We'll Meet Again (15 page)

It was a warm day—oppressively so. I decided to go down to the town to order a few things. There were always certain goods we needed. I had plenty of time, so I walked over the cliffs, did the ordering and then made my way to the cottage. A storm had been threatening all the afternoon, and there were thunder clouds over the sea. As I emerged from the town I heard the first clap of thunder. Then the rain came teeming down and by the time I reached James’s cottage my thin dress was soaked; there was water in my sandals and my hair was streaking round my face.

Fortunately, James was in.

Stating the obvious, he cried: “You’re drenched!”

“That’s putting it mildly,” I said.

“Hurry and get those things off.”

“Where’s Joe?”

“Gone into Bodmin to get some stores. Get to the bathroom and I’ll find something for you to put on. Then we’ll dry those wet clothes.”

I went up the stairs to the small bathroom. James left me there and in a few moments returned and handed me a toweling dressing-gown. I took off my clothes, dried myself vigorously, and wrapped the dressing-gown about me. It was huge—being his own.

I came out. He was in the bedroom, sitting on the bed.

He said: “That’s quite becoming. I thought it was an insignificant thing—until now.”

“It’s rather large.”

“Well, I am a little bigger than you.”

He stood up and put his hands on my shoulders.

There is no need for me to go into details: it was inevitable. It was so romantic, if a somewhat stereotyped situation. It was like something in a play. The hero and heroine are thrown together … the car breaks down … or the girl is caught in the storm …. never mind what manipulations are undergone to get them into this situation. But there it is … thrust upon them.

He slipped the dressing-gown from my shoulders. Now was the time for me to express outraged protests. But did I? Of course not. That was not my way. I wanted this to happen as much as he did, so it was no use pretending I did not. So, of course, it did.

Afterwards we lay in the bed together. I thought of Joe’s coming back. I could imagine his pronounced wink; I knew he would not be altogether surprised. After all, he was the old “bucket and spade” (housemaid), as he sometimes called himself.

I just lay there in a state of delicious euphoria.

James said how wonderful it was for him to have found me. I said it was wonderful that we had found each other. And we knew that this was the beginning.

After that there were many meetings. Joe knew about it and reacted with the nonchalance I had expected. Sometimes we heard him bustling about below. I was now choosing every moment I possibly could to go to the cottage where James would be waiting for me.

Afterwards we would sit downstairs, or perhaps in the garden, where James would bring out a bottle of his favorite French wine and we would talk.

He told me that he had been married. It hadn’t worked. That was before the war. They had lived in London for a time, but they were always moving around. She hadn’t liked the lifestyle marriage with him offered; she had wanted to settle in the country. So they had parted. They were lucky to have arranged an amicable divorce without bitterness on either side. That had happened three months before the outbreak of war.

They were wonderful days for me. There was an element of excitement in the affair. I enjoyed that. The only one who knew was Joe. But, before long, I was to learn that that was not entirely true. Of course, I am a somewhat irresponsible person. It came out one day when I was with Simone.

She said unexpectedly: “You look … how is it? Different? Has something happened?”

“Oh,” I said evasively. “Life is tolerable. How is Daniel?”

“Much the same as ever.”

“Adoring?”

She lifted her shoulders. “And the good
capitaine?”

I imitated her gesture.

“I had expected to see you yesterday. You were busy?”

“Very.”

“With the good … James?”

“I did see him.”

“That is a pleasant little
maison.
I passed it the other day. I thought—nice.”

“Oh yes, it is.”

“You know it well, I think.”

“I’ve been there once or twice.”

She nodded, smiling. Then she went on to tell me of some encounter with Daniel. I was not really listening.

My love affair with James Brent continued. I knew it was important to us both. It is difficult to explain one’s feelings sometimes to people who have not experienced them. Those who had would understand immediately.

I never knew when I arrived at the cottage whether he would be there, and he had told me that he could be called away at any moment. He did not think that would be for any length of time, but he could never be sure. Really, how could any of us, in those days, be sure of anything? How did we know when any of us would come face to face with death? It gave a transience to life, an urgency. We thought: “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.” It was true that we lived precariously. I suppose I wanted to squeeze as much pleasure from each day as I possibly could, for how did I know how long I would be able to enjoy it? If one found something good, one wanted to cling to it before it was snatched away.

This gave an added flavor to my relationship with James.

There were times when I almost confided in Violetta. I could not imagine what her reaction would be. She thought my recent experiences with Jacques had sobered me. Sometimes I thought I should never be sobered.

I needed James at that time. He did a great deal for me. Nanny Crabtree had once said to Violetta—so my sister told me—that when I came into a room it was like the sun breaking through the clouds. “Things don’t bother her much, do they? And she has a way of making you feel the same. Well, there’s something to be said for it after all is said and done.”

I thought: Yes, it is wonderful to be able to find something to be happy about in all this mess. That was my excuse. I was good at finding excuses for myself.

So I lived through those days, dancing close to the flame like the proverbial moth—never thinking of scorching my wings.

The recuperating soldiers could now make use of those rooms at Tregarland which had been made ready. The two houses being fairly close together made this a convenient arrangement. We were always going back and forth between the two places.

“What an excellent outcome!” said Violetta. “Particularly when you remember the old feud between the two houses.”

“Sorted out, my dear sister, by you and …”

How thoughtless I was! I was going to say: “By you and Jowan,” although he was always in her thoughts and she did not need a careless comment of mine to remind her of him.

I said quickly: “I think we are doing quite a good job.”

“I think so, too,” agreed Violetta.

Between the two houses our days were busy, though I still found time to slip down to Riverside Cottage. There was always an excuse for going into town and, if my trips were noticeably extended, nobody called attention to the fact.

James had given me a key to the cottage.

“It will be convenient,” he said, “if I am not there and Joe neither. We can leave notes for each other.”

We were now into October and the days were fast shortening. It was the season of gales which were a feature of our coast.

One morning, when I went down, Violetta was already at the table with Gretchen, and while we sat talking one of the maids came in with the post. There were letters for the three of us. We knew they were from my mother before we looked at them, for when she wrote to one she wrote to the others. We had laughed about it—Violetta and I—when we were at school, for the letters were almost identical. Not that we would have wanted it to change. It made us more aware of the closeness between us all.

Gretchen read her letter and looked up with excited eyes.

“It’s wonderful news,” she said. “Edward is being posted to Hampshire. There will be occasions when he can get away for short spells. I should be closer. Your mother says I should return to Caddington. It will not be difficult for him to slip over. She says: ‘I think you should come soon, Gretchen. We shall have you and Hildegarde with us. It will be wonderful for us to have a child in the house.’”

“That is good news,” I said.

“It is so long since Edward has seen Hildegarde,” added Gretchen. Then she hesitated for a moment. “But my job here …”

“You’ll find something to do,” Violetta assured her. “I don’t think there will be any difficulty, do you, Dorabella?”

I shook my head, and went on: “Our first duty is to keep the troops happy, is it not? Well, one of them wouldn’t be if his darling wife and child were kept away from him.”

Gretchen laughed. She could not hide her excitement.

We would leave her to pack, we said, and go over to see Mrs. Jermyn about Gretchen’s replacement.

As we drove over the short distance, Violetta said: “I suppose your letter was the same as mine?”

“I imagine so. We did tell her that there had been some unpleasantness about Gretchen here, didn’t we?”

“We did.”

“She thinks in that case it will be good for her to get away.”

“She’s right, of course. Gretchen was very upset about it. It is something that people don’t forget. If anything went wrong, she would be under suspicion.”

“It could be the same there.”

“Yes, but Edward will be there. He’s a soldier, something of a hero, having come back from Dunkirk, and the parents are such paragons of patriotic zeal. She will be able to see Edward fairly often perhaps.”

Nanny Crabtree was sad. She hated to see her nursery depleted, and Hildegarde was such a good girl, she said. I reckoned Hildegarde was more virtuous in retrospect than in actuality, and that Tristan would hear frequently of her excellence, that Hildegarde had never done things like that. Hildegarde had been such a good little girl.

In a few weeks Nanny Crabtree became philosophical. “Well, I’ve got my hands full with his lordship—and as for that Charley and Bert!” She clicked her tongue and raised her eyes heavenwards, calling in divine corroboration of what she had to suffer.

“Racing about on them bikes! My goodness me! They scare the wits out of me, them two do. Give me little girls.”

“If I remember rightly, Nanny,” I said, “you have had two who on occasions were not such little angels.”

“You get along with you,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “You were always the saucy one, you were!”

Tristan missed Hildegarde. He said to me one day: “Want Hilgar.”

“Well,” I told him, “you’ve got Mummy.”

He smiled suddenly and held out his arms. I picked him up and he planted a wet kiss on my cheek.

“Got Mummy,” he said with evident satisfaction.

I hugged him. My little angel. He loved me now. He had forgotten that I had once deserted him.

My darling child, I thought, as I had a thousand times. I’ll make up for that.

When I look back over those months, they seem like an oasis in the midst of the fearful conflict which was going on in the world.

And Tristan loved me. There is nothing to compare with a child’s innocent belief in his mother’s ability to make everything come right. Even I, who am certainly not the maternal type, could rejoice in it. I swore that never again would I disappoint him. I should always be there. I had Tristan then. I had my constant comfort, Violetta, my dear parents … and James Brent.

Yes, it was a good time.

I had driven down to Poldown and hastily shopped and then gone to Riverside Cottage. There was just a possibility that James would be there.

When I stayed for any length of time, I made sure that the car was well out of sight from the road. It was possible to do this by parking at the back of the cottage. On this occasion, I was just looking in and, if I were to stay, I should, of course, move the car.

I let myself in, saw no one was at home, scribbled a note to James and went back to the car. As I was getting in, a car drove up. It was Simone in the estate car which belonged to Jermyn’s and which she drove round collecting things for Tom Yeo.

She drew up and grinned at me.

“He is not …
chez lui?”

“No,” I said.

“Dommage!”
she murmured. “Then … you will have a moment to spare? Perhaps we have a
café
together? Just for thirty minutes … twenty … or fifteen?”

“Yes,” I said. “Let’s do that.”

So we drove down to East Poldown. There was a small place on the front looking over the sea and Mrs. Yelton, who ran the place, came to take our order.

“How be ’ee today, me dears?” she said. “Nice cup of coffee, is it?”

“Yes please, Mrs. Yelton.”

“What they do call a well-earned rest, I’ll be bound. You young ladies are doing a good job up there, the both of you. You should hear what some of the boys say about the home, Mrs. Tregarland. Angels of Mercy, that’s what they called the young ladies.”

I laughed. “So, I look like an angel?” I asked.

“To tell you the truth, I always thought you had a bit of the devil in you, Mrs. Tregarland. And, as for you, Mam’selle … coming over here in that boat … well, that was something.”

We laughed and she went away to get the coffee.

“It’s nice here,” said Simone, as she stirred the beverage.

“Yes, if they accept you,” I replied, thinking of Gretchen.

She knew at once what I meant. That was like Simone. She was always quick to catch my meaning.

“It’s wonderful for her to have her husband coming home now and then,” I said. “It would have been impossible for her to have seen him so often if she had stayed here.”

“And being German did not help her. All is well with you and the good captain?”

“As well as it can be in such times.”

“I see you ’ave the key to the door.”

“Oh yes. He gave it to me. It’s quite convenient. I can slip in when I like and, if he is not there, leave a note.”

“He is a thoughtful man. It is so romantic. It is good that we have this romance in wartime.”

“As long as the world goes round, love goes on.” Had I made that up, or was I just stating the obvious? It was a real old cliché anyway; but when you consider them, they are very often true.