As Little As Nothing, page 20
20 June 1939
An Encounter
It was 1:36 p.m. when Robert walked into the tea shop. She remembered this because she’d looked up to the clock next to the door to check how much time she had left before her speech.
He saw her immediately, of course; he was looking for her, had sought her out just as he’d done over a war ago when she was too young to know anything.
Did he pause as he entered, the momentary stillness drawing her attention to him? She recognized him instantly. Almost. He was older now, a man who still moved like one much younger, those first few steps that were strides really, always moving forward, moving on.
A waiter brought her tea and a sandwich, and she thanked him, eyes still locked on Robert. When the rattle of a cup and saucer jolted her from him, it was fleeting, like a watchful hunter careful not to lose its prey.
But she was the one who felt like prey. Just as she’d always been.
Only she didn’t recognize it as that back then, wouldn’t have used that word. To her it was love. At that age, so pure, uncomplicated.
“Audrey?”
“Robert.”
“They said I’d find you here.”
“Who? Who told you I’d be here?”
He was standing at her table, she could see a grease stain on the front of his jacket and somehow that reminded her that she’d heard he’d married, many years after his time with her. A good marriage, not great, was the rumour. They were talking money, class, status. She’d heard his wife died a few years later.
“The man from the theatre. He said you’d come here before your speech.”
Henry, the caretaker. The only one who knew where she was.
“I saw the posters. I recognized you.”
“The posters, yes. The movement is gaining strength. We’re hoping for a change in legislation.”
She was about to say that women needed control over their bodies but stopped herself. To lecture him on that seemed an impossible joke.
She felt her hand shake a little as she reached for her teacup. She didn’t know what to do with him, standing there like a waiter impatient for an order. She did not want a scene here in the tea shop, a public apology, an expression of regret—what did he want of her?
“It’s lucky I saw the poster. I’d just come out of the bank, and normally I don’t notice such things, but then I caught the image of your face, and I thought, That’s Audrey. You have hardly changed. I knew immediately that I must see you. I live in London now, only in town for a few days. So you see, very lucky indeed.”
“Indeed.”
He pulled the chair out. “May I?”
“Of course.”
He ordered some tea, and Audrey felt as if she’d stepped into a time loop. The chronology of her life scrambled, the impossibility of sitting across from Robert again after so much time had passed, triggered a sequence of memories—the days when she felt she was walking through a fog with the slow, painful realization that he had abandoned her, then the swift and sure knowledge that she was pregnant.
She had lived an entire life since then.
There was a time when she yearned for this moment, a casual encounter where she would sit across from him again. But that, too, was conflicted. One version, a slim fantasy of reconciliation, of misunderstood messages, something put right. Another, the opportunity to tell him how he’d destroyed her.
What would her life have been like with him? she wondered again. They might have married, settled in London. Would they have had children? It was hard to imagine a man like Robert as a father. Her life without her caravan, her river, her lectures? This time the question had a jarring objectivity, his presence like a sudden and miraculous cure for an ache long suffered. He accepted his tea without a word to the waiter and poured himself a cup as if the two of them had arranged a date, as if this were a routine they had been practising for years.
He wanted nothing of her, she realized, had come to her as if they were old friends, happy to be reunited. He was not curious about her lecture, he was not curious about her. As it was all those years ago, there was an innate sense of entitlement with Robert, of being cherished, prized.
Could she tell him about the child? Would that be a story he would understand, even find sympathy with or regret after all these years? Robert’s lovelies. That’s what kept her from revealing his unknown legacy. He would always find a place to alight, she knew. But he never fully landed. Any feeling for her could easily be replaced with another.
Audrey stood, jolting the table as she did so.
“I must prepare for my lecture,” she said. He’d spilled some tea on the saucer and was looking bewildered, unsure whether to call a waiter or focus on Audrey’s departure.
21 June 1939
Observations
Three days is what she told him. Three days and she’d be back. A practice run. The King’s Cup Race. London to Manchester. One day there, one day of rest, then one day back. This was day two, and already he felt the loss of daily routines—breakfast and the morning papers, a cup of tea at elevenses, a hot meal, and the news on the wireless at six.
“How’s the pond?” The bell above the door jangled at that moment, and Edmund had to lean toward his neighbour to say that it was fine, just fine, the lilies starting now.
The pub crowding, the usual Wednesday night scrum, Edmund supposed. Observing the merriment, he could almost see the appeal of it, this weekly gathering. The food satisfied as well, steak and kidney pie. A lot of meal with no effort. He’d been enjoying himself until Mr Stokes came along, Nigel, it turned out, and because the pub was crowded and because Nigel had spotted him and said hello upon entering, the seat at the bench next to him seemed a natural place to sit. But Edmund was used to talking to Miriam, and this conversation carried out with them sitting beside each other made it feel as though they were watching a cricket match together.
“My wife’s away.”
“Oh?”
Edmund was not sure how much to tell him. It was not a secret that Miriam would be taking part in the King’s Cup Race in August, but somehow he couldn’t talk to his neighbour about it.
“Manchester.”
“I used to work in Manchester.”
“Oh?”
“Three months.”
They returned to their drinks, watching the crowd, Edmund wiping the sweat from his glass, then drying his hand on his trousers.
“What exactly do you do, Nigel?” Edmund had grown courage through his half pint.
“I build bridges.”
“Bridges. Not towers?”
“Towers?”
Edmund sat back in his seat, aware that now it was he who was under suspicion.
“It’s just the drawings. I saw towers.”
“You’ve seen drawings. What is this?”
“It’s nothing, Nigel. It’s just when we were in the garden, I saw drawings of towers.”
“Ah the blueprints.” It was his turn to drink from his glass. “It’s hard to know who to trust these days. I thought for a moment you’d been in my house by the way you were talking, thought you might have sneaked in and seen my drawings. One can’t be too careful.”
“No. Exactly. One can’t be too careful.”
Edmund had imagined an identity for Nigel. Watching him night after night across the fence, noticing his neighbour’s reserve, or perhaps indifference, had made Edmund curious, had let his mind wander. Miriam had scolded him for it, caught him edging toward the fence, spending too long out there, secateurs in hand, snapping at the air long after he’d clipped the rose bush.
“You’re as good as spying on him,” she’d said.
“It’s what they taught us in training at the Air Raid Precautions. Vigilance.” This is what he’d told her, his excuse.
“Vigilance doesn’t mean spying,” she’d said. And she was right. He felt foolish to be here at the pub on a Wednesday night, a mood of gaiety, companionship, quizzing his neighbour on his work, not with a casual interest but with an accusation of some kind.
Beside the door an Air Raid Precaution poster advertised for recruits.
“Have they been around?” Nigel asked, gesturing to the sign.
“I’m one of them.”
“Them?”
“A warden.”
Edmund felt Nigel shift next to him, knew without looking that his neighbour was eyeing him, seeing him as something other than the quiet shopkeeper who kept a garden. Now all Edmund’s questions would be suspect, all comments of the war taken as coming from some sort of authority. It was he who would be observed now, he who would be suspect.
“Been around twice to mine.” Nigel’s voice suddenly clipped.
“Oh?”
“Warned about a chink of light coming through at the bottom of the window. I asked him if he thought the Germans would be flying overhead or arriving on their hands and knees. He was the keen sort. Likes his authority a bit too much I’d say.”
Edmund knew the man Nigel was talking about, knew that he was indeed keen. Edmund wanted to tell his neighbour that he himself was not like that, that he was only trying to help, not get people in trouble. He’d barely issued a warning yet, and in hearing Nigel speak of this warden, felt his sense of inadequacy blooming.
“How is the pond?” Nigel asked, obviously forgetting he’d already inquired. “Any frogs yet?”
“The frogs have come,” Edmund told him. “I hope their croaking won’t disturb you.”
13 August 1939
A Celebration
A party! With bunting and cake and champagne. They would celebrate her birthday, Audrey decided.
She’d been in Cambridge; airplanes had flown overhead with only a cursory upwards acknowledgement as onlookers cheered for the home team in the boat race. Everyone seemed giddy, a surging energy that had drawn Audrey in as she strolled the riverbank following her meeting with the Women’s Reproductive Rights Committee.
The green by the river was filled with blankets, picnic baskets sprawled open near lounging bodies, glasses tilted on the uneven surface, teacups clinking against saucers. The boats approached like water striders skimming across the surface, and the onlookers, one by one, started to stand to cheer them on. It was this that inspired her to have her own celebration.
Audrey had decided to have a party because there was a general mood, so prevalent these days, of one more before it comes. She’d invited Miriam and her husband, Frank was welcome to invite Peter, she could not say no to that. Peter had become invisible since his sighting in London, a relief to her, truth be told. How would she face him? What would he say that could make her accept what she saw as a betrayal?
“Miriam told me you lived in a caravan,” Edmund said. “I hardly believed her.”
Miriam looked at Audrey, a flash of worry across her face, thinking he might have insulted her in some way. Edmund was not usually so forward.
Frank had arranged for chairs and a table to be brought from the house, and they’d sat by the river, glancing at the gathering clouds, wondering if rain would spoil their day.
“Why a caravan, if you don’t mind my asking?” Edmund pressed, ignoring Miriam’s look.
“I was with Frank. We were late for a luncheon,” Audrey said, placing the glasses on the table.
“We were never ones to arrive early at family functions, so were rushing as usual, and on this day I felt slightly ill, a headache coming on. Dark clouds followed us on a road we’d never travelled before, one that narrowed dangerously and where trees reached across from one side to another. We came to an opening, and there it was, sprouting from the landscape. From a distance we didn’t know what it was, but I told Frank to slow down, then ordered him to stop when I saw it clearly. A caravan.”
“I kept telling her that we would be late,” Frank said. “The wrath of my father is something I generally try to avoid.”
“I found the gate to the fence, ignoring Frank’s pleas to return, and traipsed through knowing this was not a public way. The caravan came alive as I got closer, the colours and designs, it was like a giant music box against the forest.
“I knew the caravan would be my home,” Audrey continued. “Frank was beside himself, but I called out to see if anyone was inside. There was no reply, as I knew there wouldn’t be, for at that moment, the moment I stood at the steps and reached up to the door, my hand tracing the design, I knew it was already mine. I walked all around it and came back and tried the handle.”
“I kept telling her, don’t go in,” Frank said, “it’s trespassing.”
“I told Frank he would do well to do a bit more trespassing himself.” Audrey leaned over to pat him on the arm before continuing.
“There was a sign, handwritten, made on a piece of card, tacked under the window. For Sale. Frank kept telling me to get back into the car, the luncheon surely spoiled. I pulled the sign off and saw that the address was near where we stood. Come, I told him. We need to speak to the owner. I bought it that day.”
“Our next celebration will be the race,” Miriam cut in, worried that Edmund would start asking about the particulars of Audrey’s living arrangement. “One week to go.”
“What do you make of the chances of winning then, Frank?” Edmund, normal reserve pushed aside, becoming more voluble out of nervousness.
“A good chance—a very good chance,” Frank clipped, glancing up the pathway as if watching for Peter. He seemed agitated, fussing with his jacket. “Our calculated time is now twelve minutes better than the last winner.”
“There’s so much activity in the air these days,” Audrey said. “One wonders how they will manage to squeeze in a war, should it come.” She passed a slice of cake to Edmund, who offered it to Miriam.
Miriam flashed him a brief smile, searching his face to make sure he was all right. She’d been to visit Audrey so many times, it seemed natural to sit by the river, discussing plans, and yet with Edmund here it all felt different. Audrey would notice the way he held himself, spine stiff, appearing to judge when really it was he who felt judged.
“They’ll find space to fit in war,” Frank replied. “If that’s what they decide to do in the end.”
“The villagers have already decided,” Edmund piped in again. “They’ve been stockpiling for weeks. I can’t keep Lyle’s syrup on the shelf.”
“As long as they are talking, there is a chance to avert war.” Audrey was standing over them offering more water for tea. “I know wishing it will not make it so. But I believe that discussing it is a kind of progress. Surely you don’t talk your way into a war.”
Audrey began telling them about the recent trip to Cambridge, how she’d stopped to watch the boat race, which, despite all that was going on, seemed the most natural thing to do, a bit of excitement on an afternoon. When the RAF planes flew past, she’d noticed an older man sitting back from the river on a bench. He was not really watching the race, just watching all that was going on around him, and she’d happened to catch his eye as they passed, a swarm whose drone she could feel in her body, and she knew at once he’d been in the last war. He was completely and utterly still, one hand gripping the bench arm, his eyes full of fear while all around them young people merely glanced upward, the distraction fleeting, seen as a spectacle rather than a threat.
“I just knew that he’d been a soldier. I knew it was all too much for him.”
Just then the magpie that Audrey had not seen for some days flew into their clearing and landed on the caravan.
“Maudie, where have you been?” Audrey scolded. To the others she said, “He takes care of me when I’m here on my own.”
“Mind he doesn’t take off with a teaspoon,” Edmund said. “Though, I admit, I’ve never seen a magpie actually steal anything.”
“My father hated magpies,” said Miriam. “He said they brought bad luck. ‘I salute you, Mr Magpie,’ he would say whenever one came around in order to negate its dark forces.”
“Well then, I salute you, Mr Magpie,” said Edmund.
They opened the champagne, and their mood loosened somewhat. Miriam brought the sketches from the trip to show the others.
Soon Edmund spotted Peter coming over the rise at the top of the hill, and Audrey rose to greet him, meeting him halfway, their murmurs unheard by the others as they walked together to the table.
“I’ve just come from the airfield,” he said, his eyes focussed on the drawings laid out on the table. “The King’s Cup Race has been cancelled.”
1 September 1939
Edmund in His Garden
The dawn chorus pulled Edmund from bed. He had set himself the task of pruning the raspberry and blackcurrant bushes. They should have been done by now, and with a storm forecast he knew he’d need to cut back all the old branches to allow fresh young shoots to grow. He’d failed to do the pruning a few years ago, and the bushes weren’t strong enough to produce fruit the next year. A lesson learned.
He’d left Miriam in bed, crept from her warmth with the stealth of a thief, not wanting to wake her, but hoping she would join him for breakfast. He was still tired from the night before, wondered why he’d let Miriam talk him into such a long walk, but she seemed quite desperate, unable to settle into the news, barely listening to details of ongoing negotiations. There was still hope after all. They’d set off to the field outside the village; with the cancelled race and Miriam in a constant state of bewildered loss, he could not say no to a walk.
He was happy in his garden, barely noticing the passing of time until he felt the heat on his forehead. He poured himself a cup of tea from the Thermos he had filled and made plans to build an espalier for the roses.
It seemed to him that Miriam was happier now. Well, perhaps not happy, but content, despite the disappointment of the race. He’d been surprised by the force of her feelings for it, even more surprised at Frank’s reaction, which seemed altogether inappropriate. Audrey tried to cover it up, of course, but Edmund had seen his face. He might as well have been told they were at war with Germany. The poor woman’s birthday celebration had fallen apart at that point, and when Peter had told them he’d joined the RAF, Frank surprised them all by insisting on another bottle of champagne. He’d got himself quite drunk after that, could hardly stand up. It was good of Peter to see Frank home. But still the whole evening jarred him, though Audrey hadn’t seemed to mind. He’d never met such a calm woman. Miriam had told him she’d driven an ambulance in the last war, and he could believe it. They’d all had too much champagne. Miriam on the way home insisting she would join the Air Transport Auxiliary if war came. What was she talking about? She’d be needed at the shop, the post office an essential service, especially if he were to be called up.
An Encounter
It was 1:36 p.m. when Robert walked into the tea shop. She remembered this because she’d looked up to the clock next to the door to check how much time she had left before her speech.
He saw her immediately, of course; he was looking for her, had sought her out just as he’d done over a war ago when she was too young to know anything.
Did he pause as he entered, the momentary stillness drawing her attention to him? She recognized him instantly. Almost. He was older now, a man who still moved like one much younger, those first few steps that were strides really, always moving forward, moving on.
A waiter brought her tea and a sandwich, and she thanked him, eyes still locked on Robert. When the rattle of a cup and saucer jolted her from him, it was fleeting, like a watchful hunter careful not to lose its prey.
But she was the one who felt like prey. Just as she’d always been.
Only she didn’t recognize it as that back then, wouldn’t have used that word. To her it was love. At that age, so pure, uncomplicated.
“Audrey?”
“Robert.”
“They said I’d find you here.”
“Who? Who told you I’d be here?”
He was standing at her table, she could see a grease stain on the front of his jacket and somehow that reminded her that she’d heard he’d married, many years after his time with her. A good marriage, not great, was the rumour. They were talking money, class, status. She’d heard his wife died a few years later.
“The man from the theatre. He said you’d come here before your speech.”
Henry, the caretaker. The only one who knew where she was.
“I saw the posters. I recognized you.”
“The posters, yes. The movement is gaining strength. We’re hoping for a change in legislation.”
She was about to say that women needed control over their bodies but stopped herself. To lecture him on that seemed an impossible joke.
She felt her hand shake a little as she reached for her teacup. She didn’t know what to do with him, standing there like a waiter impatient for an order. She did not want a scene here in the tea shop, a public apology, an expression of regret—what did he want of her?
“It’s lucky I saw the poster. I’d just come out of the bank, and normally I don’t notice such things, but then I caught the image of your face, and I thought, That’s Audrey. You have hardly changed. I knew immediately that I must see you. I live in London now, only in town for a few days. So you see, very lucky indeed.”
“Indeed.”
He pulled the chair out. “May I?”
“Of course.”
He ordered some tea, and Audrey felt as if she’d stepped into a time loop. The chronology of her life scrambled, the impossibility of sitting across from Robert again after so much time had passed, triggered a sequence of memories—the days when she felt she was walking through a fog with the slow, painful realization that he had abandoned her, then the swift and sure knowledge that she was pregnant.
She had lived an entire life since then.
There was a time when she yearned for this moment, a casual encounter where she would sit across from him again. But that, too, was conflicted. One version, a slim fantasy of reconciliation, of misunderstood messages, something put right. Another, the opportunity to tell him how he’d destroyed her.
What would her life have been like with him? she wondered again. They might have married, settled in London. Would they have had children? It was hard to imagine a man like Robert as a father. Her life without her caravan, her river, her lectures? This time the question had a jarring objectivity, his presence like a sudden and miraculous cure for an ache long suffered. He accepted his tea without a word to the waiter and poured himself a cup as if the two of them had arranged a date, as if this were a routine they had been practising for years.
He wanted nothing of her, she realized, had come to her as if they were old friends, happy to be reunited. He was not curious about her lecture, he was not curious about her. As it was all those years ago, there was an innate sense of entitlement with Robert, of being cherished, prized.
Could she tell him about the child? Would that be a story he would understand, even find sympathy with or regret after all these years? Robert’s lovelies. That’s what kept her from revealing his unknown legacy. He would always find a place to alight, she knew. But he never fully landed. Any feeling for her could easily be replaced with another.
Audrey stood, jolting the table as she did so.
“I must prepare for my lecture,” she said. He’d spilled some tea on the saucer and was looking bewildered, unsure whether to call a waiter or focus on Audrey’s departure.
21 June 1939
Observations
Three days is what she told him. Three days and she’d be back. A practice run. The King’s Cup Race. London to Manchester. One day there, one day of rest, then one day back. This was day two, and already he felt the loss of daily routines—breakfast and the morning papers, a cup of tea at elevenses, a hot meal, and the news on the wireless at six.
“How’s the pond?” The bell above the door jangled at that moment, and Edmund had to lean toward his neighbour to say that it was fine, just fine, the lilies starting now.
The pub crowding, the usual Wednesday night scrum, Edmund supposed. Observing the merriment, he could almost see the appeal of it, this weekly gathering. The food satisfied as well, steak and kidney pie. A lot of meal with no effort. He’d been enjoying himself until Mr Stokes came along, Nigel, it turned out, and because the pub was crowded and because Nigel had spotted him and said hello upon entering, the seat at the bench next to him seemed a natural place to sit. But Edmund was used to talking to Miriam, and this conversation carried out with them sitting beside each other made it feel as though they were watching a cricket match together.
“My wife’s away.”
“Oh?”
Edmund was not sure how much to tell him. It was not a secret that Miriam would be taking part in the King’s Cup Race in August, but somehow he couldn’t talk to his neighbour about it.
“Manchester.”
“I used to work in Manchester.”
“Oh?”
“Three months.”
They returned to their drinks, watching the crowd, Edmund wiping the sweat from his glass, then drying his hand on his trousers.
“What exactly do you do, Nigel?” Edmund had grown courage through his half pint.
“I build bridges.”
“Bridges. Not towers?”
“Towers?”
Edmund sat back in his seat, aware that now it was he who was under suspicion.
“It’s just the drawings. I saw towers.”
“You’ve seen drawings. What is this?”
“It’s nothing, Nigel. It’s just when we were in the garden, I saw drawings of towers.”
“Ah the blueprints.” It was his turn to drink from his glass. “It’s hard to know who to trust these days. I thought for a moment you’d been in my house by the way you were talking, thought you might have sneaked in and seen my drawings. One can’t be too careful.”
“No. Exactly. One can’t be too careful.”
Edmund had imagined an identity for Nigel. Watching him night after night across the fence, noticing his neighbour’s reserve, or perhaps indifference, had made Edmund curious, had let his mind wander. Miriam had scolded him for it, caught him edging toward the fence, spending too long out there, secateurs in hand, snapping at the air long after he’d clipped the rose bush.
“You’re as good as spying on him,” she’d said.
“It’s what they taught us in training at the Air Raid Precautions. Vigilance.” This is what he’d told her, his excuse.
“Vigilance doesn’t mean spying,” she’d said. And she was right. He felt foolish to be here at the pub on a Wednesday night, a mood of gaiety, companionship, quizzing his neighbour on his work, not with a casual interest but with an accusation of some kind.
Beside the door an Air Raid Precaution poster advertised for recruits.
“Have they been around?” Nigel asked, gesturing to the sign.
“I’m one of them.”
“Them?”
“A warden.”
Edmund felt Nigel shift next to him, knew without looking that his neighbour was eyeing him, seeing him as something other than the quiet shopkeeper who kept a garden. Now all Edmund’s questions would be suspect, all comments of the war taken as coming from some sort of authority. It was he who would be observed now, he who would be suspect.
“Been around twice to mine.” Nigel’s voice suddenly clipped.
“Oh?”
“Warned about a chink of light coming through at the bottom of the window. I asked him if he thought the Germans would be flying overhead or arriving on their hands and knees. He was the keen sort. Likes his authority a bit too much I’d say.”
Edmund knew the man Nigel was talking about, knew that he was indeed keen. Edmund wanted to tell his neighbour that he himself was not like that, that he was only trying to help, not get people in trouble. He’d barely issued a warning yet, and in hearing Nigel speak of this warden, felt his sense of inadequacy blooming.
“How is the pond?” Nigel asked, obviously forgetting he’d already inquired. “Any frogs yet?”
“The frogs have come,” Edmund told him. “I hope their croaking won’t disturb you.”
13 August 1939
A Celebration
A party! With bunting and cake and champagne. They would celebrate her birthday, Audrey decided.
She’d been in Cambridge; airplanes had flown overhead with only a cursory upwards acknowledgement as onlookers cheered for the home team in the boat race. Everyone seemed giddy, a surging energy that had drawn Audrey in as she strolled the riverbank following her meeting with the Women’s Reproductive Rights Committee.
The green by the river was filled with blankets, picnic baskets sprawled open near lounging bodies, glasses tilted on the uneven surface, teacups clinking against saucers. The boats approached like water striders skimming across the surface, and the onlookers, one by one, started to stand to cheer them on. It was this that inspired her to have her own celebration.
Audrey had decided to have a party because there was a general mood, so prevalent these days, of one more before it comes. She’d invited Miriam and her husband, Frank was welcome to invite Peter, she could not say no to that. Peter had become invisible since his sighting in London, a relief to her, truth be told. How would she face him? What would he say that could make her accept what she saw as a betrayal?
“Miriam told me you lived in a caravan,” Edmund said. “I hardly believed her.”
Miriam looked at Audrey, a flash of worry across her face, thinking he might have insulted her in some way. Edmund was not usually so forward.
Frank had arranged for chairs and a table to be brought from the house, and they’d sat by the river, glancing at the gathering clouds, wondering if rain would spoil their day.
“Why a caravan, if you don’t mind my asking?” Edmund pressed, ignoring Miriam’s look.
“I was with Frank. We were late for a luncheon,” Audrey said, placing the glasses on the table.
“We were never ones to arrive early at family functions, so were rushing as usual, and on this day I felt slightly ill, a headache coming on. Dark clouds followed us on a road we’d never travelled before, one that narrowed dangerously and where trees reached across from one side to another. We came to an opening, and there it was, sprouting from the landscape. From a distance we didn’t know what it was, but I told Frank to slow down, then ordered him to stop when I saw it clearly. A caravan.”
“I kept telling her that we would be late,” Frank said. “The wrath of my father is something I generally try to avoid.”
“I found the gate to the fence, ignoring Frank’s pleas to return, and traipsed through knowing this was not a public way. The caravan came alive as I got closer, the colours and designs, it was like a giant music box against the forest.
“I knew the caravan would be my home,” Audrey continued. “Frank was beside himself, but I called out to see if anyone was inside. There was no reply, as I knew there wouldn’t be, for at that moment, the moment I stood at the steps and reached up to the door, my hand tracing the design, I knew it was already mine. I walked all around it and came back and tried the handle.”
“I kept telling her, don’t go in,” Frank said, “it’s trespassing.”
“I told Frank he would do well to do a bit more trespassing himself.” Audrey leaned over to pat him on the arm before continuing.
“There was a sign, handwritten, made on a piece of card, tacked under the window. For Sale. Frank kept telling me to get back into the car, the luncheon surely spoiled. I pulled the sign off and saw that the address was near where we stood. Come, I told him. We need to speak to the owner. I bought it that day.”
“Our next celebration will be the race,” Miriam cut in, worried that Edmund would start asking about the particulars of Audrey’s living arrangement. “One week to go.”
“What do you make of the chances of winning then, Frank?” Edmund, normal reserve pushed aside, becoming more voluble out of nervousness.
“A good chance—a very good chance,” Frank clipped, glancing up the pathway as if watching for Peter. He seemed agitated, fussing with his jacket. “Our calculated time is now twelve minutes better than the last winner.”
“There’s so much activity in the air these days,” Audrey said. “One wonders how they will manage to squeeze in a war, should it come.” She passed a slice of cake to Edmund, who offered it to Miriam.
Miriam flashed him a brief smile, searching his face to make sure he was all right. She’d been to visit Audrey so many times, it seemed natural to sit by the river, discussing plans, and yet with Edmund here it all felt different. Audrey would notice the way he held himself, spine stiff, appearing to judge when really it was he who felt judged.
“They’ll find space to fit in war,” Frank replied. “If that’s what they decide to do in the end.”
“The villagers have already decided,” Edmund piped in again. “They’ve been stockpiling for weeks. I can’t keep Lyle’s syrup on the shelf.”
“As long as they are talking, there is a chance to avert war.” Audrey was standing over them offering more water for tea. “I know wishing it will not make it so. But I believe that discussing it is a kind of progress. Surely you don’t talk your way into a war.”
Audrey began telling them about the recent trip to Cambridge, how she’d stopped to watch the boat race, which, despite all that was going on, seemed the most natural thing to do, a bit of excitement on an afternoon. When the RAF planes flew past, she’d noticed an older man sitting back from the river on a bench. He was not really watching the race, just watching all that was going on around him, and she’d happened to catch his eye as they passed, a swarm whose drone she could feel in her body, and she knew at once he’d been in the last war. He was completely and utterly still, one hand gripping the bench arm, his eyes full of fear while all around them young people merely glanced upward, the distraction fleeting, seen as a spectacle rather than a threat.
“I just knew that he’d been a soldier. I knew it was all too much for him.”
Just then the magpie that Audrey had not seen for some days flew into their clearing and landed on the caravan.
“Maudie, where have you been?” Audrey scolded. To the others she said, “He takes care of me when I’m here on my own.”
“Mind he doesn’t take off with a teaspoon,” Edmund said. “Though, I admit, I’ve never seen a magpie actually steal anything.”
“My father hated magpies,” said Miriam. “He said they brought bad luck. ‘I salute you, Mr Magpie,’ he would say whenever one came around in order to negate its dark forces.”
“Well then, I salute you, Mr Magpie,” said Edmund.
They opened the champagne, and their mood loosened somewhat. Miriam brought the sketches from the trip to show the others.
Soon Edmund spotted Peter coming over the rise at the top of the hill, and Audrey rose to greet him, meeting him halfway, their murmurs unheard by the others as they walked together to the table.
“I’ve just come from the airfield,” he said, his eyes focussed on the drawings laid out on the table. “The King’s Cup Race has been cancelled.”
1 September 1939
Edmund in His Garden
The dawn chorus pulled Edmund from bed. He had set himself the task of pruning the raspberry and blackcurrant bushes. They should have been done by now, and with a storm forecast he knew he’d need to cut back all the old branches to allow fresh young shoots to grow. He’d failed to do the pruning a few years ago, and the bushes weren’t strong enough to produce fruit the next year. A lesson learned.
He’d left Miriam in bed, crept from her warmth with the stealth of a thief, not wanting to wake her, but hoping she would join him for breakfast. He was still tired from the night before, wondered why he’d let Miriam talk him into such a long walk, but she seemed quite desperate, unable to settle into the news, barely listening to details of ongoing negotiations. There was still hope after all. They’d set off to the field outside the village; with the cancelled race and Miriam in a constant state of bewildered loss, he could not say no to a walk.
He was happy in his garden, barely noticing the passing of time until he felt the heat on his forehead. He poured himself a cup of tea from the Thermos he had filled and made plans to build an espalier for the roses.
It seemed to him that Miriam was happier now. Well, perhaps not happy, but content, despite the disappointment of the race. He’d been surprised by the force of her feelings for it, even more surprised at Frank’s reaction, which seemed altogether inappropriate. Audrey tried to cover it up, of course, but Edmund had seen his face. He might as well have been told they were at war with Germany. The poor woman’s birthday celebration had fallen apart at that point, and when Peter had told them he’d joined the RAF, Frank surprised them all by insisting on another bottle of champagne. He’d got himself quite drunk after that, could hardly stand up. It was good of Peter to see Frank home. But still the whole evening jarred him, though Audrey hadn’t seemed to mind. He’d never met such a calm woman. Miriam had told him she’d driven an ambulance in the last war, and he could believe it. They’d all had too much champagne. Miriam on the way home insisting she would join the Air Transport Auxiliary if war came. What was she talking about? She’d be needed at the shop, the post office an essential service, especially if he were to be called up.
