Give me your love for this is true,
I am as rich in love as you,
And any love that I may owe
I can pay back to you and more.
Give me your love knowing this is true
That I can repay all that’s due,
So give me your love
Oh, give me your love.
And with this love we stand secure
Against the “ups and downs” we all endure,
Together we face the darkest night
Together we smile when skies are bright.
When at last the days of youth are gone
Love will bless our Evensong.
So give me your love
Oh, give me your love.
Chapter 4
1946
Gillian was still upset over what had happened at the farm last night. She was sure Mrs. Hemsworth would lose the baby and found herself walking on eggshells all morning for fear the telephone would ring with panic again. The phone didn’t ring, and the surgery was quiet this morning. Dr. Pilkington had arranged his instruments for the third time and was interrupted only by Gilbert Brody who had pinworms. As long as he walked around with that pig next to his side, those parasites were bound to keep reappearing. Like roaches, they’ve been around since the dawn of flesh and could easily wrangle their way into Gilbert’s backside again. Quirky critter! she thought. Not the pinworms—Gilbert. Albeit he was scruffy and always looked as though he’d just crawled out of bed, Gilbert was an easy soul—not a rumpled temper in him except when his bottom was on fire. He should be well thankful for a little castor oil instead of moaning about how it slid down like a land slug.
By now, Gilbert had long gone and Dr. Pilkington looked exhausted. It wasn’t easy dealing with Mrs. Hemsworth. She never stopped buzzing about the sordid affairs around town, affairs of which she had no proof. All the while she was wailing with pain. “The worst of all,” she cried, “is those two fisherwomen,” she called them, “who spend as much time rolling in the hay as they do rolling in on the tides.” She grew a belligerent glare in those crooked eyes of hers, “Lesbians! I’m sure of it!” When Gillian had wound a bed sheet into a muzzle and offered it behind her back, Dr. Pilkington smiled and nodded. They were very close to following through with it until Mrs. Hemsworth whipped her head ‘round and caught them in the act, throwing a beady glare Gillian’s way. She was sure the doctor would have preferred her to faint for a few minutes just so he could concentrate. In the end, Mrs. Hemsworth fell asleep and the baby would be all right, provided she stayed on her back for the next week.
Dr. Pilkington had dropped Gillian at home just before 3:30 in the morning. She would have driven herself, of course, except that her motorcycle had its own ailment—a flat tire. Neither of them could have had more than four hours sleep before they were expected at the surgery again. Gillian was grateful for the slow pace today and was hoping she and the doctor could make it an early evening.
“Gillian,” the doctor said. “How would you feel about lunch down by the pier today?” He shrugged. “I think we could both use some fresh air.”
“Well, I’m not going to turn that down,” she said with no need to consider. “Shall we go straight away?”
“Why not? That is, unless Gilbert comes back itching again.”
Gillian smiled as she finished labeling some blood tubes.
It may not have been rugby union season on the Isle of Man, but Gillian noticed a group of men scrimmaging on some grass opposite the pier. The sound of men banging up against each other had a rather satisfying ring to it, she thought. Yet her gaze travelled to a curly string of nautical flags flapping from the one and only sailing boat moored in the bay. There were plenty of distractions down by the harbor and an unshakable belief that Port St. Mary would crawl out of any postwar dribble taller than when it had been sucked in.
Gillian refused to see what cleanup needed to be done. It was just to do it and get on with it. Never for a moment would she deny herself the pure pleasure of taking that tiny space in time to see the beauty shining through a field of ugly. She wondered if Dr. Pilkington felt the same and if any of the ruckus surrounding them stirred him. When she saw he was more interested in the potted dahlias along the roadway, she smiled knowing that his tiny space in time was filled with the scent of sweet clematis, dog violets scrambling into trees, honeysuckle sneaking through the hedgerows between cottages, and shrubs of yellow gorse that he’d pass on his drive out to her. All of it brought echoes of life to a village that was otherwise raw with wartime residue.
“Shall we sit here?” he asked motioning to a narrow wooden bench, more like a non-upholstered kneeler in front of the pews at church than anything else. Though it sat at the edge of the pier, Gillian still looked down considering the spot. Apart from seagull droppings and perhaps one or two puffins marking their territory and an infinite number of possible slivers to be had, it was perfect. And it was always lovely to see the doctor without his white coat. Some drapey gabardine slacks held up by braces and his white shirt unbuttoned just enough to see a hint of chest hair. Not that she noticed! But before she could answer and test her resilience, the grocer’s wife blundered down the concrete, squealing like that pig of Gilbert’s the day he was born.
Iris was a round woman and was in great competition with Marjorie, the seamstress down the narrow street with the thatched cottages. They both fancied Iris’ now husband. In fact, their rivalry for him was held sway until he got a taste of Marjorie’s Manx bunloaf at the Mad Batter Bake-off in the late thirties. Hers tasted like sawdust, apparently, not the rich fruitcake it was meant to. Gillian wasn’t living on the island at the time, but rumor spread like an unpleasant virus. Before she had even settled on the island, the information was dumped in her lap, so to speak, from who else but Mrs. Hemsworth.
That grocer, he had a terrible sweet tooth and suffered horribly during the war. Even today with all the rationing still in effect, he showed signs of twitching. But in his eyes, you couldn’t mess with a bunloaf. He’d always say the haunt of smugglers didn’t bring in spices only for recipes to be ruined two hundred years later. In the end, he knew that he couldn’t live the rest of his days digging out seeds from his teeth. So Iris had duly won his affections. The only thing left to tolerate was Iris’ tightly-wound bun bobbing on the top of her head like a dinner roll. And it was headed this way now.
“Dr. Pilkington! Yoo-hoo, Dr. Pilkington!”
“Yes, Iris, what is it?” he asked, waving his hand for her to slow down. She was so out of breath, she nearly toppled into the water.
“You won’t believe it, but Mrs. Hemsworth just rang me. Said she was looking for you but you were nowhere to be found.”
“Well, that’s because I’m here,” he said exasperated.
“Yes, I can see that,” she said licking her fingers then patting down those few strands that escaped her bun. “I told her I would find you at once. She’s in great pain, you know. Sounds like the baby is on its way to me.”
“I don’t think so, Iris. We were just there last night. I’ve told her she needs bed rest.”
“Doctor Pilkington!” she said with an icy tone and pinched eyebrows pointing straight at Gillian. “Are you going to take that chance? If that baby comes out sideways and lives a crippled life all because you wanted to eat a bit of lunch with your chum here, you will never be able to look in the mirror again,” she said shaking her stubby finger in front of his nose.
“Iris, apologize to Gillian. There’s no need to bring out the boxing gloves,” the doctor said coolly.
Iris stretched her brow, tilting her chin like a told-off teenager. “My apologies,” she said to Gillian. “I’ll accidentally drop an extra packet of Typhoo tea in your bag the next time you’re in.”
“That will be lovely, Iris, thank you,” Gillian said, holding back a smile.
“Right,” the doctor sighed. “Are you up for it again?” he said to his chum. “We’ll eat in transit.”
While on the way, Gillian felt as though she was in danger of smacking some sense into that woman. Yes, last night was a worry, but Dr. Pilkington was a good doctor and managed to rotate the baby without a problem. Nothing that a bag of frozen peas wouldn’t cure! The problem was, Mrs. Hemsworth was a real crying wolf and loved attention. Most times, they’d arrive to a woman picking currents in her garden, looking as fit as the last time they’d been rushed out to the farm. But the main problem was that the doctor could never be sure if she was telling the truth. And that was precisely why they were headed there now.
The ground underneath them was still spongy from rain during the night. It couldn’t have let up at all, the way Gillian’s low heel sunk beneath her today. Even the lane to Mrs. Hemsworth’s farm proved uncertain. Dr. Pilkington left the car on the main road just to be safe. After examining his patient, he declared that Mrs. Hemsworth was not only fit to deliver this baby, she could likely run Port St. Mary, hail down the RMS Queen Mary and triumph at the Highland Games in the same breath. Though no one could deny the baby was en route, was it necessary to ring the doctor with every kick, twitch, and pop?
Gillian didn’t think the doctor quite understood the woman’s motives. After all, when she thought about it, Dr. Pilkington wasn’t exactly hard to look at. He could be a little stuffy, but underneath his stiff hair was quite an attractive man, she supposed. Gillian deliberately avoided taking the idea any further. They had a professional relationship only, although she had found his company pleasant. She hadn’t had much time in recent years to even consider a man and those available had been off at one of the air-to-air firing ranges or schools for air gunners up at Jurby.
In the early years of the war, there was one soldier who’d taken leave at Port St. Mary. He was lovely and had spied her in a meadow picking poppies the color of red nail varnish. They’d seen each other several times, but it was no good pretending it would lead to anything. Every time he had tried to make advances, she made some excuse to pull away. One time too many, and he was gone. She’d never heard from him again.
Dr. Pilkington was different. She’d seen him almost every day for the past three years and considered him a friend of sorts, though she didn’t dare call him Reggie. Her sister Beaty would be horrified knowing she called a professional man like Dr. Pilkington by his given name. Not that she gave a worm’s whiskers what Beaty thought, Gillian reminded herself.
“Oh damn,” the doctor said, snapping Gillian from her thoughts as the farm grew distant behind them.
“What is it?”
“I forgot my bag. Can you believe it?”
“It’s only because you were anxious to get out of there,” Gillian said consolingly.
“Hmm, that woman!” he said twisting his lips. “Listen, you go on ahead. I’ll meet you at the car.”
“Right! See you shortly,” she replied.
The day was churning into a breezy afternoon, but rainclouds were distant and Gillian was sure they’d keep at bay, at least for the time being. Beneath the sky, the barley moved like velvety chartreuse. The wind always had that affect. Although it would take a drought to dry the earth, Gillian was grateful to have a bit of blue sky. As she approached the car, her good fortune fell away when she noticed the tires on the left side had sunk into the spongy earth. The ditch was luring in the car whether it knew it or not, and she wondered if this day could get any longer.
Taking a deep breath, Gillian decided not to be a moaner. She never liked moaners. Instead, she got behind the huge rump of the doctor’s Rover, her fingers spread like twin peacocks, then pushed, almost believing she could make it budge. In a matter of only a few minutes, she’d sunk into the mire herself. It may as well have been molasses trying to set her feet free. When she finally managed, the last straw was in turning the engine over. Since the doctor always left his ignition key in the glove box, all it meant, really, was pulling the starter key. Though she’d never driven a Rover before, it couldn’t possibly have been too different from her motorcycle. She smiled as the engine spluttered, begging to take her home. It was only to move onto the road and the doctor could fly right in. But when the molasses nearly cemented her foot to the accelerator, the wheels spun wildly, causing a terrible howl from the back of the car. When she looked into the rearview mirror, she could see the doctor standing there. What could she do but run around to see if he was still living? He was. The trouble was with the pool of sludge around the tires. Gillian felt like someone had pulled the rug from under her as she slid like a fool to the bottom of the ditch.
“Good God, Gillian, are you all right?” the doctor shouted.
She glanced at her skirt now waist high with legs that looked as though they’d been dragged through a mud bath. She turned and looked up at him then began to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“You! You’re filthy.” She’d made a mess of him, splattering dirt in every direction.
“You should see yourself.” He stood tall at the top of the embankment, hands on hips and shaking his head but wearing a wide smile. “Here, let me help you,” he said as he shuffled down the hill.
He sat down beside her, his sleeves rolled to the elbow. As the wind flew over the barley, they laughed at the last twenty-four hours.
“Did you ever think you’d lead such an exciting career, Gillian McAllister?” he asked with a smile, making the dirt crinkle under his eyes. “And I suppose you didn’t think tumbling would be a requirement.”
“Not quite,” she admitted. The doctor reached over and softly moved a strand of hair from her eyes. When she met his gaze, the moment felt new to her. The feeling was new.
“There, that’s better.” He smiled tenderly as the moment stretched out… until an uncomfortable feeling pulled their gaze apart—as though they both knew they were about to cross a line.
The doctor sighed as they now sat quietly listening to the sound of wind sweeping over the land. As Gillian watched his eyes travel the horizon, that feeling came over her again. It was the first time she’d really noticed how fit the doctor was, or perhaps the first time she’d admitted it to herself. His shirt had torn somehow, revealing a small snapshot of his shoulder. She studied his face, trying hard to be discreet. It was smudged with dirt and small pebbles; his hair had broken free from the tonic he used, falling gratefully over his forehead. Just for a moment it seemed not quite as black.
This was the first time he didn’t look polished, and the first time she allowed herself to see how attractive he was. While she was being honest with herself, she could admit that on Sunday mornings, she’d find herself wandering past his townhouse in the hope he might join her at mass. It was always lovely to have a coffee afterwards and chat about the week, then stroll along the curly lanes through town. When she thought about it, she’d always arrive home later feeling quite agreeable. That wasn’t such a bad thing, was it?
“You know Gillian, I think we make a good team,” he said in all seriousness. “Apart from that of course.” They both glanced up at the car then smiled. But the doctor’s expression quickly weaved into something more… well, more, she thought. Gillian bit her lip, wondering if there was something happening between them. She hadn’t really felt a spark in the past, though he was a bit dishy like this. She had an urge to ruffle his hair but didn’t. And she had never come close to considering a life with him outside of the office. She was thirty-two now. Maybe it was time to look at things differently? He had a lot to offer and he was good-humored. Everybody in Port St. Mary admired him, and goodness knows Beaty would lap it up. Gillian sighed, her eyes now traveling the horizon.
“Gillian,” the doctor said nervously. And it was in his slight tremble that she knew it was coming. “Have you ever considered… well, I mean, considered us?”
She felt her chest plummet in that single syllable, that simple word, those two letters. “Us?” she said as though she’d been struck over the head. “Of course. As you say we make a good team and…” And for a reason she couldn’t understand, she now drew stiff. “And I wouldn’t change a thing.”
As she turned to the field, the silence was deafening. She could sense Dr. Pilkington’s eyes lower, and it broke her heart. What had she just done? It probably took all his nerve to ask such a thing. It was sweet, really, but the silence was thick and she couldn’t bear it. She took a deep breath. No it wasn’t sweet at all, it was revealing and lovely and what did she do? She had dismissed it like it meant nothing. Like she didn’t know where the conversation was headed. This time, she wanted to smack some sense into herself. Why did she push everyone away?
“Right then,” he said making way to his feet and reaching out to help Gillian up. Always the gentleman, she thought. Suddenly there was a part of her that wanted to kiss him, just to see if she could feel that feeling one more time in her life. In any sane mind, there was no reason she couldn’t. Maybe he had hidden talents, and it could be thrilling to peel away those layers. Though that did sound lewd, she always enjoyed a good challenge. Maybe he had saved the rascal in him just for her?
She was afraid no test romp would compare to that feeling she remembered. Maybe it wasn’t meant to. That feeling, after all, had been tucked away in a past she’d tried with everything in her to forget. Yet she hadn’t forgotten. Gillian sighed. Though it was only a summer, she knew a part of him poured out of her in every verse she wrote, in every breath she took, and in this case, she sighed again, with every rejection she gave.
Once they sorted the car out, Dr. Pilkington drove Gillian home and wished her a pleasant evening. She felt small.
The sun was lowering in the sky with dusk sneaking its way into yet another day on the Isle of Man. With Ireland at her back, Gillian stood facing her cottage in the countryside, the rumbling of Dr. Pilkington’s car fading away in the distance. The few neighboring homes made it feel quiet, even lonely perhaps. Gillian cherished this place nestled by the sea, a place of her own that she was finally able to call home.
After having a bath, making a cup of tea, and thinking of all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, Gillian took her little blue notebook to the patio out back. Writing in verse was all that she could manage to soothe her ache. She felt proud of her spicy ways and preferred to let her tears fall into words on paper instead of feeling sorry for herself.
Gillian glanced at the sea, waves swelling and falling on themselves. It was like a thick-woven fabric in blues and blacks, always at play in one way or another. Gillian never tired of the scene; whenever she needed to be filled up again, she’d sit by the edge of the crag and soak it all in. She sighed deeply then set down her notebook with a stone on top so it wouldn’t fly away.
The sea was whispering to her again as she wandered closer to hear its wisdom. As she curled up, wrapping her cardigan around her knees, thoughts of the near kiss today sat uneasily on her mind. Gillian had never quite understood moderation before and settling for mediocre didn’t seem right. Not that Dr. Pilkington was mediocre. He’d make a marvelous catch for anybody, but she couldn’t imagine living without passion.
Gillian’s gaze followed the horizon as thoughts of him came floating back. She could feel her chest rise and fall with a mix of sadness and excitement. Kissing Christian Hunter that summer, a mind-boggling fourteen years ago, was like tasting holy wine for the first time—each and every time—daring, intoxicating, as the last remnants of childhood slipped through her fingers.
They had agreed to meet at Big Tub Lighthouse in the early evening, just before the sun would paint a masterpiece across the Georgian Bay sky. It was still light enough that she could see every detail of his face, the way his eyes drooped and how his shaggy hair tickled his ears and neck. He was wearing a T-shirt as white as the lighthouse and trousers the color of the flat rock surrounding them, rock that looked like walrus skin.
With all the confidence and cheekiness he’d shown since they met, Gillian watched as it washed away into the bay replaced by a sweet vulnerability. It was this boy, the lonely little boy she sensed inside, that was making her fall in love. But it was all happening so fast, like a carousel spun out of control as she stood just inches from him with her back against the lighthouse. She marveled at how he touched her in one place yet she’d feel it in an entirely new spot altogether. Gillian had never experienced this before, though it was lovelier than anything she’d ever known. He was feeling the same, she was sure of it. This would be her first real kiss—it should be a kiss to remember.
Christian slowly drew Gillian’s arms above her head, cupping his hand over hers. He pressed against her body, just enough to make her shudder. And as he slid one hand down her arm, along the side of her clothed breast then to her waist, she could hear little gasps coming from her mouth. She begged inside for his lips to touch hers and felt tormented by his restraint. At the same time, she loved the feeling of his confidence working its way back. She was eighteen and all she wanted to do was ravage him. But he basked in teasing her as he skimmed his lips down her naked arm then across her clavicle, her blouse gathered at her chest. As his lips caressed her neck, her hands still pinned above with one hand, she could feel her chest rising and falling with anticipation. It seemed to Gillian that the warmth of his breath, as sensual as their kiss promised, might cause a frenzy in her. She’d already felt fairy tickles streaming down her back, making her jolt. Christian stopped just a breath away. She opened her eyes almost dazed with now both of his hands clasped in hers above as he gazed through those droopy, baiting eyes.
The wind from the bay shuffled past as the sky swirled into a mix of tangerine and crimson while Christian leaned in and put his lips on hers, slow and sultry. And as she lowered her arms to her side, she felt the little boy escape him entirely. More than one to remember, this was a kiss to be revered.
Gillian could taste the salty air on her lips now, smiling at the memory. But that’s all it was—a memory. And although the wind wanted to set her straight, a seagull floating on that same breeze reminded her that something so sweet had a right to drift softly in her heart.
Gillian watched the seagull set down on the stony beach below. From this perspective the pebbles looked like a nubby blanket warming the shoreline, until the tide crashed through. She liked this time of day when the sea darkened under rolls of thick cloud and her old cardigan proved its worth just enough until it got too cool. In minutes there would be no beach at all.
Gillian sighed, having questioned her actions more than there were breaths to breathe. How could he ever forgive her? She’d left a letter for him on her auntie’s porch, knowing he would come looking for her. It was brief and to the point. She had to return to the UK. After all it was only meant to be a summer holiday, she had written, and her father had expected her.
It wasn’t fair running off like that. But there was no other choice and she couldn’t regret her decision when it was made to save him. Though she’d considered going back to find him too many times to count, especially in those moments of weakness when she sat crumpled after enemy planes thundered above, Gillian always pulled herself together. But it was in their last kiss, a kiss that felt remarkably different from their first, that she sensed he could feel a good-bye in it. It was the love behind it that she hoped he would remember. All she asked of her auntie, if anyone had come looking for her, was to let things remain in the past. Somehow she knew her auntie had understood. There were no more words spoken about it.
But there were words written in a scrawly sort of writing, the letter Gillian dusted off and brought out to the edge of the crag with her, a letter she’d read only once before, a letter that her auntie had forwarded to her fourteen years ago.
November 30, 1932
Dear Gilly,
Every evening, I walk over to Big Tub Lighthouse hoping you might show up. But you never do. I listen to the loons calling out to each other hoping you’ll answer. But you never do. I sit in my rowboat watching the beavers like we used to, thinking I’ll hear your laugh again. But I never do.
If somehow this letter finds its way to you, I want you to know that I would have asked you to stay. And I would have only asked once. You have a mind of your own; trying to change it is too big a job for a crop duster on the Bruce Peninsula, I think. So maybe I’ll never know if I did something wrong, something to drive you away. I figure it was just easier for you to leave the way you did. I’m okay with that now. I was pissed as hell before, but I’m okay now.
Gilly, I’m not even sure what to write except that you changed my life forever. Truth is, few ever get to know a love like we had, and it doesn’t take an old soul to figure that out. If I could wish it twice for just one person, it would be you. Ours may have only been meant for a summer, but I want you to know it was the best summer of my life.
I’ll always love you,
Christian
As the letter flapped in the breeze, mixed emotions toyed with Gillian. She could still see ghostly words slumbering between the lines all these years later—a man calling out to her but hearing no reply. She was sure this acute nostalgia would only last a moment, and then she could return to the life she had now. Maybe she really should consider a relationship with Dr. Pilkington after all. He was a good man, and it was a good life despite the war. Hers was now a life cloaked in honesty and hard work with hidden hopes that one day Gillian could live with the choice she’d made—a callous choice that no matter what would have hardened Christian over time. She had to live with it because one thing was for certain, Christian Hunter could never learn the truth about what really happened that summer.