In the woods behind the house, Bea has a favorite spot. There’s an uprooted tree, covered with moss, that extends across the path, and now, in the late spring, it’s completely out of sight of the house. She’s taken to retreating here more and more. She lies back on the trunk and looks up, through the newly green leaves, to the blue sky beyond.
William fills her thoughts. During the last few weeks, as the spring days have begun to melt into summer, they have quietly left the house after everyone has gone to bed to lie in the hammock together, their arms and legs touching, a thick cotton blanket providing warmth. They don’t talk much—they watch the clouds move slowly overhead, the stars suspended in the blue. Sometimes they fall asleep. She has wanted to kiss him, to do more than hold his hand, but she also feels as though everything is precarious, somehow on the edge, and to push beyond what they have may be asking for too much. She wants each moment to last and not to rush too quickly on to the next.
But last night, after they did the dishes, when everyone was elsewhere— Mr. G in his study, Mrs. G in her bedroom, Gerald upstairs as well—William grabbed her hand and pulled her into the pantry, where he kissed her long enough to make her want more. And then, this morning at breakfast, he slipped a note into her lap—asking her to meet him in the cemetery after baseball practice this afternoon—and when he left the table, when no one was looking, he bent down and kissed her neck, brushing her hair back with his hand. She knows they have now crossed a line, and she can think of little else.
But another letter has arrived from her mother. Bea never responded to the letter that came six weeks ago, the one that announced her marriage, and four letters have arrived since then. She knows she needs to write back but she is furious. She feels betrayed. She doesn’t know what she’s angrier about: that Mum got married or that she didn’t tell Bea until after the wedding.
Darling, this letter begins, Tommy has some connections and we’ve started the process of figuring out how to get you back home. Nothing definite yet, but the wheels are turning. The letter goes on to describe their new flat, and how there’s not only a room for Beatrix, but also her own bath. It’s in a part of London that Bea doesn’t know at all. A posh part. She doubts her mother remembers the first letter from the Gregorys, which also spelled out that she would get her own bath. She hasn’t looked at that letter in so long, but it’s at the bottom of the pile of letters in her desk.
Hard to believe it’s been almost five years since that letter. How different everything was then. And now, now that everyone is looking forward to the end, to having life return to normal, Bea is wishing that it wouldn’t. She used to not know where she belonged. But now she doesn’t want to go back, to her mother and her new husband—what kind of an adult man is called Tommy—or to move to a new flat and finish out her schooling at a new school. She wants to stay here, with her friends, and go to college. Lots of the girls are hoping to go to Wellesley or Radcliffe, so they can stay in the area. Keep shopping at Jordan’s. Keep going to Fenway. Keep being with William. And yet, she knows it’s not possible. This whole thing has been temporary. The war ends and she goes home. End of story.
There are tensions in the house. William has been fighting with the Gs for weeks about going to Harvard. Both Mr. and Mrs. G seem tense and out of sorts. And even Gerald, who has always been there for her, often disappears now into his causes, his maps, his other worlds. He seems angry with her, somehow, more distant than he has ever been.
Yesterday, she looked out of the library window to see Gerald walking across campus, alone, pinning up posters about this month’s scrap drive. He’s already filled one garage bay with scrap metal and rubber and is hoping to double it with donations on Saturday. One carrel over, she heard some of the boys in his class laughing. Little Gregory, one of them said. Still collecting trash. Has anyone told him the war in Europe is over? She marched over to the carrel and stood there with her arms folded. Leave him alone, she said, her voice hard, and they nodded, their eyes wide. He’s done more for the war effort than the lot of you, combined. She felt sure an upper-class girl had never spoken to them like that before. Who would protect him once she was gone?
Bea reads the letter from her mother again. She folds it in half and tears it, the small pieces littering the ground, before grabbing her bookbag and running through the woods, a smile now on her face, knowing that William is waiting for her by the old maple tree.