hand in both of his.
‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘I’m afraid it does, rather. It’s worrying really …’
‘What is?’
‘Well, if the angels are confused and looking for guidance, what chance do us mere mortals have?’
Edward turned to me. His face bordering on excitable – feverish.
‘Ah, but that’s why this picture is so wonderful, Juliet. We all – every single one of us – need guidance sometimes. But no one – not even God – can tell us what to do in every given circumstance. I think God is smiling at the angel, saying nothing in answer to his question but simply offering love, because if this war has taught me anything it’s that in the end, love really is the only answer. We just have to keep believing in love.’
‘Do you believe in love, Edward?’
Rather than answering my question, he took my face in his hands and kissed me. When he sat back into the pew, he glanced up at the window again. His words took me by surprise.
‘I have to go away tomorrow.’
I turned to face him. ‘But, it’s Christmas Day tomorrow …’
‘I have no choice. Listen, don’t be cross, but I’ve taken the liberty of arranging for you to stay with Lottie … at Lanyon. No, please don’t argue. I asked Lottie not to give the game away earlier.’
‘Can’t you delay, just for a day?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it can’t.’
‘But why can’t I stay on at Angels View? Lottie can pop in from time to time …’
‘You can’t possibly stay on your own, you’re not fit enough.’
I sighed. He was right.
‘How long will you be gone?’
‘The thing is, I’m not sure when I’ll be back.’
‘Are we talking weeks or …’
He shook his head again. ‘More like months.’
A rush of panic swept over me.
‘Don’t go, Edward. Please. I’m begging you. Become a conscientious objector, you believe in love, you said so!’
He smiled.
‘Why not?’ I went on. ‘I’m being serious. I’m frightened. What with losing Anna, and now …’
He put a finger to my lips to silence me.
‘You need to rest. Oh, and I’ve got a favour to ask, by the way.’ He picked up his hat and brushed an invisible fleck off the brim with the back of his hand. ‘I need to find a poem to learn before tomorrow.’
‘A poem? But you’re dreadful at remembering poems.’
He laughed.
‘I know.’
‘Why do you need a poem?’
‘I can’t really explain, it’s something to do with messages, but I need a relatively short one that I can easily memorise. Nothing too over-the-top.’
I picked up a prayer book that was resting on the back of the pew in front of us. It fell open at a page marked by an insert of a loose leaf of paper. The paper had a prayer typed on it. I began to read it aloud.
‘The Prayer of St Francis,’ I began. ‘Do you know it?’
Edward shook his head. I began to recite.
‘Make me a channel of your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love … where there is doubt, faith. Where there is despair, hope …’
I glanced up towards the angel and smiled my thanks before handing the paper to Edward.
‘I do believe that this,’ I said, ‘is for you.’
Unable to fight off the tiredness after our walk, I slept, waking mid-afternoon to find Edward smiling at me, sitting on the floor by my side, his dog, Amber, sleeping on the hearth rug next to him. It was a picture-perfect moment of complete contentment and I wondered if such perfect moments can only be found when the recipient knows that the situation is temporary. We took Amber for a last walk to the beach and watched the sun slowly dip behind the islands. As the last arc of golden light disappeared behind the horizon, surrounded by twilight, Edward delved into his coat pocket and took out an envelope. He handed it to me.
‘For you,’ he said, before tenderly brushing his lips against mine.
‘What is it?’ I asked, trying to open it with one hand. He took the envelope, opened it and handed me the card. He had made me a birthday card. There was a just enough light left for me to read his words inside.
Happy birthday/Christmas my darling Juliet.
I wrote a poem while you slept, after all. But this one is just for you.
Whatever happens, keep believing in love, my love,
Always, Edward.
‘Where Angels Sing, by Edward Nancarrow,’ I said, swallowing back the tears. ‘A poem? For me?’
He nodded.
I glanced up. ‘You actually wrote one, you,