Miriam knew she ought to have invited Edmund. Wondered why she didn’t. But she’d decided that going to lunch was something she wanted to do on her own. She’d spent the morning choosing a dress, and in that time answered several casual and intermittent questions from Edmund, offering murmurs to his comments.
“I hope they don’t serve watercress. You know how it makes you ill.” She was nervous, felt her unsteady hand as she dabbed a bit of Pond’s cream on her face. “Who exactly will be there? Why do need to meet them? Are you sure you’re well enough?”
That question, at least, she could answer.
Once there, she’d made an excuse for his absence, and then felt guilty for the neglect. But it was hard to explain. Edmund didn’t seem to understand that his grief was different from hers. That his was manifest as worry for her, while hers, a need to escape.
Now thinking back to her morning, the care with which she got ready while Edmund hovered, choosing from the dresses she had, and, in that moment, ashamed of all of them, she felt remorse. She cared little for clothes, but with Edmund fussing, she thought she ought to make an effort. At one point she put on the trousers she’d made when she thought it would be a more comfortable alternative on the bicycle or when helping in the garden.
“No, you mustn’t.” Edmund, horrified, walked away, knowing that nothing he said would influence her choice of dress.
In the end it was the blue dress she wore, and it was not lost on her as she stood in front of the curtains in Frank’s home, the colour almost an exact match to her dress, that she could almost disappear in this room. She listened to Peter and Frank talk about gossip from the airfield, news of the upcoming launch of the Queen Elizabeth. Audrey spoke of a need for a break from her lectures. None of this seemed connected to Miriam. She could talk about the volunteer work she was doing for the war effort, how difficult it was to get supplies into the shop now with rationing on the horizon, but there was no point of entry for her. She listened to the wireless every night with Edmund and, of course, knew of the luxury liner, the largest ever built, but had no need of the gossip about strangers she didn’t know. And the lectures that Audrey spoke of, what exactly were they?
Her hands behind her back, she rubbed the fabric of the drapery, felt its cool smoothness. And what about you, Miriam, she imagined them asking her, what exactly is your place in the world?
They were having a drink in the library, talk of war seeming to loosen the mood.
“Seven ships mobilized today,” Peter announced.
“Mr Telford, over at the chemists’, saw tanks with gun carriages clamber down the hill and assemble at Park Farm,” said Audrey.
“I thought we’d no need of this,” Frank muttered.
“Just in case,” Audrey said. “Just in case.”
The day was unseasonably warm, so the French doors were open though no one ventured past the threshold. Miriam could feel her face burning from the sherry she was sipping, and from the regret she now felt at leaving Edmund behind. The talk moved on to Peter’s accident, with Frank telling his aunt Audrey about the airplane crash in a manner that was exaggerated, overdramatizing the incident; it had become a story to tell rather than an incident he’d experienced. This seemed a different Frank to the one from that day, and she had the feeling that he’d already told his aunt the story, privately, quietly, truthfully.
Peter, the pilot, was watching Frank, a look that Miriam read as slight embarrassment, and she wondered if this was because of the performance or the fact that it was his own traumatic experience being dragged out for all to see.
“Frank,” Audrey said, moving to the door that opened to a view across the expanse of lawn. “The race, when did you say it was?”
Frank stopped mid-sentence and looked at his aunt as if she’d revealed something deeply personal.
Miriam watched the change in Frank’s pause. The lowering of his eyes, a smile curling at one side of his mouth, like a child who discovered a puppy in the room and doesn’t want anyone else to see it. He seemed less expansive now, an inward turn that made him appear preoccupied, unsure how to answer, more the man Miriam knew on that first day they’d met.
“Race? What race?” Peter spoke up, which had the effect of forcing Frank to step back, waving a hand before him as if smoke had entered his space.
“London to Manchester,” Audrey replied.
“Next August.” Frank looked at his aunt with a mock sternness that told her to hold the conversation there.
“Well, you’ve got almost a year to get your airplane ready. And to learn how to fly it.” It sounded like an order, as if it were for her that he was to get the plane ready. And in some ways it was. It was apparent that Frank adored his aunt, and despite the appearance of merely enduring her odd ways, he’d spent much of his life ensuring he had her approval.
“I know how to fly.” Frank, now scolding. “It’s Miriam who needs to learn.”
Eyes turned to Miriam, Frank’s weak effort of deflecting now on her.
“Oh, yes. Now there’s an idea. It seems everyone is learning to fly these days, and you will need a co-pilot for the race.” Audrey’s hand on his arm as if to direct him. She had a habit of moving a conversation ahead in leaps.
“What do you think, Miriam? It sounds as if my aunt is offering a challenge.”
Miriam noticed that Frank’s voice had gone soft, and she wasn’t sure if he was trying to quell the idea that had been so rashly floated, or if he really was offering to have her race with him. There was a roar of machinery from outside, and they all turned to see Michael driving the lawnmower to the far end of the lawn.
“Now?” Frank muttered. “Must he?”
Audrey had gone to put her glass on the table. Peter remained beside Frank, waiting for the decision about the race. The distraction of the lawnmower had stirred up the mood, the sound a reminder of the airfield.
“Go on, Miriam,” Peter pressed. “This could be an opportunity of a lifetime.”
She hung on that word, opportunity. Who could say no to an opportunity?
But this is not what she needed, she wanted to tell him, opportunities were what peddlers needed, a starlet on the West End, a land speculator. Opportunity felt cheap and flimsy, not connected to anything she desired, something given not earned. She also had the feeling they were taunting her, playing up her role as outsider, a kind of mocking.
It served her right for leaving Edmund behind. Left alone with these strangers.
She had let go of the curtain, and this feeling of being untethered was like a second entrance into the party, one where she might stride across the wool rug, her heels pressing into the pile with each step as she’d seen Audrey do just now, where she might accept the second sherry offered and stand next to Peter, looking out to the broad and verdant grounds, where her voice would be crisp, her sentences clipped with effect.
“I would like to learn how to fly,” she said, pushing her hair from her face. “If my skills are proven, I’ll co-pilot Frank’s airplane.”
Audrey flashed a look of surprise, and Annie, the cook, entered the room to say that lunch was served.
“And your Gipsy Moth?” Peter said to Frank as he set his drink down.
“A month, maybe two,” Frank said, walking to his aunt to lead her into the dining room. “I should be happy to show you.”
Later, they stood on the gravel verge outside the shed looking in on the airplane that sat dismembered. They were all a little drunk, a loose collective, each drifting in the yard, asserting their own vantage point.
“She will be a beauty when she’s done,” said Peter, and not for the first time did Miriam notice how eager he seemed to please, to reassure, to make sure everyone felt good about themselves. He’d already called Miriam a heroine for her part in the rescue.
Peter was asking questions about the construction, his interest now genuine, a tone of awe in his voice, as though restoring such a machine was far beyond his reach. He was thinking of joining the RAF, he told them, to which Frank responded with heavy blinking eyes. He’d come from Canada, was living with his uncle who had a Tiger Moth and was teaching him to fly it.
Their talk turned technical, and Miriam, feeling a slump after the luxurious lunch, stepped into the shade of the building. She now felt awkward, her status as rescuer diminished as they all moved beyond the talk of the crash. She was watching Audrey, the way she held herself, the layers of fine clothes, a stillness that could only come with having complete ease in this world. Her mind turned to Edmund. She pictured him alone in their kitchen, the morning paper folded in front of him so he could read it while eating his pie, drinking his tea. He’d told her the blue in her dress brought out the colour in her eyes. “You look smart, my love,” he’d said, and there had been a fondness in his tone that made her want to cancel the luncheon.
“Miriam.” She felt a hand on her arm and realized Audrey was beside her. “I wonder if you might come to my caravan for a visit sometime.”
The caravan. She’d heard mention of it and thought it a holiday home, or perhaps a code name for her own grand estate.
“Yes, of course.”
“Good.” Audrey pressed her hand into Miriam’s. “It’s just down the hill on the east side.” She was pointing off in a direction past the kitchen garden. “Next Thursday at four o’clock?”
Miriam nodded and excused herself, thanking Frank, then Peter for some reason, and rounded the corner toward home before anyone had a chance to talk her out of it.