Then it came, the knock at the front door and her mother’s voice! Her sweet, sweet mother, calling from the hallway,
‘I’ll get it!’
Balling her dainty fingers into a fist, she placed her knuckles into her mouth. Her mother was on the other side of that door,her mummy, long, long gone. It took all of her strength not to run to her, knowing to glimpse her, touch her, receive a smile, might well be worth losing her fifteen minutes.
‘She’s in the parlour, love. Hurry now, don’t let the heat out.’
Violet smiled and wiped her eyes. God only knew how chilly it must be outside if this was considered heat.Her motherhere, present, alive! Violet pictured her wrap around pinny and sturdy lace up shoes.
‘Thanks, Mrs Bertram.’
Elsie’s voice! Oh my goodness!Elsie’s voice!It was all she could do to control the powerful surge of emotion in her chest.
Then almost immediately the twist of the door handle…
Just like that, it all came back to her. The last time Violet had seen her. Elsie had called around. It was a Saturday night, darkoutside, and the two had a brief catch up, made a plan for the next day, to meet up after church and walk home the long way, nattering as they did so. Violet had gone to bed happy, excited, looking forward to seeing her best friend. She had slept deeply, woken when the siren assaulted her ears. Grabbing her gas mask and coat from the bed post, she’d met her mum on the landing and, in a well-practised manner, each trying to keep the other calm, they’d made their way out towards the Anderson shelter and felt their way down into the dark, sitting huddled together on the little bench, waiting for it all to be over. Their limbs quaking with fear at every rumble, every bang. Praying they were going to be lucky.
One such rumble and bang had occurred on Juniper Street where a sleeping Elsie Porter was not so lucky. Elsie, who had, not a couple of hours before, stood in Violet’s parlour and made a plan. The Porter’s suffered a direct hit. The house and everyone in it, Elsie, her mother, her younger brother, and older sister, all perished, laying like a bloody human jigsaw among the flaming remains and charred bricks that had been their haven. Just like that, destroyed. Gone was the house Elsie’s father and brother dreamed of coming home to, while they battled in the very worst of conditions, fighting hard to protect the way of life of those at home.
‘All right, Vi?’ Elsie stomped her feet on the rug. ‘God, it’s taters out there!’
And there she was! Alive! Restored and beautiful!
Violet had forgotten just how beautiful. Her perfectly shaped lips, eyes twinkling with the mischief that was never far away from her thoughts. Her beloved friend, her very best friend, who was engaged to Harry Drummond.
Violet stood slowly and wrapped her in a warm, close hold. Their spare bodies colliding, without the pouch of stomach thathad born three children or flesh worn loose on thin muscles, skin that drooped.
‘Blimey, girl, what’s got into you? Get off you daft apeth!’ Elsie shoved her.
‘Nothing, I just.’
‘You been on the cooking sherry?’
They both laughed; it had been many a month since they’d seen or sniffed cooking sherry. Even the most basic staples were in short supply.
‘Just pleased to see you!’ she beamed. It was the truth.A miracle! Magic!
‘Oh, my days! Well there’s a welcome if ever I’ve ‘ad one.’ Elsie sat on one of the chairs and crossed her legs, removing her woollen beret and matching mittens, which she placed neatly on the arm of the chair. ‘Still no letter.’ She pulled a face.
Violet, with the wonderful benefit of hindsight, knew that Harry was in fact stationed in North Africa and that he wrote to Elsie regularly. She recalled the string-wrapped bundle that had been returned to him, unopened after the war. One of the only times she’d seen him cry.
‘He will have written to you, I’m sure of it. He loves you, Els.’ Her voice was soft, lilting, higher than she was used to without the aged growl that came from vocal cords that had lost their lubrication. It felt odd, reassuring another woman that she held a place in the heart of the man who was to become Violet’s husband, but it was no less honest for that. It was the truth, Harry had loved Elsie, very, very much.
‘Just want to know he’s doing all right.’
‘You know what they say, mate, bad news travels fastest.’ This the phrase she used to placate herself in the wee small hours when her fear for her big brother and her daddy sometimes felt overwhelming. Her words tripping over the boulder of grief that sat at the base of her throat, knowing that her best friend, thisdarling girl, would never get to read Harry’s words of love and longing written in a letter. But Violet had seen them, and they were beautiful.
The walnut clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly, a reminder of the little time she had.
‘I wanted to say to you, Els, if anything happened to me and if, if Harry didn’t come home. I wouldn’t mind if you went out with Cyril.’
Her friend let out a loud laugh and leaned forward, as if the very suggestion was absurd.
‘First, ain’t nothing going to happen to you or Harry,’ her friend spoke prophetically, ‘but, if it did, I don’t want your Cyril!’
‘He’s not my Cyril, not really, we’re pen pals more than anything.’ She felt nothing romantically for the boy but knew her letters to him might lift his mood when he needed it most.
‘Why? Are you saying you’d go after my Harry?’ Elsie narrowed her eyes.
