Millie recognizes the handwriting on the letter, even though she hasn’t seen it in almost twenty years. It’s Nancy’s round script, which sits somewhere between block letters and true, angular cursive. She turns the letter over and over in her hand, not wanting to open it. She’s not sure what she’s so worried about. That Nancy will be somewhat cold, having not heard from Millie in all these years? She knows that won’t be the case. That woman would be kind, truly kind, to her worst enemy, or at least that’s Millie’s suspicion.
She slices the envelope with her letter opener and pulls out the letter, written on stationery with Nancy’s name and that familiar address printed on the top. Dearest Millie, the letter begins, and Millie shuts her eyes for a moment before reading on. What must it be like, she wonders, to have a heart so full? She reads on. The letter is mostly about Gerald and William and William’s children. Some updates on Nancy’s foot—apparently she broke her ankle a while back—and a report on her garden. But, dear Millie, Nancy writes, I want to know more about what you’re doing. I’m such a bore. Do write back and fill me in. And thank you so much for breaking the ice after all these years.
Millie hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Nancy since she and Beatrix got back from New York. There was something about being there, in America, that made Nancy come alive to Millie in a way she never had before. Her openness was a classic American trait, one that Millie had never quite believed. And yet here they were, all these Americans, being loud and friendly and willing to talk to you about almost anything. They’d gone to the theater one night, and the woman next to Beatrix talked to her the whole time. They exchanged addresses and phone numbers before the evening was over. Millie couldn’t imagine such a thing happening in London. Before, she’d dismissed this quality about Americans. But then she wondered. She suspected you had to be that way to open your home to a stranger. To love someone else’s child as your own. Millie understands now, in a way that she never did before, that had the tables been turned, she would not have done the same.
She tried writing Nancy a few times, but the letter always felt wrong so she threw each version out. Once she even affixed a stamp before tossing it in the garbage. Then one night, unable to sleep, she put on her robe and slippers, went to her desk, and wrote the letter in one go. No editing, no considering. All she really wanted to do was to open the line of communication.
Later, she meets Beatrix at the park halfway between their flats to take a walk around the pond. They started doing this when the days got longer this year, and it’s worked out well. There’s something to be said for talking while walking. You don’t have to look at the person. You can keep your eyes on the path, on your shoes, on the landscape. And somehow that means that more gets said.
I got a letter from Nancy today, Millie says when they’re about halfway round, when a pause presents itself. Nancy, Beatrix says, stretching the name out. My Nancy? Mrs. G? Yes, Millie says, and nods, thinking of a time when Beatrix saying “My Nancy” would have set her off. I wrote to her a while back. After we came back from New York. And, Beatrix says, in that tone that Millie recognizes. It’s a tone she uses as well. A way of pretending you’re not interested when, in fact, you care so awfully much. She’s well and so are the boys. I guess she broke her ankle? Yes, Beatrix says. Quite a while ago. I didn’t know it was still bothering her.
And they talk, back and forth, about Nancy and about Gerald and about William, even. Millie tells Beatrix that the children were over for the Memorial Day weekend, that Kathleen had helped plant some of the later lettuces. They have a large vegetable garden then, Millie asks, and Beatrix bursts out laughing. Mummy, she says, it’s practically the size of this park. They had one when I got there, but every year she added to it. And then with the war and Victory Gardens becoming a thing, well, it just took over. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they have no more lawn. If it’s just all vegetables. Well, and flowers. She loves flowers, too.
They walk in silence for a bit. Tell me, Millie says, her eyes on the footpath, tell me a memory from there. To help me see it all a bit better. Beatrix is quiet for a moment. Back behind the garden, she says, there’s a path that takes you into the woods. When you’re back there, amid the trees, it feels so far away from everything. It’s hard to believe you’re just seconds away from the house or from school or from the cemetery. I used to go there in all seasons. There was a tree that had fallen across the path and that’s where I used to sit. I’d read your letters there, Mummy. I’d go out in the snow, following the tracks of the dog or maybe a rabbit. I’d go in fall, when the leaves were turning, a bright, bright yellow against the bluest sky. In summer, it was cool there, when it was hot everywhere else. And in spring, well, that was my favorite. Day by day I could see things changing, the leaves unfurling, the plants pushing themselves up out of the dirt.
She stops talking, and they’re almost back at the start of the path. This is more than she’s said to Millie in years. Beatrix keeps talking, her face turned away from Millie. The best thing about it, Mum, and I feel bad about saying this, was that I could forget about the war there. I could forget about you and Daddy. I could forget that Daddy was dead and that you were so far away. It was just me and the woods. The island was like that, too.
I have to tell you something, Millie says, and she puts her hands on Beatrix’s shoulders, turning Beatrix toward her. I wasn’t the one who sent you away, she says. Your father insisted. Beatrix starts to say something, and Millie puts her hand up. I’m not blaming him. I’m saying he was right. You were safe there. You were happy. What more could we have wanted? Those five years were a lifeline. That place formed who Beatrix is now. That’s the piece that she’s never really understood. The whole point was for you to forget. They turn and head out of the park, Millie’s hand tucked into Beatrix’s elbow. She’s looking forward to writing Nancy back.