Into the Darkest Day: An emotional and totally gripping WW2 historical novel

by Kate Hewitt

  “And yet your family produces apples.”

  “Dairy farming is big business. Most of the farms are huge, with thousands of cows. And, in any case, my dad said his father wanted to go into crop production. His family were beef farmers in Minnesota, and he didn’t like it.” She paused. “Maybe that’s the reason he left Minnesota, and didn’t stay in touch. No big mystery.”

  “But you never met them.”

  “No, but they were older even for grandparents… surely lots of people don’t meet their grandparents?” She considered this for a moment before admitting, “But I suppose I always got the sense that there had been some sort of break.”

  “It makes you wonder if it’s all connected somehow—my grandmother, your grandfather, the medals, Minnesota. Or am I just trying to tie everything up with a neat bow?”

  “I don’t know.” Abby rolled the thought over in her mind. Matthew Lawson’s medal… Tom Reese leaving his family behind him… even her own father’s reticence. “That would be nice and simple, I suppose,” she said.

  “Or very complicated.”

  “Yes, true.”

  “We don’t need to keep talking about it, though. We’ll learn what’s what soon enough.” He glanced at her. “If you’d rather talk about something else?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like about these amazing billboards.” Simon gestured to one they’d just passed. “Paul Bunyan’s Cook Shanty! That looks incredible. Do you think we can go there for lunch?”

  “Only if you’re hungry. It’s the next exit.”

  “Done.” Simon glanced in the rearview mirror as he moved into the right lane. “Fantastic. ‘Wisconsin’s Favorite Restaurant’. You must know what to recommend.”

  Abby laughed. “I’ve never been there in my life.”

  “What!” Simon gave her a comically shocked expression. “I can’t believe it. You don’t even know what you’ve been missing out on.”

  “I guess I’ll find out.”

  Abby was still smiling as they turned into the parking lot of the restaurant. Built like an enormous log cabin, with a huge statue of an axe-wielding Paul Bunyan and large signs promising all you could eat, as well as lumberjack meals—whatever they were—the restaurant looked as if it would fulfill all Simon’s expectations and more.

  The interior was just as over the top, with wooden walls, checked tablecloths, and everything oversized.

  “I love it,” Simon said fervently. “I absolutely love it. I feel like saying ‘howdy’. Would that be too much?”

  “Definitely. Especially in a British accent.”

  A smiling waitress led them to a table near the window; it was only half past eleven but there were a few diners determinedly plowing through what Abby surmised were lumberjack breakfasts—pancakes, eggs, sausages and fried ham, hash browns, and a basket of sugary donuts. Abby had never seen so much food on a single table.

  “This is going to be amazing,” Simon said, and she laughed and shook her head.

  “I would think most British people would find this sort of thing a bit corny,” she said. “But you love it.”

  “I do,” he agreed solemnly. “Every bit of it. There is absolutely nothing like this back in the UK.” He glanced down at the menu. “Now, obviously, we are both going to have to order the lumberjack platters.”

  “I was thinking of getting a salad—”

  “Absolutely not.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. Lumberjack lunch or bust.”

  Abby looked at the description of the lumberjack platter—two kinds of meat, mashed potatoes, two vegetables, plus the shanty’s homemade lumberjack bread, whatever that was. “I’ll burst,” she told him. “But fine.”

  “That’s settled, then.” Simon looked so pleased that Abby couldn’t help but laugh again. He made her so happy, she realized, just being with him. His enthusiasm was catching.

  “How do you do it?” she blurted, and Simon raised his eyebrows. “How do you find pleasure in such small things? And—seem so pleased by everything? How can you be so happy?”

  A veil dropped over Simon’s eyes briefly, making Abby wish she hadn’t asked, and yet she still wanted to know. “You mean, because of things that have happened before?” he asked after a moment, his tone cautiously neutral.

  “Your divorce?” She hadn’t actually been thinking about that, but now that he’d mentioned it she knew she wanted to know. “Yes, I suppose that’s part of it. I just meant generally, but, yes. That, too.”

  Simon looked down as he needlessly rearranged his knife and fork. Abby waited. She hadn’t meant to mention his divorce, but she wasn’t sorry they’d arrived at that point.

  “I suppose it’s a choice I make,” he said slowly. “But sometimes it feels like slapping plasters on gaping wounds. Sometimes… I feel like a hypocrite.” He looked up with a lopsided smile, his eyes shadowed. “I made a mess of things once before.”

  “Why do you blame yourself so much?” Abby asked, knowing he could ask the question right back at her, and she was definitely not ready to answer.

  But he didn’t deflect; he stayed silent, considering her question, and then he answered it. “Because I think I am to blame,” he said starkly. “My mother… I know I mentioned before how up and down she was, but I think I downplayed it to you, to most people, because…” He let out a breath. “Well, because it seems like the actions of a little boy to blame your mother for the way you are.”

  “But?” Abby prompted softly.

  “But my mother made my life feel like a roller coaster, and I really don’t like them. They make me feel sick.” His eyes glinted briefly with humor before turning serious once more. “Although she never had a diagnosis, I think she must have been bipolar. There were a lot of highs and even more lows, and I never knew which I was going to get at any given moment.”

  “What about your sisters? Did they have the same experience?”

  “Somewhat, I think, although not as severe. They’re quite a bit older than me, and they’d all flown the nest when my mother’s symptoms really started to show, so I was the only one home. Which makes me sound very woe-is-me, I realize. Which is part of the reason I don’t talk about it.”

  Abby could certainly understand about not talking about things, for whatever reason. “What about your dad?”

  Simon shrugged. “I think he just felt that was how she was. He loved the highs and he checked out a bit during the lows. Not… not terribly. Really, I had—have—a great family.” His lips twisted. “Especially from the outside.”

  Abby nodded slowly. She was glad he’d told her, but she also felt troubled. She didn’t know what this meant—if anything—for them. If there even was a them. Did sharing secrets bring you closer, or draw you even farther apart?

  The waitress came to take their orders—two lumberjack platters with all the fixings—and when she’d gone again, Abby sensed Simon wanting to move the conversation on, but she wasn’t quite ready for him to.

  “What about your marriage?” she asked before he could change the topic to something safer. “You talked about your mother, but I don’t even know your wife—ex-wife’s—name.”

  “Sara.” He paused, as if he was going to say something more, but then didn’t. “I mentioned my mother because I think it affected how I was with Sara. Sara wasn’t—isn’t—bipolar, in the least. But I more or less acted as if she was.” He sighed. “She would get upset about something, and I simply shut down. She’d tell me she was angry, and I couldn’t deal with it. At all. And that was hard for her. The trouble was, I didn’t know how to change, or even if I wanted to. I didn’t like confrontation. Still don’t.” He gave her a game smile. “Can you tell?”

  “Yes, although you probably can tell I don’t like it, either.” Abby hesitated, the question, the very obvious question, on the tip of her tongue, waiting to be said, yet she was afraid to go there. But wasn’t she trying to change, as well? “And n
ow?” she made herself ask. “How do you feel about it all now?”

  SIMON

  Simon stared at Abby, the way her anxious gaze scanned his face as she bit her lip. This conversation was almost as hard for her as it was for him, although maybe not, because for him it felt like peeling back a layer of skin—although hadn’t she said that before, when talking about her family? It wasn’t easy for either of them.

  He knew it shouldn’t be that bad, not really. He should be able to talk about these things. He was a grown man. He’d tried therapy—briefly, but still. He knew what his issues were, at least, and yet even now he felt like clawing at something, crying out, or maybe just his usual, making a joke. Making a big deal of the stupid lumberjack platters because that was so much easier than making a big deal about this. And he hadn’t even told her about Maggie yet.

  He should, he knew that. The longer he left it, the worse it became, a yawning ignorance on her part, a gross deception on his. And yet still he held back, because he didn’t want Abby to see him differently. Wonder what kind of man he was. This was bad enough.

  “I’m trying,” he said at last. “And I’ve been trying. Hence this conversation.”

  “Thank you,” Abby said quietly, and Simon couldn’t keep from letting out a little sigh of relief. She sounded as if she was going to leave it.

  “Do you think Sophie might have had similar issues to your mother?” Abby asked after a moment. “You said she was like her, with the highs and lows, didn’t you? What if it was something like that that contributed to whatever happened between her and my grandfather? She said she hoped he’d forgive her, you mentioned?”

  “Yes… I never thought of that, but you may be right.”

  “Tell me about her. Sophie.”

  Simon smiled and shrugged. “I wish there was more I could tell you. I didn’t see her all that often, but I have some vague memories. She argued with my mother once, I don’t know what about, but we left in a hurry. Sometimes she seemed… discontented, I suppose. She tried to hide it, I think, but she made me feel uneasy. She could also be charming, though. She had a wonderful laugh—throaty and real.”

  Abby sat with her chin in her hand. With her dark hair soft about her shoulders, Simon thought she looked as lovely as a painting. He wished he could tell her something of how he felt, but it sounded sentimental and stupid and, in any case, he didn’t even know what was going on between them. They’d kissed twice, but they’d also argued, and he was beginning to wonder if he’d already been friend-zoned. Maybe that would be no bad thing.

  Then again, maybe it would.

  “It sounds like she was a very interesting person. I wonder if Guy Wessel will have anything to say about her, as well.”

  “Perhaps, even if just from what Matthew Lawson or your grandad might have mentioned.” Simon shrugged. “Maybe not, though. This really could be a wild goose chase of the first order.”

  “I know.” Abby smiled self-consciously. “I don’t mind.”

  Something warm and welcome bloomed in Simon’s chest at that, and at the hesitant but hopeful look on her face, which made him feel like letting out some sort of ridiculous primal roar. He didn’t know how Abby felt, not exactly, but the look on her face was enough. “I don’t either,” he said.

  The waitress came bearing their lumberjack platters, which really were enormous.

  “We can put what we don’t eat in doggie bags and have it for dinner,” Abby suggested a bit doubtfully. “There’s no way I’m going to eat even a third of this.”

  “But you can try,” Simon declared. “It’s practically your duty.”

  She laughed and shook her head, and they both started eating. Outside, the sky was still pressing down on the earth, everything limp and colorless from an August day’s humidity, and yet Simon felt as if the world was turning to Technicolor. Something was expanding in his chest, taking over his body, making him smile. Grin.

  Maybe they wouldn’t learn a thing from Guy Wessel. Maybe nothing would happen between him and Abby. But right here, right now, he felt as if he could live in this moment, and it would be enough.

  Chapter Twenty

  London

  July 1944

  There had been nothing to save from the rubble of the house on Holmside Road, nothing useful or precious, not a single keepsake to remember the many happy years in that home.

  In the days after the bombing, Lily withdrew into herself, like an animal seeking self-protection, curling inward, while Sophie became hardened, the appealing gloss worn off her veneer, leaving her brittle and determined, the humor and charm that had once softened her seeming to have vanished completely.

  Richard Mather had not been home when the V-1 had hit, which was, at least, a mercy. Moments after Lily had run towards the house, he’d come haring down the street, shouting his wife’s name uselessly.

  Matthew had watched as the Mathers stood in front of their ruined house, praying that by some miracle Carol hadn’t been inside it. But there’d been so little warning, and when Lily had run to look, the Anderson shelter had been empty. Rescue workers had pulled her broken body from the wreckage as Sophie turned onto Holmside Road, Lily utterly silent as Richard let out an anguished cry.

  In the aftermath, no one knew what to do. When it had been someone else, there was tea to brew and blankets to find and comfort to give. Now, other people were pressing cups of tea into their hands, and finding them clothes and blankets, murmuring sympathies and shaking their heads. Lily had looked blankly at the cup she was cradling as if she didn’t know what it was.

  “Where will we sleep?” she’d asked no one in particular, as if it was a matter of only passing interest.

  Neighbors up and down the street had offered spare rooms, settees, and more blankets than they knew what to do with, but Matthew knew the Mathers could hardly spend the rest of the war on someone’s sofa.

  The next day, instead of walking with Lily in Regent’s Park or going to the cinema, holding hands and talking about nothing, he queued with her for a clothing grant, and then helped to look for accommodation for the family.

  The government, Matthew discovered, was near to useless in providing anything behind the barest of essentials; there were simply too many people in similar situations, too many homes and lives wrecked for them even to try to make much of a difference.

  Eventually, after three days of the Mathers sleeping in a neighbor’s sitting room, they found a set of rooms in Stockwell, a far cry from the cozy comfort of the house on Holmside Road, but just about adequate.

  There was a small bedroom for Sophie and Lily, and a front room where Richard could sleep, along with a tap and a gas ring so they could make their own meals and wash. The toilet was outside, at the bottom of a muddy strip of garden. The whole place smelled of boiled vegetables and soiled nappies, and everyone living there seemed grim-faced and sullen, but it was all there was.

  “It will do,” Lily said firmly, while Sophie simply curled her lip as she looked around the two shabby rooms with peeling linoleum floors and plaster flaking off the walls. “Mother would have been able to make this place a home,” Lily added as Sophie walked off. “She was brilliant that way. It’s up to us to carry on as best as we can.” And with a purposeful air, her lips trembling only a little, she reached for the little tin teapot they’d been given with a box of other secondhand household items and placed it on the table. This was home, Matthew realized with both affection and pride, because she would make it so.

  “Let me take you all out to Rainbow Corner tonight,” Matthew suggested later. He didn’t know if he could get them in, with so many GIs on leave, but he would do his best. “For a slap-up meal. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Why not?” Sophie answered with a toss of her head, a hard glitter in her eyes. “Might as well get a meal while I can.”

  Richard cried off, insisting he was fine on his own and wouldn’t spoil their fun—although Matthew wondered how much fun they could have, considering the
circumstance. He knew Tom had been granted leave after his ended, and he hoped he’d be able to provide some comfort to Sophie, although she seemed indifferent to the prospect. Nothing seemed to matter much anymore.

  This was what war did to you, Matthew thought, in the end. After all the fury and fear and the desperate, wild hope, it made you stop caring, and in its own way that was worse than anything that had gone before.

  That evening, the crowd at Rainbow Corner seemed both determined and jubilant, a far cry from the dour mood of the little group who filed into the foyer of the former Lyons Corner House on Piccadilly.

  “Haven’t you heard?” an airman at the bar asked Matthew, who shook his head. “They tried to kill Hitler. His own men. A bomb or something in a suitcase.”

  Matthew’s heart felt as if it were lurching towards his throat. “They didn’t succeed?”

  “Nah, he’s got the luck of the devil, that bastard.” The man tossed back half his beer in one gulp. “But his own men trying to kill him? Even they want to be shot of it all. It won’t be long now. It can’t be.”

  But any amount of time was too long, Matthew thought as he waited for their drinks. He glanced back at Lily and Sophie, standing apart from the jostle of GIs, Lily looking pensive and Sophie with her hand holding her jacket closed at the throat, her gaze darting here and there.

  Matthew thanked the bartender and took the drinks back through the crowd.

  “It’s like a party in here,” Lily remarked with a wan smile. “What are they celebrating?”

  Matthew hesitated and then answered, “Some Nazis tried to assassinate Hitler, apparently. It’s been on the wireless.”

  “What!” Lily’s eyes widened. “Did they—”

  “They obviously didn’t,” Sophie cut in sharply. “Succeed, that is.” She threw back her drink—straight vermouth—in one abrupt movement. “Otherwise there really would be a party.” The bitterness in her tone was unmistakable. She thrust her empty glass towards Matthew. “Another?”