with Pat. She had taken her once years ago and she was convinced Pat had grown bored only halfway through looking at the show gardens. Maybe that was because Evelyn loved to make notes of the planting schemes and jot down the names of new varieties. Pat was only interested in dog-proof gardens and golf greens. No, it was so much more enjoyable when she went alone and could focus on the beauty of the plants and the skill of the garden designers and specialist nurseries. Evelyn feels a lot of her life has been less complicated when she’s accomplished tasks alone.
And now the music is starting and a song sheet in large print is thrust into Evelyn’s lap. ‘When I’m Cleaning Windows’ is engraved on her memory and she knows the lyrics to that and other popular songs off by heart, but she has to be seen to mumble and peer at the printed words as if she is struggling. Her wavering voice joins the other croaking, trembling chords, faint above the rhythm of the music and the pseudo-Lancastrian accent being used by the musician, but grows stronger with the famous chorus.
‘Shall I help you, Mrs T-C?’ asks a kind voice at her side and a hand extends to help her hold the song sheet, then places Evelyn’s crossword on the coffee table and picks up her pencil. Evelyn smiles and allows her helper to guide her through the words, pointing at each phrase with the newly sharpened tip of her pencil. Evelyn likes to keep her pencils sharp; she has found it so very useful in the past.
8
25 April 1943
My darling, darling man,
I am perfectly well aware that you are no longer here, I am not deluded, but I have no other way of venting my feelings and my fury, other than scribbling so hard on this notepaper that it is practically torn to ribbons. Yes, fury, anger, call it what you will, that you should survive so many missions and then perish. How could they have been so reckless with you, after all you had endured, how could they push their luck so carelessly? I want to scream and throw my maddened self at those responsible for being so careless with your life.
My grief is so bitter, so furious, I am sick with tears of rage. Firstly, I am livid with you for even joining that wretched unit and secondly, I’m absolutely incensed with them for not keeping you safe. I know you could never tell me exactly what you were doing out there (though I can jolly well guess) and that there are losses in all branches of the services, but you simply had to choose one of the riskiest, didn’t you? And how dare you say it was because it meant you could practise your French! You foolish, dear man. You were so proud of your linguistic skills, weren’t you? So delighted that all those long summer holidays on the Côte d’Azur and skiing in the Alps had helped you brush up your French.
I wish now that you had never learnt a single word of that wretched language, not even the words you whispered to me so sweetly on our honeymoon. All I can think is that your love of French took you away from me and into the most dreadful trouble and now you will never come back, never hold me again, never kiss me again. The country house we planned to have, with stables and gardens, will never happen, the children we longed for will never be born. The life we thought was promised to us for fighting this wretched war cannot be and now I cannot think what kind of a future I can have without you.
I know that you had near misses on previous missions and I cried buckets when I thought you were missing last year, but by a miracle you came back and I never thought I should cry so much ever again. But I was wrong, you foolish, reckless man. I’ve cried torrents, rivers, cloudbursts of tears since I received official confirmation of your death. Yes, I know you felt you had to go on doing your duty, but I always thought you would be more careful after such a lucky escape. But you loved tempting fate, didn’t you? Laughing at fate, relishing the risk. And now there is no one but my parents and our friends to restrain me. I can smoke cigarettes, drink gin to my