Saturday. No idea what the date is. October 1944.
Oh god. Two letters arrived today. What I’m never prepared for is how something can be so good in life and one second later so completely awful.
James’s letter was just a few lines:
One day it will just be a normal Thursday afternoon and I will come and meet you and we’ll get the hell away from here. Just you and me. That thought keeps me sane. All my love, James
The one from the government was longer. Damn them!
I regret to inform you that a report has been received from the War Office. To the effect that (No.) 15733727 (Rank) L. Corporal (Name) James BLACKWELL was wounded on the 10th day of October 1944.
The only thing – only thing – that I can be thankful for is that he gave my name and address. He wanted me to know if he got injured and he wants my help. I have to take that to mean that he cares about me more than just likes.
But what do I do next?
30th October 1944
I’ve managed to find the address of his family and written to him.
The weather is dreadful.
3rd November 1944
Everything’s got a bit more serious. I’m finding this quite hard to write down because somehow written down it makes it a great deal more real.
I’m pregnant.
My one precious night at The Ritz has lead to this. I don’t know whether there is any hope beneath the terror that I feel when I wake up at three a.m. I can’t have a baby.
I’ve had to tell Mum who is going to tell Dad and says we have to cross our fingers and hope he doesn’t kill us. (We had a little laugh at that idea because the last thing Dad killed was a frog by mistake with his spade gardening last year and we had to have a small burial service.)
6th November 1944
I wrote again – to tell him about the baby. He can’t ignore that, can he? He would want to help me. I know he would want to help me.
Dad is not taking the news particularly well. He said I should go and stay with his sister. I told him not to be ridiculous. I’m not bowing to the looks and the pressure of the people on this island. If I leave, I’ll leave because I want to leave.
The thing is, what if he doesn’t help me? What if I am alone?
Maybe there’s a part of me that thinks I will be because I went to look at granny’s old houseboat today. It’s done nothing but rot at the end of the garden since she died. At least then, whatever happens, I’ll have some control.
10th November 1944
Dad’s being awful. I’m too impatient to wait for these bloody letters so I went to find a telephone. The only one on the island is at Montmorency Manor. I haven’t met the new people so I was all ready to beg them on the doorstep when their son, Bernard, answered the door and just let me in. He couldn’t care less who used the phone. He was marvellous. Fred said he thought he was a homosexual. I said of course he was a bloody homosexual! Fred’s lovely but sometimes! Anyway, I phoned the Blackwells’ house and someone, I think it must have been the butler, told me no one was home who could speak to me.
Bernard’s let me use the telephone four times. I think this was probably the last time – not just because his mum caught us – but because the butler put me onto a very posh woman who said that my phone calls weren’t welcome. That my letter had been received and that James wanted nothing more to do with me. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her over the phone that I was pregnant. The other letter will be with them soon.
I know it’s a lie about James.
Or at least I hope it’s a lie. It’s hard to keep convincing yourself, especially when you feel so terribly vulnerable.
I try really hard not to think about the future. I’ve moved into the houseboat. It’s really cold. Dad is silent. I will fight, I will. I swear to myself that I will stay the strong one in all of this. Just sometimes… It’s really tiring.