When We Meet Again

by Caroline Beecham

  Early in their friendship and after too many drinks, Ursula had confided that she wasn’t prepared to hide who she was from her family or pretend she was ever going to change; consequently, they never got in touch. At the time Alice hadn’t been sure what she’d meant, but with more life experience, and having met all sorts through publishing, she was now fairly certain that Ursula was a lesbian.

  “When was the last time you saw them?” Alice asked.

  “A few Christmases ago.”

  “Why don’t you visit them? It’s nearly that time of year.”

  “Oh no, you won’t be here for the Christmas party!” Ursula said, taking her turn to change the topic. “How will you survive the season without listening to George’s speech or watching Emily fawn over Tommy?”

  Alice’s heart sank again. It perhaps seemed silly in light of everything else that she faced, but these communal events had taken on more importance in recent years; surviving to another Christmas was a significant achievement for which she was grateful.

  “I can live without that, but I will definitely miss our nights out,” she said, thinking about their regular drinks in Soho.

  Ursula laid her hand on Alice’s, and Alice gazed down at the pale skin and bright red fingernails. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you, if anything was wrong?”

  “I’m fine, really. Everything’s fine.”

  “You know I’m here, though, don’t you? You must tell me if you ever need help.”

  Alice looked at her and smiled. “I will, and thank you,” she said, patting Ursula’s hand.

  “I suppose at least you won’t have to put up with Tommy prattling on,” Ursula said as she pulled her hand away.

  “And Emily’s whining,” Alice said, rolling her eyes.

  “And what about the interminable boredom of one of Patricia Reece’s lunches! That’s why you’re leaving, isn’t it?” Ursula narrowed her eyes. “It’s just a ploy to get out of seeing her. Really, Alice, that’s a bit extreme, if you don’t mind me saying!”

  “Yes, I know, extreme but understandable.”

  They grinned. Patricia Reece was one of their most established authors, and her distinctive style of cozy thriller had generated a strong following, but she subjected Ursula and Alice to long formal lunches while avoiding discussion of her edits.

  Ursula finished her cigarette and ground the stub into the gravel.

  “I suppose you’ve heard the news?” Alice said, relieved that Ursula had stopped questioning her.

  “About Germany invading Tunisia?”

  “No, far more significant than that,” Alice said, trying to hide her smile. “The Church has decided that women don’t have to wear hats anymore. Can you imagine? How scandalous!”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I’m going with Mum on Sunday—hatless.”

  This had the desired effect: Ursula laughed. If she’d been angry with Alice or suspected anything, then at least she appeared to have forgotten it.

  Three

  The day hadn’t gone as Alice had expected, leaving her with a deep unease, so she sneaked away early—before they could make a fuss of her leaving—and hoped the London Zoo would be the sanctuary it always had been. But this visit needed to be quick and before dusk when it closed, a brief good-bye; she would see the new black swans, finish the journal and get home before her mother worried where she was.

  She took her usual route through the North Gate, crossing in front of the Victorian redbrick ticket house, the aviaries and the darkened Reptile House, then along the Broad Walk. London Zoo—or Regent’s Park Zoo, as the locals called it—was only thirty-five acres, but it took time to navigate the main garden, and a late-afternoon fog lingered in the air, reducing visibility.

  Memories lurked in all the shadowy corners: the chimpanzee tea parties, feeding hay to the hippos and taking camel rides. Her father, Frederick—or Freddie, as everyone had known him—had been one of the keepers when he’d come back from the Great War, and so Alice and William had spent their holidays and most weekends at the zoo. She’d kept coming as an adult, and had even been there the day that Rota the lion arrived. He had growled at the keepers as they’d ushered him from his crate into a walled enclosure, then he’d stood on the highest rock and roared at the sky. But this afternoon Alice couldn’t hear Rota or his cubs, and the zoo would soon be closing for the day.

  Shivering, she wove her way to the Bears’ Den, peering inside to see if they were still awake. She could only make out vague outlines of russet shapes between the iron bars, mountains in a landscape of hay. She carried on toward Three Island Pond; it had been one of her and William’s favorite childhood spots, with its colorful tapestry of trees and the flamingos, which their father never tired of telling them were the only birds to feed with their heads upside down.

  She walked west, feet crunching gravel down Elephant Walk to the Penguin Pool, her quickening breaths creating clouds of condensation in the cold darkening air. Up ahead, one of the aquarium supervisors, Mr. Vinall, walked out of the Penguin Pool and shut the gate behind him. He was dark complexioned, his black curly hair barely contained beneath a keeper’s hat that conjured up memories of her father in the same uniform, the familiar clamor of cage doors and the squeal of trolley wheels as he’d distributed food.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Vinall.”

  “Miss Cotton,” he said, and broke into a smile, “whatever brings you here on such an inhospitable night?” His gray uniform was covered in a white apron stained with fish blood, and as he drew closer the smell grew so potent that her stomach lurched—her visit might not have been such a good idea after all.

  “Yes, it is rather cold, isn’t it?” she said, taking a step back. “But I want to see the swans before I leave.”

  The two black swans had just arrived as a gift for Mr. Churchill, courtesy of Dr. Evatt, the Australian minister for External Affairs.

  “Ah yes, beautiful specimens they are. But what do you mean, leave? Are you going away?”

  “Just for a while.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “I’m not sure yet. In the springtime, I hope.”

  “Just like the marmots,” he said with a smile.

  She looked at him quizzically. “I’m not sure . . .”

  “They like to hibernate too. But they’ve beaten you to it—they’ve already taken to their burrow.”

  She took a gulp of air. “Yes, of course,” she said, forcing a smile.

  “Is everything all right, Miss Cotton?”

  “Yes, it is. Everything is fine, thank you.”

  “We’ll miss you.” He offered his hand then seemed to think better of it, wiping it on his apron and smiling broadly.

  What was it that lit up a person’s face when they smiled, she wondered, turning even the most incongruous of features into a perfect anatomical form?

  “Look after yourself. And stay warm,” he said.

  “You too.”

  He walked away, carrying the unpleasant odor with him.

  Of course she would try to look after herself, but there was no telling how things would go in the months ahead, in such challenging circumstances. She was certain, though, that she would bring her child here as soon as she could, and she would read the animal stories her father had once told her, along with others she’d written in her journal: stories about the aardvark called Adolf, and the axolotl they’d named Mussolini, and the medal-winning keepers. And she’d included how in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, they used flamingo heads to play croquet, a fact that had caused her endless worry as a child. She could hear her father’s softly spoken voice: “The chief difficulty Alice found at first was in managing her flamingo . . . Alice soon came to the conclusion that it was a very difficult game indeed.”

  Alice smiled at the thought as she settled on a bench by the Penguin Pool. She took
out her journal and pencil, half-watching the birds as they swam and dived. A keeper was wading through the far end, cleaning up shredded foliage, while Peggy, the king penguin, kept a watchful eye from the platform above. A young penguin launched onto its tummy and ricocheted off the stone wall, hitting the water at speed, much to the chagrin of its mother. Alice laughed and set about sketching the young bird, thinking yet again how much she would miss her visits.

  The zoo was a place of hope and optimism, where animals and keepers had battled the odds and survived, and she needed some of that in her life. Everyone said it was a miracle the zoo was still there, that it hadn’t been severely damaged in the Blitz. Even though some animals had been shipped to Whipsnade, the country zoo in Bedfordshire, the majority had remained. The closed aquarium had been refilled, its fish tanks restocked. In fact, it seemed as if the zoo’s inhabitants were determined to carry on entertaining the tourists and visiting servicemen for the duration of the war at all costs.

  She continued to watch the show from the bench—Peggy’s conceited stroll up and down the ramp, drawing herself up, and the younger creatures braying—only the penguins’ meal of dead fish enough to spoil the memory that she was trying to preserve. Her journal lay open across her lap, almost full, as she added the finishing touches, coloring the tip of Peggy’s wing. They were her favorite animal, and their play-fighting with the polar bears had brought them to the attention of the London papers, which wrote about their show, commending it to the capital’s visitors as an antidote to the “jitters.” But this evening the polar bears had gone indoors, and the solitary column of penguins marched across the rock as though they were characters from a children’s storybook and needed the accompaniment of a military marching band. Alice placed her hands across her belly and whispered, “I can’t wait to bring you here,” before deciding it was time to leave.

  * * *

  Alice woke to a high-pitched whistle and the thudding of slammed doors. It was dark, and she hurriedly grabbed her bags and stepped onto the platform just as the train moved off, the backdraft lifting her coat as it howled through North Dulwich Station. With relief she watched it gather speed; fewer services ran now that most civilian machinery was deployed for war, and she’d have been stuck for ages if she’d missed her stop. Commuters overtook her as they headed for the covered stairway to the street-level exit, but she didn’t even try to hurry, too emotional and exhausted. An easterly swirled dust and autumn leaves, and she had to lean into it, her clothes plastered against her as she forged ahead.

  The five-minute walk home took the rest of her energy, and she was glad to reach the Victorian terrace house she shared with her mother. The family had moved there when her father had fallen ill before he died, and although that had been nearly eight years ago she still missed their old home in Primrose Hill; Dulwich felt a million miles away from her best friend, Penny.

  “Hello?” Alice called as she clicked the front door shut behind her.

  The house was dark and quiet and smelled of apple pie and damp carpet. She switched on the light, its small velvet shade illuminating the cream walls and burgundy hall runner, as well as the blistered wallpaper and the watermark that crept across the ceiling like a large ink stain. The décor was dilapidated due to financial constraint rather than neglect, not that any builders would have been available in wartime even if they’d been affordable. This house might be razed to the ground any day if God desires it, her mother said whenever Alice complained about how depressing it was. They had made some effort to cheer it up with new curtains and flowerboxes for the windows, but it didn’t feel like home without her father and brother. She’d often been tempted to take lodgings with girls in the city but couldn’t bring herself to leave her mother alone, and now it was too late for that.

  Alice piled her belongings on the kitchen table, grabbed the book she’d brought home as a gift and went in search of Ruth. “Mum, where are you?” she called.

  Light spilled from beneath her bedroom door, and as Alice pushed it open, the pink rosebud walls, the metal bedframe and then the dresser came into view. Her mother’s wiry figure was standing on tiptoes on a chair. It was strange to see her in a childlike pose: tartan skirt hitched up, cream sweater stretching across her shoulder blades, head arched backward as her hands probed inside the tall cupboard. Alice didn’t want to make her jump, so she waited until Ruth had heaved the suitcase down.

  “Alice!” she said, twisting round. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “You should’ve let me do that.”

  “I don’t think so.” Ruth picked up the chair and set it back down in front of the dresser. “Not in . . .”

  “Not in my condition?”

  Ruth pursed her lips rather than smiled as Alice had hoped she might.

  “What are you doing anyway? And why haven’t you lit the fire? It’s so cold.”

  “I’m helping you pack,” Ruth replied as she opened a drawer and lifted out an armful of clothes.

  “I can do that, but we don’t need to pack yet.”

  “Yes, we do. You’re leaving in the morning.”

  “The morning! That’s not what we agreed.” The conversation had been some weeks ago, but Alice remembered it clearly. They’d been in the garden, and she’d been quite definite that she wouldn’t go until after the holidays.

  “Yes, it is. Besides, there’s not much coal left.”

  Alice shivered at the thought of spending more nights in three sets of pajamas and her overcoat, but she wasn’t ready to leave yet either. And it worried her that Ruth hadn’t remembered their discussion. Was she becoming ill again?

  “Are you all right?” Alice asked with concern, hoping the anxiety wasn’t returning. “You’ve not had any more of your migraines?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Ruth replied matter-of-factly. “It’s simply for the best. You’ve finished work now, so there’s no reason for you to stay.”

  “It’s not what we discussed, though. I said I’d go to Brighton after Christmas. I want to be here . . . with you.”

  “Best not risk it.” Ruth glanced at her. “You’re beginning to show.”

  Alice gently pressed her palms over her belly. She was lucky to be tall like her father; she could carry a bit of extra weight without anyone noticing. “I don’t want to be by myself,” she said, growing tearful.

  “You won’t be. And you’ll be helping your aunt for as long as you’re able.” Ruth carried on smoothing out the wrinkled garments with her fingers. She was moving with her usual calm, practiced efficiency, which made it even more troubling that she was reneging on their agreement. “Come on now, you did say you’d be all right on your own. And I’ll come down on Sundays after church. Anyway, Hope needs you—it’s busy in the lead-up to Christmas.”

  There was no question she wouldn’t go; her aunt was counting on her, although she still didn’t know what Hope really thought about her predicament, or what sort of reception she would get, since Ruth had been the one who’d made all the arrangements.

  “I don’t see why I can’t wait a few more weeks.”

  When Ruth didn’t reply, Alice walked over and placed a hand on her mother’s arm, but she shrugged it away. “How did you get on today?” Ruth asked tersely as she opened another drawer.

  “It was okay,” Alice replied with forced cheerfulness.

  Ruth wouldn’t look at her, and Alice realized, with renewed sadness, that she must still be very disappointed. Was she ashamed of her daughter? Alice wanted to tell Ruth again that it wasn’t her fault, but this hadn’t done her any good when she’d tried before. She hoped that in time her mother would forgive her—maybe when the baby was born.

  “They were sorry to see me go, but I said I’d see them again.” A bubble of emotion caught in Alice’s throat, and she moved beside Ruth, picking up a garment and folding it, while willing herself not to cry.

  “Was th
at wise?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, they’re unlikely to want you back afterward, are they?”

  “I know, but it was harder than I thought.”

  Ruth’s attention was fixed on the small statue hanging above Alice’s bed. The eyes of the Virgin Mary were half-closed as she looked down at the baby Jesus in her arms, and it felt as if there was meaning in her gaze.

  “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” Alice said quietly.

  It had been Ruth’s idea for her to stay with Aunt Hope, have the baby and return pretending that it was an invented cousin’s. There were so many war orphans to look after now that one more wouldn’t create any suspicion.

  Ruth looked up, her moss-colored eyes finally meeting Alice’s.

  Alice smiled at her. “I can’t do this without you.”

  But her mother’s expression was cold, and she held her daughter’s gaze for barely a moment before looking away. “Are you ready to tell me who the father is?”

  “I told you, it won’t make any difference.”

  “It will to me.”

  Alice’s heartbeat quickened as she remembered the first time: his hot ragged breath in her ear, the agony as his cheek pressed down on hers, her initial struggle as he pinned her beneath him, the roughness of his hands. And, as he forced himself inside her, a stinging sensation and the sharp stab of pain. Afterward, her soreness and the strong musk of his sweat as it dribbled down her neck, collecting in the crook of her collarbone when he collapsed on top of her.

  “How do you know he won’t come for his child?” Ruth pressed.

  Even now it was still difficult to think about. Alice would probably have consented if he’d asked, but he hadn’t, and it had been too late when she realized what was happening. She should have known then, taken it as a sign of his character that he’d tricked her, but she’d been foolish enough to think he cared about her—that she was the only young woman in his life instead of one of many whom he’d seduced, as she’d later found out.