He said yes to all my plans, his mouth forming the word while his eyes said no. But I heard what I wanted to hear. Of course, I later realized he hoped all along that I would not find a way over.
I did not tell my family a thing, but I had to tell my workmates, after swearing them to secrecy. I could not afford a plane ticket—back then, three Atlantic crossings by air cost as much as a new house. And there were no passenger ships operating that close to the war's end. Even the Queen Elizabeth and the Queen Mary, the finest passenger ships ever built, had been turned into troop carriers. But because my company was big in the shipping business, and because of all our military connections, my boss searched and finally found me a berth. I waited until the day before my departure to send Grant a telegram, telling him that I was coming.
My friends at work threw a big bash for me. I had let them all believe that Grant was begging me to come, and the plans for our wedding were set. The lies I had told stuck in my throat, and my smile felt frozen to my face as I accepted their envy and best wishes and hugs. I spent the entire party gazing around the room, asking myself if I would ever see any of these people again, and wondering what on earth I had gotten myself into.
The night before I was to leave, I told my sister. We had a good old cry together. Then I wrote my parents a note. That took almost five hours. I kept crumpling up the sheets and starting over. I did not want to let any trace of my bitterness seep through. Goodness only knew when I would see them again.
THE TRANSOM CAB that took me across London was high and boxy and had two cracked windows and no heat. The driver sat out front, his seat open to the weather. He was bundled up in a greatcoat and scarf, with a battered cap pulled down over his ears. His hands were chapped as red as burning coals, and he smoked a cigarette the entire trip, puffing and snorting and hawking without ever taking the thing from his lips.
My first view of London frightened me. I felt a little light-headed in any case. My cough was not as persistent, but I could feel the flush of fever. It only made what I was seeing beyond my dirty cracked window seem even more unreal.
I thought I knew what it meant to live through the war years. Back home in America, more families than I cared to count had flown little flags from their front porches, signaling to the world that they had lost a loved one in Europe or Africa or Asia. But in that short journey across London, I learned that America had been spared more than I had ever dreamed possible.
Destruction was everywhere. One building would be completely intact, and the next would be nothing but a pile of rubble. Men and women still worked in the flat metal helmets I had seen in the Movietone News, and several times I saw real bombs that had been dug from the wreckage.
The city seemed too spent to reform itself fully for the new day. Clouds hung down heavy like a sunlit shroud. Distant buildings were gray silhouettes cut from the shadows of the past five years. Church spires rose in the mist like cardboard cutouts. The River Thames was a silent gray mirror, revealing nothing about this enigmatic land.
I had no trouble buying my ticket at Paddington, which was good, because I was beginning to feel much worse. I showed the agent the card with Grant's address, accepted the ticket, and gave him a large bill. I asked for the platform and scooped up my change. I searched, but could not find a porter. My cases were beginning to feel very heavy.
The crowded station was far too quiet. I realized the city had seemed the same way, but it was only here in the station's enclosed space that I recognized how subdued everyone was. And pale. The faces around me looked as if they had not seen the sun in years. Even the children had dark circles under their eyes. The station held the atmosphere of a giant funeral procession, people silenced by a shared sorrow. Or so it seemed to me.
By the time I reached my platform I was feeling so sweaty and weak that my thoughts flitted in and out of my head. I was definitely running a fever. Down at the far end, where the great curved steel-and-glass station opened to the elements, a heavy snow began to fall.
When we arrived at Reading, where I had to change for the local train to Arden, I was feeling very ill. Thankfully, I did not have to wait long for my train. I collapsed into my seat, and immediately fell into a very troubled sleep. I was perspiring heavily, but I did not have the strength to take off my coat.
I would have missed Arden entirely, except for the fact that the train ended there. I started to wakefulness when the conductor came through, clanging doors and shouting for all to change here. My suitcases weighed a ton. I dragged them and myself off to the platform. It was snowing so hard I could scarcely see the little brick station building. I craned and searched, and began calling Grant's name. He had to be there. I had come all this way for him, and I needed him desperately.
"Is everything all right, Miss?"
The conductor's face swam in front of me. He had a gray walrus moustache and very concerned eyes. I mumbled, "My fiancé. . . he was supposed, supposed to be here."
"You look all done in, Miss. Here, come inside the station for a tick." He picked up my cases. "You say someone was to meet you?"
"Yes, Grant, he's my fiancé. He was, he promised, he asked me to marry . . . "
"Miss? Are you all right?"
I opened my mouth to say I wanted to see Grant, but my legs chose that moment to give way. I would have dropped to the snow-covered concrete, except the conductor moved swiftly to catch me. The last thing I knew, he was shouting for someone to get out right smart and give him a hand.
SIX
The next few days passed in a blur. Waking and sleeping melted together. I dreamed that Grant had come to rescue me, and then he disappeared, and when I woke up and wanted to go look for him, hands pressed me back into the bed. I cried his name and wept, because I was afraid if I didn't go after him, he would be gone forever.
I awoke one morning, and knew the worst was over. I was so weak I could not sit up without help. My cough sounded like a cement truck. But I could feel that the fever had finally eased. I looked around me, seeing things clearly for the very first time. I was in a long room with maybe a dozen beds, all of them full. My bed was hard and the sheets stiff with starch, and the room smelled of disinfectant and medicine. At the room's far end, a tiny Christmas tree stood on a table draped with a sheet. I stared at it for the longest time, and knew two things with utter certainty. How I knew was not important. There was simply no room for questioning. I had missed Christmas, and Grant was gone.
"You're awake then, are you? Excellent." A matron in a uniform so stiff it rustled as she walked came over to stand beside my bed. "You were beginning to worry us."
Her no-nonsense manner helped me to focus. "Where am I?"
"Arden Clinic. The women's ward."
"What day is it?"
"The twenty-seventh of December. You've been here for five days." She inserted a thermometer into my mouth, grasped my wrist in strong fingers, lifted the watch pinned to her lapel, and took my pulse. She inspected the thermometer, made a notation in the metal file by my bed, and announced, "We've finally managed to get your temperature down. Doctor will be pleased. Now you've just enough time to have a bite of breakfast before Doctor makes his rounds."
"I'm not hungry." Hearing the date made me certain the other fact was also true. Grant was gone. A tear trickled down my face. It was all the crying I had the strength for.
"Don't be silly." She took my refusal to eat as a personal affront. "You've hardly had a bite for days."
She waved an orderly over, and together they lifted me up to a sitting position. She sent him for a tray, and rolled a little table in front of me. "Now I expect you to eat everything, do you hear me?"
I did as I was told, though I didn't taste a thing. I had scarcely finished when the doctor arrived. He was a young man, but he had the face of one who had seen far too much suffering, and his hair was already changing from gray to white. He listened to my chest, had me cough a few times, then settled the stethoscope around his neck. "Your name is Emily
Robbins, is that correct?"
"Yes."
"We had to go through your personal effects, I'm afraid. Couldn't be helped. We noticed from your passport that you've just arrived here in this country. We found a card with the name Grant Rockwell and an address here in Arden."
I started to say that he was my fiance, but something stopped me. Instead, another tear escaped to trickle down my cheek.
My show of emotion made the doctor uncomfortable. He cleared his throat, inspected the chart in his lap, and said, "We've had the police stop by that address several times. No one was home, I'm afraid. Were you expected?"
I decided it would be best to shake my head. But I could not stop another tear from sliding down my cheek.
Again the doctor cleared his throat. "You've been suffering from pneumonia. We've given you rather a large dose of penicillin intravenously, and seem to have brought it under control. But you are still quite weak, and will need to be kept here and observed for a few days more. In the meantime, is there anyone we can contact to inform them where you are?"
I whispered, "No."
He gave me an odd look. "Surely someone must be wondering where you were over Christmas. If you'll just—"
"No. There isn't anyone."
"Well." Exasperated, the doctor rose to his feet. "I don't have time to bother with this. If you change your mind, feel free to speak with the Sister."
I spent the rest of that day and the next dozing, waking to eat and take little halting trips down the ward. The women in the other beds watched my progress in silence, but I could hear them whispering when I had passed. I was the mystery woman, an American who had just dropped off the boat and landed in this village clinic.
Visiting hours were the worst. For three hours each afternoon the ward was filled with strangers. After they had stopped by the beds, they would peer openly at me. I had become the ward's favorite topic of conversation.
Two days later, I was awakened from a light doze by the sound of footsteps stopping by my bed. "Miss Robbins?"
I opened my eyes to inspect a very tired young man in a dark suit and a clerical collar. He tried for a smile, but only managed to stretch the pallid skin of his face. "My name is Colin Albright. I'm sorry to wake you, but I only have a moment. Do you mind if I sit down?"
"I guess not." But I was not altogether sure I wanted to be visited by someone who had so little time for me that he had to wake me up.
"Thank you. I'm the assistant vicar at the local parish church. The police stopped by yesterday, and explained that you were here and refused to tell them, that is, you didn't seem to have any contact within the village."
"That's right." Rising irritation gave strength to my voice. "I don't."
"I, ah, that is, the police asked me to stop by the address found in your purse. I spoke with the landlady." He pulled an envelope from his pocket. By now the people surrounding the beds to either side were listening openly. "The house was indeed rented to a Mr. Grant Rockwell, the name I believe you had on your card. But he has gone away."
Whatever shred of hope I had was being torn into tatters by this tired young man. "Gone away?"
"Departed from England. For Berlin, according to the landlady, who lives next door, by the way. But the rent has been paid up through the end of next month, and the landlady was told to expect you." His hand dived back into the pocket and extracted a slip of paper. "Here, I've written down her name. And mine, and the church telephone number, in case you would like to have a chat."
As I looked unseeing at the paper in my hand, the young vicar gave his watch a swift glance and stifled a sigh of impatience.
I was flooded with a bitterness so acrid I felt my throat burning. "Thank you, but I wouldn't want to take any more of your precious time. You're so busy already."
He rose from the chair as though it had been springloaded. "Right. I'll be off then." He was either too tired or too preoccupied to have room for any irritation of his own. He realized he was still holding the envelope. "Oh, and Mr. Rockwell left this for you. Good day, Miss Robbins."
Ignoring the stares from all about me, I opened the envelope and read the letter. Or tried to. The words swam on the page. But I knew what it said. Grant had avoided this little problem as he did all others, by flying away.
His words were exasperated and sorrowful in turn. I let my hand and the letter fall to my lap. There was no escaping the truth now. I was in a foreign country, in a strange village, abandoned by the man I had traveled four thousand miles to marry, and utterly alone.
The orderly happened to walk by and notice my state. He unbuttoned the curtain and whipped it around my bed. But nothing could be done to muffle the sound of my sobs.
SEVEN
When Marissa awoke, she glanced at the bedside clock and saw that it was just before midnight. She had a dim recollection of growing very tired over dinner, trying to hide it because she did not want her grandmother to stop talking. But suddenly the fork in her hand had become hard to lift, and her eyelids had felt as though they weighed a ton each. Her grandmother had helped her upstairs and into bed, promising to continue the story when she awoke.
Marissa lay and listened to the house creaking and pinging about her. She loved the way the old place spoke at night, as though reliving the years of footsteps and laughter that had filled the big rooms. Her mother had been born and raised in this house. It gave Marissa a sense of permanence and safety, even in such a troubling time, to know that she slept in a house that had been theirs for so long.
A fool in love. It had been so strange to hear Gran describe herself in that way. And yet the confession had formed an instant bonding between them, one that had grown increasingly strong as the story continued. Even now, lying here in the dark, Marissa could feel the invisible threads of honesty and remembrance drawing their hearts together.
Marissa vividly recalled how Gran's face had changed with the telling. Her features had taken on different lines, as though the act of remembering transported her. Marissa felt as though she had watched her grandmother return to another time, and another place as well. Another time, another place, and in some strange way, another person.
Despite the unsettling tale, Marissa felt the sharing was both good and important. Strange that she would think of something good coming out of this difficult time. But that was exactly how it felt. Without understanding how she knew, Marissa was certain that she was hearing not just a story, but a vital message as well.
As she lay there wondering what the lesson might be, she saw an image of her brother's face. Instantly her whole body burned with shame. And guilt. There was no longer the shield of her anger to hide behind. Somehow hearing her grandmother's tale had wiped away the veil of bitterness over her own plight.
Buddy, her Buddy, was the brother who had always been there for her. As far back as she could remember, Buddy had stood by her, explained things to her, played whatever game she had invented. He even sat through tea parties with her dolls because he loved her and that was just Buddy's way. No matter that he would rather have been out playing football or climbing trees. He was always ready to step in and protect and defend and explain. Buddy with a heart as big as all outdoors, and she had wounded him. And not just him. Memories of what she had said to her family clenched her heart.
Marissa looked at the clock once more, then calculated the difference in time between Philadelphia and Hawaii. It would still be afternoon, she decided. She bit her lip at the thought of what was to come, but knew it could not be put off any longer.
She slipped from her bed and pulled on her robe and slippers. She tiptoed across the floor, the night-light giving her just enough illumination to see her grandmother asleep on the folding bed in the corner. Thankfully the door to the hall was open, because it creaked something awful. Steadying herself with one hand on the stair railing, Marissa walked downstairs.
There were a lot of differences between what had happened to her grandmother, and what she was going through. She hadn'
t missed this trip through any fault of her own.
But hearing of her grandmother's suffering helped put her own troubles into perspective. It propelled her into the kitchen, and gave her the strength to pick up the phone and dial the number on the paper taped to the wall, and ask the hotel operator for her parents' room.
When the familiar voice came on the phone, her first words were, "I'm sorry, Momma." And suddenly she was trying so hard not to give in to the tears. But she could feel the weeping deep inside her, wanting to come out, making her whole body tremble. "I was awful."
"Oh, darling, darling. You were just being human. I'm just sorry as I can be that you aren't here with us."
She could hear the tears in her mother's voice, and her own could not be kept back another instant. "I'm sorry. Really. I wish I could take back everything I said."
"It's all forgotten and forgiven. I miss you so, my little princess."
"I miss you too." They spoke for a few moments more, neither of them paying as much attention to what was said as to the fact that they were speaking. Then she asked, "Is Buddy there?"
"Yes, hold on." Carol sniffed loudly, and set the phone down.
Marissa listened to her mother coax Buddy to talk with her. And that hurt worse than anything. "It's all right, honey," she heard her mother say. "She's fine. Really. And she wants to speak with you."
There was a long pause, and then a very sad voice said softly, "Hello."
Marissa felt as though she was breaking apart inside. She had hurt her Buddy so much he didn't want to speak to her. She sobbed so hard she couldn't say anything at all.
And then she heard that he was crying, too, just bawling away on the other end of the phone. And she managed to whine out around the sobs, "Oh, Buddy, I'm so sorry."
He caught his breath with a hiccup, and whispered, "It's okay."
"No, it's not. I wouldn't hurt you for anything. Not ever."
"Mom told us it was the sickness."
Tidings of Comfort and Joy Page 4