The Last Letter from Juliet - Melanie Hudson Page 0,66

of managing the tenant farmers – many of whom had taken on city children – and organising the Land Army was, Charles thought, perhaps a little too much for him, especially since the accident.

I read the letter as if I were reading about people I barely knew. I had corresponded with Ma, who had recovered, albeit a weakened woman, and I kept in touch with Lottie, too, who was based at RAF Leeming in Yorkshire, where some of the Canadian squadrons were holed up. Lottie, it seemed, had discovered a renewed life-purpose in the WAAF, and was working tirelessly as a driver for the Mechanical Transport Section while Mabel was looked after by her aunt.

But to go to Lanyon now?

The note from Charles ended with a postscript which confused me. He wrote that one of the men in charge of the comings and goings at Lanyon was none other than our old acquaintance, Edward Nancarrow. It was odd, wasn’t it, he said, how things were able to change so significantly within a fleeting moment. He went on to say that such moments should be grasped with both hands – that the war had taught him to run at life, not away from it. He concluded by asking again that I go to Lanyon for a few days and if I felt lonely, I could always seek out that chap, Edward, and perhaps go for a walk or something, just like the old days. Then Charles had signed off, wishing you all the very best in the world, my dear Juliet.

I held the letter for some time, staring at the wall, thinking. The tone hadn’t been like a letter from a husband at all. No, we had never had the time to develop our marriage and deep down, even though I couldn’t help but desire another man, a man – let’s be clear – I barely knew, but the taking away by the war of my first years with Charles had saddened me, because how on earth could we ever pick up where we left off, when there was no ‘leaving off’ place to pick-up from? It would be like trying to keep a child sitting on a knee it wasn’t familiar with. It would keep sliding off – we would keep sliding off.

But what to do about Lanyon?

I was sitting in the mess at Hamble darning a pair of flying socks listening to the radio with Anna when I paused to consider this question. We decided that I really should pay Lanyon a visit, and not just because of the chance of seeing Edward (we both reiterated at exactly the same time) but because of the great piles of money I’d sunk into it. Like it or not, Lanyon – in all its dilapidated but splendid glory – was beholden to me, and I was tied – for better for worse, for richer for poorer – to it.

But how, and when? It wasn’t like the old days, the days of endless summers when I could jump into my Tiger Moth and nip down to Cornwall for a day’s excursion. Private flying was not permitted and fuel rationing for private cars was fierce, not that I’d ever learned to drive. I could, of course, catch the train.

Anna had a different solution.

The South West of England had become increasing vulnerable to attack by the Luftwaffe and so a number of airfields had been built in Cornwall, one of which was RAF Predannack, about five miles from Lanyon. Anna knew this because our Polish friend, Leska, had delivered a Hawker Hurricane to that air base the week before and had complained about the chauvinism she found there. All I had to do, Anna suggested, was explain my personal circumstances to the boss and ask if I could take the next delivery to Predannack. There were bound to be lots of deliveries headed that way, how else would the new squadrons come up to strength?

Within three days, my wish was granted, which was how I came to find myself flying to Cornwall again – in a Hurricane this time – heading into the afternoon sun, checking off major towns and rivers en route. This time I kept inland, away from anti-aircraft gunners who monitored the south west approaches, and smiled at the wonder of it – me, in a Hurricane – and with a sudden flashback to my stunt-pilot days, decided not head straight for Predannack but threw the rule book out of the