Coming Home (117 page)

It was the last letter from her mother. Three weeks later, on Sunday, February 15, Singapore was surrendered to the Japanese.

After that, nothing.

HMS
Sutherland

C/o GPO

London.

21st February, 1942.

Darling Judith,

I said I would write sooner or later, and it seems to be later, because it's just about a month since I said goodbye to you. I could have written a quick note, but that wouldn't have been very satisfactory, and I knew that, if there was a delay, you would understand.

My address is deliberately deceiving. My ship is not crouched in a GPO pigeon-hole, but having a refit in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. (Every British sailor's dream.) For the Royal Navy, New York is Open House…I have never experienced such hospitality, and the parties started the moment we were safely in dry dock, and work had commenced. The First Lieutenant (Jock Curtin, an Australian) and myself were wheeled off to a cocktail party in a swanky apartment on the East Side of Central Park, treated like the heroes that we aren't, and made much of. At this particular do (and there have been too many for any person's liver), we met this delightful couple called Eliza and Dave Barmann, who instantly invited us to ‘weekend’ with them in their house on Long Island. They duly scooped us up at the dockside in their Cadillac, and drove us here, down the Long Island Expressway, to their weekend ‘home’. This is a large old clapboard house in a village called Leesport, on the South Shore of Long Island. It took about two hours to get here, not a beautiful drive, all billboards and diners and used-car lots, but the village is off the beaten track and very charming. Green grass, picket fences, shady trees, wide streets, a drug-store, a fire station, and a wooden church with a tall steeple. Just the way I had always imagined America, like those old films we used to see, when the girl wore a gingham dress and ended up marrying the boy next door.

The house is on the water's edge, with green lawns going down to the shore. It's not the ocean, because the Great South Bay is a sort of lagoon, enclosed by the dunes of Fire Island. On the far side of Fire Island is the Atlantic. There is a little marina, with the Stars and Stripes snapping in the breeze, and a lot of enviable yachts and sailing boats at anchor.

So, I've set the scene. Outside, it's cold, but crisp and dry. A beautiful morning. Indoors, where I now sit at a desk looking out over the summer deck and the swimming pool, it is wonderfully warm, with central heating oozing from decorative grids. Because of this, the house is furnished for summer, the floors uncarpeted and polished, white cotton curtains, and everything very light and fresh. It all smells of cedar, with overtones of beeswax and sun-tan oil. Upstairs, Jock and I each have a bedroom to ourselves, with a bathroom en suite. So, you will gather, we are living in the lap of luxury.

As I said, the kindness and hospitality we have been offered is unbelievable, and even embarrassing, as there is little we can do to return it. It seems to be an integral part of the American character, and my theory is that it stems from the old days of the first pioneers. A settler, spying the distant cloud of dust, and knowing that a passing stranger was on his way, would call to his wife to put another couple of potatoes in the stew. At the same time, he would reach for his gun, which is the flip side of the American coin.

Now, I shan't talk any more about myself, but about you. I think about you every day, and wonder if you have had any news of your family. The fall of Singapore was a disaster, probably the worst defeat ever suffered in the history of the British Empire, and the defence of the city seems to have been thoroughly mishandled and ill thought out. Which is no comfort to you if you have still had no news. But, remember that the war will end, and though it may take a bit of time, I am sure the day will come when you will all be reunited. The worst is that the Red Cross are not able to communicate…prisoners in Germany at least have the benefit of the organisation in Switzerland. Whatever, I never cease to hope for you all. And Gus Callender, too. Poor chap. I think of my present circumstances and what he must be enduring, and feel dreadfully guilty. But personal guilt has always been a pretty useless exercise.

Here, Jeremy laid down his pen, his eye deflected by the sight of a small ferry boat chugging out across the still, silvery waters of the Sound, headed for Fire Island. He had already covered pages of writing-paper, and still had not come to the point of his letter to Judith. It occurred to him that, subconsciously, he was putting it off, because it was so personal, and so important, that he feared that he would not be able to find the words with which to frame the sentences. He had started the letter with such confidence, but now, come to the crunch, he was not so sure of himself. He watched the progress of the ferry boat until it disappeared from view, lost behind a thicket of bushes. Then he picked up his pen again, and went on writing.

Meeting you in London, finding you at Diana's house, was one of the best and most unexpected of bonuses. And I am so grateful that I was there when you were feeling unwell and so miserably worried. Being with you that night, and letting me share, and I hope comfort, in the most basic of ways, has become, in retrospect, a bit like a small miracle, and I shall never forget your sweetness.

The truth is that I love you very much. I suppose always have done. But I didn't realise it until that day you came back to Nancherrow, and I heard ‘Jesu Joy’ coming from your bedroom, and knew that you were home again. I think you were writing a letter to your mother. I know that in that moment, I finally understood how important you were to me.

Like that personal guilt, falling in love in wartime, making commitments, is a pretty useless exercise, and I am fairly sure that you feel the same way. You loved Edward, and he was killed, and this is not an experience any person would want to go through for a second time. But one day the war will end, and with a bit of luck well all come through it, and we'll all go back to Cornwall and pick up the threads of our lives again. When that happens, I would like, more than anything else in the world, for us to be together again, because at the moment I cannot contemplate a future without you.

Here, he stopped once more, laid down his pen, took up the pages and read them through. He wondered if the last paragraph seemed dreadfully stilted. He knew he was not a man able to lay out his deepest feelings on paper. Some, like Robert Burns or Browning, were able to convey passion in just a few well-turned lines, but writing poetry was a gift with which Jeremy Wells had not been blessed. What he had set down would have to suffice, and yet he found himself assailed by self-doubt, and the cold feet of second thoughts.

At the end of the day, he wanted, more than anything, to marry Judith, but was it fair on her even to suggest such a thing? So much older than she, he wasn't, it had to be admitted, much of a catch, with a future no more exciting than the life of a country GP, and one, to boot, short on worldly goods. While Judith, thanks to her late aunt, was a girl of both wealth and property. Would she imagine, would people say, that he was after her for her money? The life that he offered her was that of a rural doctor's wife, and he knew from experience that this was necessarily ruled by endless telephone calls, broken nights, cancelled holidays, and meals that were no more than movable feasts. Perhaps she deserved more than that. A man who would give her what she had never known — a strong and secure family life — as well as an income that matched her own. She had grown so lovely, so desirable…just to think of her made his heart turn over…that it was only too obvious that men were going to fall in love with her, like apples falling from a tree. Was it being desperately selfish, at this particular moment in time, to ask her to marry him?

He simply didn't know, but he had got so far that he might as well finish. Torn by uncertainty, he reached for his pen once more and ploughed on.

I am saying all this without having any idea how you feel about me. We have always been friends, or so I like to think, and I would like it to stay that way, so I don't want to write or say anything that might spoil our good relationship for ever. So, for the meantime, this declaration of my love for you will have to do. But, please write to me as soon as you can, and let me know your feelings, and whether in the fullness of time, you might consider our spending the rest of our lives together.

I love you so deeply. I hope this hasn't upset or distressed you. Just remember, I am prepared to wait until you're ready for commitment. But
please
write as soon as you possibly can, and set my mind at rest.

Always, my darling Judith,

Jeremy

Finished. He threw down his pen for the last time, ran his fingers through his hair, and then sat gazing despondently at the pages which had taken him all morning to compose. Perhaps he shouldn't have wasted his time. Perhaps he should tear them up, forget it all, write another letter, this time asking nothing of her. On the other hand, if he did this…

‘Jeremy.’

His hostess, come in search of him, and he was grateful for the interruption.

‘Jeremy.’

‘I'm here.’ Swiftly he gathered up the pages of his letter, blocked them off, and slipped them under the top cover of the writing-pad. ‘In the living-room.’

He turned in his chair. She appeared through the open door, tall and tanned and with her silver-gold hair bouffant and shining, as though it had just emerged from the hands of an expert hairdresser. She wore a light wool suit and a striped shirt, crisply collared, the cuffs fastened with heavy gold links, and high-heeled pumps emphasised the elegance of her long American legs. Eliza Barmann, and a pleasure to behold.

She said, ‘We're taking you to the club for lunch. Leaving in about fifteen minutes. Will you be ready?’

‘Of course.’ He gathered up his belongings and got to his feet. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't realise it was so late.’

‘Did you get your letter finished?’

‘Just about.’

‘Do you want to mail it?’

‘No…no, I might want to add something. Later. I'll mail it when I get back to the ship.’

‘Well, if you're sure…’

‘I'll just go and tidy myself up…’

‘Nothing formal. Just a necktie. Dave wondered if, after lunch, you'd like a round of golf?’

‘I've no clubs.’

She smiled. ‘That's no problem. We can borrow from the Pro. And don't hurry yourself. There's no rush. Except it would be nice to have a martini before we go in to eat.’