“You look like you’ve never had a cup of tea before,” Lilian remarked, watching Evelyn savour the drink.
“Not since yesterday. I didn’t drink on the train at all.”
“I thought you must’ve come on the train from somewhere. What with the suitcase, and the accent and all. How far have you come?”
“I don’t know how far it is, exactly. I’m from West Coombe. You might have heard of it.”
“Oh, is that the darling place on the south coast, not far from Torquay? My uncle has a place near there, up on the cliffs. He’s always inviting us down to visit, but it seems like such an awfully long way.”
Evelyn smiled, not surprised that Lilian’s uncle would have a house near West Coombe. It would be one of the large villas with the views of the estuary, very different from the houses of the ordinary citizens of the town, but still a welcome source of income for the businesses in the area. More and more wealthy visitors were coming to enjoy the mild climate, turquoise seas, and rocky cliffs. Once they discovered the beauty, they bought land and built their extravagant villas, all balustrades and terraces and formal gardens. “Yes, that’ll be West Coombe,” was all she said. Now she was on the other side of the divide. Lilian was of the other world; she was related to those wealthy outsiders. And yet she was friendly and welcoming, apparently not forming any judgements about Evelyn. People were, she reflected, only people after all.
“Then you’ve come a very long way indeed! You must be exhausted, darling.” Lilian looked genuinely surprised. Evelyn guessed she did not leave London any more frequently than she left West Coombe.
“I am rather tired.”
“Well, I have to say thank you for coming all this way.” Lilian sipped her tea, a hesitant expression on her face. Clearly she wanted to ask for her brother’s letter, but Evelyn supposed she was not sure she was prepared for it. She took another sip of her own tea, feeling awkward to be part of such a private grief.
“Would you like to read the letter now?” she said finally.
Lilian put her cup down unsteadily. “Yes, yes, I would, please.” Evelyn opened the top of her case and retrieved the letter, handing it to Lilian. She took the envelope and stared at the handwriting on the envelope. Without looking up, she spoke to Evelyn. “Please do have some cake. I think you’ll excuse me while I read this.”
“Of course.” Evelyn reached for one of the slices of cake, purposely not watching Lilian, who sat back in her chair, still looking intently at the envelope. In some ways, Evelyn wished she could leave the room and give Lilian her privacy. Yet, at the same time, she suspected her presence, her own suffering, could help Lilian.
She focused her attention on the delicious, sticky ginger cake, each bite renewing her energy and strength. She heard the sound of paper moving as Lilian opened the letter and began to read. Her cake finished, Evelyn sipped her tea and watched the low flames in the fireplace. Her gaze rose to the mantelpiece where there was a framed photograph of three children. One girl, recognisably Lilian, and a boy who looked about the same age. Another boy, younger, with fairer hair, sat between them. Evelyn knew she was looking at Lilian and her two brothers, that the one who looked so much like Lilian was Frank. How strange it was, the way the war had made so many men disappear, leaving photographs, letters, and memories as the only evidence they’d ever lived. So many of them did not even have decent graves at which their families could mourn. She was lucky to have Edward, however damaged. At least he was not entirely lost, vanished as if he had never lived.
The sound of a sob brought Evelyn out of her contemplation. She looked across to Lilian, who had the letter clasped between her hands and tears running down her cheeks. In that moment, it did not matter that Lilian was a stranger who inhabited another world so different from Evelyn’s. It only mattered that she needed comfort and friendship. “I’m so sorry, Lilian.” Evelyn rose to her feet and went to crouch at the side of Lilian’s chair. She laid a hand on the other woman’s arm and squeezed gently.
“It’s so strange to read his words.” Lilian’s tone was strained, the pain very clear. “I can hear his voice, you know, saying them. I can see him walking in here now. It doesn’t matter how many years go by, I still can’t quite believe it. This almost makes it more real…Now he’s said goodbye.” Lilian’s face crumpled in grief once more.
Evelyn took her hand and pressed it between her own. “I think it must’ve helped him, knowing he’d said goodbye,” she ventured. There really were not any satisfactory words of comfort.
“He said he was friends with your brother. Does your brother know how he died?”
Evelyn felt tears welling in her own eyes at the thought of Eddie, of what he and Frank had suffered through together. “He might know, Lilian, he might have seen it with his own eyes, but he can’t tell us. He just can’t.”
Lilian, apparently sensing her pain, returned the pressure on Evelyn’s hand. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. It’s just that we’ve never known, you see. His name’s on a wall at a cemetery called St. Roch, in France, and they buried a lot of unknown men there. But we’ve never been really certain what happened. It’s hard…You want to imagine it, but you don’t, at the same time.”
“I wish I could tell you more. We know Eddie was shelled, they say that’s what caused him to be the way he is. So maybe the same thing happened to Frank.”
“He’d survived nearly the whole war, you know.
