After a few minutes, the sobbing subsided and I said, as gently as I could, “Would you like some water instead?”
Silently, she shook her head. She hadn’t really heard me.
Then she said, “Where’s the telegram?”
“On the sofa beside you,” whispered Lottie.
I had replaced it there.
Faye took it and held it close. She read it again, and burst into tears again.
Sam picked up Will and carried him through into his room, shutting the door behind her.
Lottie and I waited for Faye to quiet down again. Lottie sat next to her, rubbing Faye’s shoulder. I sat across from the fireplace, sipping my whisky.
Eventually, Sam reappeared and made a drinking movement with her hand. I went through to the dining room and poured her a Scotch. Then she sat on my lap and we waited.
Nothing much happened that night. After about another fifteen minutes, Faye got up and went into her room. We heard her crying again, but then she fell silent and we assumed she had gone to sleep.
The rest of us went to bed early and in silence.
In our room I silently handed Sam the package I had retrieved from near the front door.
“For me?” she whispered.
“To celebrate my promotion. I couldn’t know what was going to happen the minute I arrived home.”
She unwrapped the package.
“Oh, Hal,” she said quietly. “It’s lovely—a lovely idea.” She stepped across the room and we embraced. We kissed but not… not ardently. She drew back and whispered, “Sorry, it’s not—”
“I know,” I said, putting my thumb to her lips. “It’s not the moment. I couldn’t know. Don’t worry.”
Sam shook her head. “You were wounded, Tony’s been killed. Three children didn’t come to school today—they stayed home with their mother because their father, away at the Front, has been killed.” She touched my cheek with her fingertips. “How many men are going to be left, when this war is over?”
It was not immediately clear who she was thinking of…
“Our father liked the Caribbean,” said Sam, placing her hand flat on the map. “He went there a few times.” She sighed. “In fact, he liked it so much he changed the company he worked for, to one that only had ships going to the Caribbean.”
She leaned over and kissed me.
As we settled into bed and I put out the light, she murmured, “That was a lovely thought, Hal. The map, I mean. It brought back a lot for me.”
She turned and kissed my shoulder. “And don’t worry, tonight’s not… not the time. But I’ll make it up to you.”
The next day was a Saturday and Sam, Lottie, and I were at the breakfast table when Faye appeared. Her hair was disheveled, she hadn’t washed the smudged mascara off her face, and she looked wrecked.
Will was again wrestling with the dog in the living room.
Faye sat down at the kitchen table without speaking, and Sam poured her tea in the way that she knew Faye liked it—strong and sweet.
“Toast?”
Faye shook her head. She sipped her tea.
Lottie leaned forward. “Don’t take it so hard, Faye. There’s always Cyril.”
“Lottie!” whispered Sam urgently, but it was too late.
Faye jerked back, dropping her tea, which went everywhere.
“What do you know about anything, Lottie!” Faye shouted, getting to her feet, scraping the chair back and knocking it over. “How many men have you ever had, you sour-faced stage hag. Look at you! No job, no man, no brains—and no fucking hope in any direction.”
“Not so loud, Faye,” said Sam, softly but urgently. “Will might hear.”
“Not in front of the little Fritz, you mean? The little sauer-fucking-kraut.” Faye pointed her finger at Sam. “It was the fucking Germans who killed Tony. It was the fucking Germans who started this war and forced us to live like… like this.” She slapped the kitchen table. She pointed at Sam again. “How could you, Sam—fuck a German, I mean? How could you sleep with the enemy?”
“Faye,” I said, stepping forward.
“Don’t you interfere, Hal. This is not your fight. This is not your family.”
“Faye!” screamed Sam. “Take that back!”
“I’ll take nothing back,” growled Faye. She pointed to me. “He’s not Will’s father, he’s not your husband.” She glared at Sam. “Just because you’ve got yourself a war hero, Head Girl, a baby and a flat in Chelsea, you think you’ve got it made. How long do you think you can get away with it—eh? The boy’s a German, a Kraut, a Fritz, a fucking Kaiserkind, and once the world knows, where do you think you’ll be, Madame