so much as a hello, when surely all and sundry were reveling in their missives from home? It wasn’t as if she didn’t like him, after all. It was just…But could one in all fairness call it writer’s block (as she was beginning to) when the block concerned the writing of a mere letter?
Sick of the inside of her own head, she waited for thehousehold to go to bed, and then tiptoed into the living room and took out the bottle of dry sherry from the drinks cabinet. Helped herself to a good large glassful, gulped it down and poured a second to take upstairs with her. If that didn’t do the trick, then nothing would.
Dearest Steven,
I’m drunk on Daddy’s sherry—believe me, it’s the only way I shall ever succeed in getting this out. The thing is, you’ve turned me frightfully shy. I thought I knew you, both of you, but suddenly there’s a different you and a different George, and even a different Nancy. I feel I’m the only one of us who is still clinging to the past, to the idea of us as a foursome. The rest of you have moved on. I know that doesn’t make sense and I apologize for that (I shall blame the sherry!), but there you have it. I have been tongue-tied when it comes to letter writing, but I promise you I’ve been thinking of you all the time.
Steven, whatever happens, I want you to know that I shall never forget that night in the garden. I know I was rather cross with you at the time, but that was just because of the surprise of it, and a degree of confusion. Truly, it was a very special night. And you are quite the best kisser I’ve ever kissed.
I’m not saying this very well (again, the sherry). I think about you when I’m alone. I feel a lot for you—the sort of feelings I can’t talk about, even with the sherry.
There. I hope that makes you smile. Steven, I have no idea what you’re living, and I’m sorry if this is all just awfully trivial to you. I can’t pretend that Iremotely understand this war, or what it must be like to fight in it.
I’ve been unforgivably slow in writing to you, but I hope you’ll forgive me all the same. Write back when you can, and take good care of yourself and George. I want you to come back soon to kiss me again.
With all my love,
Gracie
The following morning, after breakfast, a much refreshed Grace (with not the slightest trace of a headache) headed upstairs to fetch the letter, intending to take it to the post office before she could change her mind.
I shan’t read it again, she told herself—but then of course she did. And blushed. Then she read it again and blushed some more and stood procrastinating.
Buck up and think of Steven, she told herself. You’ve written it and now you must send it.
So she placed the letter in an envelope, sealed and addressed it, and went downstairs to fetch her coat and keys.
But in the few minutes she’d spent upstairs, the doorbell had rung and the world had moved on. Through the open doorway to the living room, she saw Mrs. Wilkins sitting in a chair, her face in her hands, and Mr. Wilkins over by the mantel, staring into the empty fireplace. Daddy was delving in his drinks cabinet—a look of surprise flitting briefly across his face when he held up the sherry bottle and saw how little was left.
“Here’s Grace.” Mummy had spotted her, and was advancing toward the door. There were tears on her face. “Come in here a moment, darling. Where’s your sister?”
Grace’s heart began to pound. Her hand opened and the letter fell to the floor. She heard her own voice say, “Which of them is it?”
Steven had been killed in shelling at the Loos Battle. His death changed everything. The Rutherford girls had been in a bubble while the war went on somewhere else. They knew people who’d died, of course. But nobody crucial had been snatched away from them until now. Nobody intrinsic.
Grace went on at university for a time but it all seemed so irrelevant, with Steven dead and George still out there. There had
Sick of the inside of her own head, she waited for thehousehold to go to bed, and then tiptoed into the living room and took out the bottle of dry sherry from the drinks cabinet. Helped herself to a good large glassful, gulped it down and poured a second to take upstairs with her. If that didn’t do the trick, then nothing would.
Dearest Steven,
I’m drunk on Daddy’s sherry—believe me, it’s the only way I shall ever succeed in getting this out. The thing is, you’ve turned me frightfully shy. I thought I knew you, both of you, but suddenly there’s a different you and a different George, and even a different Nancy. I feel I’m the only one of us who is still clinging to the past, to the idea of us as a foursome. The rest of you have moved on. I know that doesn’t make sense and I apologize for that (I shall blame the sherry!), but there you have it. I have been tongue-tied when it comes to letter writing, but I promise you I’ve been thinking of you all the time.
Steven, whatever happens, I want you to know that I shall never forget that night in the garden. I know I was rather cross with you at the time, but that was just because of the surprise of it, and a degree of confusion. Truly, it was a very special night. And you are quite the best kisser I’ve ever kissed.
I’m not saying this very well (again, the sherry). I think about you when I’m alone. I feel a lot for you—the sort of feelings I can’t talk about, even with the sherry.
There. I hope that makes you smile. Steven, I have no idea what you’re living, and I’m sorry if this is all just awfully trivial to you. I can’t pretend that Iremotely understand this war, or what it must be like to fight in it.
I’ve been unforgivably slow in writing to you, but I hope you’ll forgive me all the same. Write back when you can, and take good care of yourself and George. I want you to come back soon to kiss me again.
With all my love,
Gracie
The following morning, after breakfast, a much refreshed Grace (with not the slightest trace of a headache) headed upstairs to fetch the letter, intending to take it to the post office before she could change her mind.
I shan’t read it again, she told herself—but then of course she did. And blushed. Then she read it again and blushed some more and stood procrastinating.
Buck up and think of Steven, she told herself. You’ve written it and now you must send it.
So she placed the letter in an envelope, sealed and addressed it, and went downstairs to fetch her coat and keys.
But in the few minutes she’d spent upstairs, the doorbell had rung and the world had moved on. Through the open doorway to the living room, she saw Mrs. Wilkins sitting in a chair, her face in her hands, and Mr. Wilkins over by the mantel, staring into the empty fireplace. Daddy was delving in his drinks cabinet—a look of surprise flitting briefly across his face when he held up the sherry bottle and saw how little was left.
“Here’s Grace.” Mummy had spotted her, and was advancing toward the door. There were tears on her face. “Come in here a moment, darling. Where’s your sister?”
Grace’s heart began to pound. Her hand opened and the letter fell to the floor. She heard her own voice say, “Which of them is it?”
Steven had been killed in shelling at the Loos Battle. His death changed everything. The Rutherford girls had been in a bubble while the war went on somewhere else. They knew people who’d died, of course. But nobody crucial had been snatched away from them until now. Nobody intrinsic.
Grace went on at university for a time but it all seemed so irrelevant, with Steven dead and George still out there. There had
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