Letters to the Lost (26 page)

In the bed Stella sighed and stirred. Light was seeping into the sky; cool and pearly but enough to bring her face into focus, like a photograph developing in a darkroom. His heart squeezed. It was nothing new for him to be awake in the small hours and thinking of her. Over the months since he’d met her, since he’d started flying and watching ships fall out of the sky and men get shot to pieces or consumed by fire, she’d been his safe place. It had been her letters, her voice, her smile he’d focused on when the demons whispered and the adrenaline wouldn’t stop pumping. She’d been his escape from the fear of dying.

Now she was the biggest reason for it.

He looked over to where she lay in the wreckage of the hotel’s immaculate bed, the sheets twisted around her naked body, her hair spread across the pillow. And in that moment he almost wished he’d never found that watch.

‘Our bed. I can’t bear the thought of other people sleeping in it. Making love in it, when we’re miles apart from each other.’

The covers were pulled straight and tight, the blue satin eiderdown retrieved from the floor and placed neatly on top. The room was respectable again. Neutral. It was impossible to tell that for three days it had been their whole world, and the setting for such joy.

He had saved the treats he had brought to give to her now, to lighten this moment of parting, and took out nylons and chocolate from the bottom of his kitbag, and tins of pineapple. There was two of everything – ‘For you and for Nancy,’ he explained. ‘ To thank her for being on our side.’

Stella’s throat felt sore with the effort of not crying. She didn’t want their last moments alone together to be tainted by sadness, and made a convincing attempt at a smile.

‘I’m sure Nancy will be keen for us to visit her mother as often as possible for all those treasures. Will we be able to do this again soon?’

‘I hope so.’

She nodded, glimpsing the continent of uncertainty that lay beneath his words, and understanding. ‘If this is all there is . . . If these three days are all we ever have . . . I want you to know, they were enough. Enough happiness to feed off for a lifetime.’

He kissed her, fiercely, as if he was trying to imprint himself on her. When they finally fell away from each other her cheeks were wet with tears.

‘This isn’t all there is,’ he said, gently wiping them away with his fingertips. ‘Letters. We still have letters. Whatever happens, just keep writing, OK?’

19

23 July ’43

Sweetheart

I got back to the base an hour ago. It’s 6 p.m. and I have the hut to myself since everyone else is either in the bar or the ablutions block taking a shower before heading out to the pub in the village. Lying here I can just about catch the scent of your skin on mine. It’s just as well I’m alone because the others would think I’m crazy.

Johnson tells me I haven’t missed much. There’s been cloud over Europe and not much flying. Too bad. I was hoping they’d have nailed the Nazi bastards while I was away.

I love you. Look after yourself for me.

D x

26 July ’43

Darling Stella

A couple of days ago the sun came out, as the weather guys predicted it would. We’re back in the air. They seem to be ready to pull out all the stops, which hopefully means things will start to move in the right direction now. It should also mean that I rack up these last few missions quickly. We’ve done two in as many days and we’re on the list again tomorrow. I guess they won’t keep scheduling us to go up like that as we’re all pretty tired, but I ’d fly all day and all night if it meant getting to the end of my tour quicker.

There’s no time to think of anything on the way out or when we’re over the target, but it’s when we’re headed home it always feels like I’m flying right back to you.

Take care sweetheart, for me.

D x.

Darling girl,

Your letter was waiting here when we got back today. I didn’t even wait until after the debriefing to open it.

I guess he had to get Embarkation Leave sometime. Fourteen days sure seems like a long time, but it’s nothing, not really, I promise you. It’ll pass, and when it has and he’s gone I might be finished my twenty-five. We’re nearly there. Now is not the right time to tell him about us, not when he’s going away – it wouldn’t be fair. Also, with any luck he’ll give you up without a fight, but right now there’s not a damn thing I could do about it if he didn’t. Just two weeks. Hang on in there, beautiful girl. Send him off with a smile and we’ll sort everything out properly when he gets back.

The war has to be over soon. These missions we’re doing are big ones, and from twenty thousand feet up they look pretty damned successful. After what happened in North Africa it sure feels like the tide is turning in our favor.

I know it’s going to be hard for you to write me when Charles is home so don’t worry about it. It sure is good of Nancy to offer her services as delivery girl – I still had her address from that first time. I’ll write whenever I can, I promise, and I know that you’re thinking of me.

Johnson’s wife had her baby – the flight chief was standing on the control tower waving a blue towel when we landed today. A boy. Mother and baby both doing well back home in Ohio. I don’t think I ever saw anyone so happy. So you see, that’s another reason why we have to stay safe and finish up real soon.

I love you, and I’m counting down the days until we can be together. Look after yourself for me.

D x

28 July ’43

Sweetheart,

Sorry this is going to be a short one. It’s late and I’m on standby again for tomorrow, though it seems we only just got back from today’s mission. It was the longest and the toughest I’ve ever done. Our target was
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and when we got there we could see that the RAF boys had been there before us. The city was pretty much on fire. Even from 10,000 feet up we could feel the heat.
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We watched the crews to either side of us bail out.
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I guess I’m lucky to be here.

I think about you all the time, though it doesn’t bring me the same kind of peace as usual, knowing that he’s with you. I hope he’s treating you well. He doesn’t know how lucky he is.

I love you. Take care of yourself for me.

Dan x

Jess’s head pounded and her hand was shaking too much to put the letter back in its envelope. It had crept up on her while she’d been reading, this feeling, stealthy and sinister as sea fog, and now it engulfed her, swallowing up familiar landmarks so there was nothing else but her aching body. The black, blanked-out lines of the letter spread across her vision. Still holding it, she lay back on the bed and closed her eyes.

They were almost there. Neither Dan nor Stella knew for sure that he would survive his twenty-five missions, but Jess did. She knew that he would live to the grand old age of ninety, in a house on the beach in Maine. Without her. So what had happened?

Beside her on the bed the box of letters offered up its secrets. The afternoon light was still bright enough to read, but it was too bright for her eyes, which burned behind her closed lids. Her throat felt like she’d swallowed rusty razor blades. She longed for hot coffee to soothe the pain, or even water, but couldn’t face the thought of going downstairs. She was cold. So very, very cold. Moving from the warm hollow she’d made on the bed was out of the question.

Whimpering slightly she pushed down the pink bedcover. The blankets beneath felt impossibly heavy and tight and gave off the chill breath of the tomb, but she slid beneath them, still fully clothed. Every muscle screamed a protest at the movement, and so she tucked up her knees and lay very still, waiting for the pain in her head to subside and the shivering to stop.

‘I brought you a coffee. Thought you might need it.’ Bex set a cardboard carton from the coffee chain across the road on Will’s desk and looked down at him with eyes full of compassion. ‘You all right?’

Will dredged up a crooked smile. Having discovered that one whole branch of the Grimwood family tree had been signed up by a rival company, Ansell had been on particularly bruising form this morning and, as usual, Will had taken the flak. It hadn’t been pretty.

‘I’m marvellous, thank you. Never better. After all, I had Sunday lunch with my parents. My ace-barrister brother was there, with his ace-barrister fiancée and my father’s sarcasm is always particularly biting after half a bottle of Chateauneuf, so I’m at the top of my game when it comes to dealing with ritual humiliation. A day in the office with Ansell is like a picnic in the park in comparison.’

Bex gave a sympathetic cluck. ‘Don’t you get on with your brother, then?’

Will considered this for a moment as he took a sip of his coffee. It was a latte, full fat; a calorific habit he had vowed to give up, but he didn’t have the heart to tell Bex that. ‘You don’t so much “get on” with Simon as bow down before him and pay homage to his brilliance. I’m not sure he has friends, exactly. There are probably other barristers and maybe the odd brain surgeon that he plays squash with or – providing their girlfriends have a brand of handbag Marina approves of – goes out to dinner with in very, very expensive restaurants, but I’m not sure they’re what you or I would call friends.’ He took another mouthful of coffee and added gloomily, ‘I suppose I shall find out at the wedding.’

It was lunchtime and the office was quiet. Ansell, in punchy and belligerent form had, with typical insensitivity, borne Barry off to the pub.

‘Is Marina his fiancée? When are they getting married then?’

‘April.’

‘Oooh, nice,’ Bex said admiringly, hitching one black-stockinged thigh onto his desk. ‘A spring wedding. Where are they having it?’

‘My parents’ house. In some kind of incredibly elaborate marquee affair. Marina’s father owns half of Scotland and they would have had it at one of his castles, but they decided that it was too far for their busy and important friends to travel.’

‘Wicked.’ Bex didn’t really get irony. Her false lashes quivered in awe, like the wings of some exotic butterfly. ‘So, are you best man then? Him being your brother and all?’

Will almost snorted coffee out of his nose at the ridiculousness of the suggestion. ‘God, no! The whole wedding is pitched to impress – as the big day approaches I’m half expecting him to issue me with a gagging order to stop me opening my mouth in front of his top-notch colleagues. I gather there was a handful of possible candidates for best man, and the eventual winner was selected on the grounds that he was president of the Oxford debating society so will give a clever speech, and will also look good in the photographs.’

‘Not too good, I ’ope.’ Bex giggled, finally catching on. ‘Your brother wouldn’t like it if he was better looking than ’im.’

‘It probably hasn’t entered Simon’s head that there could possibly be anyone better looking than him.’

Bex stood up, but as she did so she nudged the computer mouse on Will’s desk and woke up the screen. Glancing at it, she frowned. ‘Oh Will, what are you like? That’s not the Grimwood file, that’s the one we shelved – Nancy Price. You won’t find any of Stanley Grimwood’s relatives in the records of –’ she leaned closer to read the name at the top of the screen – ‘Woodhill Charitable School, you daft so-and-so.’

She leaned right over him, practically suffocating him in her magnificent cleavage (reminding him, bizarrely, of bobbing for apples when he was a boy). Clicking Nancy Price’s file shut she typed ‘Grimwood’ in the search box, her rhinestone-trimmed nails clipping on the keys like Wellington the Labrador’s claws did on the flagstoned floor at home. A new file appeared on screen.

‘There. Grimwood. Remember, the Ipswich lot have already been signed, so we’re not bothered about them. It’s the cousins on the paternal side you’re working on now, basing the search around Canvey Island.’ Straightening up she looked down at him with an air of benevolent frustration. ‘Honestly, you are a case.’

‘Aren’t I ?’ Will said, not meeting her eye.

The afternoon delivered, like a great big gift from the gods of serendipity, a trip to the registry office in Cheshunt. It was four o’clock by the time Will had collected the relevant birth certificate and phoned the information through to Barry. Too late to battle through traffic right across London to get back to the office.

He passed a petrol station on the way out of town and turned in to feed the ever-hungry Spitfire. He was pretty hungry himself, but standing in the queue to pay in the kiosk he deliberately averted his eyes from the display of sweets and chocolate. There had, of course, been the obligatory ribbing about his weight on Sunday. His father, leaning back to show off his trim stomach – the result of a pre-TV series diet and twice weekly sessions with a personal trainer – had commented that he knew of an extremely good upholsterer if Will needed a new suit for the wedding. Everybody had found it immoderately amusing. Will’s efforts in the leisure centre gym that morning had suddenly seemed pitifully inadequate. And not only in the actual gym. His attempt at a chat-up line had been pretty pitiful too.

That failure stung more than the jibes from his family. He’d driven to Oxfordshire with his fists clenched around the steering wheel and the black dog of despair panting down his neck, fighting the urge to turn the Spitfire round and roar back to London to seek her out. And then what? Apologize for getting wrong what he’d wanted so badly to get right and ask her to give him a second chance, he supposed. Find out what it was she was afraid of. In fact, finding out her name would be a good start, given the amount of time he seemed to spend thinking about her.