia clung to Perry. ‘May God protect them all.’

  Edwin and Tilda had never come into close contact before. Now she was glad to link arms with him.

  Lottie moved away on her own. She hadn’t seen or heard from Nate for six weeks; intensive training had forbidden it. A week ago, Falmouth had endured its worst bombing raid and there had been many casualties. She had been relieved to hear that Jill’s uncle and family had come through safely, but it had been hell wondering if Nate had been in the area and hurt. No tragic news had come. As the terrible expectation of the invasion had hovered in the air, the time had been progressively harrowing for everyone. The horrors of war had been increasingly isolating her from Nate. The whole of the country’s mail had been stopped, all travel severely restricted. News had filtered through that the coast was sealed off.

  The unparalleled activity above meant that Nate was now most likely somewhere off the edge of the French coast. For the first time, soon to be pitched into the hell of battle.

  ‘Nate…’ Her prayer was that simple.

  At Tremore, Tristan and Faye stood on the balcony of Ben’s bedroom, arms round waists, their minds on Jonny. ‘He’s made it so far,’ she said, leaning her face against his dressing-gown sleeve.

  ‘We can only go on hoping and praying.’ Tristan would find nothing to comfort himself throughout this night. The scale of the whole operation was unprecedented in history, the outcome never more vital, but he was proud his son was in the thick of it.

  ‘Simon should sleep through but we’d better check on the other children. If all ends well in the next hours, weeks, months, they can start to look forward to going home, only they won’t have a home to go back to. I can’t bear the thought of them ending up in an orphanage, Uncle Tris, perhaps split up.’

  ‘Pearl, Bob and Len aren’t going anywhere they don’t want to. I know you’ll probably find someone and get married one day, Faye, but until then how would you like to help me raise a second family? The children like it here. I hope Ben lets us all stay.’

  Faye was silent. Was her father somewhere out there, where the aircraft were going to? Was he anywhere at all? ‘Do you really think he’ll come back?’

  ‘I hope so. Don’t you think he will?’

  She shuddered. ‘I’ve this awful feeling that he’s dead. I suppose we’ll find out eventually what’s happened to him. Right now, we must pray for Jonny and Nate and all those other young men.’

  ‘Yes. Louisa will be praying for Jonny too.’

  * * *

  Jonny and his Lancaster crew were flying in the first wave of bombers in neat wingtip-to-wingtip formation across the rough Channel waters. Their mission, to begin the assault on the strongest enemy coastal defences, extremely tough opposition, but reconnaissance photographs had shown that the German propagandists had greatly exaggerated the formation of the Atlantic Wall – an impregnable barrier their forces had been stated to have built against the expected invasion. The intelligence made him think sadly of Will. He didn’t think about his own chances – he was already years older than the average pilot. His crew had mixed feelings about him. The older men considered him lucky because of his long-held survival, the younger ones wondered if his number was about to come up and take them with him. Tonight his squadron was to pound the Normandy coastline, while other planes, along with dummy ships, were to cleverly make it look as if Calais was the intended place for Operation Overlord.

  When this mission, God willing, was over, they’d return, snatch a rest while the crate was being bombed up again, and go back to strike targets inland. By then the beaches should have been taken…

  * * *

  The long, empty weeks without Lottie had been exceptionally tense for Nate. A sense of unease and boredom had gained dominance of him and his countrymen during the interminable wait for ‘something to happen’. The training, with the use of live ammunition, landing on the Cornish beaches, was to prepare the men for landing with heavy equipment, to storm the occupied beaches and hold them. He’d tended mock wounded, and a few nasty real wounds, mainly from accidents on the crafts or clambering down high makeshift walls on nets, in practice for when it must be done from troop ships to the boats and DUKWS. These ‘ducks’, locally built amphibious crafts, were designed to be driven straight from the boats through the surf to the beaches.

  When the briefings had come, the tension had lifted a little. Every man was detailed on his exact duties and was shown a map of the landing beach and allowed to study it for as long as he wanted. Men with some knowledge of the European coastline recognized the small chunk of intended coastline as being French. The code name for the beach they were to storm was Omaha. The order to pack up and move out had been met with relief, disbelief, eagerness to get on with it and get it over with, and a sickly apprehension that made the heart beat strangely, the gut refuse to settle. A few men sank into a fateful gloom. Many f
elt proudly that this was somehow to be their main purpose in life, what they had really been born for. A few wrote poignant or philosophical or far-reaching words in their diaries. Some just ached to go home to their once ordinary, everyday lives.

  The journey on the vehicle-choked roads, heading for where the ‘sausages’ were to embark, had been frustrating and stuffy, and had taken so long the men had got out of their vehicles to cook meals and make coffee. The embarkation had been at Tolverne, where an American naval base was set up, on the River Fal. A little cottage had nestled there, flanked by overhanging trees, a feature of the pretty estuary waters. After the short journey down to Falmouth harbour, they were out at sea.

  After Nate had endured the claustrophobia of being cooped up in the troop ship, a twenty-four-hour stand-down due to poor weather and seasickness, among many other seasick fellows as the sailing got under way, he’d had no idea that a rendezvous of the full invasion fleet had taken place off the Isle of Wight, more than two thousand Allied ships, the greatest meeting of sea craft ever orchestrated. The British Second Army were about to advance on the more eastern end of the sixty-mile stretch of Normandy coastline, their invasion beaches code named Sword, Juno and Gold. The United States First Army was to land further west, and as well as the beach coded Omaha, there was Utah, on each side of the estuary of the River Vire. Mainly Canadians had the assault of code name Juno.

  Under last night’s darkness, at each end of the invasion area, huge forces of airborne troops, British to the east, American to the west, had landed by parachute and glider, their purpose to protect the flanks of the seaborne forces. In dawn’s first reluctant light a great bombardment, the heaviest and most concentrated ever scaled, had begun from the big naval ships and aircraft to ‘soften up’ the targets. The battleships, cruisers and destroyers quivered and shook as they unleashed the terrible battery, as if they had been brought to a living force all of their own.