The Returning Tide Read online

  I hate the leaving part so much. Despite the pain of it, I have never known such highs. Every time he leaves my side I die a little knowing there is a chance he won’t return. So many don’t. I’m secretly hoping that I’m pregnant so that I will have his child, even if he is gone. Is that wrong?

  I can hear your voice telling me my life would be ruined. But would it? Don’t be too hard on me in your thoughts. Remember I can hear them.

  xxxx

  P.S. Will write tomorrow with an update on family. Aunt Margaret sends her love. With great restraint I have kept the news from her. Can you imagine Mother’s reaction if the aunt knew first!! Call her if you get a chance. She needs a lift. She hasn’t had a letter from Uncle Reg in ages. She’s keeping her spirits up but I can see how much it is costing her.

  P.P.S. I drove the most delightful admiral yesterday, the old rogue. He knew Father well, so he behaved with me – just. Do you think Father acts in this way? Most of these men are married but they don’t half try it on. I push the married ones away. However the night before last I met a divine major who knew Tommy Pinkerton-Smith. They’d been at Eton together. He was off to the Far East so I said I’d go dancing with him the following night but fortunately he cancelled.

  I’ve enclosed a small bottle of scent. Don’t ask how I got it but you know I don’t favour Muguet des Bois. Wear it and remember your sister when you do.

  Putting the letter down, I knew life would never be the same again. It was normal that this had happened, and it was what she had dreamed of … finding love. But the tears in my eyes were both of joy and unspeakable sadness.

  12 February 1944

  In my cabin, I opened the small perfume bottle and carefully placed a finger over the opening, tipping it gently, not wanting to spill even the smallest amount of fragrance. I had been without perfume for months and Muguet des Bois was my favourite. It reminded me of May in Cornwall when the garden would be filled with lily of the valley. I scented both my wrists and behind my ears. Holding my inner wrist to my nose I took a deep breath. I was grateful that Amelia never felt that it was her fragrance. I shuddered to think where and how she had acquired it. Her letter didn’t quite say, leaving me to fill in the blanks. I didn’t like what I thought it might be. I didn’t approve but there was little I could do from this distance. And I tried to understand, I really did, but didn’t it make it worse having something briefly, tasting its sweetness, then having it ripped away? Philip and Johnny were gone. Wouldn’t I be better off not knowing how sweet it tasted than forever after longing for it but never having it again?

  I glanced at my watch. It was time to meet the others and head ashore. Despite HMS Attack being on land, everyone here always referred to Weymouth as ‘ashore’, and even after months here it still sounded funny to me. It was a dance night and I reminded myself that there were so few women it was my duty to keep the morale of the men lifted. Part of me wondered if Bobby – Lieutenant Webster – would be there. It had been a week since I’d seen him arrive in Weymouth.

  Despite the jovial mood of the crowd on the bus, I stared out of the window thinking about my family. I longed to see them and I was missing so much of their lives. My sister was engaged. Father was preoccupied by the war and seemed somehow disconnected from us. Mother was depressed but Grandmother was on good form. How this damn war changed us inside remained to be seen, but the signs on the outside were more than visible on everybody. Some wore uniforms and others held on to whatever they could from life before the war. For Grandmother it was sherry before dinner and her pearls, even when fishing. Mother was caught in the crossfire, keeping Grandmother’s routine in place but longing for Father and trying to pretend that it was all fine. Would the changes fade away when the war finished? As I stepped off the liberty boat, I hoped so, but I suspected things had moved on too far for that.

  The street was in darkness and my eyes took a few minutes to adjust while I followed the sound of the music. Excitement bubbled within me and it was a strange emotion to feel in the middle of desperate times. Yet as I took further steps towards the dance hall that Christmas feeling of anticipation sat in my stomach. I knew the cause – Lieutenant Bobby Webster. I’d heard through Pat that the troops were camped about two miles away at a farm in Burton Bradstock, but it didn’t mean that he was there. He could have been passing through – after all, he’d mentioned having been to Cornwall in the conversation we’d had as we walked through London. He hadn’t said what he did, but then no one did these days. All I knew was that he was a first lieutenant in the US Army and he wore a big ring on his left hand. Nothing more.

  I paused at the threshold of the dance hall, wondering if this anticipation would deflate as soon as I entered. If he wasn’t there it would be worse than …

  Than what? I asked myself, and stepped inside.

  The room was filled with mostly US Army boys. Dare I hope he’d be here? As always the atmosphere was thick with smoke but the mood was bright. The Mills Brothers’ ‘Paper Dolls’ was playing and the dance floor was crowded with couples. I searched for the lieutenant’s broad shoulders and dark hair, but there were many tall dark-haired men. My spirits dropped. I was being foolish. There were things that could happen tonight that would be far worse than not seeing Lt Webster. We were at war, I lectured myself while squinting through the crowd trying to locate my friends.

  Joining Pat at the table, I saw Bobby wasn’t here. Relief and disappointment filled me in equal measure. I assured myself that I was only disappointed because I couldn’t thank him again for his kindness. Despite this, I continued to scan the crowd as someone put ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’ on the gramophone. Pat was whisked into the arms of one of the American officers I’d just been introduced to and I looked down at the teacup on the table, noting the chip on the rim. It could do with being filed. I hummed quietly as the song came to an end.

  At that moment, a deep voice whispered in my ear: ‘Would you honour me with this dance?’

  A shiver went up my spine. I looked up into Bobby Webster’s intense blue eyes.

  I couldn’t speak, so instead just nodded and held out my hand. As his fingers made contact, my legs lost the ability to move. He smiled. Time stopped. The music, ‘That Old Black Magic’ by the Glenn Miller Band, began. It was like we were both caught in a spell, unable to move.

  ‘Take the lady onto the dance floor or I will,’ said a nearby voice, and the corners of Bobby’s mouth twitched. He swept me up into his arms and somehow we managed the dance. The feel of his hand resting on my waist and the curl of his fingers holding mine cast a spell over me. Time and place were lost and it was just me and him in this hall of crowded people.

  It was torment – one moment being so close to him, and then the song finished and I was handed into another soldier’s arms without being able to say no. I felt Bobby’s glance from across the room, and wanted him to cut in, but there were so few women here, I knew I be would lucky to have the opportunity to be in his arms again.

  When I was finally able to leave the dance floor after too many dances for me to remember them all, I couldn’t see him. Pat handed me a glass of water. The hall was warm despite the cold weather outside. Sweat beaded on my brow and I worked at keeping a smile on my face while Pat gave me one of her knowing looks. The next song began – it was ‘I Only Have Eyes For You’.

  ‘Would there be a mutiny if I held you in my arms for a second time?’ Bobby was at my side and his words lifted my heart. It was the last dance of the evening. The one everyone reserved for someone special.

  I turned, grinning with my stomach all a-flutter. ‘There might be, but I’ll take the chance if you will.’

  Fourteen

  Falmouth, Cornwall

  31 August 2015

  Seagulls called out as Lara walked along the quayside, looking out at the evening light on the opposite shore. Falmouth Harbour. This Falmouth was completely different yet somehow familiar. Gone were the cedar shingle houses, their lovely w
oody scent replaced by little alleyways and crooked buildings. Everywhere she looked was filled with surprising twists, turns and startling views of the water. Buildings were mostly old but not all. History loitered around every corner.

  Studying the harbour again, she tried to picture it as it had been during the war, filled with naval vessels and people. Reading through all the information on the Internet, it appeared that most people here had welcomed the arrival of the American troops but that wasn’t the case everywhere. Already her perceptions of World War II were changing. Grandie’s first trip to Cornwall had taken place in November 1943, and then he was transferred back here in May 1944 in the run-up to D-Day.

  His entry of 29 November 1943 read:

  I thought I knew what green was but then I arrived in England. Ireland may be greener but I’m not sure my eyes can see that many shades. It’s fall. I’m missing the colours. Although the trees here have turned, it’s not to the same brilliance.

  And two days later:

  We are staying in a grand house for the night. Tomorrow we will be surveying. I have never seen roads so small or so twisted.

  Lara totally agreed about the roads. She’d rented a car this morning but was terrified to drive it anywhere. The short distance from the rental agency back to Cassie’s had been frightening for both her and Cassie, who had driven along behind her. Cassie was working tonight, and had kindly dropped Lara off in town on her way so she had the chance to explore on foot. Lara knew she needed to be brave and get used to driving herself, but she wasn’t ready just yet.

  A seagull cried while the smell of French fries mingled with the scent of seaweed and sunblock. Following the smell of food, she walked up the hill away from the harbour, the aroma finally leading her to the line for a take-out. The dusk was beautiful so she would head back to the waterfront and enjoy her first fish and chips on this side of the Atlantic. It was such a signature meal for so many restaurants on the Cape that it would be good to taste it here. The take-out place was obviously a relaxed establishment catering to plenty of tourists, from the looks of the customers’ sunburn and bright clothes, but she had only expected cod and haddock to be on the menu, and was impressed with the possible choice of fish.

  There were only three people in the line ahead of her when a deep voice at the take-out counter said: ‘Three large cod and one portion of chips, please.’

  Lara knew the voice instantly. It was the bride’s brother.

  After a quick discussion with Cassie, Lara had made another cake that morning to replace the one she’d dropped. It had been fun to be in a kitchen with Cassie again. Cassie hadn’t revealed what had been said on the phone call about the damaged cake. But there had been a great deal of laughter, so Lara had to assume she hadn’t been speaking to the man in the queue in front of her. He stood to the side waiting for his order. With his back to her, she could observe him. His fair hair was cut short and he stood tall with ease. The line moved forward again and she shuffled to the front, debating which fish she wanted and hoping that he wouldn’t look her way. However, her glance met his as he turned from the counter holding his order. Lara blinked at his glare of recognition.

  ‘The clumsy cook.’ He moved towards her. She almost stepped back but overrode the instinct.

  ‘Not clumsy at all. Just unlucky.’ Lara forced a polite smile onto her face.

  ‘I hear you’re making a new cake, not Cassie.’

  Lara blinked. ‘It’s already done.’ She’d enjoyed it, playing around with the recipe that Cassie had provided. Following a recipe exactly had always been the toughest part of attending school. It had been essential to do so, but she had always longed to alter even the most simple of them to reflect the time of the year, or what was of interest to her taste buds at that moment.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘It had better be good.’

  She looked up at him. The fluorescent light created shadows on his face, making it appear classical, carved and cold. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it will be better than providing the couple with a broken cake.’

  He laughed, but not with amusement. ‘A waste of time.’ He turned and walked away. Lara shook her head. Was he talking about the cake or the marriage?

  ‘What will you have tonight?’ the man behind the counter asked.

  ‘Cod and fries, please.’

  ‘Vinegar?’

  Lara wrinkled her nose. She might try it another time but tonight she didn’t like the idea of the sharpness covering the taste of the fish. ‘Just tartar sauce, please.’

  ‘In the fridge beside you.’

  Lara nodded, grabbed two tubs and paid. She studied the people enjoying the same food as the takeaway, but seated at tables overlooking the harbour. Her order arrived piping hot and she wandered for a bit before deciding to head back to the waterside.

  Sitting with feet dangling over the quayside, she unwrapped her food, broke open the batter and watched the steam rise. The cod flaked perfectly and the flesh was sweet and moist. The freshly made sauce was not overly sharp. It was a beautiful balance between batter, fish and sauce with the bite of the capers coming through. She leaned back and tried a fry. Not too thin and perfectly crisp on the outside, while soft on the inside … success. The only thing lacking was a glass of wine.

  Cassie had mentioned that fresh local food was a big thing in Cornwall and this was right up her street. Lara could tell the fish was cooked on the day it was caught. It melted in her mouth.

  Seasonal, local food was wonderful. Asparagus in November tasted like sodden stalks compared to the asparagus grown in Hadley, Massachusetts in spring. The season was short and just this year Lara had made a trip to visit the farms in May to cook and eat the asparagus within hours. It was then she truly understood the difference that fresh and local food could make in the dining experience.

  So while spending time with Cassie and researching, she would enjoy Cornwall’s food offerings. It was strange but, as she looked across the harbour at a small Navy vessel tied to a quay, she could sense Grandie here. It was probably just her grief taking another form, but nonetheless it was comforting, in an odd way.

  Ferryboat Inn, Helford Passage, Cornwall

  1 September 2015

  ‘You have to have the oysters to start.’ Cassie sat at a picnic table while Lara stared at the view. Grandie had mentioned both the pub and the river in front of her. A shiver ran up her spine as she looked across the water through the many moored yachts to the pretty village on the other side.

  In a way it reminded her of parts of the Cape. Not the quaint cottages but the boats and the vibe in the pub. ‘It’s the first of September so I suppose it’s all right.’ Lara turned to Cassie then glanced at the row of whitewashed cottages lining a small lane that hugged the river. ‘So this is the Helford River.’

  Cassie nodded.

  ‘It doesn’t really look like one.’

  ‘It’s a tidal estuary.’

  ‘Ah, that explains the beach.’

  ‘Yes, and although it’s changed since the forties I’d imagine the view looks pretty much the same.’

  Lara joined her at the table and picked up the menu. ‘What else do you recommend?’

  ‘I’m having the special.’ Lara frowned, and Cassie pointed. ‘It’s on the board behind you. Grilled mackerel.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Lara, ‘but I’m tempted by the crab.’

  ‘Can’t go wrong with that here.’

  ‘Hmm.’ A few children splashed about in the water on the beach in front of the pub, reminding Lara of past summer holidays. The waiter came to take the order. Lara followed Cassie’s lead on everything including the wine – after all, this was her turf and she would know best.

  ‘Right. Now that we have a quiet moment, tell me all.’

  ‘That’s a big ask.’

  ‘I know.’ Cassie took a sip of wine and then stifled a yawn. ‘Sorry. You’re not boring me, I promise.’

  ‘I know.’ Cassie had every reason to be tired – she had been w
orking flat out, all while Lara had been enjoying a few lazy days of not doing much of anything, except for lying in the garden and reading a book on Cornwall’s involvement in World War II.

  ‘Why don’t you start with Grandie?’ said Cassie. ‘He was such a lovely man.’

  Lara grinned, thinking of him. ‘He was.’ She pulled out the picture of him taken on the headland and passed it to Cassie.

  ‘O-M-G. He was handsome in his eighties but in his twenties he was … devastating.’

  Lara nodded. Clean cut, clear skinned, broad shoulders and slim waist all emphasised by the belted uniform. Classic heartthrob of the 1940s.

  ‘So fit. He could be Captain America.’

  ‘Enough.’ Lara laughed. ‘Do you recognise where the photo’s taken?’

  Cassie considered it. ‘I’d say somewhere on Rosemullion Head, down at the mouth of the river.’ She pointed to her right. ‘You can’t see much from here but if you walk on to the beach you can see out towards Falmouth Bay.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘The tide’s on the way out so after lunch we can go explore a bit.’

  The oysters arrived and with one taste Lara felt she knew the river – the salt, the minerals, its wind and its waves. She and Cassie didn’t say a word as they savoured each oyster with just a squeeze of lemon.

  ‘So. Pierre?’ Cassie looked up as she wiped her hands.

  Lara shrugged. ‘Well, I was a failure.’

  ‘Nonsense. He was the failure. He couldn’t take your success.’

  Lara laughed. ‘I always liked the way you looked at things.’

  ‘Seriously, Lara, you’re a brilliant chef.’ Cassie sipped her wine.

  ‘Brilliant or not, I blew it.’ Lara shook her head. ‘The job and the marriage.’ She twisted her glass, looking at the condensation on it. ‘I was so stupid.’ She sighed. ‘It doesn’t look good to walk out on a two-starred Michelin chef. Or a marriage for that matter.’