Chapter 19

19

POOLE – JULY 1998

Rebekah sheltered from the surprisingly hot sun, under a big shade umbrella. The outdoor table rested on the old cobblestones that created the apron in front of the Custom House Bistro on Poole Quay. A waitress had taken their order for lunch and Paul was at the bar, buying two glasses of wine. Rebekah held the letter in one hand and traced the feathery handwriting with her finger again. The script, as was often the case from this era, was not easy to read, and took some concentration, besides which the paper was yellowed with age.

My dearest Darrell,

If you are reading this letter, then I am so terribly sorry for your loss. But I promise you it is my loss too. As I write this, you might think nothing more of me than I'm just a girl you met in a pub; a girl you went out on a day trip with. But, for me, I want you to know that I want this to be more. I barely know you, Darrell, and so this is so strange to put into words, but at this moment, I hope to spend the rest of my life in your arms. I hope that this terrible time of war will end, and that Hitler can be stopped and driven back. I hope that peace, and sense, will prevail. I hope for a time of plenty: of food, and homes, and work for all. For a time when we can sit in the sun and enjoy life together. But, if I have my way, you will only be given this letter to read if I have lost my life before you in these dark days.

I will not have told you why I am behaving so differently at this time; why I am spending less time with you and more time with others – with one other in particular. You may even believe that I don't love you with the same passion you do me. I will not have told you, because I am not allowed to. I have signed the Official Secrets Act and have been engaged in an important espionage mission. Even now, in death, I am not allowed to share the details with you.

But I need you to know this, Darrell – I will love you, and only you, for all eternity, and I will see you when you get here. I will be waiting for you.

With all my love, forever,

Peggy

Rebekah looked again at the inscription on the front, and the intriguing message on the back.

Flight Lieutenant Darrell Taylor, care of RAAF 461 Squadron, RAF Hamworthy, Poole.

‘To be given to Flight Lieutenant Taylor in the event of the death of Peggy Symonds of 11 Ballard Road, Poole,' she whispered to herself. And now the idea struck her that this letter was private, and only ever meant for the eyes of this Darrell Taylor. But Peggy was gone now, and couldn't be hurt by this intrusion on her privacy.

Since they had first read the letter earlier that morning, Rebekah had been stunned by the idea that her dear old Aunty Pig could have been involved in some kind of espionage work during the war. The idea was so incredible, it seemed impossible, until she thought about how little she knew of Peggy's life before Rebekah was born.

Peggy had shared lots of details about the harbour, about Brownsea Island, of Poole and its buildings, of birds, and of fishing and growing up as a fisherman's daughter. Rebekah knew that Peggy had left England and arrived in Australia on a flying boat, but that was it, and she'd never thought to ask if there was more to the story. And now Peggy was gone.

But did this Darrell Taylor know about this? Peggy had survived the war, and so this letter had never needed to be delivered to him, whoever he had been. It must have just stayed here in this file and been forgotten. Did he ever find out what it was that Peggy had been doing, and what, exactly, was that? The letter gave no details, except of the undying love she had for Darrell, an idea that seemed so surprising when she thought of Peggy who had seemed to be so happy with her life as a spinster.

If Rebekah could find this Darrell now, would all this be a shock to him? Could she risk upsetting a man who might have left all this in the past as his history, just to satisfy her piqued curiosity?

‘You look like Atlas,' said Paul as he sat down and placed two glasses of chilled rosé on the table. Rebekah noticed the condensation forming on the outside of the cold glass in the summer heat of the day. Then she registered what he'd said.

‘Atlas?' she asked with her face screwed up in confusion.

‘With the weight of the world on your shoulders – like you have some very heavy thoughts to think about,' he said, gently.

‘I don't know about heavy – but they are certainly consuming. I'm trying to decide whether or not to pursue this Darrell and pass on the letter. I have no idea who he is, or if he is even still alive, and I wouldn't want to upset him or his family,' Rebekah said. ‘But what if it is a message he needs to receive?'

‘What about your mum? Might she know something about it? She knew Peggy for much longer than you, and adults often share things they don't let the children know about,' he offered.

‘True. I should ask her. I'll call tonight when I get home,' she said, glancing at her watch and working out how long she would have to wait before her mum would wake up on Monday morning in Australia.

The waitress delivered the large pizza they'd ordered to share with the insalata caprese that Rebekah had chosen from the menu. The mozzarella was deliciously soft and creamy, and the tomatoes so ripe that they made her taste buds sing.

‘Mmm, amazing food. This was a wonderful recommendation. Perfect for such a beautiful day,' Paul said as he devoured his plateful.

‘It has been a beautiful day. And incredibly surprising.' She referred in part of course to the discovery about Peggy but also to the lovely walk they'd taken and the history Paul had taught her. She had thought to show him the old buildings of Poole, and was amazed that he knew so much of the history already. He taught her about how important the Newfoundland cod trade had been to Poole's wealth, and also the connection with the flying boats. Apparently, some of the first international flights from England to New York had started in Poole. The route took them through a stop in Foynes, Ireland, and then on to Botwood in Newfoundland, before stopping in Montreal, Canada, and from there to New York.

‘Those trips were taken in one of the Short Brothers C-class flying boats – a sister to the craft that were used by the RAF, and which, presumably, the RAAF – and this Darrell Taylor – flew from Hamworthy,' he explained.

‘What a glamorous way to travel, stopping for overnight stays in hotels along the way and in a plane with plenty of room to walk about in-flight, or lie down to sleep if necessary,' Rebekah said, remembering the cramped cattle-class economy flight she'd come to England on, though she had at least had a three-day stopover in Rome, which was a lovely distraction along the way.

‘Have you flown back to see your mum since you came here to work on the island?' Paul asked.

‘No, not yet. I've been here for over two years and I'm probably due a trip soon. I have plenty saved up as I find I don't have much to spend my wages on, especially as my accommodation is part of my salary deal.' As Rebekah sipped her wine and watched Paul while he looked out across the quay and over the harbour to the island she now called home, she allowed herself to hope he might stay in her life long enough fly with her back to Brisbane one day.

When their meal was over, they said farewell, with a definite plan for the following weekend. Neither was prepared to part without knowing exactly when they would be seeing each other again. They shared phone numbers – including the number to Paul's new Nokia mobile phone – and the next weekend was plotted out: Rebekah would travel up to London on an evening train on Friday, and stay with him for the weekend in London, going to watch his strings concert in Westminster on the Saturday night. Then she would catch the train back again on Sunday evening. Two whole nights and days together in London, with a classical concert thrown in. And they would talk on the phone each night.

That evening, Rebekah sat in her favourite window seat with the cottage's portable phone by her side. She had a lot to tell her mum. She had heard nothing about Paul, and it was important to Rebekah that she let Mum know she had met someone who had fast become very special to her. And she wanted to ask about Peggy, and if Mum had ever heard about the existence of this Darrell. But she needed to go about it the right way. At ten o'clock, she dialled the number. It would be seven o'clock the following morning for Mum and Rebekah knew she would be up and about, enjoying the cool winter morning in Brisbane.

As she'd suspected, Mum was awake and busy, and she asked Rebekah to wait as she seemed to be giving instructions to a yardman about chopping some wood ready to burn in the pot-bellied stove that evening.

‘It's a chilly one here today love, only eight degrees when I woke up! I had the fire burning last night, but it's still plenty warm enough in the middle of the day. What's it like with you there at the moment?' her mum asked.

‘Lovely summer weather today, actually, top of around twenty-four degrees at lunchtime. The beaches must have been packed out,' she said and shared a laugh with her mother that the Brisbane winter midday temperatures were roughly the same as the English summer ones. ‘Talking of summer, I'm hatching a plan that I might come over for Christmas this year. It'll be three years since I left on New Year's Eve,' she said.

‘That would be wonderful, love! How long would you be able to come for?' she asked.

‘I've got plenty of leave allowance, and winter is the best time for me to get away, so I'd like to make it a month if I can. That ought to be possible. Might as well make the most of the flight once I've paid for it,' she said. ‘And I have a bit of a project to work on while I'm there too,' she added, looking for a way to introduce her main reason for the call.

Of course, introducing this Darrell Taylor character to the conversation, and the discovery she'd made at Poole Pottery about Peggy, also meant sharing details about Paul, who he was, and how they'd met. And before long, she realised she was telling Mum that she'd found someone who could turn out to be quite significant in her life.

‘All sounds very romantic, darling. So, how did the two of you meet then?' asked Mum, making Rebekah think fast on her feet. She couldn't exactly tell her mum the truth: that Paul had knocked on her door in the middle of the night, and she'd let him sleep on her settee. She'd be horrified at Rebekah's lack of security-mindedness!

‘He was visiting the island, and we got chatting. One thing led to another and I showed him some of the sights of Poole. We just hit it off from the start. It's strange,' she mused. ‘I feel like I've always known him though it's only been a couple of weeks,' she said, stretching the truth since it was no more than eight days now. ‘And one of the lovely things is that it's just so comfortable being with him, even if we aren't doing anything special or even talking.'

‘That is a very good sign, love – the best of friends are content just to be with each other, without any effort at all,' she said, and Rebekah wondered how her mother had become so knowledgeable about good, lasting relationships all of a sudden.

‘But this news you tell me about Peggy in the war – goodness me, I've never heard anything about it at all! And, like you say, it is quite possible that this Darrell is still alive and doesn't know anything about the letter,' said Rebekah's mum.

‘Perhaps if I do come to visit at Christmas, I could spend some time searching for him, Mum. He was in the Australian Air Force, so there is every chance that, if he survived the war, he went back to Australia afterwards. With Paul's knowledge and access to census data and detailed military records, I might manage to find him that way,' Rebekah suggested.

‘That's a good idea, love. And if you bring your Paul with you, we'd love to show him a proper Aussie Christmas!'

As Rebekah hung up the phone, she leant on the windowsill and stared out at the pines swaying in the evening breeze, a little confused at Mum's use of ‘we'. Of course, Rebekah and Mum would love to show Paul a Brisbane Christmas, but Mum seemed to be suggesting there was another person around. Strange.

She could hear the sounds from the outdoor play coming up the hill from the Church Field, and somehow Paul's face formed in the middle distance before her, as if in another dimension, close enough to see but too far away to touch.

The idea of taking Paul with her to Brisbane as early as Christmas had not even crossed her mind when she'd been thinking of it earlier. But now that her mum had posited the idea, it sounded like the most wonderful plan. But she'd only known him a week. She couldn't possibly ask him to go on a trip around the world in four months' time, could she?

The following Friday night seemed to take a month to arrive. Rebekah had phoned Paul, or he had phoned her, every evening and she'd repeatedly run down the battery on her portable phone by lying in bed and talking with him until she was virtually asleep. It was almost as good as having him there. Almost.

When she caught the afternoon ferry off the Island on Friday, she carried just a small backpack and an overnight bag, and once she'd landed on Poole Quay, she walked the short distance up the High Street to Poole train station.

Rebekah watched the countryside zoom by in the summer evening sunshine until, over the next two and a half hours, the scene gradually morphed into the built-up areas on the outskirts of London. As the train approached the city, it slowed and she began to peep familiar landmarks, spotting the tower of Big Ben in a short gap between buildings. At Waterloo station, she walked with her neck stretched, in awe of the architecture of even the most commonplace building as a train station, and so, not looking where she was going, she bumped into Paul before she'd even seen he was waiting for her at the end of the platform.

He laughed and picked her up for a tight hug and a kiss, before taking her hand and leading her down into the Tube and on to his home in Notting Hill.

‘Wow, I didn't know you still lived so centrally,' she marvelled. He opened the front door of the very narrow-looking terraced house and led her through the lengthy hall to the kitchen and dining room at the back.

‘This is the house I grew up in. After Mum died, and we'd got through the initial stupor of grief, Dad took up work that kept him travelling. I think that was his way of dealing with it: while he was away from home, he could imagine she was still here, waiting for him.'

Paul made a pot of tea and heated the soup he'd prepared for them to share for supper. While Paul was busy in the kitchen, Rebekah studied the photos on the mantelpiece, and noticed how old they were: Paul as a baby, with two charming-looking parents; Paul graduating in cap and gown with just his dad by his side.

‘So, he lives here with you now?' she asked when he carried the tea to the table.

‘No. He never came back to live here permanently again. He was spending a lot of time working in the north, and while he was there – years after Mum died – he met a lovely lady, Suzanne. They're married now and he lives with her in York. She has three grown children, and I don't have any brothers or sisters, so Dad, in his ever pragmatic and practical way, decided to simply sign this place over to me, so it would always be mine. Blended families can be a shocker when it comes to wills and inheritance, you know,' he said, casually taking a big bite from a chunk of buttered, crusty bread he'd torn from the fresh loaf on the table.

‘Gosh, that was incredibly generous of him. And kind,' Rebekah added.

‘It was. And he is. And it's so good to see him happy now, so contented. You mentioned you'd like to visit the Peak District the other day? Well, that's only an hour's drive from where he lives in York. He and Suzanne spend their time walking their dogs on the Yorkshire Dales – beautiful countryside. He took early retirement, and it looks good on him.'

Rebekah glanced around the room again. The furnishings were classy, but busy, and didn't seem in keeping with a young professional like Paul. There were some gorgeous silver candelabras atop a very shiny, black baby grand piano, and an elaborate crystal vase overflowing with beautiful silk lilies on the mantelpiece in front of an ornate mirror, doubling the effect of the flowers. The living room had a Queen Anne-style bureau and the fireside chairs looked as though they could have come from Windsor Castle. It was beautiful. But it wasn't Paul.

‘So, the house is all still furnished as it was when you grew up, then?' she probed.

He sighed and made a face that showed her he wasn't happy with the arrangement.

‘Don't remind me! At first, I didn't want to change anything at all because of Mum – this is all her work, all her style, you see? But she's been gone a decade now, and Dad's not lived here for almost as long. The house has been entirely mine for over five years, but somehow I've never known quite what to do.'

The busyness came from a mixture of styles and colours, Rebekah realised. Removing some of those and picking one main colour and style would have the effect of enlarging the spaces and simplifying what the eye dwelt on. She'd never had her own place to decorate, but loved the way Rose Cottage was sparsely furnished, mostly white with a small splash of new spring green in places, as if the cottage had taken its lead from the woodlands outside. Spending her life looking at what nature had done so marvellously and beautifully well without the help of mankind, gave her a good eye for what worked with interior decorating too.

‘I could show you some ideas if you like,' she offered. ‘I have a few interior design magazines at home that could help.'

‘That would be super, thank you. I've no idea where to start and I'd love your help,' he said, flashing her that sunny smile she loved.

The next day, he took her on a whistlestop tour of the sights of central London, before they headed to Westminster for the pre-concert rehearsal. Rebekah went alone for a tour of Westminster Abbey, while Paul was rehearsing, then she walked up Horse Guards Road, alongside St James's Park, passing the Churchill War Rooms, and crossing The Mall on her way to The British Academy for the concert. She couldn't help thinking again about Peggy, and whatever it was she had been involved in during the war along with so many incredibly brave, ordinary, everyday people who had bought her the freedom she enjoyed today. Rebekah prayed a silent prayer of gratitude for the liberation their efforts had won.

At the British Academy, Rebekah was ushered to the seat Paul had arranged for her in the upstairs Music Room and waited in the distinguished quiet for the concert to start, taking in the splendour of the highly decorated walls and ceiling.

When Paul walked out with the other musicians to take his place, she almost gasped aloud at the effect of a dinner jacket and bow tie on the body she had become very familiar with by this stage. ‘Dashing' didn't quite cover it, and she couldn't help a smile of delight when he spotted her in the audience and winked. But once he took his seat and began to play, all his attention was caught up in the music, and Rebekah soon found herself floating along on the joy of the journey. She was familiar with all the melodies but had never known classical music well enough to name any of the pieces she might have heard. From this night on, at least, she thought, she would always recognise Vivaldi's Four Seasons , and the programme helped her understand which season was which.

As they walked home from the Tube station that night, he listened shyly as Rebekah told him everything that was wonderful about her evening.

On Sunday, they decided to make the most of the continuing beautiful blue sky summer weather, and Paul packed a picnic hamper, which they took to Hyde Park. He spread the picnic blanket out on the lawn beside the Serpentine and they lay in the sun, soaking up the warm rays.

‘You'd never do this in Brisbane, you know,' she told him as she collected another round of cheese, smoked salmon, and soft bread from the food laid out beside the hamper. Paul was in the process of pouring them both a glass of wine.

‘Why ever not? Surely you must have more sunny days in Brisbane than we ever do here?' he asked.

‘Oh, we do – it's sunny virtually every day of the year. But the sun is so hot, you'd be mad to lie out in it like this. You'd burn in no time – even with plenty of sunblock. Slip, slop, slap – that's the only way to deal with it if you absolutely have to be outside, or at the beach.'

He frowned, waiting for an explanation.

‘It stands for "slip on a shirt, slop on some sunblock, and slap on a hat!"' she told him.

‘But you do go out in the sun?' he asked.

‘Oh yes, all the time! Australians do as much as they can outdoors. But we just choose to be under shade where we can and avoid being out in the direct sun between eleven and three, if possible, particularly in the middle of summer.'

‘And that's at Christmastime, right? That must be so strange,' he said.

‘Not strange to me at all. Christmas carols are sung outside, just as they are here, but in the heat of a steamy, sub-tropical night. On Christmas Day, we set up tables and chairs underneath the mango tree in the backyard, cook a barbecue, eat cold cheesecake and pavlova for dessert, and go for a swim in the pool after we're sure we won't sink from all the food,' she said, laughing.

‘All sounds wonderful, Rebekah. Must be hard for you getting used to an English Christmas.'

‘Not really, no. The English Christmas suits England and the English weather. The Aussie Christmas suits Australia.' She paused for a moment and decided she had found the right time. It was only two weeks since she'd met him, but this felt so right.

‘Actually, Paul, there's something I wanted to ask you about Christmas.'

‘Hmmm, what's that?' he asked casually, lying on his back with one arm under his head.

‘With what we discovered about Peggy, and now we know my mum can't help at all, I really would love the chance to go to Brisbane to see if I can find this Darrell. Before it's too late, you know? And, I think I mentioned the other day, I haven't been home for nearly three years now and it might be nice to have a Christmas in Brisbane.'

‘That sounds lovely. And I can certainly get started on the research to see if we can find where Flight Lieutenant Taylor ended up, after he left Poole – hopefully tracing him to an address in Australia. And the holiday sounds like a great plan. You seem to work pretty hard on that island of yours and don't get to take much time for yourself. A holiday at home would be a good thing for you to look forward to,' he said, barely opening one eye.

‘Well, I was thinking we could make it something that we could both look forward to,' she said and waited.

He opened both eyes and turned to look directly at her.

‘How could I look forward to losing you for a month and not being able to see you, knowing you were on the other side of the world from me?' he asked, reaching out to take her hand.

‘That's my thought exactly. So why don't you come with me? To Australia – for a holiday. I could show you Brisbane, and my favourite national parks. We could go to the Great Barrier Reef. Have you ever snorkelled?' By the time she'd asked him about snorkelling, he was sitting bolt upright and looking at her with the most divine look of excited anticipation in his expression.

‘You'd like us to plan a holiday together? To Brisbane?' he asked, and she nodded. ‘Rebekah, that is the most wonderful idea you've had in the whole fourteen days and…' he checked his watch, ‘…thirteen and a half hours since I first laid eyes on you. You're a genius!' He paused to lean across and kiss her, taking the time to cup her cheek in his hand and stroke her tenderly with his thumb. ‘And yes, please, I'd love to!'