We'll Meet Again

by Philippa Carr

  On the night of the fifteenth there had appeared for the first time over Britain a pilotless aircraft—a kind of flying bomb—which crossed the Channel and, when the engine stopped, exploded. This did little harm, we were told, and would in no way halt the progress of the war. They were officially called Flying Bombs, but the people soon had a name for them. In those early days, they became known as Buzz Bombs because one could distinctly hear them as they approached. If the engine was very loud, it meant that the thing was overhead and if it stopped suddenly, one was in danger because it was about to fall. We soon became familiar with them. This was a new hazard, but the mood stayed euphoric and we were all sure that victory was in sight.

  I was given a vociferous welcome by them all when I returned to the Ministry. Everyone came to congratulate me on my lucky escape. Billy Bunter referred to me as “our heroine,” which was too much praise, I thought, for having done nothing heroic.

  Marian thought my return should be celebrated, so of course we went to the Café Royal to drink our sherries.

  It was strange to see Marian almost jolly, her dark secret revealed to be of no great importance. For as long as the war lasted, she need no longer conceal the dreadful truth that she was sixty-two years of age. Apart from that, little had changed.

  Then, as I was leaving the office one day, a young woman-approached me.

  “You are Miss Violetta Denver, I believe,” she said.

  I admitted that I was, and she went on: “I am Anne Tarragon-Lee. I wonder if I might have a word with you?”

  I felt shocked. Richard’s wife! I could not understand why she wanted to talk to me.

  “What do you want to say?” I asked.

  She looked round. “We can’t talk here. Let’s go and sit somewhere. Could we have a drink or a coffee somewhere?”

  Bewildered still, I looked round. The only place was the teashop where we had our lunches.

  I said: “We could go in there.”

  She wrinkled her nose slightly and said: “There seems no alternative.”

  She was very elegant. Her suit was of a pale gray fine material; her toque, shaped with smooth gray feathers, came down on one side to her eyebrows and accentuated the fineness of her large gray eyes. She was tall and slender and her features were finely chiseled, as though cut out of stone. There was something very cool and unruffled about her.

  We sat and ordered cups of coffee.

  “I expect you are wondering why I am here,” she said.

  “Yes, I am. I have no idea why you should want to see me.”

  “You know who I am. I can see that. I suppose Richard has talked to you of me.”

  “He did mention you,” I said.

  “And he has told you all, I suppose?”

  “I do not think so. Really, he has told me very little. He mentioned you only just before we were caught in an air raid.”

  “Yes, I know about that raid. You were in a flat together when it happened, weren’t you? It must have been a great shock.”

  “Naturally, that sort of thing is.”

  “And how is Richard?”

  “Do you not know? He is out of hospital and has rejoined his regiment.”

  “But I believe he has not gone overseas.”

  “It may well be some time before he is well enough for that.”

  “Our marriage was a mistake,” she said, looking rueful. “We didn’t fit. It’s strange how one thinks one does and quickly discovers one is wrong.”

  “It happens to many people.”

  “You know Richard well?”

  “He is a friend of my family. I knew him some years ago.”

  “He had this flat…”

  “Yes, it belonged to a friend who lent it to him. He found it useful for his leaves, although his family has a house in Kensington.”

  She smiled a little slyly. “I know. The mother and the sister are there. The flat must have been very convenient for you.”

  She was an enigma. It seemed odd that I should be sitting here, drinking coffee as though we were old acquaintances.

  She was looking beyond me into the distance, almost speculatively. She was a strange woman, and I could not understand what this meeting was about, but I sensed there was something important behind it. Surely it was not idle curiosity to inspect one of Richard’s friends?

  “I think he will be all right,” I said. “He is not really badly hurt.”

  “No.” She put down her cup and said: “It has been most interesting meeting you.”

  “How did you know … who I was?”

  “Well, I heard about the bombing, of course, and that you were there with him when it happened. He had mentioned your family to me once or twice. So … I thought I’d come and see you. I wanted to know how badly hurt he was.”

  “As his wife, I should have thought you would have been told,” I said.

  “Oh … I haven’t seen him for some time. We were not together for long, you know. I took my maiden name. It was like that.”

  “I see. I don’t think you need worry about him. He’ll be quite fit again soon, I am sure.”

  “Thank you for giving me your time.”

  She stood up. Several eyes were upon her. Elegant creatures such as she was were not seen in the teashop every day.

  We came out into the street.

  “Goodbye,” she said in that cold way of hers.

  I was still a little bewildered. I could not understand why she had contrived this meeting, yet I was sure it was not without some purpose.

  Richard did not go overseas immediately but was posted down to the coast before I could tell him that his wife had been to see me.

  I could not tell Dorabella or my parents that I had met Richard’s wife because I did not know whether he wished his marriage to remain a secret, and I felt it was not for me to divulge it.

  I tried to put the thought of that meeting from my mind. It was not easy. There was something about Lady Anne which repelled me, something a little sinister. But still, I laughed at myself. I was building up some drama.

  Life slipped back to normal. There were the same jokes, the same lunches at the teashop, but now, whenever I entered the place, I thought of that cool slender figure in gray.

  We had the additional menace of the Flying Bombs which were coming over in large numbers. Many of them were disabled at the coast, which was not much use, as the damaged objects just went on their way, dropped, and the bombs exploded anyway, so they were as lethal as the sound ones.

  They were just an added trial. People said their unmistakable “hum-hum” as they went along meant “you, you,” because, if you heard the noise, you were in danger and the thing might be intended for you.

  But the cheerful mood held. The Flying Bombs could not affect the people’s morale while there were successes on the Continent. But the tragedy was to continue.

  I remember the day well. Indeed, it was one which I shall never forget. June had passed and it was a sultry July afternoon. We sat at our tables working, now and then gossiping in quiet voices, for while Billy Bunter knew it was impossible to stop the whispers he did not want our voices to become too audible.

  Florette was very happy that afternoon. A week before she had met a young man who was “in the business”; he was a conjurer and had appeared in Blackpool for a few weeks—not exactly top of the bill, but at least halfway down. He was working on munitions because he was not quite fit for the army; but he had great hopes for the future.

  So she had found a soulmate with whom she could share her dreams and learn a great deal about theatrical rules.

  Peggy was looking forward to Florette’s future as such as she could never have for herself, and, with a guilt-free Marian and Mary Grace her usual steady self, fitting in with everyone’s mood, that began as a very happy afternoon.

  Terry Travers, the conjurer, had given Florette some cuttings about his show in Blackpool; she had stuck them in her book and brought it along to show us. There was no room for it
on the table, so she had left it in the cloakroom.

  Halfway through the afternoon the sirens wailed forth their warning. As usual, no one took much notice of this. Then suddenly a shrill whistle was heard throughout the building. It was the “imminent.” That meant that whatever was coming our way was very close indeed.

  We stood up, and, as we did so, we saw the object come into view. I had never before seen a Flying Bomb at such close quarters. It was almost on a level with the window and moved in a lopsided way which indicated that it had been damaged.

  We stared in horror. It was too late to take cover now. The thing was upon us.

  Florette cried: “I’ve left my cuttings book in the cloakroom,” which would have made us laugh because she could think of such a thing at a moment when death was staring us in the face. But this was no laughing matter.

  “You, you,” said the thing very loudly. We scrambled under the table. Any moment now it would drop and that would be the end of us and everyone in the building. I was aware of Mary Grace beside me. She gripped my hand. I started to think of the past: the miniatures she had painted of Dorabella and me, the day I had given mine to Dorabella, the time when we had thought my sister was drowned … waiting for news of Jowan after Dunkirk …

  Time slowed down. There was no sound in the room except that of the relentless engine which could stop at any second … and that would be the end.

  “You, you.” It was slightly fainter. Billy Bunter was standing up.

  He cried: “It’s gone past, but keep under cover.”

  He himself did not. He went to the window.

  Florette said: “I’m going to get my book. I thought I’d lose it. I shall always keep it with me now.”

  “Wait!” I said, but she was off.

  Then Billy Bunter, who was at the window, called out: “Hey, I do believe … Good God! It’s coming back!”

  There was silence.

  “You, you, you.” It was louder.

  Billy was right. The thing had turned and was limping its way back, which meant it was immediately outside the building.

  “Get under cover!” shouted Billy, and we darted once more for the tables. Slowly, deliberately, the sound was increasing; the damaged bomb was coming our way.

  Nearer, nearer and then … the dreaded silence.

  It was like that time in Richard’s flat—the explosion, the crump, crump, and then the rumbling that continued. Something was falling onto the table under which we were crouching. It must have been part of the ceiling. The tables stayed firm, so it could only have been fragments that fell.

  Had the building been hit? It was not exceptionally tall but a long and rather sprawling one. I felt dazed. This was the second time this had happened to me within a few weeks. I felt doomed, that fate was pursuing me.

  I heard people shouting. There was Billy Bunter, taking charge, as he had always done. Mary Grace was beside me. I saw that Peggy was trembling. Marian looked shaken. But they were all alive … under the table with me. That strong table had saved us from being hurt by those pieces of falling masonry.

  The sound of sirens and fire engines filled the air. It was like a nightmare. I am not sure how long it lasted. These were familiar sounds in our war-torn city. So many times we had heard them. This was different. This was us.

  It is difficult to remember exactly what happened. I just know that there was tremendous activity. We were numbed, bemused … and amazed to find that we seemed to be unhurt.

  Then I heard Peggy crying: “Where’s Florette? She wasn’t with us. She’d gone to get her cuttings book.”

  Billy Bunter started to speak. We would leave the building as soon as possible … just in case it collapsed. The bomb had apparently not hit the building but had fallen close beside it. There was considerable damage and it would be better for us to get out. There was nothing we could do but wait for instructions.

  “You’ll be looked after, and as soon as possible. There’ll be a bus to take you home. You’ll have to report to the hospital for a checkup, but the main thing is to attend to the injured. You won’t leave the usual way. You’ll have to be shown. Go quietly, please. That’s the best way you can help.”

  We stood huddled together. Peggy was very anxious. She kept saying: “Florette. Where’s Florette? Why did she go off? Why didn’t she stay with us?”

  “She’ll be there in the cloakroom,” said Mary Grace.

  “I hope she got her cuttings book all right,” said Marian.

  It seemed a very long time before we were led out of the building. The bus was there and we filed in.

  I looked back at the familiar building as we drove away. It was not the same; it would never be. One end was gone completely and there was a jagged gap. I saw a part of a room with filing cabinets standing in it—open to the sky.

  There were people everywhere. I saw the ambulances and a stretcher being carried into one of them.

  Then we were off. I was glad. I did not want to look any more at the scene of devastation.

  It was two days before we heard the news about Florette. The cloakroom was at that end of the building which had suffered most from the blast of the bomb and Florette had died, clutching the book of cuttings in her hand.

  The news shocked us all terribly, but Peggy I think was most affected. She looked shriveled and bewildered.

  We all met again afterwards. Mary Grace took us to her house. We could not have met in the Café Royal; that would have been too heart-rending. We should have pictured Florette there all the time. It was sad enough in the Dorrington house.

  All the gaiety had gone. We were all so unhappy thinking of bright Florette with her dreams of a future which now would never be. We tried to talk normally but it was impossible.

  Marian should have been happy because both she and Peggy were being transferred to another branch of the Ministry. It was very near home for Peggy and not so very far for Marian, and they had both dreaded losing their jobs; but there was no happiness for either of them, particularly Peggy.

  I told them that I would be going back to my parents for a while and then I would plan what I should do. Mary Grace would not be returning to the Ministry.

  It was no use trying not to talk about Florette. It was almost as though she were there with us.

  “If only she hadn’t gone back for that book,” said Peggy. “She’d have been with us under the table. Why did she want to go?”

  “None of us knew the thing would turn back,” I said. “Oh, why did she?” wailed Peggy. “If only …” Her poor face looked older and more tired than usual, even more wistful than when she was yearning to be someone’s pet. She would not have lost her friend had Florette not gone back for the book.

  “That’s life,” said Marian. “It all works on chance.” And we sat there in silence, thinking of Florette, who had had such dreams and had died so cruelly before she could try to make them come true.

  A Hint of Scandal

  I HAD VISITED THE hospital. No bones had been broken, but a rest was suggested, particularly as I had recently suffered a similar experience.

  My parents were delighted to have me home.

  “I only wish Dorabella was not up there,” said my mother. “Those wretched bombs are worse than the other kind, it seems to me.”

  I spent a lot of time with Tristan. Nanny Crabtree was inclined to treat me like an invalid and attempted to “fatten me up,” but there was no doubt of her joy in having me back in the fold.

  I did not want to be idle and so I helped my mother in her work with the various organizations in which she was involved.

  There was a great deal of discussion about the progress of the war, which seemed to be going well in spite of certain setbacks; but clearly the end was not going to come as quickly as we had hoped.

  I thought that, if Jowan were a prisoner of war and the Allies were advancing, it might be that they would come to where he was held, and free all the prisoners. Every day I waited for news with mounting hope. It
would go first to Mrs. Jermyn, of course, but she would inform me immediately.

  My mother knew this and was afraid for me. I guessed that in her heart she did not share my optimism.

  She said to me one day: “Violetta, you still believe that Jowan will come back, don’t you? It is four years now.”

  It was one of those days—they came now and then—when my hopes seemed to fade. It was a long time. Sometimes I wondered if he would be the same man when he came back. People change. Would his love still be as strong for me as mine was for him?

  I hesitated and she was aware of this.

  “Time is passing,” she went on. I knew what was in her mind. I should be twenty-five in October. I was no longer very young. She was wondering whether I was going to spend my life mourning a lost lover. She had known a friend who had been engaged to be married to a young man who was killed on the Somme during the last war. My mother had spoken of her occasionally. It was not only that she had missed marriage and family, but she had spent her life mourning for a man she had lost when she was eighteen. She did not want a similar fate for me.

  She said: “I am sure you are better here than in Cornwall. I wonder if Richard will have to go overseas. Gordon is lucky. Not that he isn’t doing an excellent job. They couldn’t have done without him on the estate. Oh, I do hope this wretched war will be over before Richard has to go out there.”

  I could read her well. She was thinking: here were two good men, either of whom, with a little encouragement, would be ready to marry me, and yet I went on mourning for someone who might never come back.

  There was a telephone call from Richard. My mother took it and when she came to me she was very excited.

  “Who do you think has just telephoned? Richard. He’s got a little leave and wants to come for the weekend.”

  “And you said you would be delighted to see him, I am sure.”

  “I did.”

  “Is this leave because he is going overseas?”

  “I asked him that. He said no, they can’t make any decision about that. He said the wound is playing up a bit and they won’t let him go while he is in that state.”

  She looked pleased and excited. I knew she was hoping.