A
novel by
Christopher Geoffrey McPherson
News on the Home Front
Copyright 2012 by Christopher Geoffrey McPherson
All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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Cover design by Matt Hinrichs
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News on the Home Front
is dedicated to the millions of women
who held together their homes and workplaces
during World War Two.
Prologue - Tuesday Evening
She sang a love song. The haunted woman opened and closed her mouth to form the words, her eyes looking as if they were capturing the eyes of the audience; they were, in reality, the window to a soul many miles away. She stood at the circular microphone only inches from her red-trimmed lips; her brilliant white teeth caught glimmers of light. The sequins trimming her deep red dress sparkled in the spotlight as it sliced through the heavy, smoke-filled air.
The final words of the song filled the Blue Panther nightclub. As the last faint sound echoed through the enormous dance hall, she felt a sting at the edge of each eye and the smooth warmth as a tear began the long fall down her cheek. The last strains of music played through the club. The couples, many of whom had only just met that night, clung to each other; the desperateness of the moment, the possibility that each serviceman might never hold another woman before he died, the possibility that they could all die tomorrow, made each movement, each moment vital, important. Many of these men, young boys really, were on leave -- due to return tomorrow; others were leaving for the first time. But for them all, now was the only thing that mattered. Right now, this place, this song, this woman.
The song ended, the couples stopped dancing, their applause filled the huge club with appreciation. The singer backed away from the microphone, turned, and walked to her chair in front of the band, tears soaking her face. She sat there, the world revolving around her, unable to think of anything other than the telegram she received an hour earlier, delivered by an old man she had never met.
PART ONE
Christmas Eve, 1944
Her hand rested gently on the fine linen table cloth; her gaze took in the rich tones of the hand-worked wood of the ornately carved buffet, dining table and chairs. As she glanced around the room she saw, interrupted only by the French doors, the dense pine forest outside the window behind the buffet. Two fragile birds rested in the comparative safety of the ledge as the winter storm raged. She smiled. The sound of the strong wind reached her ears over the din of the assembled dinner guests. Merriment as guests enjoyed the food, their conversation rich and involved; pointedly devoid of any reference to the war -- even though friends and family were overseas, huddled in cramped trenches, fighting for the glory and honor of the country, eating their Christmas dinners from tin cans. Tonight was a night to celebrate. She was lucky, there was no denying that; but there was no reason to regret it. Each in his own way, her guests contributed invaluably to the war effort. She was surrounded by the sons and daughters of some of the wealthiest and most influential families along the eastern seaboard. They were the driving force behind the United State's success in Europe. But, for tonight, all thoughts of the war were banished.
Her hand moved gracefully to her glass, lifting it toward her lips. Her gaze dropped as the glass made contact with her full mouth; the richly decorated fingers on her hand flashed nails the same deep red of her lips. She drank in the rich wine, letting it trickle down her throat, her gaze lifting again, searching those assembled at her table.
Her eyes fixed on Philip. She inhaled deeply, her breath solid like stones in her lungs. She released it slowly, not wanting anything to disturb the moment. There he sat, dapper in his black tie and black dinner jacket. His pure blue eyes flashed as he talked animatedly with the woman next to him. Her father was the biggest munitions dealer in America, supplying guns and bullets for the boys overseas. The dim light from the candles on the table etched his strong facial features. She caught herself staring. Her glass lowered gently to the table, the sweet liquid still lingering on her lips. Her hand raised again and adjusted the yellow ribbon wrapped snuggly against the pure white skin of her neck. Her hand lowered to the gold chain attached to the ribbon and the two-carat diamond which glittered like a raging fire in the candle's light. Her fingers rested on the gem, rocking it back and forth against her neck.
She looked once again across the table, studying the strong profile of the man who loved her. Philip Craig: tall, urbane, erudite air corps pilot. She loved him with every fiber of her being; yet at the same time was able to resent him for being there, for being part of it. But for the fact she was not born a man, she would be there too, by his side, fighting back the encroaching enemy. He flew the planes, was part of the whole thing. She had hoped he would wear his uniform this evening; she was disappointed he did not. His black hair and the deep blue eyes were more than adequately framed in his black dinner jacket. So sleek, the line of the jacket, his arms as they moved within the fabric, his legs, as they strode purposefully into the room, clad softly in the wool slacks. It was a uniform, she concluded, a uniform of his civilian life.
She watched him speak to a woman. He turned his head and suddenly she found herself gazing into those blue eyes. She knew that her heart had stopped beating. He smiled at her a wide, strong yet graceful smile. It looked so right, that smile, that it should be there, exactly as it was. She wanted to look away but she was compelled to continue watching him as he reached out his arm, taking his wine glass in hand. With a small almost imperceptible salute to her, he raised the glass and drank from it; his lips, in the once-strong smile, now gently touched the glass's edge, the liquid glistening as it flowed through them. He rose from the table, excusing himself, and stood, regal, the uniform of black wool draping his lithe figure. He grabbed a knife from the table and lightly struck it twice against the crystal glass.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his New England voice ringing clear and true through the noise of the crowd. "Please everyone, friends." With another tap of the knife the conversation ceased. "Thank you."
He looked at her and spoke. "Ladies and gentlemen. There is something of great importance I have to say to you all. My friends." He felt his face grow warm, his eyes felt soft; this was lost on no one present. His eyes met hers. "As you all know, your hostess and I have," he gestured vaguely toward her, "have been seeing each other for some time now. Her father seems to approve of me and," he laughed, "I guess for good reason." He laughed again, joined by the approving chuckles of the guests. He found himself in a suddenly uncomfortable position and smiled. "You see, I am little good at these kinds of things. There is something I just must get out before the night escapes us." The table grew silent.
She looked at him as he spoke, her hand reached out and slowly lifted the glass of wine, her mouth suddenly parched. Philip lifted his glass, turned and raised it toward her. "Carole my dear. I know this is rather unexpected and sudden, but if you will have me, I would like for you to be my wife."
She felt the glass slip through her fingers, falling toward the table a mile below. Reflexively, her hand caught the glass as the base gently touched the table. There was a moment of stunned silence around the table, broken, suddenly, by the cheers and shouts of other guests as they stood, glasses in hand, toasting them both. Again Philip tapped his knife against the glass.
"Please friends." He turned toward Carole. "What do you say? If you want me to get on one knee, I will."
Stunned, she sat there, still. She felt her face burn white hot as her guests turned, en masse, expecting her answer. She surprised herself, and her guests, as she began to laugh, uncontrollably, and blurted out, "Yes!"
<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>
Light strains of music filled the ballroom. The two of them danced slowly. They danced many songs that night, all of them in the same room; Philip and Carole in the same position. She knew she was neglecting her guests and if it were any other situation, it would greatly bother her; tonight, however, she knew her guests understood. This was a night to be alone with Philip.
Carole felt the side of her face grow suddenly cold as Philip pulled his face from hers. She turned, startled, and looked into deep, commanding blue eyes hidden partially by a few stray strands of jet black hair. She could not help but to return a smile to his. His voice gently cooed into her ear, "Darling, walk with me onto the terrace. I want to see what snow the storm brought us this evening." She shivered in anticipation of the bitter cold that would greet them outside. "Onto the terrace? It's still snowing."
"No, it isn't," he assured her and turned her so that she could see out the doors. "See? The snow has stopped as has the wind. It's almost nice outside."
She resigned herself to fate and nodded her head. He turned from her embrace and led her onto the terrace through the doors. Their feet made no sounds as they kicked up the freshly fallen snow. Philip stopped short and Carole continued to walk to the railing, a faraway look in her eyes.
"Philip," she began, her voice like snowflakes gently dusting the trees. "Is it right that I'm so happy at this moment? There is so much to be worried about, so much that should be making me unhappy, I -- "
He cut her short. "My darling Carole. The war is going to be over soon, I assure you. Since Normandy we are unstoppable. There is no way for the tide to turn against our favor now." He joined her leaning on the terrace railing. He wrapped one of his arms around her shoulders to provide warmth and comfort.
"Oh, l know that. Father has been so proud of our country, how we have all put aside our petty differences and pulled together. He says we have done so much in such a little bit of time. But," she turned quickly from the railing, faced him, dared him. "But what if something does go wrong? What if we don't succeed?" She turned from him and back toward the railing, pounding it with her gloved hands. "It's never going to end, is it Philip? It's never going to end." She began to cry. "Damn it. Damn this war and you for being so smug about it!" Finally, it all came out: the great fear she held for the success of the war -- and the doubt, the constant doubt that plagued her mind more and more each day.
Philip gently turned her and looked into her hazel eyes. "We will win, Carole. Never doubt that." He gazed longingly into her glowing face, flakes of snow dotting it as the storm picked up again, gently.
"I know Philip."
"Carole?"
"Yes?"
"Do you love me?"
She smiled as a tear welled into each eye. "Of course."
"And you trust me?"
The tears overflowed and coursed down her cheek. She tried to find control for her voice but it wavered. "Yes."
"I must tell you something."
She began to cry. "No." It was a simple quiet statement of realization.
"Carole?"
She pulled free from him, violently, forcefully, surprising Philip. The snow began to fall harder onto the open terrace, the wind blowing flurries across the tableaux before it. "I knew it!" she screamed at him, momentarily unaware of the guests inside.
"What?"
She paced away from him, her white pumps disappearing into the freshly fallen snow. "They're sending you away aren't they?" She turned and began knotting her hands together in worry. "I knew it was too good to last. Ever since you enlisted three years ago." She laughed as she realized the irony. "It was three years ago. You enlisted on Christmas Eve, 1941. Damn you! And now they are sending you overseas!"
"Yes, Carole. It's true."
"But why?" It was more a command to answer than a request. She knew how the military worked. Her father, the latest in the line of one of America's greatest chemical manufacturing families, had been sent all over the world with at times no more than a few hours notice. Ever since rumors of war in Europe, he had been in the vanguard developing new chemicals and processes to help his country. His family was rich, wealthy beyond any need for him to work. But he was dedicated to helping the old world he left and the new world he found. Carole knew the cost of freedom. She knew. "Why now? You have managed to stay in the states for this long. Why now?"
"Please listen to me Carole."
She stopped pacing, turned, looked at him, tears in her eyes.
"I got my orders not five minutes before I left for this dinner tonight. I cannot tell you what it's all about -- security and all. But, it has something to do with Japan. Italy surrendered last year and they think Germany will surrender soon -- very soon. But the Japanese are set against it and something is being planned -- sort of like Normandy."
"But, you're a pilot! Why would they need you?"
He grabbed her forearms forcefully. "Carole. You know I cannot question my orders. If they are planning a land assault against Japan, and they want me, need me there, I know there's good reason for it. I must go." He paused, released her arms. His arms fell to his side. "I'm sorry."
She moved closer to him. She could not stand the thought of his leaving. She knew, in her heart, that if he were to go, he would never return and she was powerless to stop the great machine in action. "I hate this war," she finally managed. "I hate what it has done to us all. I just hate it."
"I know you do Carole. I'll be back. You have already agreed to marry me," he added with a laugh. "I have a whole room filled with witnesses. You cannot back out now."
He smiled, laughed.
"Yes, well, I was tricked into saying yes. You cheated."
"I guess so."
She looked at him, flakes of snow edging her lashes, her hazel eyes underneath glowing. She parted her lips to speak. Instead, she raised them to his and they kissed. "Yes, my love, I will marry you. Please hurry back. I don't know how long I can wait for you but I will." She knew, as she spoke those words, he would never return; her wait would be an eternity.
As their lips met again, a blast of wind threw snow against their bodies. Screaming like little children, they rushed through the tall doors into the ballroom where they were greeted by the amazed stares of the guests inside -- guests they had totally forgotten existed. As they rushed into the ballroom, wind and snow followed them. The doors were quickly slammed shut. The room grew silent as they entered; the silence broken by the heavy chiming of the mantle clock. Carole quickly turned her head toward the sound and saw both of the clock's hands pointing straight up. She smiled. "Merry Christmas everyone!" she shouted.
The room filled with cheers. She looked up toward her beloved and whispered those same words to be heard by Philip and no one else.
Christmas Day
The first rays of the sun pierced through the wooden shutters of her room, illuminating the disarray. As tired as she was after her long evening, Carole did not feel the strength to undress properly and put everything away for the maid to clean. So, she let her clothing drop where they might as she took them from her weary body. Her pumps right inside the door, her gloves draped over them. Her jewelry, the yellow ribbon with the diamond, all in a cluttered mess on the vanity. A slip here, a camisole there, the dress draped over the plush chair. Under the tousled sheets on the bed there lay a body. It was Carole.
A mumble emerged from under the mussed silk sheets. An arm appeared, and pulled the sheets from her face. "Philip?" She lifted her head and looked around the room seeing the clock on the table and the time of 7:30. She fell back, against the pillows, exhausted. To bed at 5:00 and awake less than three hours later. This was not a pleasant situation. She looked around, sure she would see Philip standing there, looking down to her. She sat up and remembered that Philip would have gone home. When did he leave? She could not even remember saying good night to him.
A heavy sigh escaped her lungs, her eyes squinted against the bright sunlight in her room. She carelessly reached for the telephone. Picking up the receiver, she dialed the number 9.
From the kitchen, the cook answered. "This is Mrs. Kennison," said the matronly cook.
"Mrs. Kennison." Carole ended the sentence there. She rummaged through the junk on her night stand, clearing off what did not belong. "Would you be so kind as to tell me how I got to bed this morning?"
"I beg your pardon, Miss?"
"Mrs. Kennison. It should be simple to answer the question. I am here in my bed and I don't recall how I got here."
"Miss Irene took you into your bedroom, Miss. Don't you remember that?"
She didn't, but she would not let on "Oh, yes, of course I remember. Did Irene get home alright?"
Mrs. Kennison was used to this pattern of conversation with her boss's daughter. She had been employed in the Trent household since before Carole was born and thought the young woman spoiled. She long held that the best thing that could ever happen to Carole was a marriage to Philip. "You asked Miss Irene to stay the night. She is in the guest quarters. Shall I wake her?"
"No, please, Mrs. Kennison. Let the poor wretch sleep. Is breakfast ready?"
"Breakfast has been ready since Mr. Trent awoke at six this morning. He has eaten and already left." She paused. "Is there anything else I can do for you this morning?"
"No, Mrs.. Kennison. That is fine. I'll be down shortly." She hung up the telephone. She threw her sleep heavy legs over the edge of the bed and rubbed her tired eyes with the back of her hand. She reached again for the telephone.
After a few moments, a tired voice answered on the other line. "Hello?"
"Irene, dear? It's Carole. Are you still asleep?"
"What time is it? I know I just got into bed."
"Oh, Irene, dear. Are you going to sleep away the best years of your life? Get up! We are going riding this morning or did you forget that?"
"Oh, dear. Yes, I remember. Is Philip joining us?"
Carole pulled her tired body off the bed. The mention of his name turned the morning gloomy. He was going away shortly and there was nothing she could do to stop it. "No," she said. "I'm afraid he had to take the train to Washington this morning for some high-level meeting. He will be here in time for dinner, though."
"That's too bad. I was looking forward to riding with him."
"Yeh," she sighed. "Me too."
She let the phone drop onto the cradle, thoughts of Philip filling her mind. She slipped out of her silk nightgown as she walked around the cluttered and brightly lit bedroom.
Shutting the door behind her she walked into the large bathroom and directly into the shower. Three nozzles threw steaming water onto her exhausted body. Carole let her mind wander away from Philip and the few days that they had left together. As she soaped her body, she felt hatred rage within her. "Damn it," she shouted aloud, punctuating the words with a thump as she threw the bar of soap across the shower. She rinsed herself and walked from the shower onto the cold tile floor, the plush cloth towel doing little to warm her.
She fixed her hair, put on a little makeup and trudged from her bedroom. The morning was fresh but brought little joy to her as she took the steps down the stairs one by one. She trekked through the living room and into the dining room, still unhappy.
She sat, alone, at the long dining table which had, just last night, been the site of so much happiness and joy. Now, she felt forlorn.
"Good morning," said Mrs. Kennison as she entered from the kitchen. "And what will you be havin' for breakfast this bright and beautiful mornin'?"
"Please, Mrs. Kennison. I have asked you not to be so bright and cheery before noon, have I not?"
The stout woman frowned. The product of a large family in Scotland, she knew a happy attitude was the first requirement for a productive life. "Miss Carole. You have got to learn to start the day with more of a positive outlook on things. Your father --"
"-- is not me, Mrs. Kennison, as I have pointed out to you before. Now, would you please bring me some juice, orange preferably, a scrambled egg, no butter this time, some rolls, gravy, and some hot tea." With a scowl, Carole dismissed the woman who turned, in a mock huff, stomping out for Carole's benefit.
Carole sat, her shoulders slumped slightly forward. She looked around the now-brightly-lit room. So different from last night, she thought, when the atmosphere was so happy, alive. And here it is, Christmas morning and she was having breakfast all alone. She ran her hand over the finely polished wooden table top. The grain stood out in the sunlight's brilliant glare. It looked so beautiful to her. Why did she feel so down this morning?
Mrs. Kennison returned with breakfast. Carole spoke: "Mrs. Kennison," she said, her voice quiet.
"Yes, ma'am?"
Carole raised her head and looked at the woman who had been part of her life all of her life. "I must apologize," she finally said, "for being rude to you."
"Think nothing of it, ma'am."
"But, I haven't even wished you a Merry Christmas. I'm so dreadfully sorry. Can you ever forgive me?"
A tear formed in Mrs. Kennison's eye as she hurriedly wrapped her hands in the apron to give her something to concentrate on. "Oh, goodness, Miss. How could I ever not forgive you?" She sniffled and brought the hem of the apron to wipe the wet smear from her cheek.
"Now, now, Mrs. Kennison. Stop that immediately or I'll start too. Just please forgive my less-than-adequate table manners and get about your work." A smile played lightly across her mouth, and she gave a sly wink to the older woman. Mrs. Kennison placed the tray onto the table and served breakfast. As she made to leave the dining room, Carole spoke again: "Mrs. Kennison?"
The woman turned. "Yes?"
"Will you be preparing your famous dinner for tonight?"
"Yes, ma'am," she said as she bowed forward slightly. "Duck with dressing."
Carole smiled.
"Fluffy potatoes."
Carole's eyes lit up.
"Yams, plum pudding, green salad with almonds."
Carole's stomach yearned in anticipation.
"And freshly made peach cobbler from peaches I put up myself."
Carole squealed, unable to restrain her eagerness. "Get out, before I charge into that kitchen and help myself." The two women collapsed laughing as the cook went about preparing for their traditional Christmas feast and Carole began to eat her breakfast.
Carole finished the last of her juice as Irene trundled down the stairs, through the living room and into the spacious dining room, her long, thick brunette hair streaming casually behind her. The light bounce in her step gave her a youthful, childlike quality.
She walked across the room to Carole, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and returned to the other end of the table where her breakfast awaited her. She plopped onto the heavy wooden chair, undid her serviette, raised her spoon and dug heartily into the fruit salad. She looked down the length of the table to her best friend. "Good morning, Carole. Merry Christmas to you. Where is your father?"
"Good morning, dearest Irene. Merry Christmas to you as well. Father had to go into Washington this morning on business, thank you for asking. Now will you please shut up?"
"Carole, dear. You are always gloomiest when the day is the brightest and the moment most happy. Aren't you excited?"
"Yes, Irene, I am." She was not. "Christmas is such a cheery time of year. They ought to have it more often -- say, once a month."
Irene laughed, finishing the fruit salad. She rang for Mrs. Kennison to bring the next course. "You are a charge, dear. Where did you say Philip was off to?"
Mrs. Kennison entered from the kitchen bearing a hefty tray filled with eggs, sausage, toast, rolls and fruit for Irene.
"He was called into Washington. Something big is going on, and he won't tell me anything about it. It is dreadful, really." She attacked a piece of toast. "Mrs. Kennison," she called as the woman was about to leave the room.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Why do you always insist on bringing me toast, when I ask for rolls and gravy?"
"Miss," the woman spoke sternly. "Did you eat the rolls and gravy I brought for you?"
"Yes," she replied, momentarily caught off guard.
"And did you eat the toast I brought you?"
Guiltily, Carole surveyed the empty plates before her. No rolls, no toast, nothing left. "Yes," she said, understanding Mrs. Kennison's tact.
"That's why. You do not eat enough, if I may say so. And one day, it's going to get you in trouble. One day." The point made, the stern cook turned on her heel and returned to the kitchen.
Laughing to herself, Irene said, "You had better listen to her, Carole."
Carole snapped, lightly, "Oh, shut up, you. The two of you are in cahoots together." She rose, a glass of lemon water in hand, drank it. "Yes, Irene. That's it. Spot on. I'm going into the library for a while. Come when you have finished eating all that food, will you? And we can get down to the business at hand. She turned and began toward the living room.
Through a mouthful of scrambled eggs, Irene mumbled.
"What did you say," Carole asked, turning.
"Clearing her mouth, Irene repeated, "What business at hand, dear?"
Carole laughed, "It is Christmas, after all, isn't it? Let's see what Santa brought." She turned lightly on her heel and strode into the library, leaving Irene laughing and eating behind her.
<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>
Irene knocked twice lightly on the library door and entered. The room was dark, almost gloomy. Irene stood at the door a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the light, trying to see Carole. Sure that Carole was no longer there, Irene turned to leave.
"Please, Irene, come in."
Startled, Irene turned back into the room. "Where are you?"
The displaced voice came through the dark. "Here, behind father's desk." A great, richly appointed leather chair swiveled around and Irene could see Carole in the dim light. She heard a click as Carole reached across the wide desk and snapped on a banker's light. The room of darkness was pierced by a small circle of light.
"Carole. Is something wrong?"
Irene approached the desk, seeing that Carole had been crying. The two women had known each other since early childhood. Irene did not need so obvious a clue as tears to know something was dreadfully wrong. She gently perched her body on the side of the heavy mahogany desk, her arm lifted to stroke Carole's hair.
Sniffling back a tear, Carole tried to be brave. "Oh, Irene. I am so afraid for Philip."
"Why? Has something happened?"
Carole smiled at her friend. "No, it is nothing like that. I mean, I am so happy about him, me, us. But," she turned her glance away from Irene. "If he goes overseas, I don't think I will ever see him again."
Unable to do anything but provide some physical comfort, Irene said, "Carole, it's alright. I am sure everything will be fine. This horrid war will be over soon. I know it. The two of you will settle down, here in this wonderful house, have children, be happy."
"It isn't that," Carole insisted. "I will be happy with Philip. But I just don't know if that opportunity will ever come."
"Now, now. How can you worry like that? What could possibly go wrong?"
Carole lifted her eyes to meet Irene's. She felt compelled to reply with a whole list of things that could go wrong. She wanted to remind Irene of what went wrong in her own life, the tragedy, the pain, but instead said only, "You're right. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing."
<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>
They sat there, surrounded by yards and yards of wrapping paper. They were surrounded by the house staff whom they had invited to join them to open all their gifts to make the atmosphere more homey. Carole placed aside the gifts for her father and Philip. It left a number of presents for the two women to open to make a scene reminiscent of those many happy childhood Christmas mornings the two had shared.
Exhausted from the morning's work, Carole reclined against the couch as the house staff returned to their duties, chattering happily, comparing gifts, offering thank yous to Carole and Irene. She adjusted her new ermine stole over her legs, wrapping her hands in the lush, soft fur. "John?" she said to the houseman as he turned to leave. "Could you stoke the fire please? I am sure it is dying, and the snow has started to fall again."
"Yes'm," he replied. The elderly man, one of her father's longest retained staff members, made his way to the logs by the fireplace, added several to the already roaring fire. The new logs settled, caught, and added a rush of warm air to the living room. As John made his way from the room, the snow began to fall in earnest. Irene rose from the floor and walked slowly, gracefully to the doors. She stood, framed by the light, looking at the beautiful, picture-perfect morning which surrounded them. The terrace was blanketed with the pure, white, powdery snow. She saw birds and a rabbit digging around for a few bits of food. She looked across the terrace into the woodlands that separated the house from the lake some distance away. She saw a family of deer: a buck, doe and a young-looking fawn which was apparently a late birth. She smiled as the family went about their daily foraging, nibbling at a branch, digging through the snow for a hidden sprig of grass. Turning from the doors, she walked back toward Carole. "To live here," she said. "You are so lucky, Carole. Your terrace is so long!" She laughed. The terrace ran the entire length of the south side of the house. One could walk into the living room, dining room, ballroom, or the hallways into the bedrooms from the terrace. It allowed each social room a piece of terrace. "And you should see the snow along it!"
Carole sighed, her body drinking in the warmth of the fire which crackled and spoke to her.
Irene joined Carole on the lush couch. "Still thinking of him?"
"Yes."
"Will he be here for dinner tonight?"
Carole looked at her watch. "Yes, I think so. He will be here for dinner tonight. But there are still eleven hours until then." She brightened up. "Shall we go riding then? The snow's stopped."
Irene rose. "Great!"
Afternoon, Christmas Day
The two women walked the distance from the main house to the stables where the horses awaited them. The winter day was crisp and cold. No snow had fallen in the last hour, but the trail was lost to the white blanket which covered the forest floor as far as the eye could see. They crunched the snow underneath their feet. The silence of the morning was broken by the screech of an owl, the rustling of a deer, or the call of one bird for another. The light breeze pushed Carole's blonde hair into her eyes. Using a gloved hand, she repeatedly pushed the stray strands into place. Irene's thick, brunette hair, in an elaborate French braid, stayed in place. Carole's jodhpurs rustled as she stepped one foot in front of the other, the black riding boots trampling indentations in the new snow.
Her fashion style had been honed at the hands of an expert. When she was younger, she and Irene had been guests of Gabrielle Chanel. They had been in awe of this woman, the renowned fashion expert, from when she first met them dressed in a simple and elegant black and white wool jersey suit. In fact it was at this meeting that Carole received a gift of Chanel No. 5 from Madame Chanel herself. Carole never wore any other fragrance.
Irene, at Carole's side, stomped through the snow. Her grey slacks, white sweater and pastel blue blouse providing warmth against the brisk weather. As she walked along the path, her thoughts were elsewhere.
To Irene, Christmas as well as all the other holidays during the year held special meaning. Since the loss of both her father and older brother early during the war she had clung more and more to Carole and the Trent family to fill the void. Her mother, long dead, had been close to Irene, but her father had been closer and a much greater influence in her life. But, it was her older brother, Matt, who had been her life. Everything Irene did was done in his shadow. Matt had been the expert horseman, Irene merely a good one; Matt the brilliant student who received a scholarship to Princeton, Irene merely good but improving. In her eyes, Matt had been the perfect example of a father's son and Irene wanted to feel that pride herself. Yes, she was her father's daughter and one in which her father held enormous pride; but she had to be better. Always better.
For Irene, each Christmas since their deaths was hard. With no other family, there was little to be cheerful about. She did the best she could, and Carole and her family helped.
For Carole, her thoughts were on Philip. She still held a deep feeling of foreboding about his impending trip. She had fought against his enlistment from the day Pearl Harbor had been attacked until the day he signed the papers. She had wanted him to finish his schooling; but his thoughts, as with every young man, were on fighting the Japanese and defending his country. Because of the influence his father had, Philip received a commission in the United States Army; but now, apparently, he had become much more important to the military than he had ever been before. She hated him for that; but she hated them more, the government and the military, for their dependence on him.
She clomped heavily through the snow. She broke off a branch from a tree and savagely whipped aside the brush along the path. Her hatred extended all the way to Roosevelt, the president, FDR. Were the rumors true that he knew the Japanese intentions to bomb Pearl? That he could have prevented it all, but was too set on America's entrance into the war? Could he have knowingly allowed so many to die just for the sake of helping our allies? She did not want to think that, but too much was being made of the quick change in public opinion. First, America would remain neutral; suddenly, after Pearl, America wanted war. It was too much a convenience to be mere coincidence.
After a long distance the two women reached the riding stables. Fully in charge, Carole marched to the stable boy who was combing the coat of Carole's favorite horse, Monterey. The beautiful, chestnut colored horse had been her favorite since she was purchased by her father last year. The horse was lean, strong; a good jumper.
"Good morning, Clifton," Carole said to the boy who hastily removed his cap, turning to face the women. He had been caught off guard, unaware of their approach.
"Hello, Miss Trent, Miss Davis. I was not told you would be riding today. I'm sorry."
"Please Clifton," Irene offered, smiling. "Carole decided late last night that we would ride today if the weather permitted and neither of us thought to say anything. Is Bay Rum ready?" Bay Rum was her black horse which she put up in Carole's stable since her home across the lake has no riding grounds.
"Not quite, ma'am. But a few moments and I can have her dressed and ready for you, if you don't mind the wait."
"Not at all, Clifton," she said, offering him a smile.
The young man secured Monterey's lead to the stable door and made way to retrieve Bay Rum who was housed several stalls back. As the two women waited, Carole plopped her body against the stable wall.
After a moment, Irene asked: "Tired?"
"No, not really," Carole replied. I'm just a little winded from that walk, that's all."
Irene was surprised. "You? Winded? Not at all. You're thinking about Philip again, aren't you?"
Carole's response was sharper than she had intended. "And if I am, so what?"
Irene backed away a step, surprised by Carole's outburst.
Carole pulled her body away from the wall. She walked to Irene, gently grasping her forearm. "I'm sorry Irene," she said, looking into Irene's eyes. "I am thinking about him. What can I do? I feel so helpless I feel like I am going to burst." She released her friend and walked the length of the stable. She stood a moment then turned and walked back to Irene. "What can I do?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
"Carole, there is nothing you can do. It is out of your hands; all of our hands. The only thing to do is wait. Do as Philip says. I know it's hard, but, look, he may not go at all. You know how unpredictable the military is: orders today, counter orders tomorrow. There is little good that can come from worrying."
Carole cast her eyes down to the dirty snow floor. "Yes, there is nothing I can do." She looked up, quickly and sharply at her friend. "But, Irene, I love him! How can I not fear for him?" She began to sob, the tension reaching a fever pitch. Irene's gloved hand touched Carole's face, wiped a tear from her cheek. Carole's staccato breath created wisps of fog between the two women. "I just know he is going to die if he goes."
Irene, alarmed by this outburst, placed both hands on Carole's shoulders. "Of course he isn't, Carole. How can you think that?"
Irene calmed Carole as best she could, but her mind raced back to the day she received the first ominous telegram. She had been sitting at the window table, dutifully writing her weekly letter to her father, the letter to Matt already finished, when she heard the footfalls of someone walking up onto the front porch of her home. Irene started violently when the door ringer signaled someone at the front door. She had heard so often tales of women who received telegrams about their loved ones and she did not want to ever experience that horror first hand.
She rested the fountain pen on the blotter, slowly walked through the dimly lit living room straightening her skirt as she walked. She opened the door and was surprised by the sight of the short, balding, older man who stood there, hat in hand. He reached out the telegram to her. "Telegram, ma'am," was all he said.
She remembered standing there, frozen in place. Even though it was only autumn, her body was suddenly bitter cold. "Who is it from?" she asked, wanting to hear any other answer than what she already knew in her heart. The old man diverted his eyes; this was the part he always dreaded, knowing there was nothing he could say to offer comfort against the bitter shock that was to come. Again, he said only, "Telegram, ma'am."
She knew then all hope was lost as her trembling hand reached out to the proffered telegram. She thanked the man as his stooped figure retreated on the walkway.
Clumsily she tore at the telegram, her hands refusing to work in coordination with her brain. She opened it and read that a person she had never heard of before regretted to tell her that.... She did not remember anything after that, only that she began to scream. She heard the scream, the bitter horrible scream filling the neighborhood. She remembered one of her neighbors running across the lawn toward her, panic and fear the only message in her eyes. She had been upset by the telegram, but did not even know who had died. Violently, she read the telegram again and saw that it was her father that had been killed. Inside of her, she felt the guilty happiness that it was not Matt.
The afternoon passed quietly, the neighbor seeing to Irene, making a small lunch, making her rest. Irene did not know what time of day it was when the doorbell rang again. Sure that it was only the neighbor coming to check on her, Irene rose fitfully, stumbling toward the door. She opened it and was greeted by another, different, old man who stood at the door, almost a silhouette in the sun's dying rays, a telegram thrust in her direction. He said only "Telegram, ma'am." She remembered the burst of pain as she hit her head against the porch railing as she fell in a faint. It had been, she would learn weeks later, a telegram telling her that her brother had been killed the same day as her father. As organized as the military was, organized enough to plan a successful raid on Normandy, they could not have foreseen enough to at least deliver both telegrams together. As desperate a blow as even that would have been, it would have been a shock suffered only once. This was inexcusable. Now, barely two years later, she looked into the fearful, pleading eyes of her lifelong friend and felt a sorrow for her. Carole had every right to be afraid. Irene was no one to tell her differently.
Carole turned away as Clifton returned with Bay Rum.
"Miss Davis, your horse is all dressed and ready for you." Clifton smiled as he handed the reigns to Irene, confident that he had done his job well. With a few added actions, Monterey was dressed and ready for Carole who took the reigns from the stable door, and led her onto the riding path.
The two women led the horses onto the snow-covered path. The day had become bright, sunny, clear. Their emotions had swung from despair and fear to happiness and exhilaration. Without warning, Carole moved Monterey in front of Irene and Bay Rum. She signaled the horse to move from a jog to a cantor. After a moment she charged the horse into a rapid gallop, the wind blowing off her small black cap to float onto a small hedge. Her flaxen hair sprung to life behind her. Irene, still keeping Bay Rum at a slow jog, stared in surprise at the quickly departing image of her friend.
Carole's mind gave no thought to Irene as the distance between them grew second after second. She reveled in the freedom the ride gave her, the excitement of the moment; the rest of the world, her fears, her problems, were being left behind, as forgotten as her black cap. The horse emerged from the sparse forest, Carole's face grew red in the chill wind. She gave no thought to her hair, other than to move it from her face when it whipped in front of her eyes. In front of her, almost as far as she could see, there lay nothing but clear, flat land: her family's land. She charged rapidly, wildly, the world around her shooting past without clarity, two solid walls of blurred images. Her lips grew into a true, honest smile; she was happy to be free.
She slowed Monterey as she reached the other end of the clearing, dense forest in front of her. She turned the horse and kicked it into high speed again as she made her way back. Her lungs filled with the cold air, her breathing fast and short. The clouds of steam from Monterey's nostrils disappeared as quickly as they formed; Carole felt the expanding and contracting of the horse's massive sides as its breathing deepened to keep pace. Adrenaline filled her body making Carole want to ride faster and faster. She covered the ground faster this time. She did not slow the horse down. She turned Monterey to take a left, then a right bank around clumps of trees, naked without their spring clothing. She emerged from another right-hand bank and saw Irene, her startled face almost comic.
Then suddenly, everything turned black. Carole had seen Irene's face, but could not identify it as the face of her friend. Then the world disappeared. She remembered hearing Irene scream, but did not understand why. She slumped off the still moving horse and fell hard onto the snow-covered ground. Monterey, frightened from the scream, continued running, riderless.
Irene gave no thought to the wayward horse as she quickly swung her right leg over her horse, sliding to the ground. She ran the short distance to her fallen friend. A brief endless moment passed as Irene tried to make her hands react. They refused to move. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, exhaled and opened her eyes again. Her hands cooperated. Irene knew better than to move her friend. With a swift motion Irene struggled to pull off her heavy wool sweater; her gloves a hindrance. She let escape a small sound of frustration as she put the fingertip of one glove in her mouth and tore it from her hand. She deftly removed the other glove and pulled the sweater over her heard. She wadded the sweater and gently rested Carole's head upon it.
Carole's face was pale, Irene knew shock was setting in. She rose, unsaddled her horse and took off the blanket which sits between horse and saddle. She placed the still-warm blanket over Carole's upper body and put the saddle under Carole's calves in an effort to improve the blood flow to her brain. Irene checked Carole's eyes. The pupils were uneven. Knowing she had done everything in her limited power, Irene mounted Bay Rum bareback, turned the powerful horse, and headed for the stables. She pulled the horse back at the sight of Monterey galloping toward her carrying Clifton on its back.
Evening, Christmas Day
Dinner had been cheerless. It was forced, tense. The servants in the house moved about as if in a dream, their movements coming more from routine than choice. The light music, from the Sonora radio placed to one side of the buffet, did not seem fresh, original. The atmosphere was one of despair, gloom. Philip arrived promptly, looking resplendent in his full air corps uniform; he was now conspicuous in his absence from the dinner table. He had been at Carole's side since he learned of the accident.
Irene forced herself to remain at the dinner table, forced herself to maintain the pace of conversation. Around her sat Carole's father; Joseph, a friend of Irene's; and several others all of whom had arrived not knowing of Carole's injuries. Some, upon learning of the accident, begged off the dinner, asked to leave; none of the guests wanted to impose themselves on the family. True to his nature, Carole's father had been insistent. These were friends of his and his family's who had come to celebrate the season. He was intent to see that they did. After all, they did have something to celebrate: his daughter was engaged to be married; she had survived injuries which could have been far more severe. There was reason to be thankful.
The doctor had left Carole only minutes before the first guests arrived. He left behind two nurses to care for her until his next visit. The doctor had been full of praise for Irene. Her quick thinking actions, he insisted, probably saved Carole's life. Irene, welcomed as a hero, could not stop crying. Only being self-forced to remain at the dinner table allowed her the self control to remain calm. She knew the accident was her fault, although could not think how she could have prevented it. No amount of praise from the doctor or Carole's family could convince her she was not responsible for her friend's condition. If only she had stopped Carole from charging off. Now she sat, desolate, picking at the duck dinner, guilt the only thought filling her mind.
Philip was the last to speak with the doctor before he left; he was certain no permanent damage had been done. The bruising looked worse than the injuries really were, the doctor insured Philip. Again, he praised Irene's quick action. She'd be sore for a while, he insisted, but would recover fully.
The nurses had been brought in at the insistence of Carole's father who wanted to insure expert care should something go wrong.
Philip sat in the huge, overstuffed chair he had pulled next to Carole's bed, holding her hand. The two nurses, opposite the room from him, sat reading in straight-backed, uncomfortable looking chairs. One of the nurses was reading "Mildred Pierce," the novel by James Cain. The nurse loved this book and had read it before; but she also read, in a recent issue of Screenland, that a film was to be made of the story starring her favorite actress Bette Davis. She could not wait; she devoured the book's pages with a thrilling intensity. The other nurse read a dog-eared copy of du Maurier's "Rebecca." She had grown tired of checking the book out on loan from the library, and rushed out for her own copy when Pocket Books issued the less expensive paperbound copy. She gave Joan Fontaine's face to Max de Winter's wife, Laurence Olivier's to Max de Winter. She sat, enthralled, as Mrs. Danvers was about to be trapped in the flaming house. Although both women sat in rapture in their own literary worlds, they kept a watchful half eye on their charge; neither woman forgot her primary duty.
Philip rose from the chair to adjust a wall lamp so its bright light would not shine into Carole's eyes. From outside the room he heard a sound. He walked to the door which had been left ajar and saw Mrs. Kennison trundling up to the landing with a hefty, overflowing tray in her hands. With a smile, he opened the door for her, allowing her into the room.
"How is she, Mr. Philip?" she asked as she sat the tray on a table near the far window.
"Just the same as when you asked a few minutes ago, Mrs. Kennison." He smiled again.
"Yes."
"She'll be like this for a few days, the doctor says. He seems to think she will come out of the sedative. A little sore, but fine."
"Has she awakened?"
"Yes. She woke and we talked. The doctor immediately gave her something to sleep. He thought the excitement would just make things worse." He took the old woman's hand in his, patting it reassuringly. "She's going to be fine. Don't worry about it."
"I know she will, Mr. Philip. I just don't know. Should she not be in a hospital or something? It don't seem right."
Philip hushed her. "The doctor said she is fine and we must have faith in his ability. She got a nasty blow to the head. That's all it amounts to. But, she is fine, now."
Mrs. Kennison smiled, weakly, and walked from the room, pulling the door behind her. At the door she turned back. "Will you be needing anything else, Mr. Philip?"
"Thank you, no."
"Are they alright?" she asked, indicating the nurses.
"Yes, Mrs. Kennison. I am sure you brought everything we will be needing for a while. How's it going downstairs?"
"Well, it's very quiet down there. I think everyone wishes they could come up here and do something. Mr. Trent is very unhappy."
"Of course."
The woman turned and crossed the landing toward the stairs. Philip turned back to the room, walking to the dinner tray. He was right. Mrs. Kennison had brought enough food for a dozen people instead of the three that were in the room. He saw heaping plates of duck, dressing, salad, peach cobbler, breads and other foods.
"Nurse?" he said to them both. "Are either of you hungry?"
<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>
Dinner over, guests gone, Carole's father asleep, Irene sat alone in front of the large fireplace where just this morning she had been sharing the joy of Christmas with her friend. She had stoked the fire herself and now watched as the flames flickered and reflected off the fender. She sat, her legs covered by Carole's new stole. She found little warmth in the white wool slacks which covered her legs or the loose wool sweater over her body. A heavy sigh escaped her as she thought that she would have to go back to work tomorrow.
She was so tired of the war and although she truly loved her job in the factory, she was tired. She was tired of the bond rallies; tired of making due without silk stockings; tired of ration stamps for sugar, petrol, meat; tired of lipstick in plastic cases and then paper cases; tired of steaks that cost $3.50 in a small restaurant; tired of saving tin cans, aluminum foil, cooking fat; tired, tired, tired. The war had been such a drain on her as well as every other man, women and child in the free world. The hatred she felt for the Germans and the Japanese made the sacrifices worthwhile. She felt a chill run through her heart as she thought of all the men who had died defending their country -- her father and brother among them. Yet, even though the majority of people in America were fighting the war here, on the home front, there was a great deal of discontent. Without fathers in a family, many of the children began to suffer discipline problems. Irene remembered walking down the streets of the city seeing children coming out of movie theaters after having been in them all day, their mothers working and unable to afford a sitter. She saw kids smoking, drinking, being arrested for delinquent behavior. She had, at first, been shocked. Now, it all happened too frequently to be a surprise.
More so, however, she was shocked that the war was not over. There had been so much optimism that it would be over by Christmas; here it is, Christmas, and our boys are still overseas, fighting and dying.
For every success, there was a problem. There was a great deal of joy at home with the success at Normandy; but then there was the transit strike in Philadelphia in August. She thought it odd that our country would be over there fighting against the racism of Hitler and his Axis powers, yet not allow Negro people to drive buses. It made no sense to her. Restaurants for whites only, buses with sections for whites and for coloreds; smoking rooms for coloreds only. Hospitals would even turn away dying colored men or women: they would not service them unless they were white. She shivered at the injustice of it all. And now, even after all they had been through, her friend lay upstairs, injured. At this moment, life, to Irene, seemed so unfair.
Tuesday Morning
The sleek Rolls pulled away from the Trent estate just outside West Lake as the snow fell lightly around them. Secured and warm in the back of the light grey car, Irene huddled in one corner, her shaved-beaver jacket crumpled close to her bare neck. She turned her head and looked out the steamed windows as the scenery passed by. She sighed heavily as she thought of the holidays just past and her friend, still asleep from the heavy sedative, in the house. She turned away from the window, adjusted her left glove, tightening it around the base of her fingers, one finger at a time.
As the car wended its way through the snow-covered roadway, bypassing the city of Baltimore, she thought sadly about returning to her job. It was not the job which made her sad, it was the thought of another sad Christmas behind her which dampened her spirits. When she left the house this morning she could not bring herself to look at the gaily decorated Christmas tree secure in its own little corner of the huge living room. It hurt too much. At Philip's request, Irene had agreed to stay at the estate for a while until Carole fully recovered from the injuries. After her car dropped her at the plant, she would have the driver go home to assist the maid in packing several bags of her things. Philip suggested Irene take a few days off from work, but Irene refused. Thinking of the women at the plant where she worked, she would feel guilty and not very patriotic, if she took even one day off. There had not been one absence by any of the women in her plant for the past 150 days. Carole was in good hands; the plant needed Irene.