Lying in bed, Rosie held Peter’s letter to her heart. He might be gone, but she needed to keep him close – at least his words and his memory. Tonight, as she did every night, she replayed in her head the film of their love affair, starting with how she had met Peter when he came to inform her that her uncle Raymond’s body had been pulled from the Wear. The image of Peter standing in her bedsit was as clear as day. He had been wearing a smart but well-worn black woollen three-piece suit, with a narrow, perfectly knotted dark blue tie; his manner, like his attire, had been the epitome of professionalism.
Was that really just over three and a half years ago? Somehow it seemed longer.
Suddenly, Rosie’s eyes flashed open as a thought occurred to her.
Had that been a sign?
A death had brought them together, therefore was it not inevitable that their relationship would end with a death?
Rosie sighed in the darkness.
Well, if it was a sign of things to come, she hadn’t read it, and even if she had done, she wondered whether she would have paid it any heed, for after that first meeting they’d been drawn to each other – by chance and by an undeniable magnetism.
Rosie looked up at the ceiling, knowing that sleep was still a long way off. Forcing her eyes closed again, she brought to the forefront of her mind the image of Peter a few months later when she had bumped into him by the docks. Much as she had tried to fight it, she’d been attracted to this older man with his thick, grey-flecked dark hair and intelligent blue eyes. Then – on Valentine’s Day of all days – they’d bumped into each other again and Rosie had agreed to go for a cup of tea with him at Vera’s café. Peter had later admitted that he’d been smitten since first setting eyes on her.
Rosie smiled to herself in the darkness of her bedroom as she remembered his confession. She too had felt the same way. The chemistry between them had been obvious from the start.
Their courtship had never been a traditional one – or smooth-running. Rosie had known from the off that she was playing with fire as there was no way that Peter, a detective sergeant, could find out about her ‘other job’. Still, she hadn’t been able to stop herself.
Rosie opened her eyes and stared at the blackout curtains. She imagined she saw Peter in the shadows. The outline of his trilby hat, clutched in his hand, his coat loose and flapping open as he strode towards her; he always seemed so desperate to reach her. He had admitted later that his attraction towards her was unlike anything he had ever felt before – even with his first wife, whom he had loved dearly. ‘You fascinated and intrigued me,’ he’d told her, ‘and you still do.’
Rosie folded Peter’s letter.
They had been together until the day Peter had told her that he had joined the Special Operations Executive. Rosie had been so angry. Every time she remembered that awful night on New Year’s Eve, she cringed, recalling how she had shouted, ‘Damn you, Peter!’ and stomped off. She wished more than anything that she could take those words back. Had those words in fact damned him for real?
Peter had left town without being able to say goodbye to her. He had written her a letter, but she had received it too late. She had run like the clappers in her hobnailed boots after she’d belatedly read his words – sprinted to the station to catch him, but had missed him by minutes.
Rosie sat up in her bed and wiped away her tears. Even now she still felt exasperated with herself for being so stubborn and so selfish. She should have been proud of Peter, not furious with him. He was prepared to sacrifice his life for his country and all she could think about were her own feelings. Their time together had been too short and made shorter still by her obstinacy.
Rosie leant over and switched on her bedside light. It was no use. Tonight, she was not going to sleep. Her body might be tired, but her mind felt on high alert.
Putting Peter’s letter on the bedside cabinet, Rosie mused that the day she’d missed him at the station, fate had lent a hand. Peter had caught a glimpse of her as his train had left and on arrival in Guildford he had sent a telegram and a travel warrant for her to come and join him, which she had done – and they had married and barely left the hotel suite near the registry office where they had tied the knot. They had called it their hotel. Rosie tried to convince herself that she had been lucky they’d had that wonderful weekend together.
Getting out of her bed, Rosie retrieved the special box she kept in her wardrobe. It contained the few reminders of her husband she had been left with. Climbing back under the covers, she opened the box and took out the letter she had kept pristine these past two and a half years since she had picked it up from the doormat when she had moved into Brookside Gardens. Peter had sent it before leaving on his first assignment. She smiled as she reread his words of love – how wonderful it was being able to call her his ‘wife’, and how happy he was that she had made him her husband – his only regret that he wasn’t there to pick her up and carry her across the threshold.
Another tear escaped as she read his words of encouragement, telling her how strong and resilient she was.
How she wished she still was.
He’d told her that if he didn’t make it back, she had to live ‘this wonderful life we have been given’.
But it doesn’t feel wonderful, she thought, forcing back more tears.
She touched a fragile dried petal in the bottom of the box. Peter had sent her an envelope of petals a few months after he had left for France. They were the same as her wedding bouquet. Pansies. They had discussed their meaning – thinking of you. She remembered telling him on their honeymoon, ‘I want you to know I’ll always be thinking of you. When I’m working. When I’m not working. Even when I’m sleeping, I’ll always be thinking of you.’
How true those words still were.
Her instincts had told her that Peter would return. That they would have a future together.
How wrong she’d been.
And with that thought, more tears came. It was always the same when her mind slipped to the future – a future without Peter in it. The thought of never seeing him again unleashed all the unrelenting, tireless demons of grief. She muffled her cries so that Charlotte would not hear her.
Eventually they abated. Perhaps now she might be able to sleep.
She switched off the side light.
As she started to drift off, she felt Peter’s presence close by. Why did she feel he was still here with her?
She was keeping him here, in her thoughts – feeling the weight of her love for him. A love that was as strong now as it had ever been, and which she knew would never die. Not for as long as she lived.