The Last Garden in England(69)

Mrs. Symonds gave a little hollow laugh. “Long before that. Even before the war, Murray was back and forth to his London surgery. On Nanny’s Wednesday afternoons off, I would spend the hours wondering how I was going to make it through another moment of being alone with Robin. I would turn my back for one moment and he’d climb the nursery curtains or hop from sofa to end table.”

“What did you do when it became too much?” Stella asked.

“I once took him to the winter garden and locked us both in just so I could keep him from wandering off while I tried to finish embroidering Murray’s handkerchiefs.”

“Did it work?”

Mrs. Symonds’s laugh was genuine. “Of course not. If I looked away for one moment, he’d be trying to grab a rose or eat a worm he’d found.”

The moment should have been light—even filled with a warmth she’d never shared with her employer before—but Stella couldn’t laugh. Instead, she finally said the words that that been stuck in her throat for days. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“How to do what?” Mrs. Symonds asked gently.

“Be a mother to him.”

She knew she should feel something—and she did feel things. She missed her sister. She was furious at the bomb that had fallen on Joan’s flat. She was angry that Joan had died and scampered out of yet another responsibility. But mostly she felt an absence of love for this little boy.

Aunts weren’t supposed to pour their lives and souls into a child the way mothers did. Were they?

“You don’t have to be a mother to Bobby. That was your sister’s role,” said Mrs. Symonds.

“He’s all alone in the world,” she said.

“Doesn’t he have family on his father’s side?” her employer asked.

“No. None that Joan talked about, anyway.”

“Well, your nephew is not alone. He has you,” said Mrs. Symonds.

“I don’t know if I’m enough,” she confessed.

“None of us is. I believe that Father Devlin would say that that’s why we meet so many people in our lives,” said Mrs. Symonds.

Stella frowned. Never in all her years of working at Highbury House could she imagine that she would have a conversation like this with her employer.

As the empty brick pillars that had once held the gates of Highbury House came into view, Stella spotted Bobby leaning against one of the brick columns that framed the drive. He was huffing and puffing, as though he’d run a great race. Stella had a sneaking suspicion that when they got inside, she would also find him streaked with dust from the road that had stuck to splatters of syrup from the store.

“It will not always be this difficult. It will become easier,” said Mrs. Symonds.

“Thank you.”

As they crossed over into the drive, Mrs. Symonds nodded crisply. “Miss Adderton, I wanted to speak to you about the tea. You really must find another solution for the scones. The last two batches have been hard as rocks. I refuse to believe that there’s no good flour to be had in all of Warwickshire.”

Any bond that Stella felt to Mrs. Symonds beyond that of employee and employer crumbled.

Balance had been restored.





? BETH ?


Thursday, 1 June 1944

Southampton

My darling Beth,

Already I miss you, and I’ve only just arrived on base. The journey from Highbury was long and slow and made more difficult by the fact that I knew that every mile traveled was a mile further away from you. You won’t forget me, will you, all the way up in the Midlands while I’m staring at the sea?

Love,

Graeme

Saturday, 3 June 1944

Highbury, Warwickshire

My dearest Graeme,

I still can’t quite believe that you’re gone, but every time I worry about when we might see each other again, I can’t help but feel grateful that you’re in Southampton and not in Italy. You must forgive me if that sounds selfish. I know there is nothing you want more than to be with your men again, but Stella tells me that a newly engaged woman is allowed to be a little bit selfish.

I am not too proud to admit that I cried the entire afternoon you left. Mr. Penworthy took pity on me, dear man that he is, and sent me to Mrs. Penworthy. She just shook her head, told me she was sorry to see two young people separated, and set a stack of onions in front of me to slice for soup, since I couldn’t possibly cry any more than I already was. Petunia stopped by as well and sat with me awhile, and even Ruth is being very kind about the whole thing.

But don’t worry. I’ve decided to be very brave. I will keep to my duties on the farm and go to the cinema with Petunia and continue to sketch in Mrs. Symonds’s garden. Everyone has been incredibly kind to me—even Mrs. Yarley in the village shop has stopped eyeing me when I come in to buy drawing pencils. (I am saving yours for something special, don’t worry.) Enclosed in this letter is a drawing of the garden where we first kissed. Maybe it’s a little sentimental to send you such a thing, but I want you to remember what it’s like here with the flowers in bloom and the summer sun heating the pathways. I don’t think there is a place more beautiful on this earth.

Love always,

Beth

Saturday, 3 June 1944

Highbury, Warwickshire

Dear Colin,