Kissed a Sad Goodbye

She stood and followed him out onto the veranda. The sky was mottled a soft rose with the remnants of the sunset, and on the south side of the river lights twinkled in the renovated warehouses of Rotherhithe.

They stepped to the railing, and when she looked to the east she saw the revolving beacon atop Canada Tower. She turned away, her back to the river. She desperately wanted to forget the Island, even for just a short time, imagine another life altogether. On a bench at the side of the veranda a couple sat intertwined, the woman half in the man’s lap, their faces inches apart, and Teresa felt a stab of envy. Why shouldn’t she, for once, be the object of someone’s desire? Why should she always be the one on the sidelines?

Beside her, Reg said, “I am sorry. It’s just that I don’t want to think tonight. Does that sound horribly callous of me, to wish I could be someone else for an hour or two?”

“No. I was thinking the same thing, but I was ashamed to admit it.”

“Were you?” His arm brushed against hers as he moved closer; she could feel the warmth of his body protecting her from the small breeze that moved the river air. She thought of the way he had held her, and of the feel of his hand against the small of her back, and she shivered.

“Cold?” He put his arm round her shoulders and pulled her closer. “Who would you be, then, Teresa? For an hour or two. What would you want to do?”

Glancing up at him, she gave a mute shake of her head. She shouldn’t even think it—how could she possibly say it?

“Tell me,” he urged, and she felt his breath against her cheek. She closed her eyes.

“With you. I’d want to be with you.” She felt as if she were falling into an abyss.

He bent his head and brushed his lips against her throat. “Like this?”

“I … Reg—” He had placed his hand on her back, beneath her short linen blouse, and whatever weak protest she’d been about to make died on her lips. He moved his hand, stroking the soft skin on her side, then ran his fingers under the edge of her bra beneath her breast.

She jerked away, whispering, “We can’t—not here—someone will see—”

“Then we’ll go. Don’t move. I’ll call us a taxi.”

In a few moments they were away, clutching at each other in the bouncing darkness of a black cab’s interior; and then they were spilling out onto the pavement in front of her building. She felt dizzy, although she’d hardly touched the second pint of ale, and arm in arm they walked to the lift and down the corridor to her flat, where she fumbled the key into the lock.

He had her blouse off by the time they’d crossed the sitting room, and she had one fleeting and dismissive thought of her balcony-usurping neighbor and her open blinds before they reached the bedroom and fell panting onto her bed.

In the end, it was disappointing, his erection dwindling away at the crucial moment. Groaning, he rolled away from her. “I’m so sorry, love. ‘Sorry’—that’s all I seem to be able to say to you.”

“It’s all right,” she said softly.

“No it’s not.” He turned back to her, propping himself on one elbow and cupping her breast with his other hand. “It’s not you, love. You have to know that. I wanted—”

“I know what you wanted. It’s all right.” She pulled his head down to her breast and held him, stroking his back, and she was suddenly filled with a fierce and unexpected tenderness. When he had drifted off to sleep, she slipped her numb shoulder free and lay beside him until the windows paled, wondering what she felt, and how she could begin to justify what she had done.

IN THE LONG SUMMER OF 1940, Lewis and William learned to identify planes. Edwina had managed to procure black silhouette cards from a friend in the Royal Observer Corps, and every free afternoon they bicycled up into the hills and found a spot where they could scan the sky, cards at the ready.

The approaching drone of an engine brought a rush of excitement, and they soon recognized some planes from the engine noise alone. Junkers 88, Heinkels, Messerschmitts, Wellingtons, Blenheims, Lancs—they wagered on their favorites. At first the German planes were only occasional raiders, and after the first few it didn’t occur to the boys to be afraid.

To them the war still seemed a distant and imaginary thing. They played “English and Germans” with the other children in the village streets, and in the dark evenings they sat round the kitchen radio with John and Cook, listening to Tommy Handley’s ITMA and “Appointment with Fear,” which made them feel much more frightened than the news broadcasts, and Lewis learned to imitate Lord Haw-Haw so well that he kept Cook in stitches.

But as the weeks passed, more and more airplanes passed overhead and the radio broadcasts became more dire. France fell and Italy entered the war; John Pebbles joined the Home Guard, drilling on the Downs with an old shotgun borrowed from the Hall’s gun room; Holland fell, then Belgium, and people began to say that on still nights you could hear a distant rumbling, the sound of the guns in France. Lewis got himself up in the small hours on several occasions and went out in the yard to listen, but all he ever heard was the hooting of the owl that lived in the barn and the shuffling noises made by the horses.

In June, when the evacuations began from Dunkirk, Winston Churchill, now prime minister, pledged over the wireless, “We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills, we shall never surrender,” and Lewis tried hard to imagine that there were people fighting, and that his brothers were somewhere among them. Inspired by Mr. Churchill’s valiant words, he and William had long discussions about how they would resist if they were invaded, and in a clearing in the woods they made a makeshift shelter from an old tent of Mr. Cuddy’s and some tinned goods they had begged off Cook.

Then, one night in late July, Lewis was awakened by the sound of an explosion. Struggling into his clothes in the darkness, he ran down the stairs and out into the stable yard. Sparks floated above the treetops in the direction of the village, winking out as he watched. Then there was another crack of sound, followed by a jet of flame shooting up above the trees, and Lewis heard the sound of shouting.

“What is it? Did you see?” William came banging out the kitchen door, still tucking his shirttail into his trousers, and after him came Edwina, and then Mr. Cuddy in a dressing gown over trousers and braces, his hair