The Light Over London(78)

I thought it best to return your correspondence to him unopened. I offer you my deepest condolences.

Sincerely,

Group Captain Gerald Reynolds

“He’s dead,” she said, numb to the core. “He was killed in action.”

A hush fell over the entire NAAFI, servicemen and women she’d never met before instinctively knowing when one of their own was suffering a great loss. She wanted out of here. Out of this place, where everyone was staring at her. She curled her arms across her stomach, pulling in on herself as though that would keep the pain from radiating throughout her entire body.

She remembered the WAAF who’d received the telegram informing her of her husband’s death in this same NAAFI. She’d felt so sorry for the woman but unsure what to do except sit in respectful silence. Now she was the one grieving, forced to share with all of these people the lowest moment of her life.

“Louise,” said Vera softly.

She realized then that her friend was crouched down next to her, speaking quietly.

“I’m going to take you back to our billet,” Vera said.

Dumbly, Louise nodded, but when she tried to stand, she found that her legs seemed to not be working. She stumbled toward the table, but before she could fall, Cartruse and Vera were at her side, each hooking a shoulder under her arms.

The walk to the billet was a blur—at once too slow and hazy, yet too fast to account for the blocks they’d covered. Nothing made sense. Paul was supposed to write her back, tell her he was worried about her because he loved her. He was supposed to promise her that they’d be together again soon. He was supposed to be as vital and alive as the morning he’d left her with a kiss at the front door of her billet.

“You can’t come in,” she heard Vera say. “There are rules.”

“I don’t care about the rules. She needs help,” Cartruse said.

She lifted her head, suddenly aware again that she was propped up between her friends.

“I know you care for her, but the best thing you can do is let her be. She’s lost her husband,” said Vera, placing a light hand on Cartruse’s arm.

Through the haze of her shock, Louise registered his shoulders drooping. “Then who will help get her upstairs?”

Charlie stepped into her view now—brash, fun Charlie, who had been there on her wedding day, her sole witness. In her hands she clutched the bundle of letters, meaningless words that Paul would never read.

“Vera and I will do it,” said Charlie.

There was a bit of bustling around Louise as Charlie took Cartruse’s spot, nodding to him as he held the door open. They were taking her upstairs. Up to her room. That’s where she wanted to be. In her room. By herself. Maybe if she was in her bed, she would wake up and find that this had all been a wretched dream.

Except dreams didn’t hurt with such precise, searing pain that cut straight to the bone.

Somehow, Vera and Charlie made it up the stairs, carrying Louise most of the way. When they burst into their shared room, they quickly made up her bed and settled her down. Lovingly, they removed her boots and her tunic jacket before tucking her into bed as though she were a child.

“I’m going to get her some tea from the canteen,” said Vera in a low whisper.

“Tea’s not going to do a thing to make her feel better,” said Charlie.

“It’s the only thing I can think to do right now.”

Charlie must’ve agreed, because Vera left without another word.

Lying on her side, Louise stared at a water stain just above the stack of Vera’s mattress biscuits. Why wasn’t she crying? She should be crying. She’d just lost her husband, yet she couldn’t make the tears flow.

She must’ve said something, because Charlie stroked her hair and said, “You’re in shock. That’s why you can’t cry. Just give yourself time.”

“I don’t understand how he can be gone.”

“I don’t either. I don’t either.”

Vera hurried back into the room, three cups of tea and a little plate of biscuits on a tray. “I told the girls in the canteen it was an emergency, and they scrounged up some biscuits.”

“Can you sit up, Lou?” Charlie asked.

Putting her palm flat on the bed, Louise dragged herself up and took the cup of tea. She barely registered the warmth radiating from the mug.

For a few moments they sat in silence, until she said, “I don’t understand.”

“I know, dearest,” said Vera.

She shook her head. “No. I don’t understand how Paul can have been dead for so long and I’m only finding out now.”

“It takes time for these things to make their way—”

“I’m his wife. I should’ve been informed by telegram. The eleventh of November was ages ago.”

Vera and Charlie both sat back.

“You’re right. The RAF should’ve told you,” Vera said.

“Maybe he didn’t register the marriage,” said Charlie.

“He told me he did in a letter, saying he was so proud that he could claim me as his wife. If the RAF knew, I should’ve been informed. Someone should’ve told me.” She paused, something else getting through the thick haze of her mind. “And why did the group captain call me Miss Keene? He should’ve addressed me as Mrs. Bolton.”