16

In the garden and just outside our window there’s a pink-blossomed horse chestnut. I lie in bed on Monday morning and gaze into its branches and at the sky beyond…and think why can’t the sky be gloomy. The time’s just after six and Matt is still asleep and looking peaceful. It’s a pity to wake him but selfishly I want to. I trace his brow with my forefinger. Yet he only stirs and smiles and turns over and I haven’t the heart to persevere. I’m not sure what I do have the heart for: certainly not the drive back to Halesworth, the chaos at the railway station, the journey home with Trixie, the greetings, questions, commiserations. I don’t know how I’m going to get through any of that. Not the next few hours, nor even the next few days. (Or weeks. But returning to the farm will undoubtedly be the worst: the place where Matt brought me back after Cambridge, just a fortnight ago, and where I felt so close to him and proud. The place where he and Walt collected us last Tuesday and where both Trixie and I sang as we got ready. The place where only the day before yesterday they’d come to pick us up for the dance and where I’d last seen all those familiar surroundings—seen them in his presence. Yes. Returning to the farm will be the hardest.)

But I had been wretched, of course, when they had picked us up for the dance—would it help to remember that?

And at least—from the time I had wept onto his shirt and my whole situation had so miraculously altered—I think I had made the most of every moment. Every precious moment.

That is, until the previous evening. At dinner. When the truth had suddenly hit me.

In fourteen hours he will be gone.

True, we still had the night ahead. But I wanted a whole lifetime of nights ahead, of days and nights ahead, and I wanted it now. Suppose that anything should happen to him? After six years of war one was attuned to the possibility of accidents, of people never coming back. Suppose Matt should become one of those buried statistics in some government file, or a name in the local press, or an inscription on a war memorial—how deeply, when it really came down to it, how deeply had I truly cared about Baker, Blogg and Bolton? Or even about their loved ones? Their families?

I knew last night that Matt felt just as miserable as me but at least for him there are all the distractions of homecoming to lessen the misery. I almost wish there weren’t. In my heart I want him to feel every bit as lost as I do.

Scarcely a noble sentiment…and in fact I only admit to it as I gaze blindly into the branches of the horse chestnut and look mournfully at the squat brown radiator below the window. Yesterday Matt had spread out our washing along this as though he were mounting an exhibition at the Victoria and Albert. He several times sought my views—and my compliments—on the matchless skill of his presentation.

Then I really do wake him. We ought to be out of bed in half an hour.

Breakfast isn’t a lot of fun. Indeed it’s pretty awful. Will I ever again, I wonder, be able to come back here when I’m on my own or with anyone but him?

(Perhaps it’s just as well, I tell myself severely, I am obliged—and by the law of the land!—to return to the farm.)

Anyway, this could be the last time I shall ever see The Red Lion. My days in Suffolk must surely be coming to an end.

But we’ve hardly driven twenty yards when vague splutters occur and I think I shall be seeing it again quite shortly: apparently Matt’s forgotten to give the engine any water. We don’t go back to the hotel, however; there’s a charlady who’s been polishing a shop window and it’s easier to ask her for some. Afterwards Matt returns the empty jug, punctiliously deciding against leaving it on the doorstep when the door itself is open—although it certainly isn’t yet opening time. But on his way out he pauses. And then, presumably at some inquiry he’s just made, the woman must have gone to fetch her boss, because an elderly man now emerges from the back and smilingly unlocks the glass top of a table. Evidently a showcase. In spite of my depression I wonder what I may be missing and hastily get down from the jeep.

“Go away,” says Matt. “You’re spoiling the surprise.”

“Ah, then? Is this the young lady in question?”

Cadaverous, stooped and sparsely ginger-haired, the owner doesn’t seem to know me, despite my having been here with Trix on maybe five or six occasions. It’s a fascinating place, full of secondhand trinkets and pictures and family photographs; books, cutlery, gramophone records, ewers, basins, wireless sets; all sorts of things from threepence to ten pounds. It’s this incredible price range which makes you feel that potentially you could unearth huge bargains.

All you have to do is scavenge.

For Matt, though, there hasn’t been time. And since he’s shooing me away so peremptorily I still can’t see what’s drawn his attention.

But then he says, “Oh well, since you are here, you may as well help. This gentleman has been kind enough to interrupt his breakfast…” And he reveals to me the object he’s been looking at.

Companionably, by my side, the charlady sounds wistful. “Never saw another which was half so nice!”

It’s a ring I’m being shown, one that’s studded with pearls and turquoise, and is certainly attractive. “I think it dates from about 1875,” the man tells us.

But then Matt says: “Rosalind, here’s what actually caught my eye.” And now he picks up another ring, again Victorian, also gold but this time far from delicate: black-enamelled, with a heart-shape at the front that has a flower and leaves etched on it, the leaf motif extending round the band. Well-defined gold tracery lightens the effect of the black.

“Oh, sweetheart, this one!” Brazen hussy; no question of Matt-oh-but-you-shouldn’t-you-can’t-possibly-afford-it. “This one—please!”

“You’re sure? Try them both on. Don’t be swayed by the prices.”

The enamelled ring is cheaper—although, naturally, far closer to ten pounds than to threepence.

It has engraving on the inside. If there had been any doubt before, this would instantly have dispelled it. ‘Always. Emily and Robert. May 1, 1840.’ I swiftly form a picture of Emily and Robert—and who cares a jot if it’s impossibly idealized? What matters is the sense of strong connection with the past. The date, the passion, the commitment. Always.

The owner of the shop stays neutral. His charlady can’t manage it.

“Oh, it’s dismal—would fast bring on the willies! You take the other one, my pet.” She tucks a wisp of greying hair back under her beige rayon scarf, as if scared too much exposure to Emily and Robert may start to turn it white.

“Is it dismal?” asks Matt, gently—not specifically of her. “Why should a mourning ring be more dismal or more spooky than any other that’s antique? Obviously, when any ring is that old, whoever wore it first must now be dead.”

Stupidly, it hadn’t even occurred to me that it’s a mourning ring.

“And, pet, it’s much too big for you. It’s really supposed to be worn by a gent.”

But Robert must have been slim-fingered. It is too big, admittedly, but it doesn’t look ridiculous. A clip will hold it firm.

I try on the turquoise ring as well. “Ah…,” says the charlady, on a sustained and dreamy note.

I smile at her.

“It’s no good. I’m sorry. You’re right, this is exquisite. But it’s the other one I want.”

“I hoped it would be,” says Matt.

I reach up and kiss him on the cheek.

“Well anyhow, my pet, we really wish you joy of it. And it’s nice to know it’s being rescued by a couple like you. I sometimes feel it’s awful how these ever so personal bits and pieces…what you’d think by rights ought to be seen as proper heirlooms…”

We all agree with her. “I promise you,” I say. “One day this will become a proper heirloom!”

There’s a fairly sober pause in which it seems likely we’re all thinking back a hundred and five years; or else thinking forward another fifty or sixty. “And now,” says the owner, “I wonder if there’s anywhere I can lay my hands on some little box…?”

Matt says: “I don’t suppose you’d have one of those clip things my…my fiancée mentioned just a while ago?” It’s the first time he’s ever used that word, in connection with myself.

I wish there was something I could get him. A candlestick? Warming pan? If he and I weren’t about the only two adults in this world who don’t smoke I could have bought him a cigarette case—I can see an attractive one. But unfortunately the rings they have here for men (other than mine, other than mine!) are disappointingly ordinary. Even the signet rings.

Actually I’d thought about buying him something before, a thank-you gift for all his generosity, but I’d been too worried about putting him under any kind of obligation—what I mean is, making him feel he was under one.

It’s not an omission, though, that spoils my enjoyment of the moment. (Incredible that enjoyment could inform any moment so close to his departure!) And I shall mail him something, do so at my leisure and choose the really perfect gift. In the meantime he can have my exquisitely coloured and patterned pebble, truly gemlike, joyfully salvaged from the stream in which we paddled yesterday whilst eating our sardine sandwiches.

Mr Wilton doesn’t have a clip. But in any case he recommends me not to bother. He says that a clip could easily cost three bob—and fairly soon wear out—when at a proper jeweller’s, and for roughly the same price, I could get the ring cut down and expertly soldered. I say I’ll act on his advice.

Neither can he find us a suitable box. He simply wraps the ring in tissue paper…but he knocks ten shillings off the cost of it, “as a small engagement gift, and with all our good wishes and warmest congratulations.”

“I hoped that bit would come in handy,” Matt tells me later, with a smile.

“I don’t blame you. It could also serve as a useful sort of prelude to proposal.”

“But I thought we’d covered all that. How else…the sort of plans which we’ve been making…?” He pulls into the side of the road.

“Even so, it would be nice to have it actually put into words. Call me an old-fashioned girl.”

“I’ll put it into writing if you like.”

The echo of this undertaking clearly lingers on (“Rosalind, will you marry me?” “Oh, darling, this is such a surprise!”), because afterwards I say: “You really will write as often as you can?”

“At least six times a day.”

“No, I’m being serious.”

“I’ll be back to get you very soon. The first minute I’m out of this crazy uniform—”

“Oh, Matt, how long…how long do you think…? There’s really no chance of your being sent to the Pacific?” Oh, God, I couldn’t stand it if he were.

“No, none at all.”

He swears he isn’t humouring me. “By gum! Can’t you see I’m not grinning that grin of mine!” He grins that grin of his.

Back on the road, a little reassured, I say, “But there’s no need for you to come over to collect me. More romantic, yes, but not so practical. On my own I could probably get on a liberty ship more easily. Even onto a Constellation. Besides, it would be cheaper.”

“The money isn’t really so important,” he says. “You’re marrying into… But, anyway, I’ll fill you in on all those rather boring details when I write.” Then he laughs, self-consciously. “No, what an affectation! Money isn’t in the least bit boring.”

He has to drop me at the railway station because this morning no girlfriends would be welcome on the base. The train is due to leave in just over an hour, at ten. The Americans will start to embark some twenty minutes earlier.

Since my instincts are all to be alone, I’d vaguely thought of wandering round the town—or, more probably, taking a brief stroll outside it. But I should have realized! The station is already filling up. There are people approaching from every direction…most of them young women. Some are carrying babies, some accompanied by mums. What even looks like whole families have come to make farewells: the Yanks have found a lot of friends in the neighbourhood and life is going to be extremely dull without them.

The station is a small one, not built for such a multitude of well-wishers. It’s no kind of junction where expresses roar through to more important destinations, leaving a legacy of soot and smoke and grime. It’s a place with flowerbeds and a rockery, hanging baskets, wooden benches. Fields and hedges stretching out beyond. You could refer to it as sleepy.

But not today. Today it sounds more like a football stadium before the match or even (oh, God!) more like the Mall on V-E Day—except that there aren’t any fireworks and there’s absolutely no cheering and absolutely no singing.

There’s a great resounding cry, however, when the Americans begin to arrive; and that’s when the real pushing starts. If you don’t catch sight of your man before he boards the train he may be lost to you forever. Women are jumping up, straining on tiptoe, standing on benches, crying out for Jack or Joe or Bill, even climbing onto one another’s shoulders. Their babies, many of them bawling and red-faced, are raised above their heads. One woman holds up a placard—“I love you, Rob, please marry me”—while two others, less pathetic, share a banner which reads, “Don’t forget us, lads, you’re welcome back at any time.”

Then I spot him and frantically wave my arm while calling out his name.

“I was so afraid I wouldn’t find you.”

“Me, too,” he says. “Thank goodness for your yellow coat!”

I cling to him. “Matt, will you slip my ring onto your finger? For just an instant? So that I’ll always know I’m wearing something which…”

It fits him well. I see an expression cross his face which looks like a mirrored image of everything I feel myself.

“Don’t, my darling,” he says. “Remember, if you cry, I cry. Please don’t do that to me.”

He hands me back the ring. An instruction comes over the loudspeaker: all airmen to get on board. The instruction has to be repeated. Several times.

“Oh, Christ, I haven’t got a photo!”

“Photographs!” I exclaim. It seems so ludicrous; such an improbable oversight. “I haven’t got a photograph of you!”

“I’ll send you one,” he promises. “You send me one, as well.”

I nod. I can’t get out the words. But then I remember something…dip my hand into my pocket; not so easy in this fearful crush. All the Yanks have now embarked, although Matt is one of the lucky ones who’s ended up with space beside a window. “I’ve got a snap that Trixie took! Three weeks ago! I meant to let you see!”

The whistle blows. My fingers find the photo. One edge is caught up in the lining; it’s difficult to free—like in some panic dream. The train’s already moving as I thrust the snapshot in his hand. There’s hardly time for one last kiss before the engine picks up speed.

“There’ll never be anybody else! Never! Never!” I don’t know if he hears.

I stand there blowing kisses—everybody does—until none of the heads or arms or waving hands is any longer distinguishable. The final carriage rounds a bend. Only a plume of smoke remains.

Gradually the people on both platforms turn away. Drift aimlessly towards the exits.

At least half of us are crying. Some of us, howling.

I lean against a piece of metal on the wall—advertisement for Mazawattee—and feel first faint, then sick.

It’s there that Trixie finds me.

“I never said goodbye to Walt,” I tell her, tonelessly.

We walk a short way from the station. By now the crowds are thinning out. “Oh, Trixie, isn’t this awful!” We hold each other’s hand. The tears are pouring down our faces.

We go and have a cup of tea…no, several cups of tea. But every time we think we’ve got ourselves under control a fresh attack of sobbing starts. The waitress stares at us indifferently.

Trixie gets the giggles; they’re close to being hysteria. “Look at the two of us sitting here in our posh dresses and laddered nylons. And both with these soppy little evening bags. No wonder that the fat cow stares!”

Our own train leaves in roughly an hour. While we’re waiting for it, not wanting to return to the station one minute earlier than we have to, we listlessly look about us for a jeweller’s.

But I’ve decided to ignore Mr Wilton’s advice. I don’t trust the soldering. However expert. I don’t trust it not to damage the inscription.

Besides, it wouldn’t any longer be quite the same ring which Matt has handled. Briefly worn.

And I might even need to leave it and have it posted back to me. I couldn’t do that. What if it got lost?

Anyway, I want to wear it.

Wear it immediately.

Wear it forever.

No. A clip will do just fine.