The Last Summer (17 page)

Somehow, amidst all of this, life continued. Father slowly recovered and began to come downstairs in the evenings. He listened to me play my new pianola, and we played bridge and piquet. We read
The Gates of Doom
, and then
From China to Peru
, with my mother and I taking it in turn to read a chapter out loud. When Papa was stronger we went out to the pictures and to the theatre. London hadn’t shut down. We saw
Flag Lieutenant
at the Haymarket and
A Girl Like Me
at His Majesty’s. We joined in the fervour of patriotism, celebrating our troops’ victories and sending parcels out to
our boys
taken prisoner in Germany. Each evening in London there was an atmosphere of camaraderie and defiance; we were stalwart, ready for anything, we thought. If our sons and brothers at the front could cope, so could we.

. . . Why have you not written? Why have you not replied to my letters? I know that you’re out there, I know in my heart that you’re alive, & I pray to God every single night to keep you safe. Please, please, if this reaches you, get word to me – somehow, let me know that you are still mine, for I am yours, & shall always be YOURS.

I’d known Charlie Boyd almost all of my life. He’d been at school and at Cambridge with Henry; was one of The Set, as Henry called it. In physical appearance he was the opposite of Tom: shorter, broader and fair, with freckles, blue eyes and strawberry-blond hair. He was without doubt the funniest of Henry’s friends and took delight in sending himself up. I liked that about him more than anything else. I thought, underneath all that bluff and bravado there was something very decent and, perhaps, rather vulnerable too.

My parents knew the Boyds well, and Mama adored Charlie. He’d written to her about Will, assuring her that his death would have been instantaneous; that it was far better for him to have died a valiant hero’s death than to have been left disfigured, traumatised or disabled for life. He succeeded in making Mama believe that Will’s life had not been in vain, that she must be proud of her son’s sacrifice and, though I remained unconvinced, I was grateful for the comfort his words gave my parents.

. . . We are all in shock & utterly bereft at our loss, and though I feel the aching void in his passing, a part of me feels equal to the country now in my suffering. And yet what strange justification – to offer up our sons & align ourselves in grief, as though our sacrifice were all the more noble by its magnitude. But I hold steadfast & will not succumb to self-pity, and I could not have lived through these past few weeks without your words, so wise, so considered, & so true. He was, as you say, a radiant force for good . . .

I can’t remember when I began to write to Charlie, but I imagine it was shortly after Will died, after he’d written to me. I began to look forward to his letters, they were always upbeat, and there was always something reassuring in the words he chose
to write. He’d been in our lives for so long, was a part of a continuum; part of our family, I suppose. At first our letters were the letters between dear friends, or brother and sister, but they quickly became something more. It was inevitable. The war heightened all emotion, every sentiment was amplified, every longing accompanied by a sense of urgency. There was no time to ponder, to reason or to speculate; each thought and feeling had to be recorded and passed on. It was our duty as women, we were told, to keep our boys’ morale high: to let them know that they were missed, that they were loved; that someone was waiting for them back at home. And in a way I think I truly believed that my letters and thoughts would keep Charlie safe, keep him alive.

It had been almost a year since I’d last heard from Tom, and though I still thought of him, wondered where he was and included him in my prayers, I’d begun to wonder if I’d ever see him again. And the thought that I might not, the thought that we might never again know each other, had slowly begun to reduce me, eroding my hopes, and the potential of my life. I knew I could survive without him – yes, I would survive – but the thought of a lifetime without him made the path ahead narrower, dimmer.

Over the course of one year my life had irrevocably altered. I had changed and I knew he would be changed too. We would never again be the sweethearts who’d sat upon the steps of the boathouse looking up at the stars. And even if we did, if we could return to that place, if we could recapture that moment, would we see the same stars? Would he look at me that same way: tilting his head to one side, staring at me sideways through a wave of almost black hair, smiling? We could never again be who we were; and we would never be the people we’d once been destined to be. He would always have a special place in my heart, but he no longer held it, I reasoned. And I could not
allow him to. I could not have that breadth and brightness back – only for it to disappear once more. For that, I knew, would surely kill me.

. . . He is raging about the newspapers & says it will be a bad thing for us if America declares war on Germany, but – after the Lusitania – I’m not so sure. The feeling in America seems to be very strong, but at least the newspaper editors here are being restrained – for once . . . In the meantime, I am v busy with my district, the refugees have been moved and now we have POWs in their place, and all sorts of criminals! And London continues to stand tall.

. . . I have no wish to describe this place to you . . . except to say it is Hell, a squalid, sickening & rancid Hell, inhabited by brave-hearted lunatics. I close my eyes & try to imagine you, so perfect, so beautiful. You remain my vision, my beacon of hope . . .

It was just after Christmas, the second Christmas of the war. Charlie had had one week’s leave and was returning to the front. He’d come to stay with us overnight in London, and had already asked if I’d see him off the next day; and it was the thing to do. That evening, after dinner, my parents retired to bed unusually early, leaving Charlie and me alone in the drawing room. We’d been sitting side by side on the sofa when he took my hand in his and said, ‘You must know, I think, how terribly fond I am of you, Clarissa.’

‘Yes, yes, I think I do,’ I replied, looking down at my hand in his and wondering what was to come.

He cleared his throat, turned towards me. ‘I’d like to think that perhaps you felt the same way . . .’

‘Oh yes, of course. I’m very fond of you too, Charlie.’

He smiled, his pale blue eyes suddenly quite misty. ‘Thing is, Clarissa, I think I’m more than fond of you. Thing is, I . . . well, I love you.’

For a moment I thought he was going to cry. He looked down, squeezed my hand tightly. ‘You see, I’ve always rather liked you, but it’s grown into something more . . . and your letters, well, they’ve kept me going, you know. A letter from you, your name, it somehow makes me feel invincible.’ He looked up at me. ‘You mean the world to me, Clarissa, the world . . .’

I pulled my hand from his, lifted it to his face, and ran my finger down his cheek. ‘Dear Charlie, you are adorable.’

And then he leant forward and kissed me.

His kiss was different to Tom’s: tentative, gentler; less passionate, but perhaps kinder. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to him. And then, in a playful and overly effusive way, he began to cover my face in kisses, telling me, between each one, that he loved me. The way Papa used to do when I was a child. I began to laugh and then he did too. ‘I’m so happy,’ he said, looking at me and smiling. ‘If I die, I shall die a happy man.’

‘No! Don’t say that. You’re not going to die, Charlie Boyd, do you hear me? You are not going to be killed in this wretched war. Otherwise I shall be very, very cross with you.’

He laughed again. I loved to see him laughing like that. There’d been so little laughter in our home for so long and Charlie had brought it back.