Philippa Carr - We’ll meet again

Time slowed down. There was no sound in the room except that of the relentless engine which could stop at any second … and that would be the end.

“You, you.” It was slightly fainter. Billy Bunter was standing up.

He cried: “It’s gone past, but keep under cover.”

He himself did not. He went to the window.

Florette said: “I’m going to get my book. I thought I’d lose it. I shall always keep it with me now.”

“Wait!” I said, but she was off.

Then Billy Bunter, who was at the window, called out: “Hey, I do believe … Good God! It’s coming back!”

There was silence.

“You, you, you.” It was louder.

Billy was right. The thing had turned and was limping its way back, which meant it was immediately outside the building.

“Get under cover!” shouted Billy, and we darted once more for the tables. Slowly, deliberately, the sound was increasing; the damaged bomb was coming our way.

Nearer, nearer and then … the dreaded silence.

It was like that time in Richard’s flat—the explosion, the crump, crump, and then the rumbling that continued. Something was falling onto the table under which we were crouching. It must have been part of the ceiling. The tables stayed firm, so it could only have been fragments that fell.

Had the building been hit? It was not exceptionally tall but a long and rather sprawling one. I felt dazed. This was the second time this had happened to me within a few weeks. I felt doomed, that fate was pursuing me.

I heard people shouting. There was Billy Bunter, taking charge, as he had always done. Mary Grace was beside me. I saw that Peggy was trembling. Marian looked shaken. But they were all alive … under the table with me. That strong table had saved us from being hurt by those pieces of falling masonry.

The sound of sirens and fire engines filled the air. It was like a nightmare. I am not sure how long it lasted. These were familiar sounds in our war-torn city. So many times we had heard them. This was different. This was us.

It is difficult to remember exactly what happened. I just know that there was tremendous activity. We were numbed, bemused … and amazed to find that we seemed to be unhurt.

Then I heard Peggy crying: “Where’s Florette? She wasn’t with us. She’d gone to get her cuttings book.”

Billy Bunter started to speak. We would leave the building as soon as possible … just in case it collapsed. The bomb had apparently not hit the building but had fallen close beside it. There was considerable damage and it would be better for us to get out. There was nothing we could do but wait for instructions.

“You’ll be looked after, and as soon as possible. There’ll be a bus to take you home. You’ll have to report to the hospital for a checkup, but the main thing is to attend to the injured. You won’t leave the usual way. You’ll have to be shown. Go quietly, please. That’s the best way you can help.”

We stood huddled together. Peggy was very anxious. She kept saying: “Florette. Where’s Florette? Why did she go off? Why didn’t she stay with us?”

“She’ll be there in the cloakroom,” said Mary Grace.

“I hope she got her cuttings book all right,” said Marian.

It seemed a very long time before we were led out of the building. The bus was there and we filed in.

I looked back at the familiar building as we drove away. It was not the same; it would never be. One end was gone completely and there was a jagged gap. I saw a part of a room with filing cabinets standing in it—open to the sky.

There were people everywhere. I saw the ambulances and a stretcher being carried into one of them.

Then we were off. I was glad. I did not want to look any more at the scene of devastation.

It was two days before we heard the news about Florette. The cloakroom was at that end of the building which had suffered most from the blast of the bomb and Florette had died, clutching the book of cuttings in her hand.

The news shocked us all terribly, but Peggy I think was most affected. She looked shriveled and bewildered.

We all met again afterwards. Mary Grace took us to her house. We could not have met in the Café Royal; that would have been too heart-rending. We should have pictured Florette there all the time. It was sad enough in the Dorrington house.

All the gaiety had gone. We were all so unhappy thinking of bright Florette with her dreams of a future which now would never be. We tried to talk normally but it was impossible.

Marian should have been happy because both she and Peggy were being transferred to another branch of the Ministry. It was very near home for Peggy and not so very far for Marian, and they had both dreaded losing their jobs; but there was no happiness for either of them, particularly Peggy.

I told them that I would be going back to my parents for a while and then I would plan what I should do. Mary Grace would not be returning to the Ministry.

It was no use trying not to talk about Florette. It was almost as though she were there with us.

“If only she hadn’t gone back for that book,” said Peggy. “She’d have been with us under the table. Why did she want to go?”

“None of us knew the thing would turn back,” I said. “Oh, why did she?” wailed Peggy. “If only …” Her poor face looked older and more tired than usual, even more wistful than when she was yearning to be someone’s pet. She would not have lost her friend had Florette not gone back for the book.

“That’s life,” said Marian. “It all works on chance.” And we sat there in silence, thinking of Florette, who had had such dreams and had died so cruelly before she could try to make them come true.

I HAD VISITED THE hospital. No bones had been broken, but a rest was suggested, particularly as I had recently suffered a similar experience.

My parents were delighted to have me home.

“I only wish Dorabella was not up there,” said my mother. “Those wretched bombs are worse than the other kind, it seems to me.”

I spent a lot of time with Tristan. Nanny Crabtree was inclined to treat me like an invalid and attempted to “fatten me up,” but there was no doubt of her joy in having me back in the fold.

I did not want to be idle and so I helped my mother in her work with the various organizations in which she was involved.

There was a great deal of discussion about the progress of the war, which seemed to be going well in spite of certain setbacks; but clearly the end was not going to come as quickly as we had hoped.

I thought that, if Jowan were a prisoner of war and the Allies were advancing, it might be that they would come to where he was held, and free all the prisoners. Every day I waited for news with mounting hope. It would go first to Mrs. Jermyn, of course, but she would inform me immediately.

My mother knew this and was afraid for me. I guessed that in her heart she did not share my optimism.

She said to me one day: “Violetta, you still believe that Jowan will come back, don’t you? It is four years now.”

It was one of those days—they came now and then—when my hopes seemed to fade. It was a long time. Sometimes I wondered if he would be the same man when he came back. People change. Would his love still be as strong for me as mine was for him?

I hesitated and she was aware of this.

“Time is passing,” she went on. I knew what was in her mind. I should be twenty-five in October. I was no longer very young. She was wondering whether I was going to spend my life mourning a lost lover. She had known a friend who had been engaged to be married to a young man who was killed on the Somme during the last war. My mother had spoken of her occasionally. It was not only that she had missed marriage and family, but she had spent her life mourning for a man she had lost when she was eighteen. She did not want a similar fate for me.

She said: “I am sure you are better here than in Cornwall. I wonder if Richard will have to go overseas. Gordon is lucky. Not that he isn’t doing an excellent job. They couldn’t have done without him on the estate. Oh, I do hope this wretched war will be over before Richard has to go out there.”

I could read her well. She was thinking: here were two good men, either of whom, with a little encouragement, would be ready to marry me, and yet I went on mourning for someone who might never come back.

There was a telephone call from Richard. My mother took it and when she came to me she was very excited.

“Who do you think has just telephoned? Richard. He’s got a little leave and wants to come for the weekend.”

“And you said you would be delighted to see him, I am sure.”

“I did.”

“Is this leave because he is going overseas?”

“I asked him that. He said no, they can’t make any decision about that. He said the wound is playing up a bit and they won’t let him go while he is in that state.”

She looked pleased and excited. I knew she was hoping.

Richard arrived. My father was delighted to see him and my mother was more pleased than she had been for a long time because my brother Robert had leave too, though I feared that might mean that he would soon be going with his regiment to the Continent.

Richard arrived in the evening on Friday and would have to leave on Sunday afternoon to be sure of being back in the barracks by the appointed time.

He looked a little strained, I thought.

We sat round the dining-room table and talked about the progress of the war, and I was not alone with Richard until the following morning.

He suggested we take a ride and we went off together in mid-morning, telling my mother that we would have lunch out at some inn on the road.

Richard was able to ride with ease, in spite of his leg injury, but as we rode through the roads which I had known all my childhood, I sensed a certain restraint about him.

We found an inn, “The White Stallion,” with a sign depicting a splendid-looking horse over the door.

Over the food, Richard blurted out what was on his mind.

He said: “Anne is going to divorce me.”

“That is what you both wanted, isn’t it?”

“She is determined to do it her way.”

“She came to see me.”

“What!”

“Yes. It was when I was at the Ministry. I came out of the building and there she was, waiting for me.”

He stared at me in astonished dismay.

“I couldn’t understand it,” I went on. “There didn’t seem to be any point. She talked about my friendship with you. She asked about the flat.”

“The flat!”

“She said I would know it well.”

He closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath which I could not hear.

“I’d better tell you right away. She is going to divorce me on grounds of adultery.”

“Oh,” I said faintly, “I see.”

“My adultery … with you.”

I stared at him. “How can she possibly? It isn’t true.”

“That won’t concern her. I think she has been having the flat watched. It is known that we were there together. Then, of course, there was the raid. It was late in the evening and we were there alone together. It may be that will be considered evidence enough.”

“Oh, but it can’t be.”

“She’s tenacious. When she wants something she goes out and gets it. She had put off acting because she thought I might be at the Front and the chances of survival would not be great. That would have been a smooth and easy way to end the marriage. But I’m here and she believes the war will be over before I am sent out, that I shall stay on in comparative safety and her nice easy way of being rid of me will be denied her.”

“Do you really believe she is as calculating as that?”

“Calculation is second nature to her. I know her well. This is amusing her. She used to laugh at me … the virtuous barrister, she called me. So it will amuse her to see me caught up in an unsavory divorce.”

“Oh no!”

“It is what she has in mind. This is the quickest way to end the marriage and that is her aim; she is tired of it and she wants it ended and to come out of it in the best possible way herself. The bored wife who wanted to divorce her husband who was serving his country would not be viewed with sympathy. But if he is unfaithful to her, she has every reason, of course.”

“But it is so false. We were just good friends. It was only natural that I should go there and cook something for you.”