A Christmas Gift

by Ruby Jackson

  He answered one before she had asked it. ‘I’m very well, Sally, and so glad to be home.’

  Home? The word could mean so many things. Home as in back in England. Home in his house in Dartford. ‘Where, Jon? Are you still in a hospital?’

  ‘Afraid so but it won’t be long before they discharge me. I’m perfectly well. Got one or two events mixed up – so much to remember. I did try to make a diary of sorts in my letters to you.’

  Tears began to slip down her cheeks and she tried to brush them away with her free hand. ‘I’m so sorry, but I didn’t get any letters.’

  ‘I know. Emmanuel didn’t pass them on. Difficult for him. It’s not as if he could simply take them to a post office. When can you come down? God, I’m sorry. You may not even want to come down or you’re probably too busy.’

  ‘I will never be too busy to see you, Jon. I’m sure I will be able to travel. Is there a day for visiting or a time?’

  He laughed and she liked the sound. She had never before heard him laugh.

  ‘It’s not that type of hospital. Maudie came down on Sunday because she and Fedora keep the shop open all the other days of the week.’ He gave her the number of the hospital so that she could ring him when she had managed to make an arrangement. ‘And I won’t mind if it’s too difficult at the moment, Sally, just knowing that you will come is wonderful. I have so much to tell you.’

  Suddenly the line went dead. Sally kept the receiver against her ear, waiting, waiting, holding her breath to make sure she was as quiet as could be, but could hear nothing. She managed to replace the receiver and then she curled up in as small a ball as she could make against Sebastian’s grandmamma’s Regency cushions.

  Millie found her there sometime later. ‘All right, Sal? Was it Jon?’ She handed Sally her handkerchief. ‘Now had I known I would need to do this – bearing in mind that you never have a hankie when you need one, I’d have taken out a pretty one today.’

  Sally sniffed and sat up. ‘I’m fine. It’s just that Jon was talking and the line went dead. He didn’t say goodbye.’

  ‘Nothing in that, Sally; it happens all the time. Interruptions to the line, or pip pip because the person on the other end has run out of money – modern hazards. Just think of the miracle of actually hearing a voice out of that piece of black Bakelite? How is he?’

  The young women sat for some time talking quietly until Sally had told Millie everything that Jon had said.

  ‘Our lovely landlord is making toast and cocoa, possibly for the last time now that electricity’s rationed. It’ll be chocolate next and then how will we survive? Hasn’t cocoa got something to do with chocolate? Let’s join him.’

  Sebastian, too, was able to reassure Sally. ‘Tomorrow you should be quite open and talk to Max. He understands about love, Sally. If we have a free day coming up you could get an early train …’ He stopped. ‘No, wait, I have a better idea. Trains have two speeds at the moment, slow and stationary. I’ll check with Dmitri about how much petrol I have. I’ll drive you down – my God, what am I saying? Where is he? Must be by the sea. Please don’t say Truro or somewhere like that. Millie, you come too. We’ll leave Sally with Jon and we’ll find a cosy seaside pub and, if we’re lucky, have an almost pre-war lunch.’

  ‘Hayling Island, but I didn’t have time to ask him where that is.’

  ‘Portsmouth. What do you think, Millie? Are you up for “The sea! the sea! the open sea!”?’

  ‘The sea? No. The cosy seaside pub, absolutely.’

  And so it was settled.

  Max assured Sally that what she did in her own time was not his affair. He checked the engagement diary, and since the company had no commitments, other than rehearsals, on the following Tuesday he wished her well. ‘Hope you find your friend in good health.’

  ‘Sebastian and Millie will come too. Is that all right?’

  ‘Not if I have an emergency request, Sally, I’ll need them. Best I can do, I’m afraid.’

  Sally thanked him and was on her way to the door when he called, ‘By the way, Sal, learn Ophelia’s lines – Sylvia’s expecting a baby – not announcing to the company just yet but she may well take some leave soon. If she does and you’re up to it, I may slot you in somewhere but you’ll have to be really good; Lal can always fill in.’

  Sally managed to leave the room calmly but as soon as she had closed the door behind her she hurried to the ladies’ room, turned on a tap to deafen the sound, and shouted ‘Yippee’ not very loudly.

  ‘Good news, Sally?’ To her embarrassment Sybil had joined her at the basin.

  ‘Yes, thank you. Jon rang and I’m going to see him.’

  ‘Lovely.’ Sybil finished washing her hands, walked to the door where she turned. ‘When I got my first major role, I found a chimney and shouted “Halleluiah’’ up it as loudly as I could.’

  Sally could hear her laughing as she walked away. ‘I haven’t actually got it,’ Sally told herself. ‘Max has no favourites. If I’m not good enough, I won’t get it, but this is the closest I’ve been.’

  Millie and Sebastian were not free after all on Tuesday as Max accepted an invitation to perform at a local military hospital. Sally, very grateful that he had not cancelled her free day, dressed carefully in a light-weight woollen panelled skirt in green and black and which came to just below her knees. With it she wore a long-sleeved green silk blouse buttoned right up to the neck, the loose sleeves buttoned tightly at the wrists. Her shoes were black, flat, soft leather walking shoes, laced and tied with a small bow – suitable only for strolling in gardens or parks. She curled her hair into the popular sausage curl on the forehead and tied the rest back with a black ribbon but deciding that the colour might remind him too forcibly of death, she replaced it with a green one borrowed from Millie. Happy with what she thought of as her “secretarial image” Sally boarded a train, which went fairly slowly but steadily all the way to Portsmouth. She got out at Portsmouth and looked around the very busy station, wondering how on earth she was going to find her way to the hospital. She was just about to join the long, snaking line for a taxi when she heard her name called. A sailor whom she had never seen before was walking towards her, holding a placard with her name on it.

  She waved to him. ‘Are you looking for me? I’m Sally Brewer.’

  ‘I know, miss. Saw you at an ENSA concert, wearing the loveliest frock – told my missus all about it. Commander Galbraith’s compliments, miss. He’s sent me to bring you to the hospital. Taxis are as rare as hen’s teeth these days.’

  A few minutes later Sally was being driven through the gates of the naval medical facility, where she saw a tall, slim man in naval uniform standing outside a beautiful old building built from some kind of warm red stone. It stood foursquare at the top of the driveway, the naval officer just in front. Jon? No, Jon’s hair was dark and the hair that peeped out from under the hat had a streak of silver above each ear. As the car came to a halt just at the foot of the steps, he moved to where it was and opened the door. ‘Sally?’

  ‘Jon?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me.’ And he held out his right hand to help her out of the car.

  They stood looking at each other. They did not fall into each other’s arms and kiss. Jon gripped Sally’s arms, held her away from him for a moment and then kissed her gently on each cheek. ‘Thank you for coming. You look … absolutely wonderful.’

  They stood for a moment, Sally still in Jon’s grasp, looking at each other until eventually Jon said, ‘They’re giving us lunch in the Mess, Dover Sole. I hope you like sole.’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Sally rather demurely.

  ‘There’s so much I need to tell you, Sally, so much I want to know about you. Shall we lunch first and then, if you don’t mind walking – it’s not too windy today, is it? – we could stroll around the grounds, quite pretty actually with daffodils and some rather splendid tulips; reminded me of tulips I saw in a park in Paris before the war. Ever been to Paris? Oh, don’t answ
er that, Sally. I’m so nervous I’m babbling.’

  ‘It’s all right, Jon. It’s me, just Sally,’ and he smiled then, a smile that, as it had done once before, a lifetime ago, changed his face into that of the much younger man he really was.

  He took her hand and they made their way to the Officers’ Mess and they ate the beautifully fresh fish, drank a little white wine, and chatted. When they had finished lunch they walked outside and began to follow a path that wound through and around the garden.

  ‘May I hear all about you or should I tell you what happened?’

  ‘You can learn all there is to know about me any time, Jon. I’d rather learn about your wonderful rescue.’

  ‘I’ll start at the beginning then, and if it’s too frightfully boring, I’ll shut up.’

  ‘It won’t be, Jon. Tell me everything. My train doesn’t leave till six forty-five.’

  ‘Very well. I wrote it all down during the debriefing, piecing it all together. I remember the second half of our experiences perfectly well. We were in the south of France then, and I know exactly where we were and what we did, but it took me some time to recover from being – I don’t know how long – several hours at least in the open sea, and so my memories of the weeks we spent in Corsica, for that’s where we were, are sketchy at best. The important things I remember; that Emmanuel was one of the finest men I’ve ever met, and he and his cousin Jean-Jacques risked everything to save us.’

  ‘Go ahead, tell me the whole story, Jon,’ said Sally.

  ‘Dear Sally, that would take much too long, but I’ll start at the beginning. I was married, you knew that, and when I asked you to write to me, I knew that I should explain, but I found I could not talk about Luisa, my wife, or my failed marriage. I felt an attraction to you the moment you said, “Hello, Just Jon.” I wanted to laugh. You were so normal, and so little in my life had been normal for such a long time. I forced myself to believe that it was better that you meet someone suitable, perhaps Sebastian or someone like him, and that doing the things that young people who like each other do, seeing a film, or watching a play, you would fall in love naturally and would eventually forget all about me. In the meantime, though, I would receive your letters and pretend we were in another time, another place. I castigate myself for my selfishness. I was a married man and I was a serving sailor in a war and should have been thinking of nothing but my duty to my King and my country. But your letters were like clean fresh air blowing across my fields and I treasured them.

  ‘When we were torpedoed I would imagine that any of us still capable of thinking thought only of how to survive. How any of us escaped is still a mystery and a miracle. They blew us up, Sally, up in the air like a firework at a Guy Fawkes party. I felt nothing and after the first boom as the torpedoes hit, I heard nothing; I was deafened. It was so eerie, the sky darkened by thick black smoke and the sea by oil and blood, and I remember the taste of both in my mouth. I suppose that, for a time, I was unconscious, because I remember being surprised to find myself being pitched and tossed at the whim of the waves, and hearing absolutely no sound at all, not the slapping of waves against debris and, frighteningly, no voices or shipping sounds carried on the wind. I managed to turn round several times; I was looking for my ship, for the other Allied shipping that had been there – how long ago – but they had gone, every one. Dear God, the thoughts that race through one’s head at such a time. They are all lost, I remember thinking, and I am the only man left alive in this sea. How long will I last or will it be a kinder death if I simply turn over and let myself drown? How long was I unconscious, and am I conscious now? I had as much power over my body and my survival as the pieces of driftwood that floated past me, or the bodies that were bumping against mine. I recognised several: the captain, three seamen I’d known since they first joined up, Cookie, and then a wave threw a slight body on top of me and it was Ben Templeton, one of the junior officers. I grabbed him, not knowing what I was going to do with his body but not wanting to let it go. His eyes were wide open and I could see his mouth moving but no sound came and I thought that perhaps he was dead and some nerves were still reacting. I was very clinical about it; helped me to avoid thinking about drowning and never seeing you again. I seem to remember trying to shout but heard nothing and supposed I had lost the power of speech too.

  ‘The next thing I remember was waking up in the bottom of a boat, a fishing boat, for the smell of fish permeated both the planks and the net carefully draped over us to prevent us suffocating. Ben was beside me; his face was pale and his eyes were closed but someone had bandaged his head with a lady’s silk scarf, a bright green one, which looked strange on a sailor’s head. I had not noticed an injury; perhaps the waves washed the blood away from me.

  ‘Still I could hear nothing, but the boat was moving and I thought, I should be able to hear something, the engine, the prow cutting through the water, something, and I accepted that I was deaf, but alive, and so more blessed than my comrades. I think I wept then – me, a grown man – but the tears were not for me.

  ‘The fishing boat, with its odd catch, was moving, and a man was beside me pulling me up to a sitting position. I’m ashamed to say that, for a fraction of a second, I thought he meant to pitch me over the side for if he was German, a deaf and dumb prisoner of war would be no use to him. Perhaps he saw my fear for he pulled me closer to his chest and put a bottle to my lips. His lips were moving but I could not hear what he said. The message from the bottle was clear and I drank and began to cough and choke as some red-hot liquid ran down my throat. He took the bottle away; he was laughing and obviously telling the pilot what was happening for I felt him laugh again. The alcohol had gone from burning to warming and I began to feel better. He gave me another drink, looked at Ben, said something and disappeared.

  ‘We did not put into a port but to a small secluded bay. It was very dark. Several men appeared from a cave and they stood around talking and gesticulating, dis-agreeing too, I think from the angry faces. But then one large man walked back into the cave and eventually came out leading an old mule, which was harnessed to a cart. We were taken to a house; Ben was carried in and I’m pleased to say that I managed to stumble in mainly on my own. The lady of the house made hot drinks, which I later learned were from herbs in her garden. Quite delicious. They had put Ben in a rather splendid wooden bed, like the Daddy Bear’s bed in the fairy story, and he was stripped and washed, put into a clean if somewhat coarse nightshirt, and our rescuer, Emmanuel, held him up and helped him sip the drink. My inability to communicate was frustrating and the fear that it was permanent was terrifying. I think they tried to calm me and Madame gave me bread and hot soup. The curtains were drawn, I assumed because it was night, but as I finished my meal, a man was admitted. He smiled at me but went straight to Ben and began to examine him. The green bandage was taken off his poor head, and for the first time I saw that the fair hair on top of Ben’s head was matted with blood. He was given quite a large dose of whatever fiery liquid I had drunk on board and after a few minutes, the doctor, for he was obviously a highly trained medical man, cut his hair and washed and sewed up an ugly gash on the top of his head. I don’t think Ben cried out but I could hear nothing. When the doctor was finished with Ben, he examined me. I have no idea what he said but I too was stripped and washed, dressed in, I think, Madame’s nightwear, for I’m sure that Corsican men don’t often embroider little flowers on their clothes. Those dear people had one nightshirt or nightgown each and they gave them and their bed to us, for Emmanuel picked me up as if I was his child and set me down beside Ben. More fiery liquid, not from the original bottle and I fell into a deep sleep. I’m not sure how long I stayed in the bed but it was some time. Shall I go on?’

  Sally smiled. ‘Of course, I want to know everything but could I ask you something?’

  He nodded.

  ‘When did you learn the name of your rescuer?’

  ‘That night. He wrote it down for me and we communicated like tha
t for some time.’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  Jon looked at her, smiled, and continued. ‘The doctor, who also wrote notes to me – which we burned by the way – came every day, and he explained that he was sure my deafness was temporary and that my speech too would return. Dear man, that gave me hope. Emmanuel and Jean-Jacques were fishermen and each owned what we’d call a smallholding. Several times they would have visitors during the night. Smugglers, I thought originally, but it turned out that our rescuers were Maquisards, members of the Corsican Resistance. They wanted us off the island because they feared for our safety, and obviously for that of their families. Emmanuel has two children and Jean-Jacques’s wife had a baby while we were with them. Their captain was in touch with the French Resistance on the mainland and they hoped to get us to France, thinking that it might be slightly more likely that a rescue could be effected from there. In the meantime, Ben got better and better and I became quite useful. My hair and beard grew – what a scruffy chap I was – and since I could neither speak nor hear, everyone thought I was both helpless and harmless and so I was allowed to wander around the island. Eventually my hearing and speech began to improve, so slowly that sometimes I thought I was doomed to live the rest of my life in a kind of hazy world, but eventually they were restored – such a relief. I told no one but Emmanuel and the doctor and so, hearing everything but appearing as if I was still mute, I became even more useful. Ben recovered – months had gone by, winter was setting in, not that it’s bad in the Mediterranean – and together we worked with the Maquisards. Tragedy there, eventually, when Emmanuel’s small group was ambushed by a German patrol and shot. They were looking for us too, and Jean-Jacques, stout fellow, decided there was nothing for it but to row us across to the south of France where we were picked up by the Maquis. We worked with them till we were rescued – end of story.’