Ruth laid her notebook down on the kitchen table as she heard a bump on wood. At first she didn’t recognise it, thinking it was the sound of an empty house, but as it grew louder, more insistent, she realised what it was: a tentative knocking on the door. She wasn’t expecting anyone and she paused, wondering who on earth it could be. George was with Harriet for the day, and from a quick glance at the clock, wasn’t due back for another few hours. Her family wouldn’t come to see her, so who could it be?
She wrenched open the door and her eyes dropped to see a boy hopping from one foot to the other. He could only have been a few years older than George, but she couldn’t imagine her son knocking on people’s doors like this. The boy had propped his bicycle against a bush and it was snapping back the leaves, but she let it go for now. She shouldn’t let things like that bother her. He held out a small orange envelope to her. Ruth stared at it. Peter wrote letters to her, and she couldn’t think of anyone who would go to the effort of sending a telegram.
‘You’ll need to sign for it, ma’am,’ he said as he pushed it towards her. He held a form in his other hand, a pen hanging from a length of twine.
She took the envelope, ignoring the form, and ripped it open. It was like removing a plaster, the quickest and most painless way. Her eyes blurred at first, refusing to read that it had come from the War Office, but after a second or two she could focus on the stark black type. She scanned it, murmuring the words out loud.
Mrs Holt, the War Office regrets to inform you that your husband, Lieutenant Peter Holt, was aboard… and is presumed to have lost his life… You will be informed as soon as further information becomes available.
She read it again, unable to believe. The words blended into one another and all she could focus on was the last sentence.
‘What?’ It was a stupid question. The message was clear enough, but somehow she couldn’t reconcile it. She had questions, as if the boy before her, this angel of death, had any answers for her other than what was written on the telegram he had given her. Was this it? Was this how it all ended?
‘They’ve made a mistake. He can’t be…’
A tear dropped onto the paper, smudging some of the words, but what did it matter?
‘Peter,’ she breathed, and she could see the moisture on the cool evening air. It was like his spirit was escaping her, and she almost dropped the paper. Instead, she gripped it more tightly, her knuckles whitening and the sheet crumpling in her grip. She couldn’t bring herself to damage it, but then perhaps she might be able to pretend it wasn’t real. When his ship had made it through Dunkirk, she had thought he could make it through anything, but she should have known that in this war his days were always numbered. How many had they lost now?
‘Ma’am?’ The boy’s voice somehow seemed younger, reminding her again of George. ‘I’m sorry, but could you sign for it, please? Only, I’ve got others to deliver…’
She grabbed at the pen, missing it the first time, then scribbled her name, barely taking the time to check whether her signature was legible. Damn them. She didn’t care whether they could read it or not. Damn them for informing her like this, through a tiny piece of paper, through those heartless and unfeeling words.
Peter was gone. Dead. She felt numb. She would have expected a wave of tears, and an intense burning pain, but instead she simply felt numb. Maybe it was the shock, maybe it was something else. Her thoughts ran away, no longer wanting to be near her, erratic and dark. She slammed the door shut.
Her back hit the wall and she slid down. Within seconds she was a heap on the floor, clutching the telegram sheet in one hand, her vision blurry with tears.
In some way she had always known that Peter was never coming back, but she had never allowed herself to realise it before. Even when they had said goodbye at the docks, a part of her had known it was their final farewell. She hadn’t been able to admit it, always pictured him walking through the front door at any moment, a big smile on his face. Now that would never happen.
‘What do I do now?’ she wailed at the ceiling, thankful that the neighbours were out. ‘Why? Why? Why?’
Sometime later the front door opened and a familiar shape appeared in her peripheral vision. She still couldn’t focus through the tears, but she knew it was George from the smell of him. Childlike. Pure.
‘Mum? What’s wrong, Mum?’ he asked. She was vaguely aware of him nuzzling into her body in an effort to comfort her. She straightened his fringe and looked him in the eyes. How could they be so like Peter’s? She would have to tell him some time, why wait? And yet the words stuck in her throat.
‘It’s your father,’ she said, eventually. ‘I promised you he would be home soon. But I was wrong.’
‘He’s not coming home?’ His voice was thinner than even hers felt.
‘No, my love.’ She looked him directly in the eyes, only just able to make them out through her own tears. ‘His ship was sunk in a battle. He died protecting us from the Germans.’
He didn’t say anything but pushed his head further into her chest. He was stronger than she gave him credit for. She couldn’t say how long they sat there, cheeks wet, but eventually it became dark inside as the sun was lowering in the sky. Her legs became numb, but still she wouldn’t stand, couldn’t stand.