Letters From the Past

by Erica James

  I was not normally a pessimist, but I worried about the chances of a successful outcome to this planned invasion. I worried about Billy and Elijah in particular. I kept my concerns to myself and put on an upbeat appearance at all times. I suspected that most people were doing the same. We were all so tired of rationing, of listening to the news and clinging to the hope that the war would soon be over. How absurd it now seemed that in the first few months after Neville Chamberlain addressed the nation to announce that we were at war with Germany, people had said it would be over by Christmas. That was four and a half years ago.

  Funnily enough, I wasn’t the least bit pessimistic when I was airborne. It didn’t matter what plane I was flying – other than the dreaded Walrus – once I was up in the air, I felt elated. Even when it was freezing cold, or conditions made flying extremely risky, such as flying through dense clouds and relying solely on the instruments, I never lost that sensation of feeling utterly free. At the controls in the cockpit I felt all-powerful. Which I knew was dangerous; it could lead to a careless mistake that could cost me my life.

  Which very nearly happened that morning.

  Having cycled the four miles to work in the rain, I received my instructions from our commanding officer, Margot Gore. Margot was one of the most organised people I knew and was hugely respected by us all at No. 15 Ferry Pool, Hamble- on-Solent. Nothing passed her notice and she saw at once the expression on my face when I read the chit she handed me – I was to deliver a Walrus to RAF West Raynham. ‘Everybody has to draw a short straw now and again,’ she said pleasantly.

  The reason most of us dreaded flying this single-engined amphibian plane used by the Air-Sea Rescue, was because take-off was akin to riding a bull at full gallop, and once in the air it rolled like a galleon on the high seas, rendering me as sick as a dog. No other aircraft had this effect on me. And no other plane forced me to crawl on my hands and knees through the hull to reach the cockpit. This involved pushing my way through a plethora of anchors and cables and anything else that was cluttering up the space, as though the aircraft was used like an old barn in which to store things. The alternative was to climb inelegantly up the outside of the hulking great beast.

  By the time I was ready for take-off, the fine drizzling rain of earlier had ceased, but the wind had risen. I always imagined the Walrus as a cussed brute that sulked its way reluctantly off the ground and up into the air, but not before the control column had repeatedly bashed against my chest as the wheels went over the bumps of the runway.

  All had been going well, when, and approximately ten minutes from my destination, I suddenly felt, and heard, an almighty clunk beneath me. The instrument panel gave no indication as to what had happened, but something was obviously amiss. When the engine began to cut out, I knew I had to land as quickly as possible. Checking my position, I calmly accepted that I wouldn’t make it to the airfield.

  The essential thing was to find somewhere clear of any buildings. I’d previously carried out a number of emergency landings, it wasn’t new to me, but I’d never done one in a Walrus before. And a Walrus with a failing engine. Keeping the brute steady, I looked out for a handy field that was obstacle-free. I spotted a field fringed with trees and a large hay barn to one side, just as the engine made yet more ominous sounds of conking out and a plume of smoke appeared. Beggars can’t be choosers, I thought, the field would have to do. I pumped away to lower the wheels and prepared to land.

  I was about six feet from the ground when a cross-wind buffeted the Walrus. With its double wing structure, this was the last thing I needed and sure enough, the aircraft damn near performed a pirouette before heading straight towards the barn.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Palm Springs

  October 1962

  Romily

  ‘What happened next?’ asked Red.

  ‘As you can see, I survived,’ Romily said matter of factly.

  ‘It must have been a hell of a hair-raising experience.’

  ‘Yes. But it was one of many close calls. We were all like cats ticking off our nine lives.’

  ‘So why tell me that particular incident?’

  His question poked at an achingly tender spot. ‘It’s . . . it’s the most memorable,’ she answered.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  She hesitated with her reply and tore her gaze away from the campfire. All the while she had been talking she had been unaware of where she was; she had been lost in the past, transported back to a time when she had never felt more alive. Flying with the ATA had been as exhilarating as it had been exhausting. Yet it had never entirely assuaged the pain of losing her beloved Jack, as she’d hoped it would.

  Jack’s oldest friend, Roddy, sadly no longer alive, had once made Romily promise him that she would let go of Jack and live life to the fullest.

  Would he think she had?

  Compared to most people she had lived an extraordinarily full life, but what did that really mean?

  With the soft cashmere of Red’s sweater resting against her neck, the sleeves tied beneath her chin, she could smell the heady scent of his cologne, a citrusy fragrance combined with bergamot and sandalwood. It made her look at the man sitting a few feet from her. In the peaceful silence of the desert, the dancing shadows of the dwindling firelight gave Red’s face the look of being carved. He had a strong and determined profile, a pronounced square jaw and lines deeply etched around his eyes and mouth. His hair was thick and bordering on unruly, much like him, she found herself thinking.

  He was a man who doubtless did things his way. A man who was spontaneous and resisted conformity. Why else was he sitting here in the middle of nowhere with her?

  ‘Because of what happened next,’ she said finally in answer to his question. Then taking hold of a stick, she poked at the glowing embers of the fire. ‘We should go,’ she said. ‘It’s late.’

  ‘What?’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re going to leave me hanging just like that?’

  ‘That’s the job of a storyteller,’ she said, ‘to leave the reader wanting more.’

  He smiled. ‘Well, take it from me, this guy definitely wants to know more.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Island House, Melstead St Mary

  October 1962

  Isabella

  ‘Mmm . . . something smells good,’ remarked Isabella as she, together with Stanley and Annelise, entered the gates of hell – otherwise known as the kitchen at Island House, and where Mrs Collings ruled supreme and with a fist of iron.

  The formidable woman swung round from the stove, a wooden spoon clenched in her hand. ‘What’s this then?’ she demanded. ‘A deputation in my kitchen?’

  Stanley laughed. ‘Only you could hold a wooden spoon and make yourself look dangerously armed.’

  ‘Is it any wonder I arm myself when you pop up looking more and more like one of those dreadful nitbeaks. Just look at the state of your hair! Any longer and people will think you’re a woman!’

  ‘I think you mean beatnik, which I’ll take as a compliment. So what culinary delights have you in store for us for lunch?’

  ‘Cheeky beggar,’ said Mrs Collings. ‘You have chicken and mushroom pie with mashed potatoes and green beans and carrots.’

  ‘And for dessert?’

  ‘Apricot tart. Now out of my way so I can get this meal served.’

  ‘That’s why we’re here,’ said Isabella, stepping forward, ‘we’re here to help.’

  ‘And who says I need any help?’

  ‘Hope thought you might like it, seeing as Florence is over at Meadow Lodge getting things ready for the party,’ said Annelise.

  ‘And taken Beatty the new maid with her,’ said Mrs Collings, disapprovingly.

  ‘But here we are,’ said Stanley ‘all three of us present and correct, just waiting to do your bidding.’

  ‘In
that case, if you can be trusted not to drop anything, you can make a start by taking these plates through to the dining room. Annelise, you can fill the water jug, it’s over there on the draining board and then put it on the table.’

  ‘What about me, Mrs Collings?’

  She gave Isabella a look as if to say, And what about you? Isabella could become the most famous actress of the day, but this harridan of a woman would still treat her as the naughty teenager who had once secretly stirred salt into the custard Mrs Collings had just made. ‘You can fetch the butter from the pantry,’ she instructed, ‘and add a knob of it to the carrots and beans when I’ve drained them. If you’re sure you won’t make a mess of it.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ Isabella said, tempted to tug on her forelock and throw in a curtsey for good measure.

  They had the last of the dishes on the table with Mrs Collings fussing over where they should be placed when Edmund arrived back from doing his morning rounds. ‘Any chance of some mustard to go with your delicious pie, Mrs Collings?’ he asked.

  She scowled. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said.

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ Edmund said, with the kind of smile Isabella knew could warm the coldest of hearts. Not for nothing was he known in the village for having the best bedside manner this side of Dr Kildare.

  ‘Honestly, I swear that woman gets worse,’ muttered Hope, when Mrs Collings had gone. ‘I don’t know why Romily keeps her. She’s not a patch on Mrs Partridge.’

  ‘You know Romily has a weakness for lame ducks,’ said Edmund.

  ‘There’s nothing lame about Mrs Collings,’ asserted Hope.

  ‘It must be difficult for her, knowing she has such a hard act to follow,’ said Annelise.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Stanley. ‘Mrs Partridge was like a grandmother to us all.’

  As they all did, Isabella had many affectionate memories of the big-hearted woman who had presided over the kitchen here at Island House for as long as she could remember. Sadly, she had died peacefully in her sleep two years ago.

  ‘Mrs Collings is all right,’ said Edmund, indicating everyone should sit down, ‘her curmudgeonly manner is merely an act. She’s a pussycat really. You just have to know how to handle her.’

  Hope rolled her eyes. ‘And you would know all about handling women, wouldn’t you? You have every woman in the village of a certain age at your beck and call.’

  ‘Not quite every woman,’ replied Edmund lightly. As light as his voice was, Isabella caught the frown on his face. They were quite used to Hope’s occasional bouts of crabbiness, but her remark, along with a couple made last night during dinner, seemed unusually sharp. Perhaps she was working too hard. That was the excuse they all used for Hope when she became tetchy.

  Isabella clearly wasn’t alone in thinking Hope had been unnecessarily unkind to Edmund, because the room had gone deathly quiet. It was as if nobody knew what to say. In the awkward silence, Mrs Collings bustled back in with the requested pot of mustard. Edmund thanked her and she huffed her way out again as though she had just been forced to tramp across the Himalayas.

  Hope issued another tut, but before she could say anything, Edmund said, ‘It’s lovely to have you girls home for the weekend. We don’t see enough of you these days. Not nearly enough.’

  ‘Oh, please don’t make me feel any worse than I already feel,’ said Annelise. ‘This term’s just been so busy. I would have come home if I’d been able to.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Edmund, don’t nag the poor girl; you said much the same thing last night. She has her own life to lead in Oxford.’

  ‘I’m not nagging anyone. I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  Once more Isabella saw the frown crease Edmund’s brow. Something was going on. Had Hope and Edmund had a row?

  Ignoring her husband, and while they all began helping themselves from the dishes, Hope turned to Stanley. In a classic example of there being no such thing as a free lunch, Hope had invited him to join them so that she could go over some detail or other about the new house.

  Observing Stanley across the table, Isabella acknowledged that longer hair suited him, as did the black polo-neck sweater he was wearing. There was a markedly more urbane air about him these days. She wondered if Annelise had noticed it. Possibly not. It was obvious to Isabella that Stanley worshipped the ground Annelise walked on, but Annelise being Annelise, she was completely blind to it.

  The conversation around the table had now moved on to America and the Soviets battling it out over Cuba. Isabella took the view that if the world was about to end, she would make damned sure she enjoyed her last days on earth. Trying to lighten the mood again, and interrupting Hope, she asked Stanley if he was taking anyone to the party at Meadow Lodge that evening.

  He looked uncomfortable at her question. ‘No,’ he replied, his eyes downcast, lost behind his fringe.

  ‘Well, you are now, you can escort Annelise and me.’

  ‘Isabella!’ remonstrated Annelise. ‘You can’t railroad him like that. Now he’ll feel obliged. And anyway, I’m quite capable of attending a party unaccompanied.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, I haven’t railroaded anyone. Do you feel obliged, Stanley?’

  He looked uneasy. ‘If Annelise would rather I didn’t take her,’ he said, ‘I’d quite understand.’

  ‘Why did you have to make me look so ungracious?’ Annelise demanded when lunch was over and she followed Isabella upstairs to what had been her old bedroom before she went to live with Elijah. Downstairs Hope was still bending Stanley’s ear, and Edmund had returned to his surgery.

  ‘I think you’ll find you did that all by yourself,’ said Isabella. ‘Honestly, why did you have to be so churlish? I was just trying to make lunch a bit jollier. What’s going on between Hope and Edmund?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Goodness, Annelise, for such an intelligent girl you can be remarkably obtuse. Hope keeps sniping at Edmund. She did it last night too.’

  ‘You know what Mums is like when she’s under pressure; she gets all cranky. As soon as she’s finished this latest book she’ll calm down. She’s a perfectionist, that’s the trouble.’

  ‘No,’ said Isabella, joining Annelise at the window where she was looking down at the garden, ‘the real trouble is, she doesn’t know how to relax. When was the last time she cleared her diary long enough to go on holiday with Edmund? Or even go to the theatre for that matter? She does nothing but work. It’s like a drug for her. An obsession.’

  ‘It’s her passion. It always has been. I would have thought you of all people would understand that.’

  ‘Of course I’m passionate about what I do, but I still want to have fun in my life. Otherwise what’s the point? And you know what, Romily used to have fun too, but I’ve noticed lately that work dominates everything she does. Look how she was meant to be home this weekend for the party, but she’s allowed work to keep her there in America.’

  ‘We don’t know that it’s work.’

  ‘What else could it be?’

  ‘Even if it is, you and I would have done the same. It’s called seizing an opportunity. As women we have to work that much harder in our chosen professions to get where we want to be.’

  Isabella hated it when Annelise was right, but unable to let her have the last word, she said, ‘And where do you want to be, Annelise, in, let’s say, five years’ time?’

  ‘With Castro urging the Soviets to attack America with a nuclear missile, I don’t think there’s much point looking too far into the future, do you?’

  Isabella tutted. ‘In the hope that doesn’t happen, where do you see yourself in five years?’

  ‘I don’t know. But one day, when I’m a lot older, I’d like nothing more than to be the Dean of St Gertrude’s. What about you?’

  ‘Does marriage not figure in your ambition
?’ Isabella replied without answering the question.

  For a split second, Annelise’s expression faltered. ‘I don’t think I’m the marrying sort,’ she said, running a finger along the windowsill.

  Storing away that hesitant response from Annelise, Isabella smiled. ‘Well, I plan to marry at least three times. The first time to further my career. The second for money. And the third for love.’

  Annelise’s face was a picture of scandalised shock. ‘That’s dreadful, even by your standards.’

  Isabella laughed. ‘I’m joking! You really need to lighten up; you’re much too serious these days. Which brings me back to Hope. She needs to watch out, because if she’s not careful, she’ll push Edmund too far. I’ve seen it happen with my own eyes, or more precisely, I’ve been on the receiving end of a neglected husband’s need to feel wanted. It never fails to amaze me how fragile the male ego is.’

  Annelise looked aghast. ‘You can’t possibly think Edmund would stray. He’s not like those unprincipled actors you mix with. He’s a decent and honourable man, the epitome of a loyal and utterly trustworthy husband. What’s more he loves Mums.’

  ‘All of which may well be true. But a man can only be pushed so far before his principles fly out of the window.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re talking this way. You’ve become so cynical.’

  Accepting there was no point in going any further with the conversation, Isabella decided to change the subject.

  ‘What are you wearing for the party tonight?’ she asked. ‘Can I see? After all, we don’t want to clash, do we?’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Island House, Melstead St Mary

  October 1962

  Annelise

  Alone in her bedroom, Annelise stood in front of her writing desk with its view of the garden. The leaves on the trees had turned, and in the afternoon sun, rich autumnal hues of rust, copper and gold were perfectly reflected in the still surface of the pond. She loved autumn.