Forgive me my shaking pen. I wrote the above just before heading to the fields, intending to pick it up again if nothing came in the afternoon post, either. Instead, I’ve learned of the invasion underway. Mr. Penworthy carries a wireless radio in the tractor, and we were listening to the BBC while having lunch in the field when John Snagge read out a special bulletin. I will never forget how my stomach dropped when I heard the words “D-Day has come.”
I cannot help now but worry that you were sent to the beaches of Normandy. That this is why you haven’t written to me in days, when you promised you would write every other day at the very least. I will listen to the king’s broadcast tonight—as the entire country will—and pray that you are safe.
I love you. I should have told you that in the garden, but I was so shocked and happy and stunned that you wanted to marry me.
I love you, I love you, I love you,
Beth
Tuesday, 6 June 1944
Highbury, Warwickshire
Dear Colin,
Please write to me and tell me that you’re safe.
Affectionately,
Beth
Wednesday, 7 June 1944
Highbury, Warwickshire
My dearest Graeme,
I do not expect a letter back from you. I can only hope that you are not in Normandy, but I fear from your silence that you are. I can only pray for you and your men.
I love you,
Beth
Thursday, 8 June 1944
Highbury, Warwickshire
My dearest Graeme,
We are all praying for you. Everyone.
Mrs. Symonds was in the kitchen when I made my delivery to Stella, and when she asked for word of you, I could hardly speak through my sobs. She wrapped her arms around me and held me close to her, saying nothing.
Come back to me, Graeme. Come back to me.
I love you,
Beth
“I hate laundry day,” Ruth groaned.
Beth hauled up a basket of wet sheets and balanced it on her hip. “Open the door for me, will you?”
Ruth rushed forward. Since D-Day, everyone seemed to be tripping over themselves to be kind to her. Beth appreciated it—she did—but she would happily work doubly hard to trade away the constant worry for her fiancé’s safety.
Every morning she scoured the newspapers that Mr. Penworthy drove to the village to buy for her. Everyone in the farmhouse gathered around the wireless, hoping for some scrap of information. None of them expected to hear Graeme’s name on the radio, or even much detail about the Pioneer Corps he had been assigned to after being discharged from Highbury House, but it gave them something to do. Something to hope for.
Setting her washing down in the sweet-scented grass under the clothesline, Beth pulled a bunch of pins out of her pocket and clipped them to the arm of her blouse. Ruth picked the top sheet off the stack and unpeeled the wet fabric from itself. Together, they tossed one end over the line, and Beth pinned it in place.
“There’s a dance in Leamington Spa tomorrow evening,” said Ruth.
Beth made a noncommittal noise.
“Petunia will be there,” Ruth tried again. Now that was a sign of how worried Ruth was about her. Her roommate hated Petunia and had once called her one of those horsey girls who couldn’t talk about anything but breeding lines and county hunts. Beth suspected that the truth was that, for all of her resentment of the Women’s Land Army, Ruth liked being the poshest local land girl. When Petunia was around, it was hard to compete.
“If I went, none of you would enjoy yourselves,” said Beth.
“You can’t just sit on your bed and mope.”
“I can, and I will if I want to,” she said.
“Fine,” said Ruth, throwing the next sheet over the line so forcefully that it would have ended up on the ground if Beth hadn’t dived to catch it.
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” said Beth, softening. “I really do.”
“Beth! Beth!” Mrs. Penworthy came running out of the house, flapping her hands about.
“What is it?” Beth asked, her hands stilling on the washing.
“You have post! Two letters!”
The sheet slipped from Beth’s hands and pooled in the grass as she ran toward Mrs. Penworthy. Meeting her halfway, she snatched up the letters, recognizing the handwriting on the top one.
“Graeme,” she breathed, dropping the other letter to tear it open.
Monday, 19 June 1944
My darling Beth,
I cannot tell you where I am or what I am doing but know I’m safe.
Yours forever,
Graeme
P.S. I’ve loved you since I saw you on top of Mr. Penworthy’s tractor.
Beth’s knees gave out. “He’s safe.” He’s safe, and he loves me.
Ruth and Mrs. Penworthy dropped into the grass next to her, engulfing her.
“I’m so glad, pet. I’m so, so glad,” said Mrs. Penworthy.
The three women stayed like that, rocking gently back and forth, until finally Beth loosened her grip on them both.
“The second letter,” she said.
The other women let her go, and Ruth reached behind her to pluck it up off the ground. Beth’s heart sank when she saw the handwritten address.
“It’s from Colin,” she said.
“You need to open it,” said Ruth.
Beth nodded.
“Come on, let’s give her some privacy,” said Mrs. Penworthy, wrapping an arm around Ruth’s shoulders and guiding her toward the house.
With trembling hands, Beth opened Colin’s envelope and drew out the letter. There was only one word written there: No.
• EMMA •
JULY 2021
Emma pulled off her hat and used a handkerchief to wipe her brow, a habit she’d picked up from helping her father in the garden. He would stand, wipe the sweat from his neck, and declare that it was time for a cool drink. She would bound up the garden path to the kitchen, where Mum, who liked to sit at the window while they worked, was already pouring tall glasses of lemonade.
What she wouldn’t give for a lemonade.
All of England and Wales and most of Scotland was in the grips of a heat wave. They’d become a certainty in recent years, and everyone suffered for it in this country with so little air-conditioning. Bow Cottage had remained hot all last night, and she’d hardly slept, even with the rotating fan. When she’d greeted Charlie that morning, he’d told her he’d slept on the roof of the narrow boat, under the stars, and woke up to his mooring neighbor’s dog licking his face.
Still, she was glad to be in the wilds of the winter garden today. It was peaceful here, which certainly had its appeal, but it was more than that. Different garden rooms had different feelings. The children’s garden was playful with its wildflowers and delicately blossomed cherry trees. The tea garden felt formal and proper. But the winter garden held a sobriety that gave her the same sensation as walking into a church. No matter what she encountered outside, she could hitch her leg over the wall, climb down the other side, and the weight of the place would press gently, comfortingly on her shoulders.
Charlie felt it, too, but he wasn’t drawn to it the way she was.
“There’s something about it I just don’t like,” he’d say, shivering as soon as his feet hit the ground. “It feels sad.”