Donnithorne
by Andrew Lee-Hart

 

 

Cambridge, 1942, photograph found in the flat of Edith Donnithorne, after her disappearance last year.

 

“Margaret Roberts’ first day at Cambridge was almost her last; she suffered food poisoning after being invited to supper by a fellow undergraduate, consequently she spent most of Freshers’ Week in bed, “wishing I was dead”.” (Times, 1970)

 

One

I was at Cambridge during the strangest and most unpleasant of times; when idealism and optimism were wiped out by bombs and bullets, and when England lost all that was decent and good about her. There was so much potential amongst my contemporaries, but most of them either made a pact with the Devil or disappeared into obscurity, there were a brave few who did make a stand but sooner or later they were woken by a knock on the door at midnight and never seen again. I am not sure which of these categories Margaret Hilda Roberts, later to be Prime Minister, fell into, perhaps a bit of all three, but she was bravest than the rest of us, and certainly braver than me.

 

We met on our first day at Cambridge, at an event organised by the University Conservative Party, and got talking over sherry and dry biscuits. I was not particularly political, but Anna, who I shared my rooms with was, and so I went with her, seeing it as a good chance to make friends and get a free drink. Anna swiftly disappeared into the throng, but Margaret and I were introduced and “hit it off” immediately, spending most of the evening chatting, and she eventually came to my rooms where I almost killed her off with reheated stew that I had made the previous night and left out too long. Despite this she remained one of my closest friends throughout our time at Cambridge, and when she became famous, I could not but help feel a glow of pride, although we had long lost touch by this stage.

 

It was June 1942, and we were walking down Cambridge high street; it was extremely hot, and I could feel sweat dripping down my back, and I was wishing that I had worn a lighter dress. The war had been over for almost a year, and we were talking of Hitler, as so many people were at the time, we were both despondent, Margaret had lost her fiancée a few days before Neville Chamberlain gave into to what seemed the inevitable, and surrendered to the Germans. Margaret held onto my arm for support as we walked aimlessly through the city streets, we barely talked, both too wretched to do so.

 

I became aware that coming towards us was a young woman who was causing a commotion, in fact I noticed the people around her before I noticed her; the ostentatious stares, and a couple of young men shouting obscenities from a safe distance.

“Oh, she is a Jew” murmured Margaret softly, and then I noticed the yellow star on her breast; I had heard about the new law, but she was the first person I had actually seen wearing one. She stared straight ahead as she walked towards us, and as she drew nearer I gazed at her intently, wondering if she could be a relation; a second cousin, a distant aunt, even a sister.

 

She was blonde and rather beautiful and was wearing a lovely blue and green headscarf, even the yellow star at her left breast looked distinguished and somehow defiant. Margaret let go of my arm and walked towards the young woman, who was probably a year or two older than us, they stood opposite each other for a moment, and then Margaret held her arms out and embraced her, and kissed her soft cheek. I heard her say clearly.

“I am sorry.”

 

They stood intertwined for a few moments, there was the smell of cigarettes from the young woman, and she looked fragile in Margaret’s arms, and then she made a slight movement and then left her arms and, without a backwards glance, continued walking down the road, whilst the two of us carried on towards Girton (now long gone with all the other women only colleges), I heard a sniff and noticed that Margaret was crying, the first time I had seen her do so since she had heard about the death of her fiancée.

 

That was almost forty years ago now, but now when I think of Margaret, I think of that moment, the embrace, almost passionate, and then the tears and the quiet tea afterwards.  I wonder if the young woman escaped; or was she put in the “new housing” and then later on sent to the camps on the Ruhr, where many were chosen – Jews, Gypsies, “sexual deviants”, socialists and anyone else the powers that be took a dislike to – and none returned.

 

I don’t know why, but I never told Margaret that I was Jewish even though it became more and more important as the war ended and the new regime began, more important than anything.  However a couple of men I knew a little from the University were taken away, and I decided that I could not trust anyone, not even my closest friends, something I have kept to, and which probably explains why I am still alive.

 

My father was a member of the landed gentry, but my mother was from the East End of London’s Jewish community. She had become a nurse in France during the First World War which is where she met my father, a professional soldier, who was wounded at Verdun. They fell in love and returned to England already married and settled down in Surrey where I was born a few months later. Shortly after I turned four my mother died of flu leaving me with only a few vague memories and a box of photographs that daddy let me have when I was a little older, and quite often I would sit and gaze at them; trying to understand her and perhaps see myself in the slim young woman, looking confidently at the camera, as she stood next to my father who looked happier than I have ever seen him. 

 

If it hadn’t been for my mother’s sister, my Aunt Miriam, I would not have known about my mother’s (and my) Jewishness, their parents had died shortly before my mother but throughout my childhood Miriam would often come down from London to see me, and when I was eleven I spent a week during the summer at her house, meeting distant relatives, and taking part in the Sabbath meal, and learning a little about my people.

 

My Aunt continued to meet me and write letters, until just before the war ended, and then she disappeared completely and I never heard from her again; perhaps she saw the way the wind was blowing and escaped somewhere safe, or perhaps she was one of the many who were murdered even before we allowed the Nazis in, the English showing that they were happy to do their dirty work for them. If she had escaped it would have been to Russia (America had already closed its borders to Europe by then), where she would have worked in a factory and lived in a hostel and hopefully been safe.  As there was no communication between us and Russia it is possible they she tried to contact me, and even now when I get post, I still get a moment of excitement, in case there is a letter with her beautiful handwriting, saying “come and join me”, but there never is, well not yet.

 

I used to dream of her; she was walking just ahead me, wearing a long black coat, her red hair dangling out behind, and however much I called her name, she carried on walking, and then there was mist, which got thicker and thicker and she disappeared, and I was left cold and alone. But even the dreams have stopped and if it wasn’t for a couple of photographs my memories of my Aunt would have also disappeared.

 

Margaret and I sat together in a History lecture; she was studying one of the sciences, but had a variety of interests, and quite often attended lectures on the most abstruse subjects. Seeing me in the lecture hall, she had sat down next to me and soon commenced furiously making notes. Doctor Gregson was taking the lecture, a young man, only a few years older than us, but who had already acquired the mannerisms of a university don. His specialism was Medieval England and he was talking about the Blood Libel massacres that haunted Medieval Europe; Jewish people being accused of the sacrificial murders of Christian boys to use their blood for Passover, and who were then slaughtered or sent into exile, by way of revenge.

 

“Of course”, Gregson continued, “there is plenty of evidence that the so called “Blood Libel” was no such thing, that our Hebrew Brethren (snigger) actually did use the blood of Christian children for their rituals, and that in fact, there is a strong possibility that they still use them today.”

He paused for a moment, a pathetic attempt at effect, beside me I felt Margaret stiffen, and then she stood up, she looked striking with her poise and blonde hair which shone brightly under the light which was directly above us. She said not a word as she carefully walked towards the front of the lecture theatre, all eyes were upon her, as she stood still for a moment and glared directly at Doctor Gregson, before walking out, the door swinging heavily behind her.  The sound of her heavy shoes echoed heavily away down the corridor, as Doctor Gregson tried to resume the lecture. He looked round at us all, and then at me in particular, as if daring me to follow my friend, but I did not have the courage; I sank as deeply into my seat as I could, paralysed and absolutely scared stiff.

 

Two

Even after all that has happened, I still get the letters at the beginning of each month, addressed to “Miss E. Donnithorne”, with a cheque from the (I presume) fictional Journal of Arcadian Studies. I have been getting them since the early 1950s when I met Pete Shields at the British Library where we both worked, Pete has long gone, as has the Library of course, but the money keeps coming.  Whoever sends them is scrupulously honest, making sure that the amount goes up according to the rate of inflation, and I cash the cheques with no untoward consequences, and they never bounce.

 

Usually after receiving the letters I feel a touch of guilt and try and find something useful to send to the old address in Petty France, London, although the building looks even more dilapidated and uninhabited than it used to and I no longer have a clear idea what they are looking for, but it helps me spend the money with a clear conscience. But even the months that I do not send them anything, the cheque still arrives; perhaps it is for past services rendered, or perhaps even an apology, although I am not sure what for.

 

I started working at the British Library in 1944, shortly after I graduated. Fortunately daddy knew somebody high up within the new Civil Service, and so the interview was a formality – a cosy chat with a family friend - and I avoided the questions about my ancestry and “racial purity”; it is possible that Sir Cedric knew about my mother and was trying to help me, whatever his motives were, I was offered the job the same afternoon as the interview and the following week found myself working in the economic section of the library, where I was to remain for the rest of my working life.

 

Every day, apart from weekends, for over thirty years, I walked to Bloomsbury Square, entered through the ornate doorway and set to work; finding information, compiling bibliographies and cataloguing new items. It was not taxing, especially for someone who was bright, fairly fit and  who loved books, and although I tried not to draw attention to myself and of course am only a woman, I did well at my job, and as a consequence was promoted a couple of times.  And the fact that I remained in one of the more sensitive departments of the library, where members of the governing elite, official and unofficial, often came for information, showed that I was trusted.

 

I was nervous at first of course; with so many people being dragged away, and “uncovered” as being Jewish, or of having Jewish ancestry – as well as for other “crimes” - and here I was working for the government, but I assumed nobody ever thought that the only child of General, Sir John Donnithorne could be anyone who would give cause for concern. And occasionally when the head of the civil service, Sir Clive Powell was flirting with me or a member of the Cabinet thanked me profusely for doing the simplest of tasks, I laughed to myself, at the thought of their horror if they knew it was a Jew that they were lewdly smiling at, or offering a sweet.

 

Pete Shields was for a short time my line-manager a kind and generous man, and after he moved to another department we remained friends and used to go to concerts together, so that when I think of him now there is always the sound of Beethoven’s Ghost Trio playing somewhere in the background. Effortless in all he did, including love-making, he was tall, well-dressed and smelt of eau de Cologne

“What do you think of Russia?” he asked me one evening, as we lay together in my bed, “The Times says they are suffering severe famine, and that the government is on the verge of collapse.”

Russia was the enemy of course; even now that Stalin was dead (suicide after Russia’s humiliating defeat) and Czar Nicholas III was now on the throne, it was not to be talked of except with fear and loathing.

“Uhm, do you believe what you read in the newspapers?”

“Of course, how could I not”, his tone with definitely satirical, and we both laughed before resuming our previous activity.

 

This was typical of the oblique conversations that we had when on our own; nothing given away exactly, just hints and sarcasm so that we both understood that the other was deeply unsympathetic to the present regime and wished it ill. A few times I had been asked by a senior member of the library what I thought of a particular colleague, and whether they had ever said anything “treasonable”, although I was never asked about Pete, clearly there were spies at work and I assumed that my colleagues were also questioned about my attitude and behaviour, so we all learned to be circumspect even in our most intimate relationships. 

 

A few days after our conversation about Russia Pete invited me to meet a man in the Petty France area of London, on the third floor of an old office building; an older man who smelt of cinnamon and did not give me his name, but if he had, I think it would have been Russian.  We sat together in an empty room and he told me the kind of information that he wanted; regular articles from newspapers about economics and politics, and also what any members of the government or civil service requested from the Library.

“Don’t take unnecessary risks” he told me, “but anything you find would be useful. Anything at all, just send it.”

I did not even have to think about it; it felt good to be acting, even in a small way, against the evil that ruled our country.

 

Over the next few months I found enough material to post to “The Journal of Arcadian Studies” and the cheques began to arrive; the same handwriting on the envelope and cheque as now all these years later. I was as careful as “Ivan” suggested; I have a good memory, so when I got home I would jot down all that anyone at all powerful had requested, and any articles that I had come across that might be useful, I remembered and copied when it was quiet. I have no idea what the information was used for, and sometimes I wished that I could do more, but hopefully it was something, and helpful to someone.

 

Pete disappeared one day; he was not at the library canteen at lunchtime on Wednesday – not necessarily unusual as he often had meetings – but he was not there on Thursday and Friday either, and when I telephoned him in the evenings, the telephone just rang and rang. I was tempted to go up to his department, but I did not want to call attention to myself or appear like a love-sick fool, particularly as we both had taken great pains to hide our relationship from our colleagues.

 

That Saturday, growing quite concerned, I took a tram to Highgate where he lived in a first floor flat; he had taken me there a couple of times after attending concerts; it was rather expensive and had made me feel a little intimidated when I had walked in, because of its style and the fact that the owner was clearly wealthy.  A quick glance up to the first floor of the building told me that the curtains were closed, I walked past hurriedly, as if on my way elsewhere, and noticed that there were two men in a grey car watching the door to the building (members of the new secret service, the AGU I guessed). Once of them caught my eye briefly as I walked past, and stared hard at me, as if memorising my face. 

 

I kept going, my legs shaking and tensed for a word of command or a hand on my shoulder, but there was nothing and once out of the neighbourhood I caught the next tram back home to Dagenham.  I had an open fire, and I swiftly burnt everything that might link me to Pete; the photograph of him on my dresser, a couple of handwritten notes he had posted through my door, a tie that he had left one night and even a couple of records that he had bought me for my birthday.  I watched them blacken and melt, and wondered if I was on a list and if there would soon be a knock on my door.

 

I never heard anything more of Pete; he was never mentioned again in work, not even in the darkest corners, where whispered gossip was exchanged, and I never dared return to his flat. I hope that he got away, that someone warned him and he was able to flee, but realistically the best I could wish for him was a quick death and that he maintained his dignity to the end; but even that I am not hopeful of.

 

Pete disappeared in 1960, and by then my old University friend Margaret Roberts was beginning to make a name for herself, being mentioned in the newspapers and on television as a possible future Prime Minister, or at least leader of the opposition, even many of my colleagues spoke about her and were impressed that I had been to University with her, and had been my friend, albeit for only a short time.

 

Margaret had disappeared from my life after university; we had shaken hands at the Summer Ball at the end of our final year and I had wished her well. She told me that she had a job with the government but was vague about what it entailed and she was clearly embarrassed about it; she was attractive and clever in those days, but there was an underlying sadness about her, which remained, even years later, and even before she became well-known I often thought of her and wondered where she was and whether she was happy.

 

When I first met her, she was engaged to a tall, elegant young man, who I met one morning as I returned a book to her rooms early on in my first term, they were obviously just getting up, despite it being almost midday, and they both seemed happy and relaxed. But after he died she was never the same again, and I was never aware of another man in her life.

 

After his death she only mentioned him once to me.

“Perhaps he was too good for this world. He was not one for compromises.”

“You must miss him dreadfully, I am so sorry.”

She shrugged, looking vulnerable, her skin almost translucent, “he was a good man, and I am lucky to have met him. Now I have to get on with my life, make the best of it.”

And after that she seemed stronger, and worked harder, always at lectures and tutorials, whether they were relevant to her subject or not.

 

In 1955 she had become an M.P. for the Conservative Party; those were the days when the Fascist Party were continually in government and the Conservatives, despite being the only legal opposition, feeble and unpopular. But Margaret was part of a new group of M.P.s who made her party more appealing and not just “fascist-light”, and who took advantage of the increasing incompetence and age of the Fascist leader Sir William Perrin, and who were gradually transforming the party. 

 

I began to see her regularly on television; still recognisably the same person I had known at University, she had kept the ability to be centre of attention without appearing to try, and her voice was strong but effortless. Some of my colleagues professed to be half in love with her, and certainly there was an erotic charge about her, all the more powerful for being, I am sure, completely unintended. Whatever the reason, she was a charismatic figure, contrasting strongly with the quislings and thugs on the government benches.

 

Margaret became leader of the Conservative Party in 1970 and led her party to their first General Election victory since the war two years after that; we had all learnt to be discrete by then but there was a feeling of happiness; the fascists had been defeated and there was a sense of hope.  I remember walking into the city, the morning after the election victory, Union Jacks had appeared over night and there were people walking about smiling and saying hello, something we had seen very little of over the last few years. One young man hugged me without a word; he smelt of drink, but I didn’t care, he was happy and so was I.

 

Even though the Fascists were technically out of power, the new government was limited in what they could do, held back by a strict constitution and a very pro-fascist media and Civil Service, but Margaret and her party did their best, and managed to at least alleviate some of the stricter legislation of the post-war government and cut many of the ties with Germany; it was nothing radical but it made a difference. By then all the Jews and Gypsies had long gone, but Margaret and her government eased the restrictions on other minorities who were still here, and a couple of caustic comments in public made us aware what she felt about the work of her predecessors. At the time many were disappointed that she did not do more, but in retrospect it actually proved to be too much.

 

And then it all came crashing down, and nothing was left.  I remember the day very clearly, Monday June 13th 1978; the day that so many of my friends and colleagues died, and also – thanks to me – the day that marked the beginning of the end of Margaret’s career, and the fading away of that faint optimism that had slowly begun to permeate throughout the whole country.

 

Three

The bombing of the British Library was by no means the first terrorist outrage since the end of the war, and there had been an increase since Margaret Roberts’ government took power; a pub frequented by politicians annihilated a few months earlier, the soldiers’ barrack fired upon from a nearby flat and the assassination attempt on Prince Philip which left him in a wheelchair. But this was worst due to the number of people dead (almost three hundred) and the extensive devastation in the heart of London and to a historic landmark, so that even a hardened and cynical population were shocked.

 

It was estimated that six bombs had been left in various parts of the library, all timed to go off at midday when the library was at its busiest, crowded with the public and members of staff; the bombs were large and deadly, and almost completely destroyed the place, and it was said that the sound of the bomb could be heard as far away as Brighton in the South and Watford in the North.

 

We never knew who did it; the newspapers inevitably blamed the Russians, or “the Zionists” (harder to countenance now that Israel had been wiped out by her Nazi-backed neighbours), and four foreign-looking men were subsequently dragged into court a couple of months later, and within a week their bodies were hanging from the gates of Buckingham Palace, but only the most gullible actually believed that they were anything but useful scapegoats.

 

I had booked the thirteenth off a week earlier, so that I could go down to Surrey to see daddy for a long weekend; since my mother had died he had had a succession of  “companions” but nobody permanent, and now that he had been forced to retire from the army, he was bored and lonely and seemed to appreciate and need my company more and more, and as I had nobody close since Pete, I would often spend my free time with him.

 

We were sitting eating lunch and watching television that Monday, when the dramatic news of the bombing of the British Library came on; without a word we watched in silence the smoking ruins and shocked survivors and passers-by walking through the smoke and bricks. I thought that there must be a mistake; this was nothing like the British Library I knew, and then I started to cry, hunched up in my armchair, and I only stopped crying after throwing up violently in the downstairs toilet.

 

I had caught the train to daddy’s, but I knew that they would cancel all public transport after the bombing, so daddy lent me his car – he rarely used it now – and I drove back to London, where two members of the AGU were waiting for me with their car door open and without giving me chance to even get into my house they drove me down to Croydon where their headquarters is. I sat in the back in the back of the usual grey car, in shock whilst the two men – one German, one English – spoke to each other and to the radio, ignoring me.

 

The AGU headquarters was commonly known as the “Flower Pot” because of its round shape getting wider as it got higher, and the myriad aerials sticking out of the roof like dead flowers, however despite its cosy nickname it was a dreaded place whose cellars were popularly supposed to be filled with so many of those who disappeared, whilst at night the ashes of the luckier ones were said to blow out over South London, fertilising parks and gardens.

 

They sat me alone in a dark cell for two days and then judging that I was ripe for questioning, took me to the top of the building – the window left wide open as a tacit threat – where two uniformed men told me what they knew, and what they knew was a lot. They knew that I was Jewish, they knew about Dave Shields and they also knew plenty of things that were not true, although for some reason they did not know about the Journal of Arcadian Studies.

 

For the next week or two (possibly longer, possibly shorter) a team of five took it in turns to try and get information from me; they hit me in the tummy and chest, threatened me with deportation to the death camps in Germany, and for days at a time deprived me of food and the toilet. It does not take long to become less than human when you are dirty, desperate for food, aching all over and helpless.

“Why was I off that day?”

“Who had planned the bombing?”

“Names?”

“Was it the Jews?”

“Why did you do it?”

“Does your father know?”

“Was it the Jews?”

“Was it the Jews?”

 

In the end, desperate to give them something, anything to please them, I gave them Margaret, which I later realised is what they wanted all along.

“I knew Margaret Roberts at University; her lover was Jewish and he had all these left wing ideas.”

“That is not enough.”

“She was Jewish as well; she told me because she knew that I was too. But she had secret writings, Jewish writings. We wanted one of us in power, that is why she has become Prime Minister, it is a Zionist Plot.”

One of them smiled; perhaps they actually believed in Jewish plots, that they had become so paranoid and evil, that their imaginings became real.

 

They took me to an office a floor down, to sign a confession; repeating all that I had said about Margaret with a few embellishments, but I was happy to sign anything if it meant my release and the possibility of food. Early the next morning, when it was still dark, I was dragged out of bed by a soldier and left on the street outside cold, sore and very hungry.  I had been given back my wallet and although some money had been taken from it, there was still enough for coffee and a pastry from a café on Croydon high street.

 

The owner looked at me closely for a moment; he probably knew where I had come from, I doubt that I was the first who had sat in his dimly-lit café, shivering and hungrily bolting down food. I stayed there for several hours, drinking more and more coffee until it was light and other people came in, presumably on their way to work, and so after a quick trip to the toilet I caught the tram home.

 

They may have let me go, but I no longer had a job; there was a letter waiting for me when I got home from the head of the Civil Service saying that because of the change in my “ethnic status” I was no longer eligible to work for them, and a day or two later I was told to go to my local police station where my Identity Card and Badge were taken off me, and I received a new one with a brown “A” on the top right corner (for Alien), and suddenly I was no longer allowed to work for anything to do with the government (not only the Civil Service but all schools, colleges and even the church), I could no longer travel abroad and was liable for arrest at any time.

 

For the next few weeks I stayed in my house; I had enough savings for the time being and I knew that daddy would give me an allowance the moment I asked, but whilst I was not worried about money, I dreaded that my house could be taken away from me and that I could be re-arrested and this time for good. I shivered every time a shadow passed my curtain, but nobody ever knocked, nobody ever called, or they haven’t so far.

 

And so for the next few weeks I sat and listened to the radio, and heard all about the fall of Mrs Roberts; the usual pattern, the rumours in the press about “foreign ancestry”, jokes that she was mean, and earnest discussion of the “lack of patriotism” in her government. There was no military coup or arrest; one morning she appeared before the cameras looking tired and ill and announced her resignation, due to a “recent illness.” As she stood there, outside the Prime Ministerial residence of 20 Godolphin Street, she looked at the cameras, and there was a flash of anger but also of resignation; she had done her best, but she had been betrayed and had to step aside.

 

I had thought I might be called to testify against her, but clearly my “confession” was enough, and perhaps the “confessions” of others who had been brought in to testify against the Prime Minister. I am glad that I did not have to go in court and face the woman who was once my friend, but it did make me feel even more pathetic; I wished I had been braver, had refused to speak, but I am no hero; and I know that I was always going to give them what they wanted, that I had been happy to do so, in exchange for my freedom and for food.

 

The government swiftly collapsed; several M.P.s also resigned, and there were arrests, and a new election was called, which the fascists won, but with only a tiny majority, and, amidst rumours that the result had been fixed, there were riots for a few days before everything calmed down and we went back living under a fascist government. But even the fascists kept some of their predecessors’ legislation, so perhaps the United Kingdom had improved slightly for the better as a result of Margaret’s time as Prime Minister, and it hadn’t been all in vain.

 

As for Margaret Roberts, she was allowed to retire to the North of Scotland, and remarkably soon she was forgotten about, or spoken about as if her time as Prime Minister had been many years ago. She did make the headlines five years later though, when she was found dead in bed by her maid. We were told that it was natural causes and the newspapers were polite and at times laudatory now that she was safely dead, but I doubt many believed that she had died peacefully. I wept after I heard, long and hard, not just for her, but also over my weakness and guilt.

 

My father had also died the same week, he lived alone and it was only when I could not get through to him for two days in row, that I telephoned one of his neighbours and they found him lying dead in the orchard, slumped against a tree, a coronary apparently. There were not many mourners at his funeral, he had died out of favour with the powers that be, an embarrassment to admit to having known, let alone having been his friend. Only a few neighbours, too old or unambitious to care about what the authorities thought, attended, even the vicar handed over the duty to his curate, who got through the service with a haste and distaste, that he did not bother to conceal.

 

Back in London I sit stony-faced with the radio on.  Financially I am secure for the rest of my life, but that is unimportant. I think of my father who had protected me all my life, and who had seen his old world destroyed, and I think of my erstwhile fellow student and friend, who had been brave and strong, and I hope that when they killed her, they were kind and quick, as befitted someone who had been Prime Minister. And then I think, as I continually do, what will they be like when they come for me, as they surely will, will they be merciful, or is mercy too much to expect from the likes of them?

 

 

Cambridge, 1941

 

She sat on my bed as we discussed “A Tale of Two Cities”, a book which we both hugely admired.

“Your fiancée is due here next week, isn’t he?”

She nodded with a shy smile, “and then he is off to fight.  I don’t mind telling you that I am quite nervous.”

I reached over and gave her a quick hug, and for a brief moment we held each other awkwardly, but then she disengaged herself and adjusted her hair.

“I am sure it will be okay” she said, her voice quavering slightly, “we are on the right side, and we must triumph in the end, good always does.”

 

We sat in silence for a few moments, I could sense her anxiety.

“I have got some leftover stew downstairs in the kitchen, would you like some?”

“Thank you, that would be lovely.”

“It should be safe to eat, I only made it last night.”

She held my hand briefly and then we walked down to the kitchen to heat up our supper, and to eat.

 

Rate this story.

Copyright is reserved by the author. Please do not reproduce any part of this article without consent.