Philippa Carr: We'll meet again

How different everything might have been if we had never gone there! I might have known Gretchen, because Edward had already met her and been attracted to her; but Dorabella and I would never have met Dermot Tregarland. I should never have seen this place. I had to remember, too, that I should never have known Jowan.

It was hard to believe that it was only five years ago that we had sat in the cafe near the schloss and Dermot had sauntered by. An Englishman in a foreign land meets fellow countrywomen—and, of course, he stops to talk. That might have been the end of it. But then there was that fearful night when the Hitler Youth had invaded the schloss and tried to wreck it and insult its owners because they were of the Jewish race. It was horror such as I could not have believed existed. It was my first experience of mindless cruelty and bestiality. Never, never would I forget it.

Gretchen put her hand over mine suddenly.

“I know what you are thinking,” she said.

I turned to her and said: “I wish we could get some news. What do you think is happening over there?”

She shook her head. “I cannot guess. I just hope they will be all right. Perhaps we shall soon hear something.”

“I was thinking, if they fall into the hands of those people … those who were in the schloss that night.”

“They would be prisoners of war. My family is Jewish. That was what that was all about. Dear Violetta, you can never forget it, can you?”

“No,” I said. “Never.”

“I fear I shall never see my family again.”

“You have Edward now, Gretchen—Edward and Hildegarde.”

She nodded.

But the sadness stayed with her and I realized afresh that, because so much tragedy had touched her, she would always be fearful that she would lose the happiness she had gained.

We both sat for some time looking at the sea, thinking of our loved ones, until Tristan came up. He was near to tears because the handle had come off the pail of his bucket.

“Auntie Vee make well,” he said.

I took the pail and saw that all that was needed was to slip the wire back into the loop. I did it with ease and Tristan smiled broadly, accepting my cleverness as something he had never doubted.

If only our problems could be so easily solved!

May had come. The weather was perfect. The Cornish countryside was at its best at this time of the year. The sea, calm and benign, seemed to caress the rocks as it crept up the beach at high tide. The peaceful scene was in contrast to the apprehension in our minds. There was no disguising the fact that the war was not going well. There was no more talk of its being over in the next few weeks.

We had been driven out of Norway and it was clear that the storm was about to break over Western Europe. The Prime Minister, Mr. Neville Chamberlain, had resigned and Mr. Winston Churchill had taken his place. The retiring Prime Minister made a stirring speech in which he asked us to rally round our new leader. But when our newly appointed Prime Minister spoke, he told us that he had nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat, and that we had a grievous task before us and months of struggle and suffering.

I well remember listening to that speech. It did not contain lists of our triumphs. It came over as stark reality, and I think it was what we needed at the time. I still remembered parts of it through the years to come.

“You say, what is our policy? It is to make war by sea, land and air with all the might and strength that God can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime.”

Then I was transplanted to that room in the schloss, and I remembered the look on the face of the young man who had led in his band of ruffians. It was dark, it was lamentable; it had never been surpassed in the catalogue of human crime.

“And what is our true aim?” went on the Prime Minister. “It is victory … victory at all cost. Come, let us go forward in our united strength.”

It was a taste of that inspiration which was to hold us up and give us courage through the dark years to come.

But at least now we were prepared for bad tidings which might come. And we needed to be. The news went from bad to worse. The Germans were advancing through Flanders while the sun shone brilliantly and the countryside seemed more beautiful than ever before.

In the first six months the war had taken on a meaning for us which we would never have believed to be possible. We ourselves were in acute danger and we could not evade the possibility that our precious island might be threatened.

And Jowan and Edward, all those who were in the thick of the fight, what of them?

Each day increased our gloom.

I felt an urge to be alone. I often took out Starlight, the mare I had ridden in those days when I used to go and meet Jowan.

I wanted to escape from the present. I liked to ride to those places I had visited with Jowan. I remembered our first meeting so well, when I had trespassed on Jermyn land. I rode to the field where I had fallen. There we had walked to an inn called Smithy’s into which Jowan had insisted on taking me for a brandy to steady me. The inn was so called because it was next to the blacksmith’s shop.

How I longed to be back in those days!

As I was about to ride past, Gordon Lewyth came out of the blacksmith’s shop.

“Good morning,” he said. “What are you doing in this part of the world? No trouble with Starlight, I hope?”

“No,” I replied. “’Twas just riding past.”

“I’ve taken Samson in. He’s cast a shoe.”

“Are you going back now?” I asked.

“I thought I might have a light lunch and wait for him. Why not join me?”

I was poignantly reminded of that other occasion, only it was Gordon who sat opposite me now in place of Jowan. Mrs. Brodie, the wife of the landlord, came to us just as she had on that other occasion. I remembered how interested she had been. The visitor who was the sister of the new Mrs. Tregarland and Jowan Jermyn! A meeting of the enemy families! She would know now, of course, of my engagement to Jowan. Such matters would be frequently discussed in this place.

She said: “Good day to you, Miss Denver, and Mr. Lewyth. There’s meat loaf. I can recommend it. They tell me it is one of my best. The best you can hope for these days, I’m afraid.”

“Would you like wine or cider?” asked Gordon.

I asked for cider.

“Any news of Mr. Jermyn, Miss Denver?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well, they’ll have their hands full over there, I reckon. They’ve got to send them Germans back where they belong to be. It won’t be long now, you mark my words.”

I smiled at her. Gordon’s eyes met mine and I was aware of his sympathy.

“She must notice the changes these days,” I said when Mrs. Brodie had gone.

“As we all do.”

I could see the sadness in his eyes and for the moment I was back to that night in the nursery when Nanny Crabtree and I had prevented his mother from carrying out her obvious intention to murder Tristan. I remembered how, when we had called him in, he had stood there, stunned by the revelation.

I felt a deep sympathy for him, and I remembered with admiration how he had recovered from the shock and quickly taken charge of the situation, how stoically he had done what had to be done, how tender he had been towards his poor demented mother.

I heard myself saying: “And how was she when you visited her?” before I realized we had not been speaking of her; but he showed no surprise. I supposed she was rarely out of his thoughts.

He replied: “Her condition does not change much, though there are times when she knows me and at others…”

“I am sorry. I should not have spoken of it. It is very upsetting for you.”