The Last Letter from Juliet
The Last Letter from Juliet
Melanie Hudson
The USA TODAY bestseller! For fans of Soraya M. Lane, Heather Morris, Fiona Valpy and Pam Jenoff. Inspired by the brave women of WWII, this is a moving and powerful novel of friendship, love and resilience. A story of love not a story of a war A daring WWII pilot who grew up among the clouds, Juliet Caron’s life was one of courage, adventure – and a love torn apart by war. Every nook of her Cornish cottage is alive with memories just waiting to be discovered. Katherine Henderson has escaped to Cornwall for Christmas, but she soon finds there is more to her holiday cottage than meets the eye. And on the eve of Juliet’s 100th birthday, Katherine is enlisted to make an old lady’s final Christmas wish come true… Me Before You meets The English Patient in this stunning romantic historical novel from award-winning author Melanie Hudson. Readers love The Last Letter from Juliet ‘OK…. I’ve finished the book. Holy ******…I had to keep taking breaks in the last 15% just so I didn’t break down in a flood of tears’ Zoe Hartgen ‘Read the first chapter and I. Was. HOOKED!’ Skye’s Mum ‘If you only read one book this year make it The Last Letter from Juliet’ Tracey Shults ‘I just couldn't put it down until finished’ Jeanette ‘Captures those stolen moments in dangerous and desperate times…beautiful, nostalgic and emotional’ Cheryl M-M ‘Jam packed full of emotion…I don't usually read historical fiction but I'm so glad I read this’ Jennie Scanlan ‘I can highly recommend this beautiful tale of love, sacrifice, friendship, courage and so much more’ Nessa Stimpson
The Last Letter from Juliet
MELANIE HUDSON
One More Chapter
a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Copyright © Melanie Hudson 2019
Cover images © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Melanie Hudson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008319649
Ebook Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 9780008319632
Version: 2019-09-02
Table of Contents
Cover (#u4837d156-e47c-5fdd-b19a-6ba7b19492dc)
Title Page (#u6fdf0755-058b-5223-ab2e-a18ce4b50947)
Copyright (#u5bc6a3af-b2b2-5288-94b0-e73afd07083d)
Dedication (#u01822bc3-2780-50b5-87d4-2a090ac48c19)
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
Dedicated to the inspirational and courageous women pilots who served with the Air Transport Auxiliary during the Second World War – the ultimate Attagirls!
Prologue (#u7e48d4b0-6036-5362-8380-0dc83e588d19)
Read Me
This is a note to yourself, Juliet.
At the time of writing you are ninety-two years old and worried that the bits and bobs of your story have begun to go astray. You must read this note carefully every day and work very hard to keep yourself and the memories alive, because once upon a time you told a man called Edward Nancarrow that you would, and it’s important to keep that promise, Juliet, even when there seems to be little point going on.
In the mahogany sideboard you will find all the things you will need to keep living your life alone. These things are: bank details; savings bonds; emergency contact numbers; basic information about you – your name, age and place of birth; money in a freezer bag; an emergency mobile phone. More importantly, there are also your most precious possessions scattered around the house. I’ve labelled them, to help you out.
Written on the back of this note is a copy of the poem Edward gave you in 1943. Make sure you can recite it (poetry is good for the brain). And finally, even if you forget everything else, remember that, in the end, Edward’s very simple words are the only things that have ever really mattered.
Now, make sure you’ve had something to eat and a glass of water – water helps with memory – and whatever happens in the future, whatever else you may forget, always remember … he’s waiting.
With an endless supply of love,
Juliet
Chapter 1 (#u7e48d4b0-6036-5362-8380-0dc83e588d19)
Katherine
A proposal
It was a bright Saturday lunchtime in early December. I’d just closed the lounge curtains and was about to binge-watch The Crown for the fourth time that year when a Christmas card bearing a Penzance postmark dropped through the letter box.
Uncle Gerald. Had to be.
The card, with an illustration of a distressed donkey carrying a (somewhat disappointed-looking) Virgin Mary being egged on by a couple of haggard angels, contained within it my usual Christmas catch-up letter. I wandered through to the kitchen and clicked the kettle on – it was a four-pager.
My Dear Katherine
Firstly, I hope this letter finds you well, or as well as to be expected given your distressing circumstances of living alone in Exeter with no family around you again this Christmas.
Cheers for that, Gerald
But more of your circumstances in a moment because (to quote the good bard) ‘something is rotten in the state of Denmark’ and I’m afraid this year’s letter will not burst forth with my usual festive cheer. There is at present a degree of what can only be described as civil unrest breaking out in Angels Cove and I am at my wits end trying to promote an atmosphere of peace and good will in time for Christmas. I’m hopeful you will be able to offer a degree of academic common sense to the issue.
Here’s the rub: the Parish Council (you may remember that I am the chair?) has been informed that the village boundaries are to be redrawn in January as part of a Cornwall County Council administrative shake-up. This simple action has lit the touch paper of a centuries-old argument amongst the residents that needs – finally – to be put to rest.
The argument in question is this: should our village be apostrophised or not? If ‘yes’, then should the apostrophe come before or after the ‘s’?
It is a Total Bloody Nightmare!
It really isn’t, Gerald.
At the moment, Angels Cove is written without an apostrophe, but most agree that there should be an apostrophe in there somewhere, yet where? The argument seems to rest on three questions:
1. Does the cove ‘belong’ to just one angel (the angel depicted in the church stained glass window, for example, as some people claim that they have seen him) or to a multitude of angels (i.e. the possessive of a singular or a plural noun).
2. Does the cove belong to the angels or do the angels belong to the cove? (The minority who wish to omit the apostrophe in its entirety ask this question.)
3. Does the word angel in Angels Cove actually refer, not to the winged messengers of the Devine, but to the notorious pirate, Jeremiah ‘Cut-throat’ Angel, who sailed from Penzance circa 1723 and whose ship, The Savage Angel, was scuppered in Mounts Bay (not apostrophised, you will note) when he returned from the West Indies at the tender age of twenty-nine?
As you can see, it’s a mess.
Fearing the onset of a migraine, I stopped reading and decided to sort out the recycling, which would take a while, given the number of empties. An hour later saw me continuing to give the rest of Gerald’s letter a stiff ignoring because I needed to get back to The Crown and plough my way through an ironing pile that saw its foundations laid in 1992. Just at the point where Prince Philip jaunts off solo on a raucous stag do to Australia (and thinking that I really ought to write a letter to The Queen to tell her how awesome she is), I turned the iron off (feeling a pang of guilt at leaving a complicated silk blouse alone in the basket) poured a glass of Merlot, popped a Tesco ‘extra deep’ mince pie in the microwave and returned to the letter …
I expect you will agree that this is a question of historical context, not a grammatical issue.
I do not.
As the ‘go to’ local historian (it must run in the family!) I attempted to offer my own hypothesis at the parish meeting last week, but can you believe it, I was barracked off the stage just two minutes into my delivery.
I can.
But all is not lost. This morning, while sitting on the loo wrecking my brains for inspiration, I stumbled across your book, From Nob End to Soggy Bottom, English Place Names and their Origins in my toilet TBR pile (I had forgotten you have such a dry wit, my dear) and I just knew that I had received Devine intervention from the good Lord himself, because although the villagers are not prepared to accept my opinion as being correct, I do believe they would accept the decision of a university professor, especially when I explain that you were sent to them by God.
So, I have a proposition for you.
Time for that mince pie.
In return for your help on the issue, please do allow me the pleasure of offering you a little holiday here in Angels Cove, as my very special present to you, this Christmas. I know you have balked at the idea of coming to stay with me in the past (don’t worry, I know I’m an eccentric old so-and-so with disgusting toenails)
True
but how do you fancy a beautiful sea view this Christmas?
Well, now that you mention it …
The cottage is called Angel View (just the one angel, note) and now belongs to a local man, Sam Lanyon (Royal Navy pilot – he’s away at sea, poor chap). He says you can stay as long as you like – I may have mentioned what happened to James as leverage.
Gerald!
The cottage sits just above the cove and has everything you could possible need for the perfect holiday (it’s also a bit of a 1940s time capsule because until very recently it belonged to an elderly lady – you’ll love it).
The thing is, before you say no, do remember that before she died, I did promise your mother that I would keep an eye on you …
It was only a matter of time.
… and your Christmas card seemed so forlorn …Actually, not forlorn, bland – it set me off worrying about you being alone again this Christmas, and I thought this would be the perfect opportunity for us to look out for each other, as I’m alone, too – George is on a mercy mission visiting his sister in Brighton this year. Angels Cove is simply beautiful at Christmas. The whole village pulls together (when they are not arguing) to illuminate the harbour with a festival of lights. It’s magical.
But?
But … with all the shenanigans going on this year, I’m not sure the villagers will be in the mood for celebration. Please do say you’ll come and answer our question for us, and in doing so, bring harmony to this beautiful little cove and save Christmas for all the little tourist children.
Surely this kind of thing is right up your Strasse?
My idea is that you could do a little bit of research then the locals could present you with their proposals for the placement of the apostrophe in a climatic final meeting. It will be just like a Christmas episode of the Apprentice – bring a suit! And meanwhile, I’ll have a whole programme of excitement planned for you – a week of wonderful things – and it includes gin.
Now you’re talking
Do write back or text or (God forbid) phone, straight away and say you’ll come, because by God, Katherine, you are barely forty-five years old, which is a mere blink of an eye. You have isolated yourself from all of your old friends and it is not an age where a person should be sitting alone with only their memories to comfort them. Basically, if anyone deserves a little comfort this Christmas, it’s you. I know you usually visit the grave on Christmas Day, but please, for the build-up week at least (which is the best part of Christmas after all) come to Cornwall and allow yourself to be swaddled by our angels for a while (they’re an impressive bunch).
I am happy to beg.
Yours, in desperation,
Gerald.
P.S. Did I mention the gin?
Sitting back in a kitchen chair I’d ruined by half-arsedly daubing it in chalk paint two weeks before, I glanced around the room and thought about Gerald’s offer. On the one hand, why on earth would I want to leave my home at Christmas? It was beautiful. But the energy had changed, and what was once the vibrant epicentre of Exeter’s academia, now hovered in a haze of hushed and silent mourning, like the house was afraid of upsetting me by raising its voice.
A miniature Christmas tree sat on the edge of the dresser looking uncomfortable and embarrassed. I’d decorated it with a selection of outsized wooden ornaments picked up during a day trip to IKEA in November. IKEA in Exeter was my weekly go-to store since James had gone. It was a haven for the lost and lonely. A person (me) can disappear up their own backsides for the whole morning in an unpronounceable maze of fake rooms, rugs, tab-top curtains, plastic plants and kitchen utensils (basically all the crap the Swedes don’t want) before whiling away a good couple of hours gorging themselves on a menu of meatballs and cinnamon swirls, and still have the weirdest selection of booze and confectionary Sweden has to offer (what on earth is Lordagsgodis, anyway?) to look forward to at checkout.
And we wonder why the Swedes are so happy!
But did I really want to spend the run-up to Christmas in IKEA this year? (Part of me actually did – it’s very Scandi-chic Christmassy). But to do it for a third year in a row, with no one to laugh out loud with when we try to pronounce the unpronounceable Swedish word for fold-up bed?
(That was a poor example because a futon is a futon in any language and I really did need to try to control my inner monologue which had gone into overdrive since James died – I was beginning to look excessively absent minded in public).
But did I want to spend Christmas in IKEA this year?
Not really, no.
But the problem (and Gerald knew this, too) was that if I left the house this Christmas, then it would mark the beginning of my letting go, of starting again, of saying that another life – a festive one – could exist beyond James. If I had a good time I might start to forget him, but if I stayed here and kept thinking of him, if I kept the memories alive, re-read the little notes he left me every morning, if I looked through photographs on Facebook, replayed scenes and conversations in my mind, then he would still be here, alive, in me. But if I go away, where would that lead? I knew exactly where it would lead – to the beginning of the end of James. To the beginning of not being able to remember his voice, his smell, his laugh – to the beginning of moving on.
And I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.
But still …
I knocked back the last of the Merlot while googling train times to Penzance and fished out the last card in a box of IKEA Christmas cards I’d abandoned to the dresser drawer the week before. It was the exact replica of the one I’d already sent him, a golden angel. I took it as a sign and began to scribble …
Dear, Uncle Gerald,
You are quite correct. This kind of thing is indeed ‘right up my Strasse’. Rest assure there will be no need to beg – I shall come!
I arrive in Penzance by the 18.30 train on the 17th and intend to stay (wait for it) until Boxing Day! By which time I am confident that, one way or another, I will have found a solution to your problem. DO NOT, however, feel that you have to entertain me all week. It’s very good of you but actually – and quite selfishly – this trip could be a blessing in disguise. I have been racking my brains for an idea for a new book – a history project to keep me going through the rest of the winter – and I have a feeling that hidden deep within the midst of Cornish myth and legend, I might find one.
Please thank Mr Lanyon for the offer of use of his cottage – I accept!
How are the cataracts, by the way? Are you able to drive? If so, I wonder if you could meet me at the station?
With oodles of love,
Your, Katherine
P.S. Wouldn’t it be funny if ‘The Cataracts’ were an old couple who lived in the village and I would say, ‘How are the Cataracts, by the way?’ And you would answer, ‘Oh, they’re fine. They’ve just tripped off to Tenerife for Christmas.’
P.P.S. Take heart in knowing that there is nothing simple about the apostrophe. It is punctuation’s version of the naughty Cornish pixie, and seems to wreak havoc wherever it goes. There is a village in America, for example, where the misplacing of the apostrophe led to full-scale civil unrest and ultimately, the cold-blooded murder of the local Sheriff. Let us hope for your sake that the situation at Angels Cove does not escalate into a similar scale of brouhaha!
P.P.P.S. Gin? I love you.
Chapter 2 (#u7e48d4b0-6036-5362-8380-0dc83e588d19)
Katherine
The last station stop
It turned out that the residents of Angels Cove were expecting not one, but two Katherines to arrive in Penzance on the evening of 17 December. My namesake Storm Katherine – a desperate attention seeker who was determined to make a dramatic entrance – would arrive late with the loud and gregarious roar of an axe-wielding Viking. Trees would crash onto roads, chicken hutches would be turned upside down, and the blight of every twenty first century garden – the netted trampoline – would disappear over hedgerows never to be seen again (it wasn’t all bad, then). I hoped Uncle Gerald wouldn’t see my concurrent arrival with Katherine as some kind of omen, but really, how could he not?
Stepping onto the train in Exeter, despite the forecast weather, I was excited. By Plymouth I was beginning to wonder if it had all been a dreadful mistake – the locals would want to chat, and the woman in the shop (there was always a chatty woman in a shop) would glance at my wedding ring and pry into my life with a stream of double negatives: ‘Will your husband not be joining you in the cottage for Christmas, then? No? Well, it’s nice to have some time away from them all, eh? And what about your children? Will they not be coming down? No children? Oh, dear. Well, never mind …’
That kind of thing.
By Truro, I’d decided to turn back, but Katherine’s advance party had already begun to rock the carriages, and by the time St Michael’s Mount appeared through the late afternoon darkness – a watered down image of her usual self, barely visible through the driving rain and sea fret – my excitement had vaporised completely. Gazing through the splattered carriage window, I was startled by the sight of my mother’s face staring back at me. Only it wasn’t my mother, it was my own aged reflection. When had that happened? Anxious fingers rushed to smooth the lines on my mother’s face, which could only be described as tired (dreadful word) and I realised that, just like St Michael’s Mount in the winter rain, I too was a watered-down image of my usual self, barely visible through a veil of grief I had worn ever since the morning James had gone.
I hadn’t needed an alarm call that morning. I’d been laying on my side for hours, tucked into the foetal position, the left side of my face resting on a tear-stained pillow, my eyes focused just above the bedside table, fixed on the clock.
I watched every movement of Mickey Mouse’s right hand as it made a full circle, resting, with a final little wave, on the twelve.
Mickey’s voice rang out—
‘It’s time, time, time, to wake up! It’s time, time, time to wake up!’
I’d never known if Mickey had been supposed to say the word ‘time’ three times, or if at some point over the past umpteen years he had developed a stutter, but I silenced him with a harsh thump on the head and lay staring at the damp patch on the ceiling we’d never gotten to the bottom of, just to the right of the light fitting.
I wanted to lay there and consider that phrase for a moment – ‘it’s time’. Two little words with such a big meaning.
It’s time, Katherine.
How many times had I heard those words?
My father had said them, standing in the kitchen doorway on my wedding day. He’d taken my hand with a wonderful smile and walked me to the car, a happy man. We were followed closely behind by my Aunt Helena, who was frothing my veil and laughing at Mum – who did not approve of the match – and who fussed along behind us, arguing about … I think it was art, but it might have been cheese. And now, twenty years later, the exact same words were used by Gerald, to direct me out of the house. To force me, my insides kicking and screaming for release, to slide into the long black car that waited in the yard – the car that would take us to James’ funeral, the sort of funeral that has the caption ‘But, dear God, why?’ hovering in the air the whole day.
I turned my back on Mickey and ran my arm across the base sheet on the other side of the bed. If only there was still some warmth there. An arm to curl into, a woolly chest to rest my head on. But the sheet was cold, and like everything else in my house in Exeter, retained the deep ingrained memory of centuries of damp.
But if I just lay there and let the day move on without me …
It’s time, time, time, to wake up!
Mickey again.
I stretched. Ridiculous thought. Mickey was right. The day wouldn’t move on, not if I didn’t wind the cogs and drop-kick the sun through the goal posts. I threw my legs out of bed, sat up, patted Mickey, apologised for hitting him on the head and I kissed him on the face. Poor thing. It wasn’t his fault James had been killed, even if he did insist in shouting at me every morning in his overly polite, American way.
It’s time, Katherine.
But that was the thing with travelling alone on a train, there was simply too much time to think. Trains were just one long rolling mass of melancholy, the carriages filled with random, interconnected thoughts. Travel alone on a train with no book to read and an over-thinker can spend an entire journey in the equivalent of that confused state between sleeping and waking.
And then the guard broke my reverie.
Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be arriving in Penzance. Penzance is the last station stop. Service terminates at Penzance. All alight at Penzance.
It was pretty obvious I needed to get off.
The train slowed to a final halt at the station and the last of the passengers began to stir. I grabbed my laptop case, put on my winter coat, hat and gloves and trundled to the end of the carriage in the hope that my suitcase would still be there. It was time to step out onto the platform, find Uncle Gerald, and head out into the storm.
Chapter 3 (#u7e48d4b0-6036-5362-8380-0dc83e588d19)
Katherine
A cottage by the sea
I stepped down onto the platform and stood still for a moment, my eyes searching through a river of passengers, before catching sight of Uncle Gerald, who was waving his multi-coloured umbrella like a lunatic and working his way upstream.
My heart melted. Uncle Gerald had been a steady presence in my life as a child, and although I had hardly seen him during my adult years, the bond that was formed during those childhood visits – nothing overly special, just a kind smile and couple of quid for sweets tucked into my sticky fingers – had never gone away. It was a bond that represented the safety and easiness of family. A bond that is usually lobbed into the back of the dresser drawer, stashed away, forgotten and allowed to loiter with the unused Christmas cards, nutcrackers and Sellotape, until the day came along when you actually needed it, and you opened the drawer with a rummage saying to yourself, ‘I just know I left it in there somewhere.’
Gerald rested his umbrella against my suitcase and put his arms around me.
I wasn’t expecting the sudden onset of emotion, but he represented a simpler time. A happy time. A time of singing together in the kitchen with Mum. The Carpenters.
‘Rainy Days and Mondays’.
I started to cry.
He patted.
‘Now then, none of that, none of that.’
‘Oh, don’t mind me, Uncle Gerald,’ I said, trying to smile while rifling through my handbag and coat pockets for a tissue. ‘Train stations and airport lounges always do this to me. I swear they’re the portals used by the tear fairies to tap directly into the tender places of the soul.’
Gerald handed me a folded blue handkerchief.
I opened the handkerchief and blew my nose.
He smiled. ‘Still over-dramatic then?’
I nodded.
‘That’s my girl!’
We both laughed and sniffed back the emotion before heading out into the wind and rain. We dashed to the car and he handed me the keys. ‘You wouldn’t mind driving, would you? Only I spent the afternoon in the Legion …’
***
The drive to Angels Cove took a little over half an hour. It was a fairly silent half hour because Uncle Gerald slept while I battled the car through the beginnings of the storm, luckily the sat nav remembered the way. The road narrowed as we headed down a tree-lined hill. I slowed the car to a halt and positioned the headlights to illuminate the village sign through the driving rain.
I nudged Uncle Gerald.
‘We’re here.’
He stirred and harrumphed at sight of the sign.
‘Perhaps now you can see why I asked for your help,’ he said.
I failed to stifle a laugh.
The sign had been repeatedly graffiti-ed. Firstly, someone had inserted an apostrophe with permanent marker between the ‘l’ and the ‘s’ of angels. Then, someone else had put a line through the apostrophe and scrawled a new apostrophe to the right of the ‘s’, which had been further crossed out. The crossings out continued across the sign until there was no room to write any more.
‘This all started at the beginning of November, when the letter from the council arrived. The average age in this village is seventy-four – seventy-four!– and they’re all behaving like children. I’ve got my hands full with it all, I can tell you. Especially on Wednesdays.’ He nodded ahead. ‘Drive on, straight down to the harbour.’
‘Wednesdays?’ I asked, putting the car into gear.
‘Skittles night at the Crab and Lobster.’
‘Ah.’
We carried on down the road, the wipers losing the battle with the rain and I tried to remember the layout of the village. I recalled Angels Cove as a pretty place consisting of one long narrow road that wound its way very slowly down to the sea. Pockets of cottages lined the road, which was about a mile long, with the pub in the middle, next to the primary school which was a classic Victorian school house with two entrances: BOYS was written in stone above one entrance and GIRLS written above the other.
The road narrowed yet further before opening out onto a small harbour. I stopped the car. The harbour was lit by a smattering of old-fashioned street lamps. Waves crashed over the harbour walls. The car shook. Although Katherine had not yet arrived with the might of her full force, the sea had already whipped herself up into an excitable frenzy.
Gerald pointed to the right.
‘You can’t make it out too clearly in the dark,’ he said, staring into the darkness. ‘But the cottage you’re staying in is up this little track by about a hundred yards … or so.’
I glanced up the track and put the car into gear.
‘You ready?’ he asked.
‘Ready? Ready for what?’
‘Oh, nothing. It’s just a bit of a bumpy track, that’s all.’ He tapped the Land Rover with an affectionate pat, as if he was praising an old Labrador. ‘No problem for this little lady, though. Been up that track a thousand times, haven’t you, old girl? Onwards and upwards!’
I set off in the general direction of a farm track. The car took on an angle of about forty-five degrees and began to slip and slide its way up the track. Waves crashed against the rocks directly to my left.
‘Shitty death, Gerald! What the f—?’
A couple of wheel spins later, to my absolute relief, a little white cottage appeared under a swinging security light. We pulled alongside and I switched off the engine, left the car in gear and went to open the driver door.
‘Don’t get out for a moment,’ Gerald said. ‘I’ll go in ahead and turn on the lights. It’ll give me time to shoo the mice away and make it nice and homely, that kind of thing.’
‘Mice?’
‘Only a few, and they’re very friendly.’
I wiped condensation from the window and tried to peer out into the storm. ‘OK, but don’t be too long,’ I said. ‘I feel like I’ve stepped through one of the seven circles of hell!’
***
The tour of the cottage was very short but very sweet. When Gerald mentioned that an elderly lady had left it as a 1940s time capsule, he wasn’t exaggerating. There were three bedrooms upstairs, which were pretty but functional, a downstairs bathroom, a good-sized kitchen and an achingly sweet lounge. Gerald lit the fire while talking.
‘I’ve stocked the fridge with enough food, milk and mince pies to take you through to the New Year.’ He glanced up. ‘Just in case.’
‘In case … what?’
He stood and brushed down his trousers. ‘This is Cornwall. Anything can happen.’
I took off my coat and lay it across the arm of a green velvet chaise longue, then crossed to the window to close the curtains. A photograph frame sat on the windowsill. The black and white image inside was of woman standing in front of a bi-plane, holding a flying helmet and goggles, smiling brightly, squinting slightly against the sun. There was a tag attached to the photo. I read it.
Summer 1938. Edward took this. Our first full day together. Two days in one – fantastic and tragic all at once. Why can we never have the one, without the other. Why can’t we have light without shade?
‘Juliet was a pilot,’ Gerald said by way of explanation, turning to face me briefly while attempting to draw the fire by holding a sheet of newspaper across the fireplace. ‘She flew for the Air Transport Auxiliary during the war. They used to deliver all the aircraft from the factories to the RAF, that kind of thing. Amazing woman.’
I nodded my understanding, still looking at the photograph.
‘Juliet handed the old place to Sam Lanyon last year, but he hasn’t got around to sorting through her belongings yet.’ Gerald rose to his feet. He screwed up the paper he’d used to draw the fire and threw it onto the flames.
I put the frame down, closed the curtains and looked around the room … photos, books, paintings, odds and ends of memorabilia. There was a 1920s sideboard, I opened a drawer. It was full of the same forgotten detritus of someone else’s life.
This was no holiday cottage, this was a home.
Gerald turned his back on the fire a final time. It was blazing.
‘Anyway, you’ve a good supply of coal and logs so just remember to keep feeding it, and don’t forget to put the guard up when you go to bed – this type of coal spits!’
He made a move towards the door. His hat and scarf were hanging on a peg in the little hallway. He grabbed them and began to wrap his scarf around his throat.
‘Are you sure it’s all right for me to stay here, Gerald?’ I was standing in the lounge doorway looking pensive. ‘Only it seems a bit … intrusive.’
‘Nonsense! It was Sam’s idea. He’s happy that it’s being aired.’
Gerald turned to leave and attempted to open the door. The force of the storm pushed against him. My unease at the prospect of staying alone in an unfamiliar cottage perched precariously on a cliff side, unsure of my bearings, during one of the worst storms in a decade, must have shown on my face. He closed the door for a moment and walked back into the lounge, talking to himself.
‘On nights like this, Juliet always put her faith in one thing, and it never let her down.’
I followed him. ‘What was that? God?’
He opened the sideboard door and peered inside.
‘Ha!’ He took out a bottle.
‘Whiskey?’
‘And there’s a torch in there, too.’ He put the whiskey back and walked into the kitchen. I heard him open and close a few drawers before reappearing in the lounge with half a dozen candles. He handed them to me.
‘Just in case the electricity goes out. And the matches are on the fireplace so you’re all set.’
The lounge window started to rattle.
He straightened his hat and headed to the door. ‘This cottage might seem rickety, but it’s the oldest and sturdiest house in the village. It’ll take a bit more than Katherine to see her off now!’
I picked up the car keys from the hall table and grabbed my coat from the lounge.
‘I’ll drive you home,’ I said.
‘No, no. I’ll walk back.’ He pulled his scarf tighter.
‘In this weather?’ I asked, only half concentrating, searching in my handbag for my phone. ‘Mercy, me! I have a signal!’
Gerald paused at the door.
‘Put the keys down, Katherine. I’ll be fine. Listen, why don’t you leave your coat on and come with me to see my friend, Fenella. Poor thing. I promised her I’d pop in on my way home. She’s had a bit of a bereavement and isn’t coping very well.’
‘Husband?’
‘Worse. Dog. Her cottage is on the harbour. We can nip in and pay our respects, quick cup of tea, then make our excuses and go back to mine … via the pub. You might as well meet the enemy straight off.’
I wanted to say, ‘Thank Christ for that. Yes please.’ But the curse of the twenty-first-century independent woman prevented me from throwing myself at his mercy. And I didn’t fancy the pub.
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said with a blasé shoulder shrug, taking my coat off one final time. ‘I’ll be absolutely fine.’ (Which is the exact phrase everyone uses when they are, in fact, sure that they will not ‘be absolutely fine’.)
He put his hand on the door handle.
‘And how are you sleeping these days?’
I shrugged.
‘Don’t tell me you’re still listening to Harry Potter audio books half the livelong night?’
I shrugged again.
Listening to Stephen Fry narrate Harry Potter was much better than tossing and turning all night. There was just something about the combination of the two – Fry and Potter – that made the world seem like a safe place again.
‘It relaxes me. And you must admit, you can’t beat a bit of Stephen Fry at bedtime.’
Gerald laughed.
‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed, I suppose – but don’t tell George, you know how jealous he gets. Well, if you’re sure, I’ll be off. Just phone me if you need reassurance. Oh, and there’s WiFi here.’
Result.
‘The code is …’ Gerald paused and delved into his coat pocket. He took out a scrap of paper. ‘… “tigermoth”, one word, all lowercase. And try not to worry. I wouldn’t leave you here if I thought it wasn’t safe.’
Gerald kissed me on the cheek and stepped out into the wind.
‘I’ll pop up tomorrow morning once the storm’s gone through,’ he shouted. ‘I’ve got a fabulous programme of events all worked out, people to meet, things to do! And lock the door behind me straight away. It’ll bang all night if you don’t.’
‘I will,’ I shouted back, down the lane. ‘And, thank you!’
With the door locked and bolted, I walked into the lounge, sat on the sofa and stared into the fire, unconsciously spinning my wedding ring around my finger. The lights began to flicker, and in the kitchen, another window rattled. I grabbed my laptop from the hallway, logged onto the WiFi and – for at least five seconds – thought about doing a little apostrophe research (or any research that might lead me in the direction of a new project and take my mind off the storm). I closed the laptop lid.
Tomorrow. I’d do the research tomorrow.
I grabbed the remote control, flashed the TV and Freeview box into life and pressed the up button on the volume. The closing scenes of a Miss Marple rerun sounded-out most of the noise of the storm. Now all I needed to do was make a cup of tea, rustle up dinner and settle down to a spot of Grand Designs (the harangued couples who mortgaged themselves to the hilt and lived in a leaky caravan during the worst winter on record with three screaming kids and another on the way while trying to live off the land and source genuine terracotta tiles in junk shops for a bathroom that wouldn’t be built for another five years … they were my favourites).
With the closing credits of Miss Marple rolling down the screen, I walked through to the kitchen to make dinner. It was the real deal on the quintessential cottage front – not a fitted cupboard in sight – and very pretty, with French doors at the rear. A circular pine table with two chairs sat at the opposite end of the kitchen to the French doors, underneath a window. A golden envelope addressed to Katherine Henderson, C/O Angel View, sat on the table. I opened the envelope and took out the Christmas card.
Another angel, they were everywhere this year.
Dear Katherine
Just a quick note to welcome you to Angel View and explain about the house, which until recently belonged to a very special lady called Juliet Caron – my amazing Grandmother. You will find that her personality is still very much alive within the cottage walls. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to decorate the cottage for Christmas before you arrived, but you’ll find lots of decorations in the loft if you want to make the old place feel a bit more Christmassy.
Most importantly, please make yourself at home and have a wonderful time.
Yours,
Sam Lanyon
P.S. … you may find that a particularly vigilant Elf has already pitched up and positioned himself in the house somewhere. He always kept a beady eye on Juliet at this time of year. Give him a tot of whiskey and he’ll be your friend for life!
Smiling, I rested the card against a green coloured glass vase filled with yellow roses and took a cursory glance around the kitchen. There he was – sitting on a shelf, looking directly at me with his legs crossed and auspicious expression on his face.
I crossed the room to take a good look at him.
‘Hello, Mr Elf,’ I said, cheerily. ‘You needn’t worry about me. As Eliza Doolittle once said, I’m a good girl, I am … unfortunately!’
A few half-burned candles were scattered around the worktop and also on the windowsill. I took the matches from the lounge and lit them. There was a notepad and pen on the worktop, as if waiting for the occupier to make a list, and a very pretty russet red shawl was draped over the back of one of the chairs. I picked up the shawl and ran it through my fingers – it smelt of lavender and contentment. A luggage-style label had been sewn onto the shawl at one end. It read—
This was Lottie’s shawl – her comfort blanket. You wrapped Mabel in it on the day Lottie died.
Feeling a sudden chill, I took the liberty of wrapping the shawl around my shoulders and began to put together the makings of dinner – cheese on toast with a bit of tomato and Worcester sauce would do. I took an unsliced loaf out of the breadbin and opened the drawer of a retro cream dresser looking for cutlery. Sitting on top of the cutlery divider was a hard-backed small booklet with a large label attached to it. Another label? I took out the booklet and ran a finger over the indented words, First Officer Juliet Caron, Flying Logbook.
I turned the label over. With very neat handwriting, it read:
This is your flying logbook, Juliet. It is the most significant document of your life. Look at it often (whenever you use cutlery will do) and remember the times when you were happy (Spitfires), the times when you were stressed out (Fairey Battle – awful machine), the times when you had no idea how you survived to fly another day (like that trip in the Hurricane when the barrage balloons went up just as you were leaving Hamble) and that terrible day you tried to get to Cornwall with Anna – the one entry you wish you could delete. Other than the compass, this is your most treasured possession.
My rumbling tummy brought me back to the moment. I filled the kettle, stepped over to the fridge and noticed a laminated note stuck to the door with ‘Read Me’ written on the top. I read it, expecting it to be instructions from Sam, or Gerald.
It wasn’t.
While the kettle was boiling, I read a letter which began:
This is a letter to yourself, Juliet …
So that was what all the labels were for … Juliet had been frightened of losing her memory. I took the letter off the fridge and turned it over.
Where Angels Sing, by Edward Nancarrow
When from this empty world I fall
And the light within me fades
I’ll think, my love, of a sweeter time
When life was light, not shade
With bluebirds from this world I’ll fly
And to a cove I’ll go
To wait for you where angels sing
And when it’s time, you’ll know
To meet me on the far side where
We once led Mermaid home
And finally, my love and I
Will be, as one, alone
And at that moment, after pouring water from Juliet’s kettle into Juliet’s cup, sitting in Juliet’s house and wearing Juliet’s shawl, I felt an overwhelming sensation of being swaddled, that Juliet and I were somehow linked. Gerald would blame my overactive imagination, of course, but I really did feel that I was supposed to come to Angels Cove this Christmas.
With my dinner quickly made and eaten, I set up camp in the lounge and, trying to ignore the other Katherine who was hammering at the door to get in, I decided it was time for Kevin McCloud (such a lovely man) to transport me into his TV world of Grand Designs, into other people’s lives – happier, family lives – where dreams really do come true (and maybe a tot or two of that whiskey wouldn’t go amiss either).
Glancing into the sideboard I was mesmerised – it was an Aladdin’s Cave of memorabilia, of yet more labels. Next to the whiskey was a wad of faded A4 paper held together by green string. The top sheet had the typewritten words,
Attagirls!
The war memoirs of Juliet Caron
Lest she forgets
I untied the string and peeled back the top sheet to reveal a letter.
1 June 1996
My dear Sam
How is life at sea treating you? I know I say it too much for your liking, but I’ll say it again – I’m so very proud of you (and a little jealous of all that fabulous flying, too!).
Anyhow, I’m sure you must be busy so I’ll get to the point because I’m worried, Sam. Worried that my older memories are starting to fade and that one day soon they may leave me completely. Sitting here in my little cottage, able to do less and less each day, watching the tide ebb and flow, I have felt suddenly compelled to remember and record what happened in my life during the war. I read somewhere that if you wish to tell a story of war, do not tell the basic facts of the battle, but tell instead of the child’s bonnet removed from the rubble of a Southampton street, or the smell of twisted metal from a burnt Hurricane crashed by a friend, or the lingering smell of a man, robbed of his prime by typhus, as he lays in a strange bed in a foreign land, dying. I’m not sure I shall be able to do this, but even so, I have begun to write everything down. My friend Gerald is helping me. I aim to write one instalment per month – the first one is written already and attached – and send you copies as I write them. It’s an heirloom, I suppose, for you and your children (or if nothing else to give you something sensational to read during those long nights at sea!).
As you read each instalment, remember that my words will be as accurate as my aging mind allows them to be. Certain days stand out more than the rest. Just lately, I find that I can remember 1943 like it was yesterday, and yet events from yesterday elude me as if set in 1943. But what is truth of any situation anyway? I really do feel that life is made up of a constant stream of living, punctuated only by that otherworld of sleep. The fact that we choose to put a time and date to everything is merely a paper exercise. I used to think that once a moment is gone, it is gone forever, resigned only to memory. But now – now that I can no longer take my memory for granted – I realise that this is not the case. Love, for example, once thought lost, can be captured forever, just so long as someone out there strives to keep the memory of that love alive.
And so here is the first in a series of my memories that consist only of certain vivid days. They are memories of a time when suddenly, for a woman, absolutely anything (both the good and the desperately bad) became possible.
Anyway – enough of my ramblings!
Drum roll, please …
‘Ladieeeees and gentlemen! Lift your eyes to the heavens and prepare to be amazed, to be wowed and bedazzled! Here she is … the fearless! The death-defying! The one and only – Juliet Caron!’
I rested the letter on my knee just as a crash outside coincided with the sudden outage of the lights and the television turned to black. The glow from the fire provided sufficient ambient light for me to reach into the sideboard and find the torch, but the battery must have been an old one because the torchlight was weak and to my disappointment, within a few seconds, petered out.
Determined to take on some of the inner strength of the remarkable woman who had written a note to herself at ninety-two years old to never give in, I surrounded myself with candles, stoked the fire and wrapped the russet shawl tighter around my shoulders. And despite knowing that I shouldn’t waste my phone battery on a little light reading, not tonight of all nights, I got myself cosy on the sofa, abandoned Harry Potter, enabled the torch on my phone and began to read.
Chapter 4 (#u7e48d4b0-6036-5362-8380-0dc83e588d19)
Juliet
1938
A Cornish Christmas
Newspaper Cutting: The Bicester Herald
FREE AEROPLANE FLIGHTS FOR TEN LUCKY READERS!
AIR DISPLAY EXTRAVAGANZA!
Reach for the stars with the one and only
LOUIS CARON FLYING CIRCUS!
Old Bradley’s Field
1
July (for one day only)
2.30 p.m. till dusk
Star Attraction
JULIET CARON
The daredevil darling of the skies and Britain’s finest child star &aerobatic pilot
Admission 1s. Children 6d.
My name is Juliet Caron and although it would be difficult for anyone to believe if they saw me now (age has a dreadful habit of throwing a dust sheet over the vibrancy of youth) I was once the celebrated flying ace and undisputed star of the one and only Louis Caron Flying Circus.
I do not say this to boast, well, maybe a little bit, but to explain how it was that my father taught me to fly almost as quickly as I learned to walk and how, on a bright winter’s afternoon just a few days before Christmas 1938, I found myself soaring one thousand feet above Cornwall in my bright yellow Tiger Moth, looking for angels. It was a simple time in my life. Simple in the way that only those brief years before we know the agony of love, can be. My lungs were exploding with the exuberance of youth and my face was tight against the freezing air. In sum, I was living a life that was just about as alive as it is possible for a human life to be.
But first I must tell you a little of the flying circus, because my childhood was the circus, it moulded those formative days when the personality begins to take shape. My circus years were wonderful years. They were the years I had my parents with me, parents who were – and always would be – my inspiration, my warriors, my rocks.
When I was fourteen a journalist asked me to describe what being part of a flying circus was like. My father stood by me while I thought of my answer. We were in Sam Bryant’s field near Bicester, Oxfordshire, our aircraft lined up side by side, waiting to display. The crowd was arriving and the buzz of expectation bounced in the air while a cornflower blue sky kissed by a soft, silky breeze heralded the chance of a wonderful display. Tongue-tied, I looked at my father, who knelt next to me, and stalled as to what to say. He said to close my eyes and imagine how it feels to fly – to say the first thing that came into my head. The answer I gave was the answer of a child, but I would have given exactly the same answer as an adult, because the euphoria of flying – that feeling of absolute freedom – never left me.
‘Imagine heaven on earth,’ I said, ‘or rather, heaven in the skies. Imagine you’re in a dream and in that dream you somehow shrink down to the size of a doll and strap yourself onto the back of a golden eagle. You cling on to his feathers while he swoops and dives and soars and loops. And then you realise that if you’re very gentle with him and pull lightly on a feather here and there, you can control him a little, and then you’re flying too, every bit and just as naturally as the bird, and every element hits you with a freshness that can’t be matched, every sense is bright and alive. And then the bird dives towards the earth, barely missing the ground, before turning on a hairpin and soaring away. You are not in control at that moment, I think, but you are not in danger either, not so long as he – you – pull up in time. But that’s the best thrill of all – the not completely knowing if you’ll pull out of the dive in time. You simply have to trust, have faith in your judgement and let go of all fear. But you do pull out, because instinct and survival and an understanding of how to fly and how to move through the air kicks in, and you climb higher and take a breath, but not for long, because then you jump off the bird and into your father’s arms and cling on while he spins you around and around and the whole world is no more than a line of spinning colour. And your hair and skirt and legs are flung out at ninety degrees and you know that if he lets you go, you’ll fly out of the dream and into oblivion. But again, you have to trust, to become a part of the motion, to know that he will never let you go, you’re safe.’ I glanced up at Father and smiled. ‘I suppose I just feel full of joy and completely free. That’s all, really.’
An hour after the interview, my Father and mother died. Father was flying and mother was his wing-walker, her long hair and scarf trailing behind her. She was waving at me just before she died. I was standing next to my Tiger Moth, my performance coming later. I waved back at her, proud and happy. But then Pa lost control somehow and didn’t pull up in time, and I was no longer waving but screaming and running, not believing such a thing could possibly be true, already aching for a feeling I would only ever know once again – that feeling of unquestioned security and unconditional love.
But back to Cornwall and Christmas 1938.
The little Tiger Moth, its Gypsy engine humming a familiar tune, clung to the Cornish coast as I peered over the side, my face tight against the freezing slap of the winter air. I was looking for my final navigational landmark – three small craggy mounts known locally as the Angels – that sat a few hundred yards out to sea next to a little fishing village called Angels Cove. All I had to do was to find the mounts, then a mile or so further along the coast I would find my destination, a rather grand-looking house called Lanyon and in turn, my landing strip.
I took a moment to glance down again and cross-reference the river arteries on a map before turning at Lizard Point to follow the coast northbound. If my calculations were correct, the mounts would be on the nose in two minutes exactly. They were, and looked exactly like stepping stones plopped into the sea for the convenience of a Cornish giant. After circling around the Angels a couple of times to take a closer look, I headed inland and descended, slowing to almost stalling speed looking for Lanyon – a large, red-brick manor house, with four gables and twelve chimneys. And suddenly it was there, sitting above a little patch of sea haze, in majestic reverence, on the cliffs above the cove.
The landing strip was nothing more than the lawned area in front of the house, but drat it all, a downdraft from the cliffs pulled at the aircraft’s little wooden frame as I approached, dragging me far too close to a line of very tall cedar trees as I turned finals. I powered on, overshot the approach and climbed away, waving cheerily at a couple of gardeners just a few feet below, who were leaning on rakes, open-mouthed, watching. The performer in me not dead but simply sleeping, couldn’t resist throwing the Moth into a tidy little barrel roll, before disappearing off over the horizon, to find pastures new and within these pastures, hopefully, a safe place to land. Within a minute I had found a stretch of level grass on the cliffs, directly above Angels Cove. There was a large barn in the corner of the field, too, which, if empty, could act very nicely as a store for the Moth. I turned into the wind, began my final decent and moments later, to my great relief, landed safely.
With the propeller slowed to a stop, I tore off my goggles and wool-lined leather helmet, unclipped the harness and jumped out to gather my bearings. A minute later found me jumping back into the wing’s stepping plate because a dozen or so cows approached at speed with a collective air of indignant and inquisitive over-confidence.
From my position of height, I attempted to shoo.
Shooing proved fruitless.
Help appeared almost immediately in the form of two men and a dog. They were walking towards me from the direction of the barn. The first man was wearing a long coat, his collar turned up against the wind. On closer inspection he was frowning. Definitely frowning. The second – the stockman by the looks of things – was shaking a stick in my direction. Even the dog seemed to walk with an air of peeved annoyance.
The men slapped fat sashaying backsides as they walked towards me, saying things like, ‘Get on with you,’ and ‘Away, away.’ On seeing the younger man’s face more clearly, and suffering from sudden and complete amnesia regarding the existence of Charles, my fiancé, who was waiting for me at Lanyon, I attempted to tidy my hair, which was beyond redemption. I quickly glanced down at my clothes. I was wearing a flying jacket (my father’s, far too big for me and ripped on the right sleeve) and, over thermal long-johns, men’s overalls, covered in oil, rolled up at the ankle and pulled in at the waist with a wide belt. The icing on the cake was my footwear – muddy, fur-lined flying boots.
Taking a cloth from my pocket, I gave my face and hands a quick wipe. The two men were only a few steps away now. The younger one paused out of earshot to speak to the other man, who snorted in my direction before turning tail and heading towards the barn, using a long stick to usher the cows with him.
The man approached. His expression did not soften.
‘Well, hello, there,’ I said, cheerily.
He stood there for a moment, not speaking. A kind of apoplexy seemed to have set in (this often happened to a man who found himself unexpectedly face to face with a female pilot. It was the shock, you see). I decided to wade straight in with an apology. Farmers could be ever so touchy about aircraft landing in their fields without invitation. It was best to take the wind out of their sails with a smile.
‘I’m so sorry for the …’ I glanced towards the cows. Their backsides lumbered from side to side as they began to disperse. Tails flicked with annoyance ‘… disturbance. I meant to land in front of a large house, up the way there.’ I paused to look in the direction of the house. ‘It’s the one with the four gables and twelve chimneys … or is it four chimneys and twelve gables, I can never remember …? Do you know it?’
‘Lanyon?
‘Yes.’
‘Of course. But look here …’
My bright smile and humble apology fell on blind eyes and deaf ears. He began to chide – really chide – something about the utter irresponsibility of landing an aircraft in a field full of cattle … could have killed myself, etc. etc. He went on for quite some time about all kinds of things that might possibly have happened had luck not been on my side, but I really couldn’t concentrate because he was just so damn gorgeous and to top it had a slight American twang in his accent, too, and I had a very definite soft spot for a soft American accent on a man, probably because of all the movies we watched in those days.
I was just trying to work out what an American was doing working on a Cornish farm when he stopped preaching and returned to his preoccupation of staring at me. I realised he was waiting for me to respond to his disciplinary lecture, but not knowing quite how to respond, and rather than answer and annoy him further, I simply kept quiet and ran my fingers through my tangled mop of thick hair, just as the cold wind nipped at my face and turned my nose into a dripping tap. I wiped my nose with the cloth and we stood in a kind of ‘what now?’ silence while the Tiger Moth rocked on its wheels in the wind. He was obviously going to wait it out until I spoke. There was nothing left to do but to shrug and apologise again.
‘You’re absolutely right, of course,’ I said, adding a suitably big enough sigh. ‘Landing on a cliff in a field full of cows was not my finest spot of airwomanship, but to be fair, I didn’t see the cows and if you think about it, nothing bad actually did happen so I wonder, could we start again because, you know, ’tis done now, and what else can I do but say to that I’m so very – very – sorry.’
I tried my best to look remorseful.
He took a deep breath. His eyes were cold, steady.
‘I’d say that was a perfunctory apology.’
‘Perfunctory?’ I repeated.
‘Yes, perfunctory.’
He had more.
‘You think that because you’re a beautiful woman you can do whatever you want – gallivant around, hither and thither …’
Hither and thither? An American saying ‘hither and thither’?
I let him rant on again, completely unaware of what he was saying because frankly, he could say what the hell else he liked. No person on the planet (other than my parents) had called me beautiful before – even my fiancé had never called me beautiful.
‘Listen,’ I interrupted, eventually, ‘we seem to have got off on the wrong foot.’ I turned towards the cows again who were quite a way away now. ‘You’re absolutely right in everything you say. Perhaps we could shake hands on the matter and start again – shall we?’
I removed my right flying glove and held out my hand. He hesitated, as if some kind of trickery might be involved, but then my hand was in his, being held for what seemed to be a couple of seconds ever so slightly longer than necessary, despite the chiding.
He pulled away.
Silence again, except for the whistle of the wind across the cliff tops. The void needed to be filled.
‘And hey! As a thank you, how about I take you flying this week sometime?’
He tilted his head to one side. He was suppressing a smile, I was sure of it.
‘A thank you? A thank you for what?’
I glanced towards the barn.
‘Well – and I know it’s ever so cheeky – but for allowing me to store my aircraft in your barn for the week.’
He turned to look at the barn.
‘The thing is, I can’t leave the old girl out here all week. I’m a guest at Lanyon for Christmas, you see, and I’m sure they would vouch for my good character – although it seems you’ve made a decision about that already.’ I added, with a side-eye towards the dog, who looked unconvinced. ‘I’ll pay for the inconvenience, obviously, although you’ll probably simply accuse me of throwing money at the problem …’
He braced his back against the breeze. His expression was unreadable. Was that a smile, though?
‘Which one?’ he asked, finally.
‘Which one, what?’
‘Which Lanyon are you the guest of?’
‘Er …’
Now, I know I should have said, Charles, I’m his fiancée, but the angel sitting on my right shoulder went into all-out battle with the devil on my left and the devil won. I should also have added, ‘We’re getting married this week, on Christmas Eve in fact. Do you know him?’
But I didn’t. Instead I went with …
‘Oh, I went to school with the daughter of the house. Lottie Lanyon?’
He nodded a kind of understanding.
‘The cove was the most perfect navigational landmark, what with the mounts …’ I touched my hair far too often as I spoke. ‘But the lawn at Lanyon – where I was expecting to land – was not at all suitable – trees, you see – and then there was the most terrible downdraft from the cliffs. So, it was either put down in your field or bust the old girl up in a hedge. And as I said. I didn’t notice the cows. I’m so very sorry.’
Just how many times would I need to apologise to the man?
He sniffed, considering. I wasn’t sure quite just what he was considering, exactly. We glanced in unison at the cows again, who were slowly being funnelled through a gateway into the next field.
‘Are they very upset by it all, do you think?’ I asked. ‘Is that what the problem is? Should I go and, I don’t know, pat them all and apologise or something.’
Finally, he laughed. Even his dog glanced up at him with an amused eye roll.
‘I shouldn’t think an apology is necessary.’ He patted the aircraft, visibly relaxing. ‘They would have eyed this machine of yours as an excellent scratching post. They’re most likely annoyed to have missed a good look-see. Cows are inquisitive beasts. Don’t you think so, Miss?’
‘Caron,’ I answered brightly. ‘Miss Caron.’
What the hell was I doing? The man was a rude and sanctimonious ass. And, oh, yes – I was getting married.
‘Caron,’ he repeated, softly. ‘Is that a French name?’
‘Yes. My mother was the Caron. She was French. She insisted that Papa took her name. Papa was English through and through, though.’
‘How very …’
‘Modern?’ I offered.
‘I was going to say, “good of him”. They sound like a progressive family.’
Gaining just a little of the sense I was born with, and not wishing to talk about my parents, I took control.
‘But back to the barn,’ I said. ‘I know it’s such an imposition, Mr …’ I paused and waited for him to finish my sentence.
‘Nancarrow – Edward, Nancarrow.’
A Cornish name? But the American accent? Intriguing.
‘… Nancarrow, but as I said, do you think I could put my aircraft in your barn overnight. Only, the wind’s getting up and an aircraft like this isn’t very sturdy – it’s not much more than a few planks of wood nailed together, really – just a wing and a prayer, as my mother always said. And the thing is, I’m here for the whole of Christmas week – I think I told you that already – so I’ll need somewhere safe to stow her and I’d be ever so grateful if I could pop her into the barn, really I would.’
Edward tightened his scarf against the wind. ‘I should think that would be all right,’ he said, turning towards the stockman who waited by the far gate, looking back at us, probably still scowling. ‘But you’ll have to check with Jessops over there, first.’
He glanced across to the stockman. I took the opportunity to examine Edward’s face. The afternoon light highlighted golden flecks in his hair and the wind reddened his cheeks to a marvellous healthy glow.
He noticed you looking at him. He bloody-well noticed.
Edward returned his attention to the aircraft and stroked it this time, rather than patted.
‘But you shouldn’t call this lovely old Tiger Moth a few planks of wood, she’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.’
I adopted an expression of surprised amusement. ‘You actually know what type of aircraft it is?’
‘Ah, you think I don’t know one end of a magneto switch from another?’
Handsome and a flyer …
‘But seriously. You fly too?’ I pressed.
‘Now and again, a bit of joy riding. Nothing much more than that. And there’s the feed to consider …’ The change of tack confused me.
‘Feed?’
‘For the cows. Jessops may have to check with your Mr Lanyon first, before you put the aircraft away. This is Lanyon land and they’re his cows, after all. But as you’re their guest … I’m sure it will be fine.’
I wanted to say, ‘Don’t be silly, he’s not my Mr Lanyon,’ but then remembered that, of course, Charles was exactly that – my Mr Lanyon.
‘His cows? I thought they were your cows.’
He shook his head. ‘My cows!? No. I was walking my dog along the cliffs and I’d stopped to talk to Jessops when we saw your aircraft coming in.’
He glanced around, realising the dog had wandered off while we were talking.
‘Speaking of your dog, where is she?’
He whistled. Moments later the red-and-white Collie dog appeared from behind a Cornish hedge. She had one ear up, one ear down. Edward ruffled her head. His face was a picture of fatherly pride. I knelt down to fuss the dog who jumped backwards and had absolutely no interest in me, just as Edward decided to turn tail towards the far field in the direction of Jessops.
‘Wait here a moment, will you …?’ he shouted back, already dashing across the field.
The dog ran after him. I shivered. The breeze really was frightfully cold, and I hadn’t been able to warm up since the flight. I danced on the spot and waited for Edward to come back.
‘All sorted,’ he said, slightly out of breath having run across the field with the dog, whose name I would later learn was ‘Amber’, barking at his heels. ‘You can leave it in the barn for the week. No need to check with the big house. But perhaps you could arrange for some kind of gift to be sent to Jessops – some beer or cider perhaps, as a thank you. It’s quite an inconvenience for him.’
You’d have thought the man was my father!
‘Of course. I’m not a completely inconsiderate oaf, you know!’
Edward’s face fell.
‘Fine. If you’re all sorted, I’ll be on my way.’ And with a curt nod of the head, he began to walk away.
‘Wait!’ I said, running in front of him, forcing him to stop. ‘Sorry, sorry to impose – again – but if I show you how, could you turn the propeller for me to get her started?’ I spun my arm in a clockwise direction. ‘I would do it myself, but it’s much easier with two, and it would be better to taxi her across to the barn under power than to push her all the way.’ I glanced down at Amber. ‘You might want to tether the dog first, of course.’
Edward took a deep breath. For a moment I think he considered walking away – it seemed he also had a devil and angel on each shoulder, too!
The angel won.
He changed his mind.
‘I know how to spin a propeller.’
He strode back to the Tiger Moth ahead of me.
But then, from nowhere, his face softened and his eyes danced when he noticed the paint work on the side of the aircraft.
‘The Incredible Flying Fox?’ He turned to me, smiling. ‘That’s never you?’
I shrugged. ‘Once upon a time, yes.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding? But you’re too young, surely.’
He was genuinely shocked. My heckles started to twitch.
‘Kidding? Not at all. I’d take you up, take you through my routine, but I doubt you’ve got the stomach for it. Few do.’
My ‘I dare you’ expression set off a further glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He took the bait and ran with it.
‘Oh, I’ve got the stomach for it, but only if you truly know what you’re doing. I’ve no wish to die young.’
‘Ah, I see.’ I turned away and knelt to duck under the aircraft to remove the chocks while talking. ‘You’re one of those men.’ He followed me.
‘Those, men?’
‘Yes, the type who can’t believe – or cope with – a woman doing anything outside of the ordinary drudge they’re usually stuck with. I grew up with a thoroughly modern and fair father – progressive, as you said – and I’m simply not used to being around men like you.’ I glanced up at him.
He raised his brows into a question mark.
‘Dinosaurs,’ I said.
I expected a smirk. But he smiled. A soft smile. He stepped towards me.
‘I was joking. Truly. I’m not at all one of those men.’
It was my turn to take a deep breath. I’d been overly nice to this man long for enough. I put on my helmet, goggles and gloves with sharp snatches.
‘So, will you help? Because I can manage on my own if not.’
‘I’ll help,’ he said.
‘And you’ve started a propeller before, you say?’
He nodded. ‘A few times, yes.’
‘I’ll jump in and leave you to it, then.’ I paused. ‘But only you’re sure you know what you’re doing?’
‘Of course, I do.’
‘Good.’
‘Good.’
I climbed into the back seat and prepared the Moth for taxi. He turned the propeller and then …
‘Contact?’
‘Contact!’
And off the little Tiger Moth went.
Chapter 5 (#u7e48d4b0-6036-5362-8380-0dc83e588d19)
Juliet
Lanyon
I grabbed my bag and ran away from the field, sharpish, arriving at Lanyon half an hour later to find a concerned Charles on the drive pacing outside the grand front door.
‘Oh, hello, darling,’ I said, blundering my way into the hallway ahead of him. ‘Sorry I’m late. I had to put down in a field and ended up having a bit of commotion with some cows, but it’s all sorted now.’ I pecked him on the cheek. ‘Where’s Lottie,’ I asked, taking off my flying helmet while glancing in the hall mirror. God! Had I really looked like that in front of Edward? I quickly tidied my hair and tried to rub a smudge of oil away with the back of my hand. ‘Only I’m desperate to catch up.’
Charles didn’t answer but took my hands.
‘But … Darling,’ he paused. ‘Before you see Lottie, I really do think we need to talk about, you know, the arrangement … only, Pa wants to iron a few things out. Details, you know.’
I shook him off with a peck on the lips.
‘Yes, I suppose we do. But not now though.’ I smiled my brightest smile and patted him on the arm. ‘I’m desperate to get in front of the fire and warm up, it was absolutely freezing up there today. Oh, and I’m afraid I rather upset those cows when I landed. Do you think you could send a thank you to your man … Jessops, is it? Perhaps some cider or something? He was ever so helpful, moving the cows to another field. And I’ve left the Moth in a barn.’
Charles laughed.
‘Poor Jessops. Yes, of course I can. I’m visiting him tomorrow. I’ll take something to him then.’
I kissed Charles again, with a little more enthusiasm this time, before striding across the hallway and placing my hand on the sitting room door handle. ‘Is Lottie in here?’
Charles nodded. Smiling, I slipped off my muddy flying boots and turned the brass knob on the large panelled door.
Lottie was dozing on a large sofa by the bay window. A King Charles Spaniel lay by her feet. An embroidered shawl, the most perfect shade of russet red, was wrapped around her shoulders.
‘Juliet!’
Lottie, stirring at the sound of the door, threw her legs off the sofa and crossed the room to hug me. ‘I’ve been waiting for you all afternoon. We saw you fly past ages ago. Charles imagined you dead in a ditch somewhere, although why a ditch always has to be involved whenever anyone goes missing is beyond me.’ She took a step backwards to look me up and down. ‘But looking at the state of you, I think you really have been in a ditch!’ She turned to Charles who had followed me into the room. ‘Do leave us to catch up in peace, Charles! And perhaps arrange for some tea?’
Charles shook his head in mock disapproval, crossed the room to kiss me once more before turning on his heels to leave us alone. Lottie returned to the sofa while I mothered around her, straightening her shawl around her shoulders. It was Lottie’s comfort shawl from school, the thing she always turned to in moments of distress (that and a book of Christina Rossetti poetry). This wasn’t a good sign. If the shawl was out, before you knew it the poetry books would also be out and Lottie would spiral into a depression that could last for weeks. The door clicked shut.
‘Good, he’s gone!’ Lottie said, lounging back into the sofa. ‘So, tell me, what have you really been up to all afternoon?’
I was just about to sit down myself and launch into a watered-down version of the truth when the door clicked open again and Charles’ mother rushed into the sitting room carrying a bed sheet.
‘Ah, Juliet. You made it. Jolly good …’ She glanced at my clothes and then at the bed sheet. ‘It’s because of the oil, dear,’ she said kindly, before laying the sheet across a chair.
‘Sorry, Ma,’ (Lottie insisted I called her this, although Mrs Lanyon and I both seemed to wince every time I said it) ‘But I did take my muddy boots off in the hallway.’
She glanced at my stockinged feet – men’s stockings – and patted me on the head as I sat down – ‘Thank you, Juliet. Most considerate.’ She pulled the bell for tea, sat down and started to chat, leaving Lottie to roll her eyes with annoyance at having had her confidential catch-up delayed.
The late afternoon passed pleasantly. Charles reappeared with the maid, Katie, who brought tea and a few eats, and we all caught up in the civilised manner befitting gentle folk who lived in a house like Lanyon. Final plans for the wedding were made, and it was only when Ma and Charles retired to dress for dinner that Lottie and I finally found a few moments to be alone. We sat in a delicious silence at first. I was perched on the end of her sofa, having dragged the sheet with me to tuck underneath my oil-stained clothes. We stared out into the darkness of the garden, which in daylight had uninterrupted views across the grounds to the ocean beyond, but at night was one long expanse of black, except for the moon, which was almost full and served to backlight a line of cedar trees perfectly, the moon shadows throwing glorious patterns across the lawn and river of silver through the sea.
‘I don’t know why I’m asking,’ Lottie said, breaking the silence. ‘But have you given any thought to what you might wear to the wedding?’
‘Oh, I’ve brought a warm woollen suit that belonged to Mummy. That will do, I suppose.’
Lottie shook her head in frustration. I pressed on.
‘But it’s winter, Lottie! And it’s very smart, too. Truly it is.’
‘But it’s your wedding day, Juliet. I can’t understand why you’re keeping it so simple.’
I began to play with a tassel on Lottie’s shawl.
‘Charles and I agreed – no fuss. And your Ma was relieved on the “no fuss” front, too. There might be a war. It doesn’t do for the big house to start being extravagant in front of the tenants. And I’ve got no one to invite, no one at all. I’d much rather spend Pa’s money on a new aircraft …’ I sat up. ‘Oh, did I tell you? There’s this fabulous little monoplane coming out soon and it’s …’ Noticing Lottie glance down at her very slightly swollen belly, I stopped. ‘Well anyway, that’s just a bit of a dream. But what about you.’ I tried to buoy her up. ‘What will you wear?’
She shrugged, disconsolate.
‘I know!’ I said, not waiting for an answer. ‘You should wear your cream cashmere two-piece. The one I bought in you in Paris.’
Lottie shook her head.
‘I was going to. But Katie can’t do the zip up anymore. And anyway, I want you to wear it.’
‘Me! But … look at my hands, Lottie! I’ll never get them clean enough to wear cream.’
‘I thought of that. I’ve told Katie to scrub them. No buts. It’s been laid out on the end of your bed. I knew you wouldn’t have brought anything suitable.’ She glanced at my clothes. ‘Just look at you, Juliet. I mean to say, have you even brought any decent clothes? You do know there’s a party here tomorrow evening? In your honour, I might add.’
I went back to the tassel.
‘I managed to pack a few bits and bobs. But truly, Lottie, it’s difficult to fit anything in the old Moth, what with the tools I carry and so on …’ My voice petered out.
Lottie wasn’t listening. She stirred herself sufficiently to leave the comfort of the chaise and cross to the fireplace to ring the bell. Katie appeared.
‘Katie, please escort Miss Caron to her room – via my room. Do not allow her to deviate. Wash her hands and help her to pick out a dress for dinner this evening, and for tomorrow evening, too. And when she finally steps out of the dreadful clothes she’s wearing, wash them and when she’s not looking, give them to the poor, although the poor probably won’t want them so you might as well burn them.’
‘Lottie!’
Katie tried to hide a smile. I made tracks towards the door.
‘Oh, and Katie …’ Lottie added, forcing Katie to pause at the door.
‘Yes, Ma’am?’
‘Tomorrow’s dress should be something stunning for Miss Caron. And don’t forget to take that tweed suit I pointed out for yourself, too. I don’t need it anymore and it will be nice for you to wear it over Christmas …’
Katie’s eyes widened.
‘Thank you ever so much, Ma’am.’
Lottie batted us off, but as we left the room, I took a moment to look at Lottie from the doorway. She had turned to face the moon shadows again. There was something in the way her head dropped and in the way her right hand was reaching to her cheek that told me she was crying. I wanted to rush her, to hold her and tell her everything was going to be all right. But if I did, Lottie would want to discuss the inevitable – her inevitable – a topic we had been skirting around all day, the topic Charles wanted to discuss when I arrived. The topic of a baby – and a promise, too. And if we did that, I wasn’t entirely sure that my previous resolve to help my friend would hold true, and the problem was, it had to.
Instead, I grabbed my boots, flying helmet, coat and gloves from the hallway, followed Katie to Lottie’s room and asked her to lay out a couple of evening dresses – but not to worry too much about what she found, any old thing would do.
Chapter 6 (#ulink_e0d18ffe-b1e3-59f9-bdfc-c0c9b3744a5c)
Juliet
The compass and the coddiwompler
18 December 1938
Dear Juliet
We said our goodbyes without arranging a time or date for the flight you offered me. Is today too soon? I can get fuel if necessary. I’ll wait at the barn at one p.m. in the hope you can make it.
Yours,
E. Nancarrow
Edward’s letter, handed to me by Katie a little after breakfast, caught me by surprise. I would usually run to Lottie with this kind of thing, but I didn’t tell her about the letter because … well, because I didn’t want anyone to know. I spent the morning walking the grounds with Lottie pretending E. Nancarrow did not exist, but later, with Charles busy paying Christmas good tidings to tenant farmers (including Jessops who would receive extra cider this Christmas for his inconvenience with the cows) and with Lottie resting, I felt restless and bored. Persuading myself that I really should go and make sure the aircraft was safe and sound, I pulled my flying jacket over a shrunken Argyle jumper of my father’s and tucked Oxford bag trousers into my flying boots before striding out and heading down the road. This Edward Nancarrow chap may well have been what might generally be regarded as quite a dish, but still, summoning me to take him flying when he had behaved so dismissively the day before really was taking the biscuit.
No, I would go to the barn and explain that I could not fly today, but as a woman of my word I would take him flying at some point that week – but at my convenience, in a day or so perhaps, weather permitting.
When I arrived at the barn Edward was already there, sitting on a hay bale and engrossed in a literary supplement – The Beano. I stood in the doorway and watched him. He tittered to himself while reading, seemingly a different man from yesterday – a happy-go-lucky, relaxed man. I coughed to attract attention and hoped that the midday winter sun backlighting me in the doorway would highlight the copper (my mother called it red) hair in just the right way. He looked up and smiled.
‘Hello, there,’ he said, putting the comic down before making his way around the wing and stepping towards me. His greeting had the casual air of an old friend about it.
Who was this new man with his relaxed airs?
Whoever he was he was dressed in layers of warm clothes.
Ready for flying, no doubt.
The presumption!
‘I thought I’d check the aircraft over for you,’ he said. ‘Make sure she survived the night. She seems perfectly fine, though – not a cow scratch in sight!’
Humour, now? I didn’t smile but sniffed out a kind of thank you. He followed me around the aircraft as I checked her over for myself.
‘You got my note, then?’ he asked.
I paused by the propeller and looked him in the face. ‘Note?’
His expression was perfection – there is nothing more satisfying than witnessing the sudden onset of self-doubt in an overly-confident man.
‘Yes, note,’ he repeated. ‘I delivered it to Lanyon myself, this morning. I asked the maid to take it to you directly.’
I shook my head before unclipping the stowage door. I removed my tool bag and a spare set of overalls and dropped them onto the barn floor.
‘I received no note this morning.’ I glanced up at him again, pulling the overalls on over my flying boots. ‘What did it say?’
‘Say?’ Edward was rubbing his temple now.
‘Yes. The note?’
He considered this.
‘Well, it, er … it …’
I rummaged unnecessarily in the bag before taking out a spanner, stood to my full height – all five foot five inches – and looked up at him.
‘It said that I’d …’ He glanced around the barn, still considering his next sentence.
‘That you’d?’
‘Well, that I’d be here – waiting for you – in case you were free to take me flying this afternoon. You did offer. I’m sure you did.’
I walked around to the engine housing and lifted the casing away.
He followed me.
‘Pass me my tool bag, would you?’
He sighed, picked up the bag and joined me by the engine. I took an oil-stained scarf out of the bag and tied my hair back before finding another rag to check the oil.
‘So, how about it?’ he said, watching me.
‘How about what?’
‘The flight you offered – my flight. How about it?’
I paused to look at him.
‘Today?’ I asked. ‘Right now?’
‘Yes.’
I shook my head and returned to the engine. ‘That’s not possible. Today is a day for essential maintenance. She was a bit sticky in the rudder on the way down and I want to sort it out.’
‘You do?’ he said, his voice playful. ‘You need to sort it out? You’re doing the maintenance?’
Not this again.
‘Yes, Mr Nancarrow. I’m doing the maintenance.’
‘But, how …?’
‘My father wouldn’t allow me to fly solo until I knew how to fix her. He’d say, “There’s absolutely no point gallivanting off around the countryside if you can’t fix your own kite, you know, Juliet, no point at all!” I know exactly what I’m doing, but if you aren’t happy with that state of affairs then I suggest you find someone else to take you flying – a man, perhaps. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy and I suppose you’ll be wanting to be on your way.’
I turned back to the engine.
He smiled then and his shoulders relaxed. I didn’t see the smile or the relax, but I felt them. And then a hand rested gently on my shoulder.
‘You misunderstand me,’ he said. ‘I think it’s wonderful that you know how to maintain her. Truly. And I’d be honoured to fly with you. Today, tomorrow, the next day. Whenever you’re free.’ His hand fell but I didn’t turn around. ‘Perhaps, like you said yesterday, we can shake hands and start again. I have a feeling that I was a bit of a pompous ass yesterday. It’s just, at the time I thought you were very lucky not to crash, and that would have been a terrible waste. I don’t like waste. I’ve seen a lot of unnecessary waste in my life and I over-reacted, I’m sorry.’
I turned to face him, the spanner still in my hand. I eyed him as a mouse would eye a smiling ferret. ‘Start again?’ I asked.
His eyes flashed brightly. ‘Exactly! Let’s pretend this is the first time we ever met, right here, right now …’
I hesitated.
‘I suppose I can do that. You were … quite, helpful yesterday, after all. But I still can’t take you up today …’ I softened ‘no matter how sweetly you smile …’
He laughed. I laughed. It was nice. Too nice. I remembered Charles.
‘But I really must get on. I have the engine to finish and then I really do need to take a good look at that rudder. Let’s say … same time tomorrow, and if the weather is fine, I’ll take you up.’
He visibly deflated. I turned back towards the engine.
‘Sorry, yes, I’ll leave you to it,’ he said to my back. ‘Till tomorrow, then?’
I nodded without looking around. I didn’t want to be rude or play with him, truly, but there was something in his smile, in the touch of his hand on my shoulder. He interrupted my thoughts by turning at the barn door.
‘I don’t suppose you’re free later this afternoon. Say, in a couple of hours, or so?’
I bent to glance at him under the wing.
‘Today?
‘Today.’
‘This afternoon?’
‘Yes. They’re putting on an afternoon tea and an early Christmas party for the children in the village hall. I’ve been asked to help out – organise games, play the guitar, that kind of thing – and I thought you might like to come, if you’ve finished here, that is.’
I considered the afternoon ahead. There was no sticky rudder. I made that up. Charles was out with his father and Lottie was sleeping. There really was no reason for me to say no, and yet, there was every reason for me to say no.
‘I don’t understand this change in you,’ I said. ‘You were quite … shouty, yesterday.’
‘Shouty?’
‘Yes, shouty. And now you seek my company, even though I’m an irresponsible and spoiled little rich girl.’
He tilted his head to one side.
‘I didn’t say that.’
I waited for him to think about it.
‘Well, not those exact words.’
‘Thank you for the offer,’ I said, suddenly coming to my senses, ‘but I’m not really dressed for …’
‘Nonsense! You look perfect!’ His eyes were so bright. So alive. So blue. ‘Come on, it will be fun! Come coddiwomple with me.’
Now, that got me. I smiled.
‘Coddiwomple?’
He nodded. We were still communicating through the gap between the two wings of the Tiger Moth.
‘I never heard of such a word.’
‘Oh, it’s a word,’ he said. ‘And I’ll tell you what it means if you come with me. How about I treat you to afternoon tea? Look, I’d love to know all about the flying circus, and I’d love to talk to you about flying, that’s all. I want to know about the flying fox. You, well, you fascinate me, Juliet.’
Fascinate? Well …
I knew I should walk away, stride out of the barn, open the gate, march up the hill and not look back. But the fire in his eyes was just too bright. It’s always the eyes that get you. He drew me in and I so desperately wanted to be drawn in.
‘All right,’ I said, in as nonchalant a manner I could muster. ‘Why not? But I’ll have to finish up here, first.’
He dashed around the wing and joined me by the engine, talking off his heavy overcoat and placing it on an obliging hay bale before appearing by my side, full of enthusiasm.
‘In that case, think of me as your apprentice. How can I help?’
‘No one works on my aircraft but me, I’m afraid.’ I nodded towards the comic left abandoned on the bale. ‘Perhaps you could carry on reading your newspaper …’
He laughed and returned to lounge on the hay bale while I worked away.
‘But why don’t you want to know what coddiwompler is?’ Edward asked as we sauntered, arms swinging, down the lane to the village, my hair still held back with a rag. I’d taken off my overalls but my flying jacket was a must. Yes, it was far too big and smelt of a mixture of fuel and cigars, but it was like being wrapped in Pa’s arms again, and I treasured it.
‘Because you made it up.’ I flashed him a quick smile as we walked down the lane.
‘Well, I’ll tell you anyway, because I think you’re a fellow coddiwompler, you just don’t know it, and that would be terrible.’
‘What would?’
‘To be one, and to never to know.’
We arrived outside the village hall. He’d got me now. I stopped
‘Go on then,’ I said. ‘Tell me.’
He shook his head.
‘It’s too late. We’re here.’ He leapt up the steps to the hall. ‘You’ve missed your moment. I’ll have to tell you later …’ He winked and opened the door for me to step inside. ‘Or tomorrow, when we go flying.’ I stepped through the door and as I did so our hands brushed, and not quite by accident, I thought.
We spent the afternoon helping with the teas and making paper chains and Christmas cards with the children. Edward had a natural manner and was clearly the darling of the ladies’ committee. It was light. It was easy. It was fun. And as the afternoon moved on, I had the distinct feeling that E. Nancarrow was exactly the sort of man my mother had warned me to steer clear of.
When the children began to disperse, we took a moment to wander away from the hubbub of the hall to sit on the harbour wall. We sipped whiskey from Edward’s hip flask and talked of flying. The inevitable moment came when we began to explore into each other’s lives more purposefully, to tentatively probe, to edge-in sideways.
Edward began. He wanted to know the ins and outs of how a young woman, barely twenty years old, had spent her formative years as the child star of a flying circus, able to nip about the country in her own aircraft.
I explained some, but not all, of my story …
My father, Louis Caron, was a philanthropic and yes, a wealthy, man. He was the proud owner of the Caron Flying Circus, which meant that I had rarely spent more than half a day straight with my feet on the ground. On my twelfth birthday I was strapped to the wing of a Gypsy Moth and told to smile and wave at the crowd. I loved it.
My mother was a descendant of French Romany Gypsies, albeit two or three generations removed, but she retained that air of exotic adventure about her and was a tigress of a woman. I didn’t take after her very much, I explained, except for a genetic disposition for slender ankles and copper hair. On my thirteenth birthday, Father argued the case with Mother that it was time for me to join the circus as a pilot – I had been flying duel-seated for years and could handle an aircraft as well as anyone he knew. I’d be wonderful, he said, and an asset to the show.
Mother asked father to leave us alone for a moment. She sat me down in the garden and took a while searching under leaves until she found what she was looking for – a caterpillar. She held the caterpillar in her hand and began to talk of butterflies, explaining how caterpillars are happy enough, to begin with, with their little caterpillar bodies and caterpillar feet, because they don’t know any better, but eventually, there was an awakening within them – a realisation that it was time for a change, to evolve into a completely new being – to blossom, to fly. She said that the caterpillar, quite wisely, chose to spend some time alone before it flew – to cocoon itself in its own thoughts for a while – and then, when it was ready, it shed the trappings of adolescence and transformed itself completely by growing wings and, at just the right time, took to the skies and flew.
She said, ‘Juliet. Your father has kept you a boy for far too long. It is time to shed your boy-like caterpillar frame, let go of those clumsy feet, hunched shoulders and flat-framed body. It is time to chrysalis into the woman your body is aching to become, which is why I have decided to send you to school – yes, there is no point arguing – for two years, with other girls your own age who can teach you how to become a woman. Join the circus now, by all means, but only on the proviso that, at fifteen, you will go to Paris and become a butterfly. Those are my terms.’
I said nothing. There was no point arguing with Ma.
‘But listen to me, Juliet, and listen hard,’ she added. ‘When you do blossom into a woman, remember that there are two types of man in this world – the non-predatory and the predatory. With your gypsy looks and wild-hearted spirit I know that you will attract the latter, but you must promise me, my love, that when you marry, you will marry the former. Oh, toy with predatory men if you must, make love to them, tease them for your own entertainment, but never – never – marry a charming man, and remember …’ she tipped my face upwards from the chin at this point ‘… are you listening to me, Juliet? If you ever fall properly and desperately in love, remember that the first throws of love are nothing more than obsession, they are not love, not really. And never let a man know how deeply you love him, because once he has the upper hand, he will break your heart in a single moment and not even pause as he steps over your broken body to move onto the next.’
Then, when I was fourteen, came the crash. Bereft, and dependent on Pa’s solicitor who was intent on carrying out mother’s wishes, I was sent to school in Paris and that’s where I met Lottie Lanyon, who took me under her wing and helped me through the darkest days of my life, never leaving me alone during the holidays, always taking me home to Cornwall, to Lanyon, and sharing her family with me, which is how I met Lottie’s brother Charles, the most non-predatory young man I had ever met. After a short courtship, I agreed to marry him.
Edward listened while I told an abridged version of my story. At no time during the course of the whole conversation did I admit to my engagement or to my mother’s warning about fast men. Was this a deliberate omission on my behalf – absolutely.
‘On my fourteenth birthday – which is also Christmas Day, by the way – Pa took me into the little club house we had at our landing strip in Oxford and he gave me a good luck charm, to keep with me, always.’
Still sitting on the harbour wall, I took my lucky charm out of my pocket and handed it to Edward. It was a compass, cased in gold.
‘It’s the most special thing I own – will ever own,’ I said, smiling at the thought of Pa.
‘It’s lovely,’ he said. ‘It’s a compass you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘But it looks like a pocket watch.’
He pressed a catch on the side to open the lid, revealing the compass.
‘Yes, it does, rather. But look … if you flick this tiny little lever, like this, and then turn the catch, the back of the compass casing opens rather than the front … see? And then you find that it’s not just a compass at all, but something else entirely.’
Edward looked at it, confused. A needle was centred on the face, but rather than pointing to North or South, the only words written on this side were, Oui and Non.
‘It’s an heirloom from my mother’s side of the family,’ I explained. ‘They were travellers. This side of the compass acts as a kind of fortune teller’s trinket.’
‘How does it work?’
‘Well, let’s say you have a pressing question you desperately need an answer for, you open the compass, ask the question, then press the catch to spin the needle and see where it lands – yes, or no. When Pa gave it to me, he said, “Here is your real inheritance, Juliet. But remember, if you ever need an answer to an important question, know that in your heart, you already know all the answers, and most often, if you are in doubt about something and are looking for an answer, then whatever it is that you are considering doing – don’t. Pause, wait, consider. There is much more time around than anyone supposes.”’
‘Have you ever asked it a question?’
I shook my head. ‘Never.’
Edward closed the compass and handed it back.
‘It’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘He must have loved you very much.’
I felt tears sting my eyes. Dear, darling Pa.
‘He did.’
‘You never thought of giving it up, after the accident – flying, I mean?’
I thought about my answer.
‘Have you ever thought of giving up breathing?’
He shook his head with a smile.
‘There you go then. It’s who I am. When I’m in the sky,’ I looked up with a sigh, ‘up there, I’m in heaven. I don’t blame aeroplanes for my parent’s death and have no intention of stopping flying because of it. It was a moment’s misjudgement on Pa’s behalf, and as devastating as it has been, I know he would want me to keep going, whatever the consequences.’
We sat in silence for a while, our shoulders touching, before turning our thoughts to Germany and the heart-breaking possibility of war. I talked of my grand plan – a plan I had not revealed to anyone, least of all to Charles – that being my determination to fly for the RAF, perhaps even join as a fighter pilot, the first woman ever. I just needed to work out a way to persuade them to have me. Edward did not mock. He accepted my dream as an equal, saying that if I dreamt hard enough, anything could happen. And I liked that. I liked that very much indeed.
‘Anyway, your turn,’ I said, returning the compass to a pocket. ‘You’re obviously not local, so why rent a cottage here? Why has E. Nancarrow come to Angels Cove?’ I took a quick slurp of whiskey. It was Edward’s turn to pause before answering. I filled the gap by answering my own question. ‘No, wait! I bet you’re an artist. It’ll be the light. Are you in with the Newlyn set?’
Edward shook his head.
‘I’m not in with any set. I just thought I’d come and stay for a while, take in the sea air. Enjoy the view.’
‘How very leisurely of you. But what do you do for a living – other than walking your dog on the cliffs and getting in the way of women trying to land their planes – what are you?’
A wry smile drifted across his face.
He rubbed his chin in thought. ‘I told you. I’m a coddiwompler.’
I laughed. ‘That again.’
‘Yes, that again.’ He took a sip of my whiskey. ‘Does that answer your question?’
I kicked my legs against the harbour wall.
‘Bearing in mind I have no idea what a coddiwompler is, I would say that you have in no way answered my question. So …?’
‘So?’
‘So, go on then, what is one?’
Edward sniffed and shook his head.
‘Oh, well, this is quite awkward, because I’m not really allowed to say.’
He looked away, pretending to be interested in a couple of men who were sitting on a boat, supposedly mending their nets but really just chatting at the far end or the harbour wall.
‘Not allowed to say? But you were going to tell me earlier …’
‘We coddiwomplers are members of a top secret club – I was going to tell you before because I thought you must be one, too’ – he turned to me – ‘because it hit me last night that you seem to be exactly the sort of person who would love to live her life as we do … but now, I’m not so sure. You might be a bit …’
‘A bit?’
‘Sensible.’
‘Nonsense. You’ve seen my aircraft – Daredevil is quite literally my middle name. Tell me!’
He shook his head. ‘No. We’ll just have to play I spy, instead. I’ll start.’ He glanced around the harbour. ‘I spy something beginning with B.’
‘Boat?’
His eyes lit up.
‘Yes! Say, you’re real good at this! I’ll give it another shot … I spy something beginning with S …’
‘The sea.’
‘No, that would be T S. Try again …’
The time passed far too quickly and without even noticing it, the sun began to set beyond the islands. I jumped off the harbour wall in a wild panic. Edward had a definite look of satisfaction on his face when I chided him for keeping me talking for so long.
‘Before you go, let me just …’ Edward surprised me by taking a folded handkerchief from his coat pocket. He wrapped a corner of the cloth around his finger and lifted his hand towards my face. ‘You have a smear of oil across your face, that will never do at a house like Lanyon. Far too proper.’ I didn’t move away, but allowed him to wipe my cheek.
‘How long has that been there?’
‘All day. I let you run with it.’ He stepped back to admire his handy-work. ‘There, all gone. Although, I actually preferred you as you were, with the warrior stripe – it really suited you,’ he added, softly.
A cloud passed over our fragmented bits of conversation. We had had our moment, both of us knowing I should have dashed back to Lanyon much earlier, but we had already taken on the selfish attitude of lovers and from the ambivalent view of the naïve observer – the men working on the fishing boats, for example – we would have appeared to have had nothing more than a pleasant afternoon enjoying the polite interaction of two friends. But Edward and I knew differently, and we knew it from the first, ‘Hello’. Because that was the thing with love at first sight, it was like the birth of time – the big bang of the universe itself. It was the ignition of a silent understanding exchanged in body language – in the blink of an eye, the angle of the head and the positioning of the body. It was that first spark of a silent understanding that set in motion an unstoppable series of events. A motion that creates a kind of energy that forever links two people in an impenetrable and invisible connectedness. A connectedness that almost always brings a heady emotional mix of absolute joy and unbearable pain.
Mother would not be happy.
As I waved goodbye and dashed up the hill, I felt like Cinderella running away from her Prince Charming. And just like Cinderella, I knew that the road would not lead us apart for very long, but would curve all the way around our respective destinations in the shape of an interconnected heart, and that we would stand in front of each other again, smiling, not wanting to walk away. And yet, at that very moment, I still didn’t know what he did, where he was from, why he was here – and most importantly, I realised dashing up the road, smiling – I still had absolutely no idea what a coddiwompler was!
No one at Lanyon knew what a coddiwompler was either. Pa Lanyon thought it sounded like ‘old English’ and after a rebuke from Lottie for being gone all day and a strange side-eyed glance from Charles, Pa pointed me in the direction of his library where I would find a miscellany on old-English quirky words. Sure enough, between cockamamie (ridiculous; incredible) and codswallop (something utterly senseless) I found coddiwompler: someone who travels in a purposeful manner towards a vague destination.
How very vague, and elusive, and exciting, and mysterious … and, he was an American, too … just dreadful!
Chapter 7 (#ulink_237c25d6-0b14-5ddc-a711-eb0777263589)
Katherine
A moment’s pause
I lay the manuscript down on the sofa and stoked the fire before selecting the search engine on my phone.
Several sites popped up on the search feed associating themselves with coddiwompling, including a webpage dedicated to the written ramblings of free-spirited bloggers who shared their adventurers on the internet.
One particular blogger – The Last Coddiwompler – caught my eye. He was a man who occasionally travelled with no real agenda other than to seek out one thing and one thing only – fun. He aimed always, he said, to simply ‘stumble’ across adventure, rather than to seek it out, genuinely believing that if he kept his eye out, even in the most mundane on places, adventure was only ever a heartbeat away. It seemed that in the process of hitting the road aimlessly, this blogger regularly found himself spending time in the most amazing places and meeting the most fascinating people – and not necessarily in exotic locations from glossy magazines, he stressed, but absolutely anywhere – Spain, Mexico, Hull … As I read this tale of modern-day adventure and stared in admiration at his photographs, I couldn’t help but be drawn in, and all the while a clearer picture of Juliet’s mystery man began to take shape, because if Edward Nancarrow was anything like the man staring out of the screen in front of me, he would have been a fun, free, sexy, enticing kind of a man. And yet wasn’t this exactly the sort of person Juliet was, too? An adventurer, a dare devil, a coddiwompler? Edward clearly thought so, and he knew it from the moment she landed her Tiger Moth on the field in front of him.
But it was only when I scrolled to the bottom of the webpage that I noticed and recognised the name of the blogger–Sam Lanyon.
My head tipped to the angle of a questioning puppy.
Sam Lanyon? The Sam Lanyon, Juliet’s grandson? It couldn’t be, could it?
With my interest in this family suddenly piqued to even greater heights, despite the early hour of the morning and itchy eyes, I huddled closer to the fire, wrapped the shawl tightly around my shoulders and read on.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_1bfcb871-322e-503f-9e91-03253826fd23)
Juliet
19 December 1938
Flying with Edward
The morning after the pre-wedding party I woke with a desperate desire to jump into my Tiger Moth, fire up the engine and fly right away.
I had behaved foolishly. I’d begun to flirt, to toy, and what good ever came of that kind of shenanigans?
What happened?
I was unmasked, shown to have behaved like a fool, and I deserved it.
Having been standing in the hallway with Charles, welcoming guests to the Lanyon Christmas party, I was utterly gobsmacked when, of all people, Edward walked in. I had no idea that he was at all acquainted with the Lanyons. He hadn’t said he was attending the party that afternoon. Perhaps, thinking me single, he had wanted it to be a surprise.
He arrived at eight. I saw him before he saw me, walking through the door, smiling, naturally at ease, a happy and contented man. I wondered momentarily, as I stood there, my heart in my shoes, waiting to greet him, if Edward had known I was Charles’ fiancée all along and if the attraction between us had been on my part only. That I had misunderstood his interest in me.
But when Charles introduced me to Edward as the future Mrs Lanyon, my heart broke to see that he had not known. Edward tried to hide his confusion, before quickly walking away and disappearing into the gathered crowd. He spent some of the evening with Lottie before retiring back to the village early, with the excuse of a headache and an early start the next day. We did not speak that evening, which was both a relief and an overpowering disappointment.
The following morning, having arranged with cook to breakfast before the house had risen and having previously arranged with Jessops for fuel to be delivered to the barn, I dashed to my aircraft, desperate to fly.
I was not surprised to find Edward there, waiting. He was sitting on his adopted hay bale, a blue and white striped scarf wrapped tightly around his face, no dog with him, no Beano and he’d clearly been on no more than nodding terms with sleep.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about Charles?’
Because I’ve fallen in love with you …
‘I’m not sure. Does it matter?’
Edward didn’t answer.
I busied myself around the aircraft, avoiding eye contact. We fell silent, unsure how to behave, how to speak. A few jerrycans of fuel were hidden at the back of the barn, exactly where Jessops, now amiable thanks to the cider, had left them.
‘You’re going flying?’ Edward jumped down from his lofty position on the bale.
‘Yes … I needed to clear my head and I knew …’ I stopped pouring fuel into the tank for a moment.
‘You knew I’d be here.’
‘I thought you might be.’ I put down the can and smiled up at him. ‘I promised you a trip and I’d like to honour that promise, if I may.’ I glanced out of the barn. ‘And it may be cold, but it is a beautiful day, after all.’
He smiled too. ‘It is indeed a beautiful day and I’d love to go flying with you.’
We spent another ten minutes preparing the aircraft before pushing my beautiful yellow Tiger Moth out of the barn.
‘Put these on,’ I said, handing him goggles and helmet before showing him where to place his feet on the wing. ‘It will be very cold up there and the clouds are bubbling out to the west, so it might be a bit bumpy.’
I leant across him to tighten his straps and secure him in the seat. He took me by surprise by taking my bare hand in his gloved one.
‘Listen, I think you’re amazing and beautiful and fascinating. But I know you’re spoken for. We can be friends, can’t we. Just for a little while? I’m not a reckless fool, Juliet. Not really.’
I finally looked him in the eye which was, as I suspected, lethal. A naughty Cornish pixie must have jumped my shoulder just then, because I suddenly realised that there really was only one way to go …
‘Not a reckless fool?’ I said (with a very definite flick of the hair and twinkle in the eye) ‘how very disappointing. I have a sudden fancy to run through my stunt routine today, which is why I’m making sure your straps are nice and tight, and only a reckless fool – or maybe a true coddiwompler – would even begin to consider jumping on board for that kind of a ride …’
His face came alive. His whole body sparked with energy, with life.
‘I lied,’ he said, putting on his helmet. ‘Show me what you’ve got, Miss Caron! If we’re going to go down, let’s do it in style!’ He snapped on his goggles with a flourish. ‘I’m ready!’
For the next twenty minutes Edward was taken on the ride of his life. The chill from the wind was fierce, but as we flew low and slow over Angels Cove, children ran out to wave at us, racing the little aircraft as we flew parallel with the road. I flew half a mile out to sea and performed only part of my stunt routine – a tick-tock stall and a few loops – but not too much, it wouldn’t do to turn Edward’s stomach and embarrass him.
On landing back at the field, I taxied the aircraft to just outside the barn and cut the engine. I jumped out once the propeller had stopped and leant across Edward to unstrap him. The cheeks on his face burned red but his eyes were as bright as shiny new pins.
Edward jumped out, ripped off his goggles and helmet and just stood there, looking at me and smiling – half madman – before picking me up, spinning me around and finally placing me, very gently, on the ground again.
‘That was incredible, Juliet. Thank you. Thank you so very much.’ He handed me the goggles and hat. Still on a high from the flight, he babbled on about the joy of flying while we pushed the Tiger Moth back in the barn.
‘I wonder, do you have time to come to the village again for tea? They’re having a Christmas lantern parade on the twenty-third and I seem to have been roped in again to make lanterns and decorate the church, and you seemed to enjoy our afternoon in the hall. I have a feeling you’d love it. What do you say?’
I wanted to go. I wanted to go so very, very badly, but I shook my head, leant against the wing and sighed.
‘I’m sorry, Edward, but I can’t.’
He stepped in, too close for mere friends.
‘Why can’t you?’
I shook my head and smiled resignedly.
‘I think we both know why.’
He stepped closer still and leant in to brush my cheek with his lips. ‘In that case, thank you for the flight,’ he whispered. ‘It was wonderful.’ He stepped back. ‘Consider the debt paid, Miss Caron.’ And then, without looking back, to my absolute surprise, he walked away.
Chapter 9 (#ulink_fc41caf8-be72-5fbf-b652-ebbf042a494c)
Katherine
18 December
Poor George
The candles were half their original size and surrounded by pools of wax when I place the manuscript on the sofa beside me, disappointed at Edward for walking away, and cursing Juliet for letting him go.
But it was time to stop reading. Not just because I needed to sleep (although, what did I know of sleep any more? Sleep had become a fitful irrelevance since James had died) or because my phone battery was down to ten percent and I wanted to save a little just in case the roof really did blow off, but because now that I was engrossed in Juliet’s story, I wasn’t sure about the – what to call it – moral correctness? – of reading someone else’s private memoirs, even if that person was no longer around to care. The only answer was to email Sam, the grandson – the coddiwompler? – and ask his permission to read on. I had ventured to Cornwall looking for a historical story to tell and it looked like I had found one, but that suddenly didn’t seem important, because looking into the lives of these strangers tonight had led me to throw side-glances towards my own story which, as Gerald knew, had not just stagnated, but stopped. Juliet was leading me somewhere – I just didn’t know where that somewhere was.
***
I poked my head out of the candlewick bedspread at about ten a.m. the following morning and promptly ducked under again once my nose had direct contact with the cold. I had two options, stay warm under the bedcovers but starve to death, or face the cold and risk hyperthermia. The second option won by a narrow margin leading me to jump out and dance on the spot while throwing open the curtains – a bright, wintery, sunshiny glow flooded the room. I stopped dancing and stared. What a difference a few hours could make, and what a view.
James would have loved this.
Wall-to-wall ocean broken by three little granite islands that sat in the bay.
So here were the famous Angels, splattered with tiny flecks of white, as if God had gone on a paint flicking frenzy. I put my glasses on and realised the white flecks were actually seagulls, presumably taking a well-earned rest after the stress of the storm. The sea was a little swollen still, but it seemed Katherine had moved on to terrorise pastures new, leaving a bright winter morning in her wake.
I turned on a wind-up radio that sat on the windowsill at the top of the stairs and tried the bedroom light. Still no power. Allowing as short a time as possible for my bare skin to feel the sharpness of the cold, I dressed in the previous day’s clothes and headed down the stairs, pausing to sit on the bottom step to check my phone for messages and contact Gerald regarding the day’s agenda.
Uncle Gerald had beaten me to it.
Terrible news. George has had a heart attack. Have rushed to Brighton in Land Rover – used the spare key as didn’t want to disturb. Have spoken to Fenella and she’s going to look after you – you are not to sit home alone moping! Will text when I know more about George as there is talk of a stent being put in. So very sorry to love and leave. Have a fabulous time. Don’t forget about the apostrophe, will you? Oh, and best keep a beady eye out for Percy and Noel who will no doubt try to cajole – they are leaders of opposing camps! X
My first thought was obviously, ‘Poor George …’ but my second thought was very definitely … ‘Bollocks!’
‘Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.’
And, ‘Bollocks to the bloody apostrophe, too!’
Sitting on the bottom step of the stairs I stared at the door, just as Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas came on the radio. Alone again for Christmas after all.
There was only one thing for it – I’d go back to bed for an hour and bury myself in both the snuggly covers and the embrace of my new friends – Juliet and Edward. Hoping that their paths would surely cross again.
Chapter 10 (#ulink_177157b1-4f2d-506f-b6a3-dfcd1bc5a103)
Juliet
22 December 1938
The promise
Dear Juliet
On second thoughts, I’m not entirely sure the debt is paid completely. The children are making lanterns in the hall from eleven and as the future lady of the manor, I thought it probably your wish – your duty – to help out. Lunch on the beach afterwards as a thank you?
Yours, the incorrigible coddiwompler,
E. Nancarrow
P.S. If you come, I’ll tell you what a coddiwompler is.
P.P.S. Wrap up warm!
The Christmas Card was hand-delivered by a young boy shortly after breakfast. I was having coffee with Lottie in the lounge when Katie handed it to me. I recognised the card. Edward had made it in the village hall during our afternoon together, when we sat with the children, in a moment of perfect happiness. I dare not open it and yet to leave it unopened would draw suspicion from Lottie.
Lottie glanced up from her book. I opened the card and feigned a smile.
‘It’s from Jessops,’ I said. ‘To thank us for the cider.’
I returned the card into the envelope, both gleefully happy and torn apart, made my excuses by explaining to Lottie that I really must return to servicing the aircraft– that sticky rudder came to my rescue again – and I explained that I would be out for the day. No one batted an eye at this. All they had ever known me do was walk for miles along the Cornish coast and tinker with my aircraft. As the Lanyons were neither walkers nor flyers, I had often spent much of my time during the day in Cornwall alone gathering my thoughts and healing my broken heart.
I dashed to my room to read the card again – slowly this time, drinking in every word. There was such a cocky confidence about his invitation and a secret intimacy, too. If Charles were to read it, he would think nothing untoward, but what Edward was really asking was to be alone with me one final time before I married.
There was only one thing to be done.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I pulled on my flying jacket over my best trousers, blouse and cardigan and headed, as fast as my feet could carry me without actually running, down the road to Angels Cove.
I lost the final piece of my heart to Edward that day. And yet, the very next day found me standing on a small table in the garden room at Lanyon, with Katie fussing around me with pins in her mouth adjusting Lottie’s cream cashmere suit. Lottie and Ma Lanyon looked on. I tried my best to smile, but my mind was a whirlpool.
I have often wondered if human attraction works in the exact same way as magnetic attraction and if this is why it is so utterly impossible to repel someone you are deeply attracted to. I knew I shouldn’t see Edward again and yet the pull towards him was beyond my control. If the universal law of magnetism was involved, then it really wasn’t my fault.
It was weak excuse but all I had.
And here was another – just as the north pole of one magnet will attract toward the south pole of another, so will the same polarity force each other apart, and I wondered if, with the introduction of Edward, Charles and I no longer attracted but repelled each other. In the evenings at Lanyon I tried my utmost to be near to him, to hold onto him, to be in love with him, but I couldn’t. And the more I thought of Edward, the more Charles became pushed away. The physics of magnetism then, was my feeble excuse for my behaviour that day, my excuse for dashing to Angels Cove at the first possible moment, hoping to find Edward in the village hall.
But Edward was not in the hall. He was, I was told by a lady trimming the Christmas tree, most likely at his cottage, Angel View, a whitewashed cottage up a little track to right of the harbour. And it’s got the best view in the village – said another lady who was hanging off a ladder hanging paper chains in the hall.
I had not yet been to Edward’s home. Our meetings, although inwardly intimate – certainly intimate inside my thoughts and dreams, and I’m certain intimate inside of his – had been kept purely on a friendship footing, which meant keeping away from the privacy of his house. There had been no talk of love, no snatched kisses, no hand holding, just lots and lots of fun. Which was why, as I approached Edward’s cottage, I felt nervous. I stood there for a moment, just short of the cottage and stared out to sea, at the islands, my confused thoughts bouncing around my head. The tide was out and the Angels – the three granite mounts I had used as a navigational aid just a few days before, when life had been so much simpler – stood proudly in the bay. They were larger when the tide was out and it was odd, but as I stood there and looked out to sea, with my coat fastened tightly against the freshness of the Cornish breeze, I wondered how on earth they had been given such a name and thought that ‘angel’ was far too beautiful a word to have been adopted for these ragged-looking islands, which seem to hide in every nook and cranny, some dark and foreboding secrets.
My thoughts returned to the present and to Edward and also to a story that Edward needed to be told. And yet it was a story I couldn’t possibly tell him – a story I had promised never to tell. It was a story that promised to tie me to the house – to Charles and to Lottie – forever. And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.
***
From the moment Lottie and I met, we were inseparable. We were for each other the sisters neither of us had ever had and despite my early misgivings, I loved my time in Paris and even felt the tug of my French ancestry calling me home. I spent every holiday with Lottie at Lanyon and became a welcome member of the family. Ma and Pa could not have been kinder and I became, without question, an accepted and loved member of the family. Those holidays at Lanyon were days of a privileged, gentrified youth – sailing on the river, a game of tennis, riding, croquet on the lawn – and although the loss of my parents could knock me sideways into a deep depressive abyss without a moment’s notice, bit by bit, although the weight didn’t lift completely, the grief became lighter as the months and years passed on.
My dream of flying as a career was not forgotten, but very definitely put on hold while I reluctantly did exactly what my mother had wanted me to do, transform into a lady. Ultimately – inevitably, perhaps – Lottie’s brother, Charles, became part of the package. I suppose it was expected from the get-go that Charles and I would marry, and so when Charles kissed me one balmy June afternoon in 1938, I kissed him back with the mechanical acceptance of a woman who had known for some time that this moment would come and accepted it.
This, I said to myself, was love.
Love was two people who got along and, after an appropriate amount of time, kissed, and after a further appropriate amount of time, married and perhaps had children. It was a steadier romance than Lottie and I had imagined during our nights reading novels at school, but I didn’t mind. My passion was reserved for flying and unlike Lottie, I had never actively looked for romance or expected anything other than that one day, I would perhaps marry the kind of man my mother had instructed me to marry – the non-predatory kind, the kind who would adore me to eternity.
Charles, very definitely, fit the bill.
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Melanie Hudson
The USA TODAY bestseller! For fans of Soraya M. Lane, Heather Morris, Fiona Valpy and Pam Jenoff. Inspired by the brave women of WWII, this is a moving and powerful novel of friendship, love and resilience. A story of love not a story of a war A daring WWII pilot who grew up among the clouds, Juliet Caron’s life was one of courage, adventure – and a love torn apart by war. Every nook of her Cornish cottage is alive with memories just waiting to be discovered. Katherine Henderson has escaped to Cornwall for Christmas, but she soon finds there is more to her holiday cottage than meets the eye. And on the eve of Juliet’s 100th birthday, Katherine is enlisted to make an old lady’s final Christmas wish come true… Me Before You meets The English Patient in this stunning romantic historical novel from award-winning author Melanie Hudson. Readers love The Last Letter from Juliet ‘OK…. I’ve finished the book. Holy ******…I had to keep taking breaks in the last 15% just so I didn’t break down in a flood of tears’ Zoe Hartgen ‘Read the first chapter and I. Was. HOOKED!’ Skye’s Mum ‘If you only read one book this year make it The Last Letter from Juliet’ Tracey Shults ‘I just couldn't put it down until finished’ Jeanette ‘Captures those stolen moments in dangerous and desperate times…beautiful, nostalgic and emotional’ Cheryl M-M ‘Jam packed full of emotion…I don't usually read historical fiction but I'm so glad I read this’ Jennie Scanlan ‘I can highly recommend this beautiful tale of love, sacrifice, friendship, courage and so much more’ Nessa Stimpson
The Last Letter from Juliet
MELANIE HUDSON
One More Chapter
a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Copyright © Melanie Hudson 2019
Cover images © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Melanie Hudson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008319649
Ebook Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 9780008319632
Version: 2019-09-02
Table of Contents
Cover (#u4837d156-e47c-5fdd-b19a-6ba7b19492dc)
Title Page (#u6fdf0755-058b-5223-ab2e-a18ce4b50947)
Copyright (#u5bc6a3af-b2b2-5288-94b0-e73afd07083d)
Dedication (#u01822bc3-2780-50b5-87d4-2a090ac48c19)
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
Dedicated to the inspirational and courageous women pilots who served with the Air Transport Auxiliary during the Second World War – the ultimate Attagirls!
Prologue (#u7e48d4b0-6036-5362-8380-0dc83e588d19)
Read Me
This is a note to yourself, Juliet.
At the time of writing you are ninety-two years old and worried that the bits and bobs of your story have begun to go astray. You must read this note carefully every day and work very hard to keep yourself and the memories alive, because once upon a time you told a man called Edward Nancarrow that you would, and it’s important to keep that promise, Juliet, even when there seems to be little point going on.
In the mahogany sideboard you will find all the things you will need to keep living your life alone. These things are: bank details; savings bonds; emergency contact numbers; basic information about you – your name, age and place of birth; money in a freezer bag; an emergency mobile phone. More importantly, there are also your most precious possessions scattered around the house. I’ve labelled them, to help you out.
Written on the back of this note is a copy of the poem Edward gave you in 1943. Make sure you can recite it (poetry is good for the brain). And finally, even if you forget everything else, remember that, in the end, Edward’s very simple words are the only things that have ever really mattered.
Now, make sure you’ve had something to eat and a glass of water – water helps with memory – and whatever happens in the future, whatever else you may forget, always remember … he’s waiting.
With an endless supply of love,
Juliet
Chapter 1 (#u7e48d4b0-6036-5362-8380-0dc83e588d19)
Katherine
A proposal
It was a bright Saturday lunchtime in early December. I’d just closed the lounge curtains and was about to binge-watch The Crown for the fourth time that year when a Christmas card bearing a Penzance postmark dropped through the letter box.
Uncle Gerald. Had to be.
The card, with an illustration of a distressed donkey carrying a (somewhat disappointed-looking) Virgin Mary being egged on by a couple of haggard angels, contained within it my usual Christmas catch-up letter. I wandered through to the kitchen and clicked the kettle on – it was a four-pager.
My Dear Katherine
Firstly, I hope this letter finds you well, or as well as to be expected given your distressing circumstances of living alone in Exeter with no family around you again this Christmas.
Cheers for that, Gerald
But more of your circumstances in a moment because (to quote the good bard) ‘something is rotten in the state of Denmark’ and I’m afraid this year’s letter will not burst forth with my usual festive cheer. There is at present a degree of what can only be described as civil unrest breaking out in Angels Cove and I am at my wits end trying to promote an atmosphere of peace and good will in time for Christmas. I’m hopeful you will be able to offer a degree of academic common sense to the issue.
Here’s the rub: the Parish Council (you may remember that I am the chair?) has been informed that the village boundaries are to be redrawn in January as part of a Cornwall County Council administrative shake-up. This simple action has lit the touch paper of a centuries-old argument amongst the residents that needs – finally – to be put to rest.
The argument in question is this: should our village be apostrophised or not? If ‘yes’, then should the apostrophe come before or after the ‘s’?
It is a Total Bloody Nightmare!
It really isn’t, Gerald.
At the moment, Angels Cove is written without an apostrophe, but most agree that there should be an apostrophe in there somewhere, yet where? The argument seems to rest on three questions:
1. Does the cove ‘belong’ to just one angel (the angel depicted in the church stained glass window, for example, as some people claim that they have seen him) or to a multitude of angels (i.e. the possessive of a singular or a plural noun).
2. Does the cove belong to the angels or do the angels belong to the cove? (The minority who wish to omit the apostrophe in its entirety ask this question.)
3. Does the word angel in Angels Cove actually refer, not to the winged messengers of the Devine, but to the notorious pirate, Jeremiah ‘Cut-throat’ Angel, who sailed from Penzance circa 1723 and whose ship, The Savage Angel, was scuppered in Mounts Bay (not apostrophised, you will note) when he returned from the West Indies at the tender age of twenty-nine?
As you can see, it’s a mess.
Fearing the onset of a migraine, I stopped reading and decided to sort out the recycling, which would take a while, given the number of empties. An hour later saw me continuing to give the rest of Gerald’s letter a stiff ignoring because I needed to get back to The Crown and plough my way through an ironing pile that saw its foundations laid in 1992. Just at the point where Prince Philip jaunts off solo on a raucous stag do to Australia (and thinking that I really ought to write a letter to The Queen to tell her how awesome she is), I turned the iron off (feeling a pang of guilt at leaving a complicated silk blouse alone in the basket) poured a glass of Merlot, popped a Tesco ‘extra deep’ mince pie in the microwave and returned to the letter …
I expect you will agree that this is a question of historical context, not a grammatical issue.
I do not.
As the ‘go to’ local historian (it must run in the family!) I attempted to offer my own hypothesis at the parish meeting last week, but can you believe it, I was barracked off the stage just two minutes into my delivery.
I can.
But all is not lost. This morning, while sitting on the loo wrecking my brains for inspiration, I stumbled across your book, From Nob End to Soggy Bottom, English Place Names and their Origins in my toilet TBR pile (I had forgotten you have such a dry wit, my dear) and I just knew that I had received Devine intervention from the good Lord himself, because although the villagers are not prepared to accept my opinion as being correct, I do believe they would accept the decision of a university professor, especially when I explain that you were sent to them by God.
So, I have a proposition for you.
Time for that mince pie.
In return for your help on the issue, please do allow me the pleasure of offering you a little holiday here in Angels Cove, as my very special present to you, this Christmas. I know you have balked at the idea of coming to stay with me in the past (don’t worry, I know I’m an eccentric old so-and-so with disgusting toenails)
True
but how do you fancy a beautiful sea view this Christmas?
Well, now that you mention it …
The cottage is called Angel View (just the one angel, note) and now belongs to a local man, Sam Lanyon (Royal Navy pilot – he’s away at sea, poor chap). He says you can stay as long as you like – I may have mentioned what happened to James as leverage.
Gerald!
The cottage sits just above the cove and has everything you could possible need for the perfect holiday (it’s also a bit of a 1940s time capsule because until very recently it belonged to an elderly lady – you’ll love it).
The thing is, before you say no, do remember that before she died, I did promise your mother that I would keep an eye on you …
It was only a matter of time.
… and your Christmas card seemed so forlorn …Actually, not forlorn, bland – it set me off worrying about you being alone again this Christmas, and I thought this would be the perfect opportunity for us to look out for each other, as I’m alone, too – George is on a mercy mission visiting his sister in Brighton this year. Angels Cove is simply beautiful at Christmas. The whole village pulls together (when they are not arguing) to illuminate the harbour with a festival of lights. It’s magical.
But?
But … with all the shenanigans going on this year, I’m not sure the villagers will be in the mood for celebration. Please do say you’ll come and answer our question for us, and in doing so, bring harmony to this beautiful little cove and save Christmas for all the little tourist children.
Surely this kind of thing is right up your Strasse?
My idea is that you could do a little bit of research then the locals could present you with their proposals for the placement of the apostrophe in a climatic final meeting. It will be just like a Christmas episode of the Apprentice – bring a suit! And meanwhile, I’ll have a whole programme of excitement planned for you – a week of wonderful things – and it includes gin.
Now you’re talking
Do write back or text or (God forbid) phone, straight away and say you’ll come, because by God, Katherine, you are barely forty-five years old, which is a mere blink of an eye. You have isolated yourself from all of your old friends and it is not an age where a person should be sitting alone with only their memories to comfort them. Basically, if anyone deserves a little comfort this Christmas, it’s you. I know you usually visit the grave on Christmas Day, but please, for the build-up week at least (which is the best part of Christmas after all) come to Cornwall and allow yourself to be swaddled by our angels for a while (they’re an impressive bunch).
I am happy to beg.
Yours, in desperation,
Gerald.
P.S. Did I mention the gin?
Sitting back in a kitchen chair I’d ruined by half-arsedly daubing it in chalk paint two weeks before, I glanced around the room and thought about Gerald’s offer. On the one hand, why on earth would I want to leave my home at Christmas? It was beautiful. But the energy had changed, and what was once the vibrant epicentre of Exeter’s academia, now hovered in a haze of hushed and silent mourning, like the house was afraid of upsetting me by raising its voice.
A miniature Christmas tree sat on the edge of the dresser looking uncomfortable and embarrassed. I’d decorated it with a selection of outsized wooden ornaments picked up during a day trip to IKEA in November. IKEA in Exeter was my weekly go-to store since James had gone. It was a haven for the lost and lonely. A person (me) can disappear up their own backsides for the whole morning in an unpronounceable maze of fake rooms, rugs, tab-top curtains, plastic plants and kitchen utensils (basically all the crap the Swedes don’t want) before whiling away a good couple of hours gorging themselves on a menu of meatballs and cinnamon swirls, and still have the weirdest selection of booze and confectionary Sweden has to offer (what on earth is Lordagsgodis, anyway?) to look forward to at checkout.
And we wonder why the Swedes are so happy!
But did I really want to spend the run-up to Christmas in IKEA this year? (Part of me actually did – it’s very Scandi-chic Christmassy). But to do it for a third year in a row, with no one to laugh out loud with when we try to pronounce the unpronounceable Swedish word for fold-up bed?
(That was a poor example because a futon is a futon in any language and I really did need to try to control my inner monologue which had gone into overdrive since James died – I was beginning to look excessively absent minded in public).
But did I want to spend Christmas in IKEA this year?
Not really, no.
But the problem (and Gerald knew this, too) was that if I left the house this Christmas, then it would mark the beginning of my letting go, of starting again, of saying that another life – a festive one – could exist beyond James. If I had a good time I might start to forget him, but if I stayed here and kept thinking of him, if I kept the memories alive, re-read the little notes he left me every morning, if I looked through photographs on Facebook, replayed scenes and conversations in my mind, then he would still be here, alive, in me. But if I go away, where would that lead? I knew exactly where it would lead – to the beginning of the end of James. To the beginning of not being able to remember his voice, his smell, his laugh – to the beginning of moving on.
And I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.
But still …
I knocked back the last of the Merlot while googling train times to Penzance and fished out the last card in a box of IKEA Christmas cards I’d abandoned to the dresser drawer the week before. It was the exact replica of the one I’d already sent him, a golden angel. I took it as a sign and began to scribble …
Dear, Uncle Gerald,
You are quite correct. This kind of thing is indeed ‘right up my Strasse’. Rest assure there will be no need to beg – I shall come!
I arrive in Penzance by the 18.30 train on the 17th and intend to stay (wait for it) until Boxing Day! By which time I am confident that, one way or another, I will have found a solution to your problem. DO NOT, however, feel that you have to entertain me all week. It’s very good of you but actually – and quite selfishly – this trip could be a blessing in disguise. I have been racking my brains for an idea for a new book – a history project to keep me going through the rest of the winter – and I have a feeling that hidden deep within the midst of Cornish myth and legend, I might find one.
Please thank Mr Lanyon for the offer of use of his cottage – I accept!
How are the cataracts, by the way? Are you able to drive? If so, I wonder if you could meet me at the station?
With oodles of love,
Your, Katherine
P.S. Wouldn’t it be funny if ‘The Cataracts’ were an old couple who lived in the village and I would say, ‘How are the Cataracts, by the way?’ And you would answer, ‘Oh, they’re fine. They’ve just tripped off to Tenerife for Christmas.’
P.P.S. Take heart in knowing that there is nothing simple about the apostrophe. It is punctuation’s version of the naughty Cornish pixie, and seems to wreak havoc wherever it goes. There is a village in America, for example, where the misplacing of the apostrophe led to full-scale civil unrest and ultimately, the cold-blooded murder of the local Sheriff. Let us hope for your sake that the situation at Angels Cove does not escalate into a similar scale of brouhaha!
P.P.P.S. Gin? I love you.
Chapter 2 (#u7e48d4b0-6036-5362-8380-0dc83e588d19)
Katherine
The last station stop
It turned out that the residents of Angels Cove were expecting not one, but two Katherines to arrive in Penzance on the evening of 17 December. My namesake Storm Katherine – a desperate attention seeker who was determined to make a dramatic entrance – would arrive late with the loud and gregarious roar of an axe-wielding Viking. Trees would crash onto roads, chicken hutches would be turned upside down, and the blight of every twenty first century garden – the netted trampoline – would disappear over hedgerows never to be seen again (it wasn’t all bad, then). I hoped Uncle Gerald wouldn’t see my concurrent arrival with Katherine as some kind of omen, but really, how could he not?
Stepping onto the train in Exeter, despite the forecast weather, I was excited. By Plymouth I was beginning to wonder if it had all been a dreadful mistake – the locals would want to chat, and the woman in the shop (there was always a chatty woman in a shop) would glance at my wedding ring and pry into my life with a stream of double negatives: ‘Will your husband not be joining you in the cottage for Christmas, then? No? Well, it’s nice to have some time away from them all, eh? And what about your children? Will they not be coming down? No children? Oh, dear. Well, never mind …’
That kind of thing.
By Truro, I’d decided to turn back, but Katherine’s advance party had already begun to rock the carriages, and by the time St Michael’s Mount appeared through the late afternoon darkness – a watered down image of her usual self, barely visible through the driving rain and sea fret – my excitement had vaporised completely. Gazing through the splattered carriage window, I was startled by the sight of my mother’s face staring back at me. Only it wasn’t my mother, it was my own aged reflection. When had that happened? Anxious fingers rushed to smooth the lines on my mother’s face, which could only be described as tired (dreadful word) and I realised that, just like St Michael’s Mount in the winter rain, I too was a watered-down image of my usual self, barely visible through a veil of grief I had worn ever since the morning James had gone.
I hadn’t needed an alarm call that morning. I’d been laying on my side for hours, tucked into the foetal position, the left side of my face resting on a tear-stained pillow, my eyes focused just above the bedside table, fixed on the clock.
I watched every movement of Mickey Mouse’s right hand as it made a full circle, resting, with a final little wave, on the twelve.
Mickey’s voice rang out—
‘It’s time, time, time, to wake up! It’s time, time, time to wake up!’
I’d never known if Mickey had been supposed to say the word ‘time’ three times, or if at some point over the past umpteen years he had developed a stutter, but I silenced him with a harsh thump on the head and lay staring at the damp patch on the ceiling we’d never gotten to the bottom of, just to the right of the light fitting.
I wanted to lay there and consider that phrase for a moment – ‘it’s time’. Two little words with such a big meaning.
It’s time, Katherine.
How many times had I heard those words?
My father had said them, standing in the kitchen doorway on my wedding day. He’d taken my hand with a wonderful smile and walked me to the car, a happy man. We were followed closely behind by my Aunt Helena, who was frothing my veil and laughing at Mum – who did not approve of the match – and who fussed along behind us, arguing about … I think it was art, but it might have been cheese. And now, twenty years later, the exact same words were used by Gerald, to direct me out of the house. To force me, my insides kicking and screaming for release, to slide into the long black car that waited in the yard – the car that would take us to James’ funeral, the sort of funeral that has the caption ‘But, dear God, why?’ hovering in the air the whole day.
I turned my back on Mickey and ran my arm across the base sheet on the other side of the bed. If only there was still some warmth there. An arm to curl into, a woolly chest to rest my head on. But the sheet was cold, and like everything else in my house in Exeter, retained the deep ingrained memory of centuries of damp.
But if I just lay there and let the day move on without me …
It’s time, time, time, to wake up!
Mickey again.
I stretched. Ridiculous thought. Mickey was right. The day wouldn’t move on, not if I didn’t wind the cogs and drop-kick the sun through the goal posts. I threw my legs out of bed, sat up, patted Mickey, apologised for hitting him on the head and I kissed him on the face. Poor thing. It wasn’t his fault James had been killed, even if he did insist in shouting at me every morning in his overly polite, American way.
It’s time, Katherine.
But that was the thing with travelling alone on a train, there was simply too much time to think. Trains were just one long rolling mass of melancholy, the carriages filled with random, interconnected thoughts. Travel alone on a train with no book to read and an over-thinker can spend an entire journey in the equivalent of that confused state between sleeping and waking.
And then the guard broke my reverie.
Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be arriving in Penzance. Penzance is the last station stop. Service terminates at Penzance. All alight at Penzance.
It was pretty obvious I needed to get off.
The train slowed to a final halt at the station and the last of the passengers began to stir. I grabbed my laptop case, put on my winter coat, hat and gloves and trundled to the end of the carriage in the hope that my suitcase would still be there. It was time to step out onto the platform, find Uncle Gerald, and head out into the storm.
Chapter 3 (#u7e48d4b0-6036-5362-8380-0dc83e588d19)
Katherine
A cottage by the sea
I stepped down onto the platform and stood still for a moment, my eyes searching through a river of passengers, before catching sight of Uncle Gerald, who was waving his multi-coloured umbrella like a lunatic and working his way upstream.
My heart melted. Uncle Gerald had been a steady presence in my life as a child, and although I had hardly seen him during my adult years, the bond that was formed during those childhood visits – nothing overly special, just a kind smile and couple of quid for sweets tucked into my sticky fingers – had never gone away. It was a bond that represented the safety and easiness of family. A bond that is usually lobbed into the back of the dresser drawer, stashed away, forgotten and allowed to loiter with the unused Christmas cards, nutcrackers and Sellotape, until the day came along when you actually needed it, and you opened the drawer with a rummage saying to yourself, ‘I just know I left it in there somewhere.’
Gerald rested his umbrella against my suitcase and put his arms around me.
I wasn’t expecting the sudden onset of emotion, but he represented a simpler time. A happy time. A time of singing together in the kitchen with Mum. The Carpenters.
‘Rainy Days and Mondays’.
I started to cry.
He patted.
‘Now then, none of that, none of that.’
‘Oh, don’t mind me, Uncle Gerald,’ I said, trying to smile while rifling through my handbag and coat pockets for a tissue. ‘Train stations and airport lounges always do this to me. I swear they’re the portals used by the tear fairies to tap directly into the tender places of the soul.’
Gerald handed me a folded blue handkerchief.
I opened the handkerchief and blew my nose.
He smiled. ‘Still over-dramatic then?’
I nodded.
‘That’s my girl!’
We both laughed and sniffed back the emotion before heading out into the wind and rain. We dashed to the car and he handed me the keys. ‘You wouldn’t mind driving, would you? Only I spent the afternoon in the Legion …’
***
The drive to Angels Cove took a little over half an hour. It was a fairly silent half hour because Uncle Gerald slept while I battled the car through the beginnings of the storm, luckily the sat nav remembered the way. The road narrowed as we headed down a tree-lined hill. I slowed the car to a halt and positioned the headlights to illuminate the village sign through the driving rain.
I nudged Uncle Gerald.
‘We’re here.’
He stirred and harrumphed at sight of the sign.
‘Perhaps now you can see why I asked for your help,’ he said.
I failed to stifle a laugh.
The sign had been repeatedly graffiti-ed. Firstly, someone had inserted an apostrophe with permanent marker between the ‘l’ and the ‘s’ of angels. Then, someone else had put a line through the apostrophe and scrawled a new apostrophe to the right of the ‘s’, which had been further crossed out. The crossings out continued across the sign until there was no room to write any more.
‘This all started at the beginning of November, when the letter from the council arrived. The average age in this village is seventy-four – seventy-four!– and they’re all behaving like children. I’ve got my hands full with it all, I can tell you. Especially on Wednesdays.’ He nodded ahead. ‘Drive on, straight down to the harbour.’
‘Wednesdays?’ I asked, putting the car into gear.
‘Skittles night at the Crab and Lobster.’
‘Ah.’
We carried on down the road, the wipers losing the battle with the rain and I tried to remember the layout of the village. I recalled Angels Cove as a pretty place consisting of one long narrow road that wound its way very slowly down to the sea. Pockets of cottages lined the road, which was about a mile long, with the pub in the middle, next to the primary school which was a classic Victorian school house with two entrances: BOYS was written in stone above one entrance and GIRLS written above the other.
The road narrowed yet further before opening out onto a small harbour. I stopped the car. The harbour was lit by a smattering of old-fashioned street lamps. Waves crashed over the harbour walls. The car shook. Although Katherine had not yet arrived with the might of her full force, the sea had already whipped herself up into an excitable frenzy.
Gerald pointed to the right.
‘You can’t make it out too clearly in the dark,’ he said, staring into the darkness. ‘But the cottage you’re staying in is up this little track by about a hundred yards … or so.’
I glanced up the track and put the car into gear.
‘You ready?’ he asked.
‘Ready? Ready for what?’
‘Oh, nothing. It’s just a bit of a bumpy track, that’s all.’ He tapped the Land Rover with an affectionate pat, as if he was praising an old Labrador. ‘No problem for this little lady, though. Been up that track a thousand times, haven’t you, old girl? Onwards and upwards!’
I set off in the general direction of a farm track. The car took on an angle of about forty-five degrees and began to slip and slide its way up the track. Waves crashed against the rocks directly to my left.
‘Shitty death, Gerald! What the f—?’
A couple of wheel spins later, to my absolute relief, a little white cottage appeared under a swinging security light. We pulled alongside and I switched off the engine, left the car in gear and went to open the driver door.
‘Don’t get out for a moment,’ Gerald said. ‘I’ll go in ahead and turn on the lights. It’ll give me time to shoo the mice away and make it nice and homely, that kind of thing.’
‘Mice?’
‘Only a few, and they’re very friendly.’
I wiped condensation from the window and tried to peer out into the storm. ‘OK, but don’t be too long,’ I said. ‘I feel like I’ve stepped through one of the seven circles of hell!’
***
The tour of the cottage was very short but very sweet. When Gerald mentioned that an elderly lady had left it as a 1940s time capsule, he wasn’t exaggerating. There were three bedrooms upstairs, which were pretty but functional, a downstairs bathroom, a good-sized kitchen and an achingly sweet lounge. Gerald lit the fire while talking.
‘I’ve stocked the fridge with enough food, milk and mince pies to take you through to the New Year.’ He glanced up. ‘Just in case.’
‘In case … what?’
He stood and brushed down his trousers. ‘This is Cornwall. Anything can happen.’
I took off my coat and lay it across the arm of a green velvet chaise longue, then crossed to the window to close the curtains. A photograph frame sat on the windowsill. The black and white image inside was of woman standing in front of a bi-plane, holding a flying helmet and goggles, smiling brightly, squinting slightly against the sun. There was a tag attached to the photo. I read it.
Summer 1938. Edward took this. Our first full day together. Two days in one – fantastic and tragic all at once. Why can we never have the one, without the other. Why can’t we have light without shade?
‘Juliet was a pilot,’ Gerald said by way of explanation, turning to face me briefly while attempting to draw the fire by holding a sheet of newspaper across the fireplace. ‘She flew for the Air Transport Auxiliary during the war. They used to deliver all the aircraft from the factories to the RAF, that kind of thing. Amazing woman.’
I nodded my understanding, still looking at the photograph.
‘Juliet handed the old place to Sam Lanyon last year, but he hasn’t got around to sorting through her belongings yet.’ Gerald rose to his feet. He screwed up the paper he’d used to draw the fire and threw it onto the flames.
I put the frame down, closed the curtains and looked around the room … photos, books, paintings, odds and ends of memorabilia. There was a 1920s sideboard, I opened a drawer. It was full of the same forgotten detritus of someone else’s life.
This was no holiday cottage, this was a home.
Gerald turned his back on the fire a final time. It was blazing.
‘Anyway, you’ve a good supply of coal and logs so just remember to keep feeding it, and don’t forget to put the guard up when you go to bed – this type of coal spits!’
He made a move towards the door. His hat and scarf were hanging on a peg in the little hallway. He grabbed them and began to wrap his scarf around his throat.
‘Are you sure it’s all right for me to stay here, Gerald?’ I was standing in the lounge doorway looking pensive. ‘Only it seems a bit … intrusive.’
‘Nonsense! It was Sam’s idea. He’s happy that it’s being aired.’
Gerald turned to leave and attempted to open the door. The force of the storm pushed against him. My unease at the prospect of staying alone in an unfamiliar cottage perched precariously on a cliff side, unsure of my bearings, during one of the worst storms in a decade, must have shown on my face. He closed the door for a moment and walked back into the lounge, talking to himself.
‘On nights like this, Juliet always put her faith in one thing, and it never let her down.’
I followed him. ‘What was that? God?’
He opened the sideboard door and peered inside.
‘Ha!’ He took out a bottle.
‘Whiskey?’
‘And there’s a torch in there, too.’ He put the whiskey back and walked into the kitchen. I heard him open and close a few drawers before reappearing in the lounge with half a dozen candles. He handed them to me.
‘Just in case the electricity goes out. And the matches are on the fireplace so you’re all set.’
The lounge window started to rattle.
He straightened his hat and headed to the door. ‘This cottage might seem rickety, but it’s the oldest and sturdiest house in the village. It’ll take a bit more than Katherine to see her off now!’
I picked up the car keys from the hall table and grabbed my coat from the lounge.
‘I’ll drive you home,’ I said.
‘No, no. I’ll walk back.’ He pulled his scarf tighter.
‘In this weather?’ I asked, only half concentrating, searching in my handbag for my phone. ‘Mercy, me! I have a signal!’
Gerald paused at the door.
‘Put the keys down, Katherine. I’ll be fine. Listen, why don’t you leave your coat on and come with me to see my friend, Fenella. Poor thing. I promised her I’d pop in on my way home. She’s had a bit of a bereavement and isn’t coping very well.’
‘Husband?’
‘Worse. Dog. Her cottage is on the harbour. We can nip in and pay our respects, quick cup of tea, then make our excuses and go back to mine … via the pub. You might as well meet the enemy straight off.’
I wanted to say, ‘Thank Christ for that. Yes please.’ But the curse of the twenty-first-century independent woman prevented me from throwing myself at his mercy. And I didn’t fancy the pub.
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said with a blasé shoulder shrug, taking my coat off one final time. ‘I’ll be absolutely fine.’ (Which is the exact phrase everyone uses when they are, in fact, sure that they will not ‘be absolutely fine’.)
He put his hand on the door handle.
‘And how are you sleeping these days?’
I shrugged.
‘Don’t tell me you’re still listening to Harry Potter audio books half the livelong night?’
I shrugged again.
Listening to Stephen Fry narrate Harry Potter was much better than tossing and turning all night. There was just something about the combination of the two – Fry and Potter – that made the world seem like a safe place again.
‘It relaxes me. And you must admit, you can’t beat a bit of Stephen Fry at bedtime.’
Gerald laughed.
‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed, I suppose – but don’t tell George, you know how jealous he gets. Well, if you’re sure, I’ll be off. Just phone me if you need reassurance. Oh, and there’s WiFi here.’
Result.
‘The code is …’ Gerald paused and delved into his coat pocket. He took out a scrap of paper. ‘… “tigermoth”, one word, all lowercase. And try not to worry. I wouldn’t leave you here if I thought it wasn’t safe.’
Gerald kissed me on the cheek and stepped out into the wind.
‘I’ll pop up tomorrow morning once the storm’s gone through,’ he shouted. ‘I’ve got a fabulous programme of events all worked out, people to meet, things to do! And lock the door behind me straight away. It’ll bang all night if you don’t.’
‘I will,’ I shouted back, down the lane. ‘And, thank you!’
With the door locked and bolted, I walked into the lounge, sat on the sofa and stared into the fire, unconsciously spinning my wedding ring around my finger. The lights began to flicker, and in the kitchen, another window rattled. I grabbed my laptop from the hallway, logged onto the WiFi and – for at least five seconds – thought about doing a little apostrophe research (or any research that might lead me in the direction of a new project and take my mind off the storm). I closed the laptop lid.
Tomorrow. I’d do the research tomorrow.
I grabbed the remote control, flashed the TV and Freeview box into life and pressed the up button on the volume. The closing scenes of a Miss Marple rerun sounded-out most of the noise of the storm. Now all I needed to do was make a cup of tea, rustle up dinner and settle down to a spot of Grand Designs (the harangued couples who mortgaged themselves to the hilt and lived in a leaky caravan during the worst winter on record with three screaming kids and another on the way while trying to live off the land and source genuine terracotta tiles in junk shops for a bathroom that wouldn’t be built for another five years … they were my favourites).
With the closing credits of Miss Marple rolling down the screen, I walked through to the kitchen to make dinner. It was the real deal on the quintessential cottage front – not a fitted cupboard in sight – and very pretty, with French doors at the rear. A circular pine table with two chairs sat at the opposite end of the kitchen to the French doors, underneath a window. A golden envelope addressed to Katherine Henderson, C/O Angel View, sat on the table. I opened the envelope and took out the Christmas card.
Another angel, they were everywhere this year.
Dear Katherine
Just a quick note to welcome you to Angel View and explain about the house, which until recently belonged to a very special lady called Juliet Caron – my amazing Grandmother. You will find that her personality is still very much alive within the cottage walls. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to decorate the cottage for Christmas before you arrived, but you’ll find lots of decorations in the loft if you want to make the old place feel a bit more Christmassy.
Most importantly, please make yourself at home and have a wonderful time.
Yours,
Sam Lanyon
P.S. … you may find that a particularly vigilant Elf has already pitched up and positioned himself in the house somewhere. He always kept a beady eye on Juliet at this time of year. Give him a tot of whiskey and he’ll be your friend for life!
Smiling, I rested the card against a green coloured glass vase filled with yellow roses and took a cursory glance around the kitchen. There he was – sitting on a shelf, looking directly at me with his legs crossed and auspicious expression on his face.
I crossed the room to take a good look at him.
‘Hello, Mr Elf,’ I said, cheerily. ‘You needn’t worry about me. As Eliza Doolittle once said, I’m a good girl, I am … unfortunately!’
A few half-burned candles were scattered around the worktop and also on the windowsill. I took the matches from the lounge and lit them. There was a notepad and pen on the worktop, as if waiting for the occupier to make a list, and a very pretty russet red shawl was draped over the back of one of the chairs. I picked up the shawl and ran it through my fingers – it smelt of lavender and contentment. A luggage-style label had been sewn onto the shawl at one end. It read—
This was Lottie’s shawl – her comfort blanket. You wrapped Mabel in it on the day Lottie died.
Feeling a sudden chill, I took the liberty of wrapping the shawl around my shoulders and began to put together the makings of dinner – cheese on toast with a bit of tomato and Worcester sauce would do. I took an unsliced loaf out of the breadbin and opened the drawer of a retro cream dresser looking for cutlery. Sitting on top of the cutlery divider was a hard-backed small booklet with a large label attached to it. Another label? I took out the booklet and ran a finger over the indented words, First Officer Juliet Caron, Flying Logbook.
I turned the label over. With very neat handwriting, it read:
This is your flying logbook, Juliet. It is the most significant document of your life. Look at it often (whenever you use cutlery will do) and remember the times when you were happy (Spitfires), the times when you were stressed out (Fairey Battle – awful machine), the times when you had no idea how you survived to fly another day (like that trip in the Hurricane when the barrage balloons went up just as you were leaving Hamble) and that terrible day you tried to get to Cornwall with Anna – the one entry you wish you could delete. Other than the compass, this is your most treasured possession.
My rumbling tummy brought me back to the moment. I filled the kettle, stepped over to the fridge and noticed a laminated note stuck to the door with ‘Read Me’ written on the top. I read it, expecting it to be instructions from Sam, or Gerald.
It wasn’t.
While the kettle was boiling, I read a letter which began:
This is a letter to yourself, Juliet …
So that was what all the labels were for … Juliet had been frightened of losing her memory. I took the letter off the fridge and turned it over.
Where Angels Sing, by Edward Nancarrow
When from this empty world I fall
And the light within me fades
I’ll think, my love, of a sweeter time
When life was light, not shade
With bluebirds from this world I’ll fly
And to a cove I’ll go
To wait for you where angels sing
And when it’s time, you’ll know
To meet me on the far side where
We once led Mermaid home
And finally, my love and I
Will be, as one, alone
And at that moment, after pouring water from Juliet’s kettle into Juliet’s cup, sitting in Juliet’s house and wearing Juliet’s shawl, I felt an overwhelming sensation of being swaddled, that Juliet and I were somehow linked. Gerald would blame my overactive imagination, of course, but I really did feel that I was supposed to come to Angels Cove this Christmas.
With my dinner quickly made and eaten, I set up camp in the lounge and, trying to ignore the other Katherine who was hammering at the door to get in, I decided it was time for Kevin McCloud (such a lovely man) to transport me into his TV world of Grand Designs, into other people’s lives – happier, family lives – where dreams really do come true (and maybe a tot or two of that whiskey wouldn’t go amiss either).
Glancing into the sideboard I was mesmerised – it was an Aladdin’s Cave of memorabilia, of yet more labels. Next to the whiskey was a wad of faded A4 paper held together by green string. The top sheet had the typewritten words,
Attagirls!
The war memoirs of Juliet Caron
Lest she forgets
I untied the string and peeled back the top sheet to reveal a letter.
1 June 1996
My dear Sam
How is life at sea treating you? I know I say it too much for your liking, but I’ll say it again – I’m so very proud of you (and a little jealous of all that fabulous flying, too!).
Anyhow, I’m sure you must be busy so I’ll get to the point because I’m worried, Sam. Worried that my older memories are starting to fade and that one day soon they may leave me completely. Sitting here in my little cottage, able to do less and less each day, watching the tide ebb and flow, I have felt suddenly compelled to remember and record what happened in my life during the war. I read somewhere that if you wish to tell a story of war, do not tell the basic facts of the battle, but tell instead of the child’s bonnet removed from the rubble of a Southampton street, or the smell of twisted metal from a burnt Hurricane crashed by a friend, or the lingering smell of a man, robbed of his prime by typhus, as he lays in a strange bed in a foreign land, dying. I’m not sure I shall be able to do this, but even so, I have begun to write everything down. My friend Gerald is helping me. I aim to write one instalment per month – the first one is written already and attached – and send you copies as I write them. It’s an heirloom, I suppose, for you and your children (or if nothing else to give you something sensational to read during those long nights at sea!).
As you read each instalment, remember that my words will be as accurate as my aging mind allows them to be. Certain days stand out more than the rest. Just lately, I find that I can remember 1943 like it was yesterday, and yet events from yesterday elude me as if set in 1943. But what is truth of any situation anyway? I really do feel that life is made up of a constant stream of living, punctuated only by that otherworld of sleep. The fact that we choose to put a time and date to everything is merely a paper exercise. I used to think that once a moment is gone, it is gone forever, resigned only to memory. But now – now that I can no longer take my memory for granted – I realise that this is not the case. Love, for example, once thought lost, can be captured forever, just so long as someone out there strives to keep the memory of that love alive.
And so here is the first in a series of my memories that consist only of certain vivid days. They are memories of a time when suddenly, for a woman, absolutely anything (both the good and the desperately bad) became possible.
Anyway – enough of my ramblings!
Drum roll, please …
‘Ladieeeees and gentlemen! Lift your eyes to the heavens and prepare to be amazed, to be wowed and bedazzled! Here she is … the fearless! The death-defying! The one and only – Juliet Caron!’
I rested the letter on my knee just as a crash outside coincided with the sudden outage of the lights and the television turned to black. The glow from the fire provided sufficient ambient light for me to reach into the sideboard and find the torch, but the battery must have been an old one because the torchlight was weak and to my disappointment, within a few seconds, petered out.
Determined to take on some of the inner strength of the remarkable woman who had written a note to herself at ninety-two years old to never give in, I surrounded myself with candles, stoked the fire and wrapped the russet shawl tighter around my shoulders. And despite knowing that I shouldn’t waste my phone battery on a little light reading, not tonight of all nights, I got myself cosy on the sofa, abandoned Harry Potter, enabled the torch on my phone and began to read.
Chapter 4 (#u7e48d4b0-6036-5362-8380-0dc83e588d19)
Juliet
1938
A Cornish Christmas
Newspaper Cutting: The Bicester Herald
FREE AEROPLANE FLIGHTS FOR TEN LUCKY READERS!
AIR DISPLAY EXTRAVAGANZA!
Reach for the stars with the one and only
LOUIS CARON FLYING CIRCUS!
Old Bradley’s Field
1
July (for one day only)
2.30 p.m. till dusk
Star Attraction
JULIET CARON
The daredevil darling of the skies and Britain’s finest child star &aerobatic pilot
Admission 1s. Children 6d.
My name is Juliet Caron and although it would be difficult for anyone to believe if they saw me now (age has a dreadful habit of throwing a dust sheet over the vibrancy of youth) I was once the celebrated flying ace and undisputed star of the one and only Louis Caron Flying Circus.
I do not say this to boast, well, maybe a little bit, but to explain how it was that my father taught me to fly almost as quickly as I learned to walk and how, on a bright winter’s afternoon just a few days before Christmas 1938, I found myself soaring one thousand feet above Cornwall in my bright yellow Tiger Moth, looking for angels. It was a simple time in my life. Simple in the way that only those brief years before we know the agony of love, can be. My lungs were exploding with the exuberance of youth and my face was tight against the freezing air. In sum, I was living a life that was just about as alive as it is possible for a human life to be.
But first I must tell you a little of the flying circus, because my childhood was the circus, it moulded those formative days when the personality begins to take shape. My circus years were wonderful years. They were the years I had my parents with me, parents who were – and always would be – my inspiration, my warriors, my rocks.
When I was fourteen a journalist asked me to describe what being part of a flying circus was like. My father stood by me while I thought of my answer. We were in Sam Bryant’s field near Bicester, Oxfordshire, our aircraft lined up side by side, waiting to display. The crowd was arriving and the buzz of expectation bounced in the air while a cornflower blue sky kissed by a soft, silky breeze heralded the chance of a wonderful display. Tongue-tied, I looked at my father, who knelt next to me, and stalled as to what to say. He said to close my eyes and imagine how it feels to fly – to say the first thing that came into my head. The answer I gave was the answer of a child, but I would have given exactly the same answer as an adult, because the euphoria of flying – that feeling of absolute freedom – never left me.
‘Imagine heaven on earth,’ I said, ‘or rather, heaven in the skies. Imagine you’re in a dream and in that dream you somehow shrink down to the size of a doll and strap yourself onto the back of a golden eagle. You cling on to his feathers while he swoops and dives and soars and loops. And then you realise that if you’re very gentle with him and pull lightly on a feather here and there, you can control him a little, and then you’re flying too, every bit and just as naturally as the bird, and every element hits you with a freshness that can’t be matched, every sense is bright and alive. And then the bird dives towards the earth, barely missing the ground, before turning on a hairpin and soaring away. You are not in control at that moment, I think, but you are not in danger either, not so long as he – you – pull up in time. But that’s the best thrill of all – the not completely knowing if you’ll pull out of the dive in time. You simply have to trust, have faith in your judgement and let go of all fear. But you do pull out, because instinct and survival and an understanding of how to fly and how to move through the air kicks in, and you climb higher and take a breath, but not for long, because then you jump off the bird and into your father’s arms and cling on while he spins you around and around and the whole world is no more than a line of spinning colour. And your hair and skirt and legs are flung out at ninety degrees and you know that if he lets you go, you’ll fly out of the dream and into oblivion. But again, you have to trust, to become a part of the motion, to know that he will never let you go, you’re safe.’ I glanced up at Father and smiled. ‘I suppose I just feel full of joy and completely free. That’s all, really.’
An hour after the interview, my Father and mother died. Father was flying and mother was his wing-walker, her long hair and scarf trailing behind her. She was waving at me just before she died. I was standing next to my Tiger Moth, my performance coming later. I waved back at her, proud and happy. But then Pa lost control somehow and didn’t pull up in time, and I was no longer waving but screaming and running, not believing such a thing could possibly be true, already aching for a feeling I would only ever know once again – that feeling of unquestioned security and unconditional love.
But back to Cornwall and Christmas 1938.
The little Tiger Moth, its Gypsy engine humming a familiar tune, clung to the Cornish coast as I peered over the side, my face tight against the freezing slap of the winter air. I was looking for my final navigational landmark – three small craggy mounts known locally as the Angels – that sat a few hundred yards out to sea next to a little fishing village called Angels Cove. All I had to do was to find the mounts, then a mile or so further along the coast I would find my destination, a rather grand-looking house called Lanyon and in turn, my landing strip.
I took a moment to glance down again and cross-reference the river arteries on a map before turning at Lizard Point to follow the coast northbound. If my calculations were correct, the mounts would be on the nose in two minutes exactly. They were, and looked exactly like stepping stones plopped into the sea for the convenience of a Cornish giant. After circling around the Angels a couple of times to take a closer look, I headed inland and descended, slowing to almost stalling speed looking for Lanyon – a large, red-brick manor house, with four gables and twelve chimneys. And suddenly it was there, sitting above a little patch of sea haze, in majestic reverence, on the cliffs above the cove.
The landing strip was nothing more than the lawned area in front of the house, but drat it all, a downdraft from the cliffs pulled at the aircraft’s little wooden frame as I approached, dragging me far too close to a line of very tall cedar trees as I turned finals. I powered on, overshot the approach and climbed away, waving cheerily at a couple of gardeners just a few feet below, who were leaning on rakes, open-mouthed, watching. The performer in me not dead but simply sleeping, couldn’t resist throwing the Moth into a tidy little barrel roll, before disappearing off over the horizon, to find pastures new and within these pastures, hopefully, a safe place to land. Within a minute I had found a stretch of level grass on the cliffs, directly above Angels Cove. There was a large barn in the corner of the field, too, which, if empty, could act very nicely as a store for the Moth. I turned into the wind, began my final decent and moments later, to my great relief, landed safely.
With the propeller slowed to a stop, I tore off my goggles and wool-lined leather helmet, unclipped the harness and jumped out to gather my bearings. A minute later found me jumping back into the wing’s stepping plate because a dozen or so cows approached at speed with a collective air of indignant and inquisitive over-confidence.
From my position of height, I attempted to shoo.
Shooing proved fruitless.
Help appeared almost immediately in the form of two men and a dog. They were walking towards me from the direction of the barn. The first man was wearing a long coat, his collar turned up against the wind. On closer inspection he was frowning. Definitely frowning. The second – the stockman by the looks of things – was shaking a stick in my direction. Even the dog seemed to walk with an air of peeved annoyance.
The men slapped fat sashaying backsides as they walked towards me, saying things like, ‘Get on with you,’ and ‘Away, away.’ On seeing the younger man’s face more clearly, and suffering from sudden and complete amnesia regarding the existence of Charles, my fiancé, who was waiting for me at Lanyon, I attempted to tidy my hair, which was beyond redemption. I quickly glanced down at my clothes. I was wearing a flying jacket (my father’s, far too big for me and ripped on the right sleeve) and, over thermal long-johns, men’s overalls, covered in oil, rolled up at the ankle and pulled in at the waist with a wide belt. The icing on the cake was my footwear – muddy, fur-lined flying boots.
Taking a cloth from my pocket, I gave my face and hands a quick wipe. The two men were only a few steps away now. The younger one paused out of earshot to speak to the other man, who snorted in my direction before turning tail and heading towards the barn, using a long stick to usher the cows with him.
The man approached. His expression did not soften.
‘Well, hello, there,’ I said, cheerily.
He stood there for a moment, not speaking. A kind of apoplexy seemed to have set in (this often happened to a man who found himself unexpectedly face to face with a female pilot. It was the shock, you see). I decided to wade straight in with an apology. Farmers could be ever so touchy about aircraft landing in their fields without invitation. It was best to take the wind out of their sails with a smile.
‘I’m so sorry for the …’ I glanced towards the cows. Their backsides lumbered from side to side as they began to disperse. Tails flicked with annoyance ‘… disturbance. I meant to land in front of a large house, up the way there.’ I paused to look in the direction of the house. ‘It’s the one with the four gables and twelve chimneys … or is it four chimneys and twelve gables, I can never remember …? Do you know it?’
‘Lanyon?
‘Yes.’
‘Of course. But look here …’
My bright smile and humble apology fell on blind eyes and deaf ears. He began to chide – really chide – something about the utter irresponsibility of landing an aircraft in a field full of cattle … could have killed myself, etc. etc. He went on for quite some time about all kinds of things that might possibly have happened had luck not been on my side, but I really couldn’t concentrate because he was just so damn gorgeous and to top it had a slight American twang in his accent, too, and I had a very definite soft spot for a soft American accent on a man, probably because of all the movies we watched in those days.
I was just trying to work out what an American was doing working on a Cornish farm when he stopped preaching and returned to his preoccupation of staring at me. I realised he was waiting for me to respond to his disciplinary lecture, but not knowing quite how to respond, and rather than answer and annoy him further, I simply kept quiet and ran my fingers through my tangled mop of thick hair, just as the cold wind nipped at my face and turned my nose into a dripping tap. I wiped my nose with the cloth and we stood in a kind of ‘what now?’ silence while the Tiger Moth rocked on its wheels in the wind. He was obviously going to wait it out until I spoke. There was nothing left to do but to shrug and apologise again.
‘You’re absolutely right, of course,’ I said, adding a suitably big enough sigh. ‘Landing on a cliff in a field full of cows was not my finest spot of airwomanship, but to be fair, I didn’t see the cows and if you think about it, nothing bad actually did happen so I wonder, could we start again because, you know, ’tis done now, and what else can I do but say to that I’m so very – very – sorry.’
I tried my best to look remorseful.
He took a deep breath. His eyes were cold, steady.
‘I’d say that was a perfunctory apology.’
‘Perfunctory?’ I repeated.
‘Yes, perfunctory.’
He had more.
‘You think that because you’re a beautiful woman you can do whatever you want – gallivant around, hither and thither …’
Hither and thither? An American saying ‘hither and thither’?
I let him rant on again, completely unaware of what he was saying because frankly, he could say what the hell else he liked. No person on the planet (other than my parents) had called me beautiful before – even my fiancé had never called me beautiful.
‘Listen,’ I interrupted, eventually, ‘we seem to have got off on the wrong foot.’ I turned towards the cows again who were quite a way away now. ‘You’re absolutely right in everything you say. Perhaps we could shake hands on the matter and start again – shall we?’
I removed my right flying glove and held out my hand. He hesitated, as if some kind of trickery might be involved, but then my hand was in his, being held for what seemed to be a couple of seconds ever so slightly longer than necessary, despite the chiding.
He pulled away.
Silence again, except for the whistle of the wind across the cliff tops. The void needed to be filled.
‘And hey! As a thank you, how about I take you flying this week sometime?’
He tilted his head to one side. He was suppressing a smile, I was sure of it.
‘A thank you? A thank you for what?’
I glanced towards the barn.
‘Well – and I know it’s ever so cheeky – but for allowing me to store my aircraft in your barn for the week.’
He turned to look at the barn.
‘The thing is, I can’t leave the old girl out here all week. I’m a guest at Lanyon for Christmas, you see, and I’m sure they would vouch for my good character – although it seems you’ve made a decision about that already.’ I added, with a side-eye towards the dog, who looked unconvinced. ‘I’ll pay for the inconvenience, obviously, although you’ll probably simply accuse me of throwing money at the problem …’
He braced his back against the breeze. His expression was unreadable. Was that a smile, though?
‘Which one?’ he asked, finally.
‘Which one, what?’
‘Which Lanyon are you the guest of?’
‘Er …’
Now, I know I should have said, Charles, I’m his fiancée, but the angel sitting on my right shoulder went into all-out battle with the devil on my left and the devil won. I should also have added, ‘We’re getting married this week, on Christmas Eve in fact. Do you know him?’
But I didn’t. Instead I went with …
‘Oh, I went to school with the daughter of the house. Lottie Lanyon?’
He nodded a kind of understanding.
‘The cove was the most perfect navigational landmark, what with the mounts …’ I touched my hair far too often as I spoke. ‘But the lawn at Lanyon – where I was expecting to land – was not at all suitable – trees, you see – and then there was the most terrible downdraft from the cliffs. So, it was either put down in your field or bust the old girl up in a hedge. And as I said. I didn’t notice the cows. I’m so very sorry.’
Just how many times would I need to apologise to the man?
He sniffed, considering. I wasn’t sure quite just what he was considering, exactly. We glanced in unison at the cows again, who were slowly being funnelled through a gateway into the next field.
‘Are they very upset by it all, do you think?’ I asked. ‘Is that what the problem is? Should I go and, I don’t know, pat them all and apologise or something.’
Finally, he laughed. Even his dog glanced up at him with an amused eye roll.
‘I shouldn’t think an apology is necessary.’ He patted the aircraft, visibly relaxing. ‘They would have eyed this machine of yours as an excellent scratching post. They’re most likely annoyed to have missed a good look-see. Cows are inquisitive beasts. Don’t you think so, Miss?’
‘Caron,’ I answered brightly. ‘Miss Caron.’
What the hell was I doing? The man was a rude and sanctimonious ass. And, oh, yes – I was getting married.
‘Caron,’ he repeated, softly. ‘Is that a French name?’
‘Yes. My mother was the Caron. She was French. She insisted that Papa took her name. Papa was English through and through, though.’
‘How very …’
‘Modern?’ I offered.
‘I was going to say, “good of him”. They sound like a progressive family.’
Gaining just a little of the sense I was born with, and not wishing to talk about my parents, I took control.
‘But back to the barn,’ I said. ‘I know it’s such an imposition, Mr …’ I paused and waited for him to finish my sentence.
‘Nancarrow – Edward, Nancarrow.’
A Cornish name? But the American accent? Intriguing.
‘… Nancarrow, but as I said, do you think I could put my aircraft in your barn overnight. Only, the wind’s getting up and an aircraft like this isn’t very sturdy – it’s not much more than a few planks of wood nailed together, really – just a wing and a prayer, as my mother always said. And the thing is, I’m here for the whole of Christmas week – I think I told you that already – so I’ll need somewhere safe to stow her and I’d be ever so grateful if I could pop her into the barn, really I would.’
Edward tightened his scarf against the wind. ‘I should think that would be all right,’ he said, turning towards the stockman who waited by the far gate, looking back at us, probably still scowling. ‘But you’ll have to check with Jessops over there, first.’
He glanced across to the stockman. I took the opportunity to examine Edward’s face. The afternoon light highlighted golden flecks in his hair and the wind reddened his cheeks to a marvellous healthy glow.
He noticed you looking at him. He bloody-well noticed.
Edward returned his attention to the aircraft and stroked it this time, rather than patted.
‘But you shouldn’t call this lovely old Tiger Moth a few planks of wood, she’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.’
I adopted an expression of surprised amusement. ‘You actually know what type of aircraft it is?’
‘Ah, you think I don’t know one end of a magneto switch from another?’
Handsome and a flyer …
‘But seriously. You fly too?’ I pressed.
‘Now and again, a bit of joy riding. Nothing much more than that. And there’s the feed to consider …’ The change of tack confused me.
‘Feed?’
‘For the cows. Jessops may have to check with your Mr Lanyon first, before you put the aircraft away. This is Lanyon land and they’re his cows, after all. But as you’re their guest … I’m sure it will be fine.’
I wanted to say, ‘Don’t be silly, he’s not my Mr Lanyon,’ but then remembered that, of course, Charles was exactly that – my Mr Lanyon.
‘His cows? I thought they were your cows.’
He shook his head. ‘My cows!? No. I was walking my dog along the cliffs and I’d stopped to talk to Jessops when we saw your aircraft coming in.’
He glanced around, realising the dog had wandered off while we were talking.
‘Speaking of your dog, where is she?’
He whistled. Moments later the red-and-white Collie dog appeared from behind a Cornish hedge. She had one ear up, one ear down. Edward ruffled her head. His face was a picture of fatherly pride. I knelt down to fuss the dog who jumped backwards and had absolutely no interest in me, just as Edward decided to turn tail towards the far field in the direction of Jessops.
‘Wait here a moment, will you …?’ he shouted back, already dashing across the field.
The dog ran after him. I shivered. The breeze really was frightfully cold, and I hadn’t been able to warm up since the flight. I danced on the spot and waited for Edward to come back.
‘All sorted,’ he said, slightly out of breath having run across the field with the dog, whose name I would later learn was ‘Amber’, barking at his heels. ‘You can leave it in the barn for the week. No need to check with the big house. But perhaps you could arrange for some kind of gift to be sent to Jessops – some beer or cider perhaps, as a thank you. It’s quite an inconvenience for him.’
You’d have thought the man was my father!
‘Of course. I’m not a completely inconsiderate oaf, you know!’
Edward’s face fell.
‘Fine. If you’re all sorted, I’ll be on my way.’ And with a curt nod of the head, he began to walk away.
‘Wait!’ I said, running in front of him, forcing him to stop. ‘Sorry, sorry to impose – again – but if I show you how, could you turn the propeller for me to get her started?’ I spun my arm in a clockwise direction. ‘I would do it myself, but it’s much easier with two, and it would be better to taxi her across to the barn under power than to push her all the way.’ I glanced down at Amber. ‘You might want to tether the dog first, of course.’
Edward took a deep breath. For a moment I think he considered walking away – it seemed he also had a devil and angel on each shoulder, too!
The angel won.
He changed his mind.
‘I know how to spin a propeller.’
He strode back to the Tiger Moth ahead of me.
But then, from nowhere, his face softened and his eyes danced when he noticed the paint work on the side of the aircraft.
‘The Incredible Flying Fox?’ He turned to me, smiling. ‘That’s never you?’
I shrugged. ‘Once upon a time, yes.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding? But you’re too young, surely.’
He was genuinely shocked. My heckles started to twitch.
‘Kidding? Not at all. I’d take you up, take you through my routine, but I doubt you’ve got the stomach for it. Few do.’
My ‘I dare you’ expression set off a further glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He took the bait and ran with it.
‘Oh, I’ve got the stomach for it, but only if you truly know what you’re doing. I’ve no wish to die young.’
‘Ah, I see.’ I turned away and knelt to duck under the aircraft to remove the chocks while talking. ‘You’re one of those men.’ He followed me.
‘Those, men?’
‘Yes, the type who can’t believe – or cope with – a woman doing anything outside of the ordinary drudge they’re usually stuck with. I grew up with a thoroughly modern and fair father – progressive, as you said – and I’m simply not used to being around men like you.’ I glanced up at him.
He raised his brows into a question mark.
‘Dinosaurs,’ I said.
I expected a smirk. But he smiled. A soft smile. He stepped towards me.
‘I was joking. Truly. I’m not at all one of those men.’
It was my turn to take a deep breath. I’d been overly nice to this man long for enough. I put on my helmet, goggles and gloves with sharp snatches.
‘So, will you help? Because I can manage on my own if not.’
‘I’ll help,’ he said.
‘And you’ve started a propeller before, you say?’
He nodded. ‘A few times, yes.’
‘I’ll jump in and leave you to it, then.’ I paused. ‘But only you’re sure you know what you’re doing?’
‘Of course, I do.’
‘Good.’
‘Good.’
I climbed into the back seat and prepared the Moth for taxi. He turned the propeller and then …
‘Contact?’
‘Contact!’
And off the little Tiger Moth went.
Chapter 5 (#u7e48d4b0-6036-5362-8380-0dc83e588d19)
Juliet
Lanyon
I grabbed my bag and ran away from the field, sharpish, arriving at Lanyon half an hour later to find a concerned Charles on the drive pacing outside the grand front door.
‘Oh, hello, darling,’ I said, blundering my way into the hallway ahead of him. ‘Sorry I’m late. I had to put down in a field and ended up having a bit of commotion with some cows, but it’s all sorted now.’ I pecked him on the cheek. ‘Where’s Lottie,’ I asked, taking off my flying helmet while glancing in the hall mirror. God! Had I really looked like that in front of Edward? I quickly tidied my hair and tried to rub a smudge of oil away with the back of my hand. ‘Only I’m desperate to catch up.’
Charles didn’t answer but took my hands.
‘But … Darling,’ he paused. ‘Before you see Lottie, I really do think we need to talk about, you know, the arrangement … only, Pa wants to iron a few things out. Details, you know.’
I shook him off with a peck on the lips.
‘Yes, I suppose we do. But not now though.’ I smiled my brightest smile and patted him on the arm. ‘I’m desperate to get in front of the fire and warm up, it was absolutely freezing up there today. Oh, and I’m afraid I rather upset those cows when I landed. Do you think you could send a thank you to your man … Jessops, is it? Perhaps some cider or something? He was ever so helpful, moving the cows to another field. And I’ve left the Moth in a barn.’
Charles laughed.
‘Poor Jessops. Yes, of course I can. I’m visiting him tomorrow. I’ll take something to him then.’
I kissed Charles again, with a little more enthusiasm this time, before striding across the hallway and placing my hand on the sitting room door handle. ‘Is Lottie in here?’
Charles nodded. Smiling, I slipped off my muddy flying boots and turned the brass knob on the large panelled door.
Lottie was dozing on a large sofa by the bay window. A King Charles Spaniel lay by her feet. An embroidered shawl, the most perfect shade of russet red, was wrapped around her shoulders.
‘Juliet!’
Lottie, stirring at the sound of the door, threw her legs off the sofa and crossed the room to hug me. ‘I’ve been waiting for you all afternoon. We saw you fly past ages ago. Charles imagined you dead in a ditch somewhere, although why a ditch always has to be involved whenever anyone goes missing is beyond me.’ She took a step backwards to look me up and down. ‘But looking at the state of you, I think you really have been in a ditch!’ She turned to Charles who had followed me into the room. ‘Do leave us to catch up in peace, Charles! And perhaps arrange for some tea?’
Charles shook his head in mock disapproval, crossed the room to kiss me once more before turning on his heels to leave us alone. Lottie returned to the sofa while I mothered around her, straightening her shawl around her shoulders. It was Lottie’s comfort shawl from school, the thing she always turned to in moments of distress (that and a book of Christina Rossetti poetry). This wasn’t a good sign. If the shawl was out, before you knew it the poetry books would also be out and Lottie would spiral into a depression that could last for weeks. The door clicked shut.
‘Good, he’s gone!’ Lottie said, lounging back into the sofa. ‘So, tell me, what have you really been up to all afternoon?’
I was just about to sit down myself and launch into a watered-down version of the truth when the door clicked open again and Charles’ mother rushed into the sitting room carrying a bed sheet.
‘Ah, Juliet. You made it. Jolly good …’ She glanced at my clothes and then at the bed sheet. ‘It’s because of the oil, dear,’ she said kindly, before laying the sheet across a chair.
‘Sorry, Ma,’ (Lottie insisted I called her this, although Mrs Lanyon and I both seemed to wince every time I said it) ‘But I did take my muddy boots off in the hallway.’
She glanced at my stockinged feet – men’s stockings – and patted me on the head as I sat down – ‘Thank you, Juliet. Most considerate.’ She pulled the bell for tea, sat down and started to chat, leaving Lottie to roll her eyes with annoyance at having had her confidential catch-up delayed.
The late afternoon passed pleasantly. Charles reappeared with the maid, Katie, who brought tea and a few eats, and we all caught up in the civilised manner befitting gentle folk who lived in a house like Lanyon. Final plans for the wedding were made, and it was only when Ma and Charles retired to dress for dinner that Lottie and I finally found a few moments to be alone. We sat in a delicious silence at first. I was perched on the end of her sofa, having dragged the sheet with me to tuck underneath my oil-stained clothes. We stared out into the darkness of the garden, which in daylight had uninterrupted views across the grounds to the ocean beyond, but at night was one long expanse of black, except for the moon, which was almost full and served to backlight a line of cedar trees perfectly, the moon shadows throwing glorious patterns across the lawn and river of silver through the sea.
‘I don’t know why I’m asking,’ Lottie said, breaking the silence. ‘But have you given any thought to what you might wear to the wedding?’
‘Oh, I’ve brought a warm woollen suit that belonged to Mummy. That will do, I suppose.’
Lottie shook her head in frustration. I pressed on.
‘But it’s winter, Lottie! And it’s very smart, too. Truly it is.’
‘But it’s your wedding day, Juliet. I can’t understand why you’re keeping it so simple.’
I began to play with a tassel on Lottie’s shawl.
‘Charles and I agreed – no fuss. And your Ma was relieved on the “no fuss” front, too. There might be a war. It doesn’t do for the big house to start being extravagant in front of the tenants. And I’ve got no one to invite, no one at all. I’d much rather spend Pa’s money on a new aircraft …’ I sat up. ‘Oh, did I tell you? There’s this fabulous little monoplane coming out soon and it’s …’ Noticing Lottie glance down at her very slightly swollen belly, I stopped. ‘Well anyway, that’s just a bit of a dream. But what about you.’ I tried to buoy her up. ‘What will you wear?’
She shrugged, disconsolate.
‘I know!’ I said, not waiting for an answer. ‘You should wear your cream cashmere two-piece. The one I bought in you in Paris.’
Lottie shook her head.
‘I was going to. But Katie can’t do the zip up anymore. And anyway, I want you to wear it.’
‘Me! But … look at my hands, Lottie! I’ll never get them clean enough to wear cream.’
‘I thought of that. I’ve told Katie to scrub them. No buts. It’s been laid out on the end of your bed. I knew you wouldn’t have brought anything suitable.’ She glanced at my clothes. ‘Just look at you, Juliet. I mean to say, have you even brought any decent clothes? You do know there’s a party here tomorrow evening? In your honour, I might add.’
I went back to the tassel.
‘I managed to pack a few bits and bobs. But truly, Lottie, it’s difficult to fit anything in the old Moth, what with the tools I carry and so on …’ My voice petered out.
Lottie wasn’t listening. She stirred herself sufficiently to leave the comfort of the chaise and cross to the fireplace to ring the bell. Katie appeared.
‘Katie, please escort Miss Caron to her room – via my room. Do not allow her to deviate. Wash her hands and help her to pick out a dress for dinner this evening, and for tomorrow evening, too. And when she finally steps out of the dreadful clothes she’s wearing, wash them and when she’s not looking, give them to the poor, although the poor probably won’t want them so you might as well burn them.’
‘Lottie!’
Katie tried to hide a smile. I made tracks towards the door.
‘Oh, and Katie …’ Lottie added, forcing Katie to pause at the door.
‘Yes, Ma’am?’
‘Tomorrow’s dress should be something stunning for Miss Caron. And don’t forget to take that tweed suit I pointed out for yourself, too. I don’t need it anymore and it will be nice for you to wear it over Christmas …’
Katie’s eyes widened.
‘Thank you ever so much, Ma’am.’
Lottie batted us off, but as we left the room, I took a moment to look at Lottie from the doorway. She had turned to face the moon shadows again. There was something in the way her head dropped and in the way her right hand was reaching to her cheek that told me she was crying. I wanted to rush her, to hold her and tell her everything was going to be all right. But if I did, Lottie would want to discuss the inevitable – her inevitable – a topic we had been skirting around all day, the topic Charles wanted to discuss when I arrived. The topic of a baby – and a promise, too. And if we did that, I wasn’t entirely sure that my previous resolve to help my friend would hold true, and the problem was, it had to.
Instead, I grabbed my boots, flying helmet, coat and gloves from the hallway, followed Katie to Lottie’s room and asked her to lay out a couple of evening dresses – but not to worry too much about what she found, any old thing would do.
Chapter 6 (#ulink_e0d18ffe-b1e3-59f9-bdfc-c0c9b3744a5c)
Juliet
The compass and the coddiwompler
18 December 1938
Dear Juliet
We said our goodbyes without arranging a time or date for the flight you offered me. Is today too soon? I can get fuel if necessary. I’ll wait at the barn at one p.m. in the hope you can make it.
Yours,
E. Nancarrow
Edward’s letter, handed to me by Katie a little after breakfast, caught me by surprise. I would usually run to Lottie with this kind of thing, but I didn’t tell her about the letter because … well, because I didn’t want anyone to know. I spent the morning walking the grounds with Lottie pretending E. Nancarrow did not exist, but later, with Charles busy paying Christmas good tidings to tenant farmers (including Jessops who would receive extra cider this Christmas for his inconvenience with the cows) and with Lottie resting, I felt restless and bored. Persuading myself that I really should go and make sure the aircraft was safe and sound, I pulled my flying jacket over a shrunken Argyle jumper of my father’s and tucked Oxford bag trousers into my flying boots before striding out and heading down the road. This Edward Nancarrow chap may well have been what might generally be regarded as quite a dish, but still, summoning me to take him flying when he had behaved so dismissively the day before really was taking the biscuit.
No, I would go to the barn and explain that I could not fly today, but as a woman of my word I would take him flying at some point that week – but at my convenience, in a day or so perhaps, weather permitting.
When I arrived at the barn Edward was already there, sitting on a hay bale and engrossed in a literary supplement – The Beano. I stood in the doorway and watched him. He tittered to himself while reading, seemingly a different man from yesterday – a happy-go-lucky, relaxed man. I coughed to attract attention and hoped that the midday winter sun backlighting me in the doorway would highlight the copper (my mother called it red) hair in just the right way. He looked up and smiled.
‘Hello, there,’ he said, putting the comic down before making his way around the wing and stepping towards me. His greeting had the casual air of an old friend about it.
Who was this new man with his relaxed airs?
Whoever he was he was dressed in layers of warm clothes.
Ready for flying, no doubt.
The presumption!
‘I thought I’d check the aircraft over for you,’ he said. ‘Make sure she survived the night. She seems perfectly fine, though – not a cow scratch in sight!’
Humour, now? I didn’t smile but sniffed out a kind of thank you. He followed me around the aircraft as I checked her over for myself.
‘You got my note, then?’ he asked.
I paused by the propeller and looked him in the face. ‘Note?’
His expression was perfection – there is nothing more satisfying than witnessing the sudden onset of self-doubt in an overly-confident man.
‘Yes, note,’ he repeated. ‘I delivered it to Lanyon myself, this morning. I asked the maid to take it to you directly.’
I shook my head before unclipping the stowage door. I removed my tool bag and a spare set of overalls and dropped them onto the barn floor.
‘I received no note this morning.’ I glanced up at him again, pulling the overalls on over my flying boots. ‘What did it say?’
‘Say?’ Edward was rubbing his temple now.
‘Yes. The note?’
He considered this.
‘Well, it, er … it …’
I rummaged unnecessarily in the bag before taking out a spanner, stood to my full height – all five foot five inches – and looked up at him.
‘It said that I’d …’ He glanced around the barn, still considering his next sentence.
‘That you’d?’
‘Well, that I’d be here – waiting for you – in case you were free to take me flying this afternoon. You did offer. I’m sure you did.’
I walked around to the engine housing and lifted the casing away.
He followed me.
‘Pass me my tool bag, would you?’
He sighed, picked up the bag and joined me by the engine. I took an oil-stained scarf out of the bag and tied my hair back before finding another rag to check the oil.
‘So, how about it?’ he said, watching me.
‘How about what?’
‘The flight you offered – my flight. How about it?’
I paused to look at him.
‘Today?’ I asked. ‘Right now?’
‘Yes.’
I shook my head and returned to the engine. ‘That’s not possible. Today is a day for essential maintenance. She was a bit sticky in the rudder on the way down and I want to sort it out.’
‘You do?’ he said, his voice playful. ‘You need to sort it out? You’re doing the maintenance?’
Not this again.
‘Yes, Mr Nancarrow. I’m doing the maintenance.’
‘But, how …?’
‘My father wouldn’t allow me to fly solo until I knew how to fix her. He’d say, “There’s absolutely no point gallivanting off around the countryside if you can’t fix your own kite, you know, Juliet, no point at all!” I know exactly what I’m doing, but if you aren’t happy with that state of affairs then I suggest you find someone else to take you flying – a man, perhaps. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy and I suppose you’ll be wanting to be on your way.’
I turned back to the engine.
He smiled then and his shoulders relaxed. I didn’t see the smile or the relax, but I felt them. And then a hand rested gently on my shoulder.
‘You misunderstand me,’ he said. ‘I think it’s wonderful that you know how to maintain her. Truly. And I’d be honoured to fly with you. Today, tomorrow, the next day. Whenever you’re free.’ His hand fell but I didn’t turn around. ‘Perhaps, like you said yesterday, we can shake hands and start again. I have a feeling that I was a bit of a pompous ass yesterday. It’s just, at the time I thought you were very lucky not to crash, and that would have been a terrible waste. I don’t like waste. I’ve seen a lot of unnecessary waste in my life and I over-reacted, I’m sorry.’
I turned to face him, the spanner still in my hand. I eyed him as a mouse would eye a smiling ferret. ‘Start again?’ I asked.
His eyes flashed brightly. ‘Exactly! Let’s pretend this is the first time we ever met, right here, right now …’
I hesitated.
‘I suppose I can do that. You were … quite, helpful yesterday, after all. But I still can’t take you up today …’ I softened ‘no matter how sweetly you smile …’
He laughed. I laughed. It was nice. Too nice. I remembered Charles.
‘But I really must get on. I have the engine to finish and then I really do need to take a good look at that rudder. Let’s say … same time tomorrow, and if the weather is fine, I’ll take you up.’
He visibly deflated. I turned back towards the engine.
‘Sorry, yes, I’ll leave you to it,’ he said to my back. ‘Till tomorrow, then?’
I nodded without looking around. I didn’t want to be rude or play with him, truly, but there was something in his smile, in the touch of his hand on my shoulder. He interrupted my thoughts by turning at the barn door.
‘I don’t suppose you’re free later this afternoon. Say, in a couple of hours, or so?’
I bent to glance at him under the wing.
‘Today?
‘Today.’
‘This afternoon?’
‘Yes. They’re putting on an afternoon tea and an early Christmas party for the children in the village hall. I’ve been asked to help out – organise games, play the guitar, that kind of thing – and I thought you might like to come, if you’ve finished here, that is.’
I considered the afternoon ahead. There was no sticky rudder. I made that up. Charles was out with his father and Lottie was sleeping. There really was no reason for me to say no, and yet, there was every reason for me to say no.
‘I don’t understand this change in you,’ I said. ‘You were quite … shouty, yesterday.’
‘Shouty?’
‘Yes, shouty. And now you seek my company, even though I’m an irresponsible and spoiled little rich girl.’
He tilted his head to one side.
‘I didn’t say that.’
I waited for him to think about it.
‘Well, not those exact words.’
‘Thank you for the offer,’ I said, suddenly coming to my senses, ‘but I’m not really dressed for …’
‘Nonsense! You look perfect!’ His eyes were so bright. So alive. So blue. ‘Come on, it will be fun! Come coddiwomple with me.’
Now, that got me. I smiled.
‘Coddiwomple?’
He nodded. We were still communicating through the gap between the two wings of the Tiger Moth.
‘I never heard of such a word.’
‘Oh, it’s a word,’ he said. ‘And I’ll tell you what it means if you come with me. How about I treat you to afternoon tea? Look, I’d love to know all about the flying circus, and I’d love to talk to you about flying, that’s all. I want to know about the flying fox. You, well, you fascinate me, Juliet.’
Fascinate? Well …
I knew I should walk away, stride out of the barn, open the gate, march up the hill and not look back. But the fire in his eyes was just too bright. It’s always the eyes that get you. He drew me in and I so desperately wanted to be drawn in.
‘All right,’ I said, in as nonchalant a manner I could muster. ‘Why not? But I’ll have to finish up here, first.’
He dashed around the wing and joined me by the engine, talking off his heavy overcoat and placing it on an obliging hay bale before appearing by my side, full of enthusiasm.
‘In that case, think of me as your apprentice. How can I help?’
‘No one works on my aircraft but me, I’m afraid.’ I nodded towards the comic left abandoned on the bale. ‘Perhaps you could carry on reading your newspaper …’
He laughed and returned to lounge on the hay bale while I worked away.
‘But why don’t you want to know what coddiwompler is?’ Edward asked as we sauntered, arms swinging, down the lane to the village, my hair still held back with a rag. I’d taken off my overalls but my flying jacket was a must. Yes, it was far too big and smelt of a mixture of fuel and cigars, but it was like being wrapped in Pa’s arms again, and I treasured it.
‘Because you made it up.’ I flashed him a quick smile as we walked down the lane.
‘Well, I’ll tell you anyway, because I think you’re a fellow coddiwompler, you just don’t know it, and that would be terrible.’
‘What would?’
‘To be one, and to never to know.’
We arrived outside the village hall. He’d got me now. I stopped
‘Go on then,’ I said. ‘Tell me.’
He shook his head.
‘It’s too late. We’re here.’ He leapt up the steps to the hall. ‘You’ve missed your moment. I’ll have to tell you later …’ He winked and opened the door for me to step inside. ‘Or tomorrow, when we go flying.’ I stepped through the door and as I did so our hands brushed, and not quite by accident, I thought.
We spent the afternoon helping with the teas and making paper chains and Christmas cards with the children. Edward had a natural manner and was clearly the darling of the ladies’ committee. It was light. It was easy. It was fun. And as the afternoon moved on, I had the distinct feeling that E. Nancarrow was exactly the sort of man my mother had warned me to steer clear of.
When the children began to disperse, we took a moment to wander away from the hubbub of the hall to sit on the harbour wall. We sipped whiskey from Edward’s hip flask and talked of flying. The inevitable moment came when we began to explore into each other’s lives more purposefully, to tentatively probe, to edge-in sideways.
Edward began. He wanted to know the ins and outs of how a young woman, barely twenty years old, had spent her formative years as the child star of a flying circus, able to nip about the country in her own aircraft.
I explained some, but not all, of my story …
My father, Louis Caron, was a philanthropic and yes, a wealthy, man. He was the proud owner of the Caron Flying Circus, which meant that I had rarely spent more than half a day straight with my feet on the ground. On my twelfth birthday I was strapped to the wing of a Gypsy Moth and told to smile and wave at the crowd. I loved it.
My mother was a descendant of French Romany Gypsies, albeit two or three generations removed, but she retained that air of exotic adventure about her and was a tigress of a woman. I didn’t take after her very much, I explained, except for a genetic disposition for slender ankles and copper hair. On my thirteenth birthday, Father argued the case with Mother that it was time for me to join the circus as a pilot – I had been flying duel-seated for years and could handle an aircraft as well as anyone he knew. I’d be wonderful, he said, and an asset to the show.
Mother asked father to leave us alone for a moment. She sat me down in the garden and took a while searching under leaves until she found what she was looking for – a caterpillar. She held the caterpillar in her hand and began to talk of butterflies, explaining how caterpillars are happy enough, to begin with, with their little caterpillar bodies and caterpillar feet, because they don’t know any better, but eventually, there was an awakening within them – a realisation that it was time for a change, to evolve into a completely new being – to blossom, to fly. She said that the caterpillar, quite wisely, chose to spend some time alone before it flew – to cocoon itself in its own thoughts for a while – and then, when it was ready, it shed the trappings of adolescence and transformed itself completely by growing wings and, at just the right time, took to the skies and flew.
She said, ‘Juliet. Your father has kept you a boy for far too long. It is time to shed your boy-like caterpillar frame, let go of those clumsy feet, hunched shoulders and flat-framed body. It is time to chrysalis into the woman your body is aching to become, which is why I have decided to send you to school – yes, there is no point arguing – for two years, with other girls your own age who can teach you how to become a woman. Join the circus now, by all means, but only on the proviso that, at fifteen, you will go to Paris and become a butterfly. Those are my terms.’
I said nothing. There was no point arguing with Ma.
‘But listen to me, Juliet, and listen hard,’ she added. ‘When you do blossom into a woman, remember that there are two types of man in this world – the non-predatory and the predatory. With your gypsy looks and wild-hearted spirit I know that you will attract the latter, but you must promise me, my love, that when you marry, you will marry the former. Oh, toy with predatory men if you must, make love to them, tease them for your own entertainment, but never – never – marry a charming man, and remember …’ she tipped my face upwards from the chin at this point ‘… are you listening to me, Juliet? If you ever fall properly and desperately in love, remember that the first throws of love are nothing more than obsession, they are not love, not really. And never let a man know how deeply you love him, because once he has the upper hand, he will break your heart in a single moment and not even pause as he steps over your broken body to move onto the next.’
Then, when I was fourteen, came the crash. Bereft, and dependent on Pa’s solicitor who was intent on carrying out mother’s wishes, I was sent to school in Paris and that’s where I met Lottie Lanyon, who took me under her wing and helped me through the darkest days of my life, never leaving me alone during the holidays, always taking me home to Cornwall, to Lanyon, and sharing her family with me, which is how I met Lottie’s brother Charles, the most non-predatory young man I had ever met. After a short courtship, I agreed to marry him.
Edward listened while I told an abridged version of my story. At no time during the course of the whole conversation did I admit to my engagement or to my mother’s warning about fast men. Was this a deliberate omission on my behalf – absolutely.
‘On my fourteenth birthday – which is also Christmas Day, by the way – Pa took me into the little club house we had at our landing strip in Oxford and he gave me a good luck charm, to keep with me, always.’
Still sitting on the harbour wall, I took my lucky charm out of my pocket and handed it to Edward. It was a compass, cased in gold.
‘It’s the most special thing I own – will ever own,’ I said, smiling at the thought of Pa.
‘It’s lovely,’ he said. ‘It’s a compass you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘But it looks like a pocket watch.’
He pressed a catch on the side to open the lid, revealing the compass.
‘Yes, it does, rather. But look … if you flick this tiny little lever, like this, and then turn the catch, the back of the compass casing opens rather than the front … see? And then you find that it’s not just a compass at all, but something else entirely.’
Edward looked at it, confused. A needle was centred on the face, but rather than pointing to North or South, the only words written on this side were, Oui and Non.
‘It’s an heirloom from my mother’s side of the family,’ I explained. ‘They were travellers. This side of the compass acts as a kind of fortune teller’s trinket.’
‘How does it work?’
‘Well, let’s say you have a pressing question you desperately need an answer for, you open the compass, ask the question, then press the catch to spin the needle and see where it lands – yes, or no. When Pa gave it to me, he said, “Here is your real inheritance, Juliet. But remember, if you ever need an answer to an important question, know that in your heart, you already know all the answers, and most often, if you are in doubt about something and are looking for an answer, then whatever it is that you are considering doing – don’t. Pause, wait, consider. There is much more time around than anyone supposes.”’
‘Have you ever asked it a question?’
I shook my head. ‘Never.’
Edward closed the compass and handed it back.
‘It’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘He must have loved you very much.’
I felt tears sting my eyes. Dear, darling Pa.
‘He did.’
‘You never thought of giving it up, after the accident – flying, I mean?’
I thought about my answer.
‘Have you ever thought of giving up breathing?’
He shook his head with a smile.
‘There you go then. It’s who I am. When I’m in the sky,’ I looked up with a sigh, ‘up there, I’m in heaven. I don’t blame aeroplanes for my parent’s death and have no intention of stopping flying because of it. It was a moment’s misjudgement on Pa’s behalf, and as devastating as it has been, I know he would want me to keep going, whatever the consequences.’
We sat in silence for a while, our shoulders touching, before turning our thoughts to Germany and the heart-breaking possibility of war. I talked of my grand plan – a plan I had not revealed to anyone, least of all to Charles – that being my determination to fly for the RAF, perhaps even join as a fighter pilot, the first woman ever. I just needed to work out a way to persuade them to have me. Edward did not mock. He accepted my dream as an equal, saying that if I dreamt hard enough, anything could happen. And I liked that. I liked that very much indeed.
‘Anyway, your turn,’ I said, returning the compass to a pocket. ‘You’re obviously not local, so why rent a cottage here? Why has E. Nancarrow come to Angels Cove?’ I took a quick slurp of whiskey. It was Edward’s turn to pause before answering. I filled the gap by answering my own question. ‘No, wait! I bet you’re an artist. It’ll be the light. Are you in with the Newlyn set?’
Edward shook his head.
‘I’m not in with any set. I just thought I’d come and stay for a while, take in the sea air. Enjoy the view.’
‘How very leisurely of you. But what do you do for a living – other than walking your dog on the cliffs and getting in the way of women trying to land their planes – what are you?’
A wry smile drifted across his face.
He rubbed his chin in thought. ‘I told you. I’m a coddiwompler.’
I laughed. ‘That again.’
‘Yes, that again.’ He took a sip of my whiskey. ‘Does that answer your question?’
I kicked my legs against the harbour wall.
‘Bearing in mind I have no idea what a coddiwompler is, I would say that you have in no way answered my question. So …?’
‘So?’
‘So, go on then, what is one?’
Edward sniffed and shook his head.
‘Oh, well, this is quite awkward, because I’m not really allowed to say.’
He looked away, pretending to be interested in a couple of men who were sitting on a boat, supposedly mending their nets but really just chatting at the far end or the harbour wall.
‘Not allowed to say? But you were going to tell me earlier …’
‘We coddiwomplers are members of a top secret club – I was going to tell you before because I thought you must be one, too’ – he turned to me – ‘because it hit me last night that you seem to be exactly the sort of person who would love to live her life as we do … but now, I’m not so sure. You might be a bit …’
‘A bit?’
‘Sensible.’
‘Nonsense. You’ve seen my aircraft – Daredevil is quite literally my middle name. Tell me!’
He shook his head. ‘No. We’ll just have to play I spy, instead. I’ll start.’ He glanced around the harbour. ‘I spy something beginning with B.’
‘Boat?’
His eyes lit up.
‘Yes! Say, you’re real good at this! I’ll give it another shot … I spy something beginning with S …’
‘The sea.’
‘No, that would be T S. Try again …’
The time passed far too quickly and without even noticing it, the sun began to set beyond the islands. I jumped off the harbour wall in a wild panic. Edward had a definite look of satisfaction on his face when I chided him for keeping me talking for so long.
‘Before you go, let me just …’ Edward surprised me by taking a folded handkerchief from his coat pocket. He wrapped a corner of the cloth around his finger and lifted his hand towards my face. ‘You have a smear of oil across your face, that will never do at a house like Lanyon. Far too proper.’ I didn’t move away, but allowed him to wipe my cheek.
‘How long has that been there?’
‘All day. I let you run with it.’ He stepped back to admire his handy-work. ‘There, all gone. Although, I actually preferred you as you were, with the warrior stripe – it really suited you,’ he added, softly.
A cloud passed over our fragmented bits of conversation. We had had our moment, both of us knowing I should have dashed back to Lanyon much earlier, but we had already taken on the selfish attitude of lovers and from the ambivalent view of the naïve observer – the men working on the fishing boats, for example – we would have appeared to have had nothing more than a pleasant afternoon enjoying the polite interaction of two friends. But Edward and I knew differently, and we knew it from the first, ‘Hello’. Because that was the thing with love at first sight, it was like the birth of time – the big bang of the universe itself. It was the ignition of a silent understanding exchanged in body language – in the blink of an eye, the angle of the head and the positioning of the body. It was that first spark of a silent understanding that set in motion an unstoppable series of events. A motion that creates a kind of energy that forever links two people in an impenetrable and invisible connectedness. A connectedness that almost always brings a heady emotional mix of absolute joy and unbearable pain.
Mother would not be happy.
As I waved goodbye and dashed up the hill, I felt like Cinderella running away from her Prince Charming. And just like Cinderella, I knew that the road would not lead us apart for very long, but would curve all the way around our respective destinations in the shape of an interconnected heart, and that we would stand in front of each other again, smiling, not wanting to walk away. And yet, at that very moment, I still didn’t know what he did, where he was from, why he was here – and most importantly, I realised dashing up the road, smiling – I still had absolutely no idea what a coddiwompler was!
No one at Lanyon knew what a coddiwompler was either. Pa Lanyon thought it sounded like ‘old English’ and after a rebuke from Lottie for being gone all day and a strange side-eyed glance from Charles, Pa pointed me in the direction of his library where I would find a miscellany on old-English quirky words. Sure enough, between cockamamie (ridiculous; incredible) and codswallop (something utterly senseless) I found coddiwompler: someone who travels in a purposeful manner towards a vague destination.
How very vague, and elusive, and exciting, and mysterious … and, he was an American, too … just dreadful!
Chapter 7 (#ulink_237c25d6-0b14-5ddc-a711-eb0777263589)
Katherine
A moment’s pause
I lay the manuscript down on the sofa and stoked the fire before selecting the search engine on my phone.
Several sites popped up on the search feed associating themselves with coddiwompling, including a webpage dedicated to the written ramblings of free-spirited bloggers who shared their adventurers on the internet.
One particular blogger – The Last Coddiwompler – caught my eye. He was a man who occasionally travelled with no real agenda other than to seek out one thing and one thing only – fun. He aimed always, he said, to simply ‘stumble’ across adventure, rather than to seek it out, genuinely believing that if he kept his eye out, even in the most mundane on places, adventure was only ever a heartbeat away. It seemed that in the process of hitting the road aimlessly, this blogger regularly found himself spending time in the most amazing places and meeting the most fascinating people – and not necessarily in exotic locations from glossy magazines, he stressed, but absolutely anywhere – Spain, Mexico, Hull … As I read this tale of modern-day adventure and stared in admiration at his photographs, I couldn’t help but be drawn in, and all the while a clearer picture of Juliet’s mystery man began to take shape, because if Edward Nancarrow was anything like the man staring out of the screen in front of me, he would have been a fun, free, sexy, enticing kind of a man. And yet wasn’t this exactly the sort of person Juliet was, too? An adventurer, a dare devil, a coddiwompler? Edward clearly thought so, and he knew it from the moment she landed her Tiger Moth on the field in front of him.
But it was only when I scrolled to the bottom of the webpage that I noticed and recognised the name of the blogger–Sam Lanyon.
My head tipped to the angle of a questioning puppy.
Sam Lanyon? The Sam Lanyon, Juliet’s grandson? It couldn’t be, could it?
With my interest in this family suddenly piqued to even greater heights, despite the early hour of the morning and itchy eyes, I huddled closer to the fire, wrapped the shawl tightly around my shoulders and read on.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_1bfcb871-322e-503f-9e91-03253826fd23)
Juliet
19 December 1938
Flying with Edward
The morning after the pre-wedding party I woke with a desperate desire to jump into my Tiger Moth, fire up the engine and fly right away.
I had behaved foolishly. I’d begun to flirt, to toy, and what good ever came of that kind of shenanigans?
What happened?
I was unmasked, shown to have behaved like a fool, and I deserved it.
Having been standing in the hallway with Charles, welcoming guests to the Lanyon Christmas party, I was utterly gobsmacked when, of all people, Edward walked in. I had no idea that he was at all acquainted with the Lanyons. He hadn’t said he was attending the party that afternoon. Perhaps, thinking me single, he had wanted it to be a surprise.
He arrived at eight. I saw him before he saw me, walking through the door, smiling, naturally at ease, a happy and contented man. I wondered momentarily, as I stood there, my heart in my shoes, waiting to greet him, if Edward had known I was Charles’ fiancée all along and if the attraction between us had been on my part only. That I had misunderstood his interest in me.
But when Charles introduced me to Edward as the future Mrs Lanyon, my heart broke to see that he had not known. Edward tried to hide his confusion, before quickly walking away and disappearing into the gathered crowd. He spent some of the evening with Lottie before retiring back to the village early, with the excuse of a headache and an early start the next day. We did not speak that evening, which was both a relief and an overpowering disappointment.
The following morning, having arranged with cook to breakfast before the house had risen and having previously arranged with Jessops for fuel to be delivered to the barn, I dashed to my aircraft, desperate to fly.
I was not surprised to find Edward there, waiting. He was sitting on his adopted hay bale, a blue and white striped scarf wrapped tightly around his face, no dog with him, no Beano and he’d clearly been on no more than nodding terms with sleep.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about Charles?’
Because I’ve fallen in love with you …
‘I’m not sure. Does it matter?’
Edward didn’t answer.
I busied myself around the aircraft, avoiding eye contact. We fell silent, unsure how to behave, how to speak. A few jerrycans of fuel were hidden at the back of the barn, exactly where Jessops, now amiable thanks to the cider, had left them.
‘You’re going flying?’ Edward jumped down from his lofty position on the bale.
‘Yes … I needed to clear my head and I knew …’ I stopped pouring fuel into the tank for a moment.
‘You knew I’d be here.’
‘I thought you might be.’ I put down the can and smiled up at him. ‘I promised you a trip and I’d like to honour that promise, if I may.’ I glanced out of the barn. ‘And it may be cold, but it is a beautiful day, after all.’
He smiled too. ‘It is indeed a beautiful day and I’d love to go flying with you.’
We spent another ten minutes preparing the aircraft before pushing my beautiful yellow Tiger Moth out of the barn.
‘Put these on,’ I said, handing him goggles and helmet before showing him where to place his feet on the wing. ‘It will be very cold up there and the clouds are bubbling out to the west, so it might be a bit bumpy.’
I leant across him to tighten his straps and secure him in the seat. He took me by surprise by taking my bare hand in his gloved one.
‘Listen, I think you’re amazing and beautiful and fascinating. But I know you’re spoken for. We can be friends, can’t we. Just for a little while? I’m not a reckless fool, Juliet. Not really.’
I finally looked him in the eye which was, as I suspected, lethal. A naughty Cornish pixie must have jumped my shoulder just then, because I suddenly realised that there really was only one way to go …
‘Not a reckless fool?’ I said (with a very definite flick of the hair and twinkle in the eye) ‘how very disappointing. I have a sudden fancy to run through my stunt routine today, which is why I’m making sure your straps are nice and tight, and only a reckless fool – or maybe a true coddiwompler – would even begin to consider jumping on board for that kind of a ride …’
His face came alive. His whole body sparked with energy, with life.
‘I lied,’ he said, putting on his helmet. ‘Show me what you’ve got, Miss Caron! If we’re going to go down, let’s do it in style!’ He snapped on his goggles with a flourish. ‘I’m ready!’
For the next twenty minutes Edward was taken on the ride of his life. The chill from the wind was fierce, but as we flew low and slow over Angels Cove, children ran out to wave at us, racing the little aircraft as we flew parallel with the road. I flew half a mile out to sea and performed only part of my stunt routine – a tick-tock stall and a few loops – but not too much, it wouldn’t do to turn Edward’s stomach and embarrass him.
On landing back at the field, I taxied the aircraft to just outside the barn and cut the engine. I jumped out once the propeller had stopped and leant across Edward to unstrap him. The cheeks on his face burned red but his eyes were as bright as shiny new pins.
Edward jumped out, ripped off his goggles and helmet and just stood there, looking at me and smiling – half madman – before picking me up, spinning me around and finally placing me, very gently, on the ground again.
‘That was incredible, Juliet. Thank you. Thank you so very much.’ He handed me the goggles and hat. Still on a high from the flight, he babbled on about the joy of flying while we pushed the Tiger Moth back in the barn.
‘I wonder, do you have time to come to the village again for tea? They’re having a Christmas lantern parade on the twenty-third and I seem to have been roped in again to make lanterns and decorate the church, and you seemed to enjoy our afternoon in the hall. I have a feeling you’d love it. What do you say?’
I wanted to go. I wanted to go so very, very badly, but I shook my head, leant against the wing and sighed.
‘I’m sorry, Edward, but I can’t.’
He stepped in, too close for mere friends.
‘Why can’t you?’
I shook my head and smiled resignedly.
‘I think we both know why.’
He stepped closer still and leant in to brush my cheek with his lips. ‘In that case, thank you for the flight,’ he whispered. ‘It was wonderful.’ He stepped back. ‘Consider the debt paid, Miss Caron.’ And then, without looking back, to my absolute surprise, he walked away.
Chapter 9 (#ulink_fc41caf8-be72-5fbf-b652-ebbf042a494c)
Katherine
18 December
Poor George
The candles were half their original size and surrounded by pools of wax when I place the manuscript on the sofa beside me, disappointed at Edward for walking away, and cursing Juliet for letting him go.
But it was time to stop reading. Not just because I needed to sleep (although, what did I know of sleep any more? Sleep had become a fitful irrelevance since James had died) or because my phone battery was down to ten percent and I wanted to save a little just in case the roof really did blow off, but because now that I was engrossed in Juliet’s story, I wasn’t sure about the – what to call it – moral correctness? – of reading someone else’s private memoirs, even if that person was no longer around to care. The only answer was to email Sam, the grandson – the coddiwompler? – and ask his permission to read on. I had ventured to Cornwall looking for a historical story to tell and it looked like I had found one, but that suddenly didn’t seem important, because looking into the lives of these strangers tonight had led me to throw side-glances towards my own story which, as Gerald knew, had not just stagnated, but stopped. Juliet was leading me somewhere – I just didn’t know where that somewhere was.
***
I poked my head out of the candlewick bedspread at about ten a.m. the following morning and promptly ducked under again once my nose had direct contact with the cold. I had two options, stay warm under the bedcovers but starve to death, or face the cold and risk hyperthermia. The second option won by a narrow margin leading me to jump out and dance on the spot while throwing open the curtains – a bright, wintery, sunshiny glow flooded the room. I stopped dancing and stared. What a difference a few hours could make, and what a view.
James would have loved this.
Wall-to-wall ocean broken by three little granite islands that sat in the bay.
So here were the famous Angels, splattered with tiny flecks of white, as if God had gone on a paint flicking frenzy. I put my glasses on and realised the white flecks were actually seagulls, presumably taking a well-earned rest after the stress of the storm. The sea was a little swollen still, but it seemed Katherine had moved on to terrorise pastures new, leaving a bright winter morning in her wake.
I turned on a wind-up radio that sat on the windowsill at the top of the stairs and tried the bedroom light. Still no power. Allowing as short a time as possible for my bare skin to feel the sharpness of the cold, I dressed in the previous day’s clothes and headed down the stairs, pausing to sit on the bottom step to check my phone for messages and contact Gerald regarding the day’s agenda.
Uncle Gerald had beaten me to it.
Terrible news. George has had a heart attack. Have rushed to Brighton in Land Rover – used the spare key as didn’t want to disturb. Have spoken to Fenella and she’s going to look after you – you are not to sit home alone moping! Will text when I know more about George as there is talk of a stent being put in. So very sorry to love and leave. Have a fabulous time. Don’t forget about the apostrophe, will you? Oh, and best keep a beady eye out for Percy and Noel who will no doubt try to cajole – they are leaders of opposing camps! X
My first thought was obviously, ‘Poor George …’ but my second thought was very definitely … ‘Bollocks!’
‘Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.’
And, ‘Bollocks to the bloody apostrophe, too!’
Sitting on the bottom step of the stairs I stared at the door, just as Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas came on the radio. Alone again for Christmas after all.
There was only one thing for it – I’d go back to bed for an hour and bury myself in both the snuggly covers and the embrace of my new friends – Juliet and Edward. Hoping that their paths would surely cross again.
Chapter 10 (#ulink_177157b1-4f2d-506f-b6a3-dfcd1bc5a103)
Juliet
22 December 1938
The promise
Dear Juliet
On second thoughts, I’m not entirely sure the debt is paid completely. The children are making lanterns in the hall from eleven and as the future lady of the manor, I thought it probably your wish – your duty – to help out. Lunch on the beach afterwards as a thank you?
Yours, the incorrigible coddiwompler,
E. Nancarrow
P.S. If you come, I’ll tell you what a coddiwompler is.
P.P.S. Wrap up warm!
The Christmas Card was hand-delivered by a young boy shortly after breakfast. I was having coffee with Lottie in the lounge when Katie handed it to me. I recognised the card. Edward had made it in the village hall during our afternoon together, when we sat with the children, in a moment of perfect happiness. I dare not open it and yet to leave it unopened would draw suspicion from Lottie.
Lottie glanced up from her book. I opened the card and feigned a smile.
‘It’s from Jessops,’ I said. ‘To thank us for the cider.’
I returned the card into the envelope, both gleefully happy and torn apart, made my excuses by explaining to Lottie that I really must return to servicing the aircraft– that sticky rudder came to my rescue again – and I explained that I would be out for the day. No one batted an eye at this. All they had ever known me do was walk for miles along the Cornish coast and tinker with my aircraft. As the Lanyons were neither walkers nor flyers, I had often spent much of my time during the day in Cornwall alone gathering my thoughts and healing my broken heart.
I dashed to my room to read the card again – slowly this time, drinking in every word. There was such a cocky confidence about his invitation and a secret intimacy, too. If Charles were to read it, he would think nothing untoward, but what Edward was really asking was to be alone with me one final time before I married.
There was only one thing to be done.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I pulled on my flying jacket over my best trousers, blouse and cardigan and headed, as fast as my feet could carry me without actually running, down the road to Angels Cove.
I lost the final piece of my heart to Edward that day. And yet, the very next day found me standing on a small table in the garden room at Lanyon, with Katie fussing around me with pins in her mouth adjusting Lottie’s cream cashmere suit. Lottie and Ma Lanyon looked on. I tried my best to smile, but my mind was a whirlpool.
I have often wondered if human attraction works in the exact same way as magnetic attraction and if this is why it is so utterly impossible to repel someone you are deeply attracted to. I knew I shouldn’t see Edward again and yet the pull towards him was beyond my control. If the universal law of magnetism was involved, then it really wasn’t my fault.
It was weak excuse but all I had.
And here was another – just as the north pole of one magnet will attract toward the south pole of another, so will the same polarity force each other apart, and I wondered if, with the introduction of Edward, Charles and I no longer attracted but repelled each other. In the evenings at Lanyon I tried my utmost to be near to him, to hold onto him, to be in love with him, but I couldn’t. And the more I thought of Edward, the more Charles became pushed away. The physics of magnetism then, was my feeble excuse for my behaviour that day, my excuse for dashing to Angels Cove at the first possible moment, hoping to find Edward in the village hall.
But Edward was not in the hall. He was, I was told by a lady trimming the Christmas tree, most likely at his cottage, Angel View, a whitewashed cottage up a little track to right of the harbour. And it’s got the best view in the village – said another lady who was hanging off a ladder hanging paper chains in the hall.
I had not yet been to Edward’s home. Our meetings, although inwardly intimate – certainly intimate inside my thoughts and dreams, and I’m certain intimate inside of his – had been kept purely on a friendship footing, which meant keeping away from the privacy of his house. There had been no talk of love, no snatched kisses, no hand holding, just lots and lots of fun. Which was why, as I approached Edward’s cottage, I felt nervous. I stood there for a moment, just short of the cottage and stared out to sea, at the islands, my confused thoughts bouncing around my head. The tide was out and the Angels – the three granite mounts I had used as a navigational aid just a few days before, when life had been so much simpler – stood proudly in the bay. They were larger when the tide was out and it was odd, but as I stood there and looked out to sea, with my coat fastened tightly against the freshness of the Cornish breeze, I wondered how on earth they had been given such a name and thought that ‘angel’ was far too beautiful a word to have been adopted for these ragged-looking islands, which seem to hide in every nook and cranny, some dark and foreboding secrets.
My thoughts returned to the present and to Edward and also to a story that Edward needed to be told. And yet it was a story I couldn’t possibly tell him – a story I had promised never to tell. It was a story that promised to tie me to the house – to Charles and to Lottie – forever. And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.
***
From the moment Lottie and I met, we were inseparable. We were for each other the sisters neither of us had ever had and despite my early misgivings, I loved my time in Paris and even felt the tug of my French ancestry calling me home. I spent every holiday with Lottie at Lanyon and became a welcome member of the family. Ma and Pa could not have been kinder and I became, without question, an accepted and loved member of the family. Those holidays at Lanyon were days of a privileged, gentrified youth – sailing on the river, a game of tennis, riding, croquet on the lawn – and although the loss of my parents could knock me sideways into a deep depressive abyss without a moment’s notice, bit by bit, although the weight didn’t lift completely, the grief became lighter as the months and years passed on.
My dream of flying as a career was not forgotten, but very definitely put on hold while I reluctantly did exactly what my mother had wanted me to do, transform into a lady. Ultimately – inevitably, perhaps – Lottie’s brother, Charles, became part of the package. I suppose it was expected from the get-go that Charles and I would marry, and so when Charles kissed me one balmy June afternoon in 1938, I kissed him back with the mechanical acceptance of a woman who had known for some time that this moment would come and accepted it.
This, I said to myself, was love.
Love was two people who got along and, after an appropriate amount of time, kissed, and after a further appropriate amount of time, married and perhaps had children. It was a steadier romance than Lottie and I had imagined during our nights reading novels at school, but I didn’t mind. My passion was reserved for flying and unlike Lottie, I had never actively looked for romance or expected anything other than that one day, I would perhaps marry the kind of man my mother had instructed me to marry – the non-predatory kind, the kind who would adore me to eternity.
Charles, very definitely, fit the bill.
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Melanie Hudson
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: The USA TODAY bestseller! For fans of Soraya M. Lane, Heather Morris, Fiona Valpy and Pam Jenoff. Inspired by the brave women of WWII, this is a moving and powerful novel of friendship, love and resilience. A story of love not a story of a war A daring WWII pilot who grew up among the clouds, Juliet Caron’s life was one of courage, adventure – and a love torn apart by war. Every nook of her Cornish cottage is alive with memories just waiting to be discovered. Katherine Henderson has escaped to Cornwall for Christmas, but she soon finds there is more to her holiday cottage than meets the eye. And on the eve of Juliet’s 100th birthday, Katherine is enlisted to make an old lady’s final Christmas wish come true… Me Before You meets The English Patient in this stunning romantic historical novel from award-winning author Melanie Hudson. Readers love The Last Letter from Juliet ‘OK…. I’ve finished the book. Holy ******…I had to keep taking breaks in the last 15% just so I didn’t break down in a flood of tears’ Zoe Hartgen ‘Read the first chapter and I. Was. HOOKED!’ Skye’s Mum ‘If you only read one book this year make it The Last Letter from Juliet’ Tracey Shults ‘I just couldn′t put it down until finished’ Jeanette ‘Captures those stolen moments in dangerous and desperate times…beautiful, nostalgic and emotional’ Cheryl M-M ‘Jam packed full of emotion…I don′t usually read historical fiction but I′m so glad I read this’ Jennie Scanlan ‘I can highly recommend this beautiful tale of love, sacrifice, friendship, courage and so much more’ Nessa Stimpson