dancing around the furniture, her eyes flashing, her hair floating loose, flying up from her head, like cotton.
When the record had finished, she slumped into a chair, looking at the ripples in her wine glass. She wrote letters in her head.
Are you in France yet? Or Belgium? Did they send you off to Belgium after all? Have you heard them talking in French? And Nancy, where are you? Did the man who tapped nails into his hands come back to the boardwalk, or did they hide him in a booth, away from all the ladies and the children? He was a strange one all right. Is Ray’s lemonade still sour? Did they shoot any elephants? What’s the weather like? And what about Franny? Is she still sweet on Mickey Toomer? Did he buy her that fine silk dress that she’d been swooning over? Are the mussels still cheap? Is France how you thought it would be? Were the guidebooks right? Do they eat frogs’ legs? Are you scared?
She fell asleep in the chair, with the glass in her hand. She woke just after two, shivering; the fire was out and the room was so dark that she thought for a moment she was somewhere underground.
Wrapped in a blanket, Beatrice watched the postman moving slowly up the lane. He kept scratching the side of his face. When he reached her door, she could hear him clearing his throat, and the letters sliding onto the tiles with an icy rush of air.
She had to look at them in order. That was her rule. She had to open them in turn without cheating. The first was a bill from the coalman; his smudged black fingerprints were all over the tatty-looking invoice. There was an advertisement for a second-hand furniture sale. A bookseller was getting rid of stock. And then there it was . The familiar slanted handwriting. Her cheeks flushed. It was almost like she could hear him.
30 March 1915
Dearest Beatrice,
Just a few lines to let you know that I am still very much alive and in the pink. The weather has been cruel to us; we’ve had snow, sleet and frost. When the snow falls, it falls thick and fast. Of course it does make things difficult at times, but it’ll soon be the spring and I knew that it wouldn’t be easy.
Well, Bea, you’ll be pleased to hear I’ve been promoted. They were right. It didn’t take long. I don’t know what the lads think. Best not to boast about it. I was supposed to go back to Sandhurst for training, but they needed me here, and so I’ve had to learn the hard way, on the job.
How are you keeping? Fine and well, I hope. I got your parcel. Everything in one piece, and we all enjoyed the toffee. The little things make a big difference over here.
I have to end this now.
My love to you.
Keep well, keep going.
From Jonathan xxx
She wiped her hand across the page. It was strange to think that he’d touched this paper, and that her parcel had reached him, all that way; it had found him, over the Channel, in a hidden part of France. Her husband was fine, and alive, and he was talking to her. Throwing down the blanket, she pulled on her coat and her grey wool gloves. She was smiling.
The farmer was sitting on the doorstep, blowing into his tea.
‘There won’t be any money,’ he said. ‘Though we can feed you. We need help all right. Jack’s in France. Paul and the rest are God knows where, being trained for God knows what. There’s just me and Ginny, and Jed. My wife isn’t well. She’d help me out if she could.’
‘OK, so what would you like me to do?’
‘Are you strong?’
‘Strong enough.’
‘You’ll have to see to the pigs, and those pigs can be brutes. We’ve no horses left, but they let us keep some of the cows and the pigs and the handful of chickens. And then there’s all the carrots. They’ll want washing and sorting and bagging. The hotels are still fussy. And the hospital. They like their carrots clean because it saves them time and money.’
‘I can do that.’
‘Come back on Monday. Ginny will find you some overalls. You’re not one of those women averse to
When the record had finished, she slumped into a chair, looking at the ripples in her wine glass. She wrote letters in her head.
Are you in France yet? Or Belgium? Did they send you off to Belgium after all? Have you heard them talking in French? And Nancy, where are you? Did the man who tapped nails into his hands come back to the boardwalk, or did they hide him in a booth, away from all the ladies and the children? He was a strange one all right. Is Ray’s lemonade still sour? Did they shoot any elephants? What’s the weather like? And what about Franny? Is she still sweet on Mickey Toomer? Did he buy her that fine silk dress that she’d been swooning over? Are the mussels still cheap? Is France how you thought it would be? Were the guidebooks right? Do they eat frogs’ legs? Are you scared?
She fell asleep in the chair, with the glass in her hand. She woke just after two, shivering; the fire was out and the room was so dark that she thought for a moment she was somewhere underground.
Wrapped in a blanket, Beatrice watched the postman moving slowly up the lane. He kept scratching the side of his face. When he reached her door, she could hear him clearing his throat, and the letters sliding onto the tiles with an icy rush of air.
She had to look at them in order. That was her rule. She had to open them in turn without cheating. The first was a bill from the coalman; his smudged black fingerprints were all over the tatty-looking invoice. There was an advertisement for a second-hand furniture sale. A bookseller was getting rid of stock. And then there it was . The familiar slanted handwriting. Her cheeks flushed. It was almost like she could hear him.
30 March 1915
Dearest Beatrice,
Just a few lines to let you know that I am still very much alive and in the pink. The weather has been cruel to us; we’ve had snow, sleet and frost. When the snow falls, it falls thick and fast. Of course it does make things difficult at times, but it’ll soon be the spring and I knew that it wouldn’t be easy.
Well, Bea, you’ll be pleased to hear I’ve been promoted. They were right. It didn’t take long. I don’t know what the lads think. Best not to boast about it. I was supposed to go back to Sandhurst for training, but they needed me here, and so I’ve had to learn the hard way, on the job.
How are you keeping? Fine and well, I hope. I got your parcel. Everything in one piece, and we all enjoyed the toffee. The little things make a big difference over here.
I have to end this now.
My love to you.
Keep well, keep going.
From Jonathan xxx
She wiped her hand across the page. It was strange to think that he’d touched this paper, and that her parcel had reached him, all that way; it had found him, over the Channel, in a hidden part of France. Her husband was fine, and alive, and he was talking to her. Throwing down the blanket, she pulled on her coat and her grey wool gloves. She was smiling.
The farmer was sitting on the doorstep, blowing into his tea.
‘There won’t be any money,’ he said. ‘Though we can feed you. We need help all right. Jack’s in France. Paul and the rest are God knows where, being trained for God knows what. There’s just me and Ginny, and Jed. My wife isn’t well. She’d help me out if she could.’
‘OK, so what would you like me to do?’
‘Are you strong?’
‘Strong enough.’
‘You’ll have to see to the pigs, and those pigs can be brutes. We’ve no horses left, but they let us keep some of the cows and the pigs and the handful of chickens. And then there’s all the carrots. They’ll want washing and sorting and bagging. The hotels are still fussy. And the hospital. They like their carrots clean because it saves them time and money.’
‘I can do that.’
‘Come back on Monday. Ginny will find you some overalls. You’re not one of those women averse to
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