July 2, 1958
Dear Emmy,
I have decided to look for Aunt Charlotte’s house. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve come to believe it might actually be possible to find, so I can’t imagine not trying. I asked Dr. Diamant what was the worst thing that could happen to me if I try to find the house and can’t.
She returned the question to me. What did I think the worst thing would be?
I guess I would be no better or worse than I am now.
She said if that was an accurate gauge of how I’d feel, she thought I should give it a go.
So Simon and I got a map of Gloucestershire and spread it out on the lunch table at work. I remember that when you and I got off the train the day we left London, we walked outside and I saw that we weren’t in a major city. It was more like a country town. The streets were not full of taxis and buses or tall buildings. I remember there being mums on the sidewalks with prams and a dead bird that you poked with your toe so that we could walk past it. Simon crossed off the larger cities like Gloucester, Cirencester, Cheltenham, and Swindon. We drew circles around all the towns that would have had a train station in 1940. So many of the railway stations have closed since the war; dozens in Gloucestershire alone, Emmy. People drive their own cars now.
Anyway, as we were studying the map, I saw the word “Cotswolds” written in block letters, which is the name of one of Gloucestershire’s districts, and I had another prickling feeling. I pulled the map closer to me and whispered that word out loud. The second I did, I saw us back in Aunt Charlotte’s car when she told us the golden-colored stone we were seeing everywhere was Cotswold stone.
The Cotswolds, Emmy. I am right, aren’t I?
I turned to Simon and told him you and I were somewhere in the Cotswolds.
Simon started naming towns. Adelstrop, Bourton-on-the-Water, Chipping Camden, Moreton-in-Marsh, Stow-on-the-Wold. Fairford. Blockley. Naunton. The Slaughters. Oddington. Tewkesbury.
But nothing sounded familiar to me. I must have started to look a little overwhelmed. Simon said to never mind, that I was brilliant because I had just narrowed the search considerably. He mapped out a day trip for us for this Saturday, using Fairford as our starting point since it’s one of the first places we will pass coming up from London.
I know Fairford isn’t right. Somehow I know it’s not. But we have to begin somewhere. I am both eager and hesitant to look for the brides box, Emmy.
It seems like the honorable thing to do. I hope God in heaven will look down on me and favor me with success. It seems such a little thing to request of him.
Simon asked me if I am going to tell Granny what I am doing. I don’t think I will. All of this happened between you and me before I knew her. She can’t help. And if I told her and then failed, she would know I tried and I would see my failure in her eyes every time we visited and she asked me how I was.
This is between you and me.
Julia
July 5, 1958
Dear Emmy,
Simon and I are back from our first trip out to look for Aunt Charlotte’s house. He is heating up soup for us to eat as I write to you. We are cold and soaked to the skin. The day dawned with sprinkles and then switched to rain just as we arrived in Fairford and began our first inquiries.
It didn’t occur to us until we were under way that we could expect no help from city officials in these towns because it was Saturday. No city offices would be open. But Simon said not to worry. City officials might have been hesitant anyway to speak to two strangers asking about sisters whose last name they didn’t even know.
The Fairford train station didn’t look anything like what I remembered. We didn’t even get out of the car.
We drove on to Kempsford where we got thoroughly drenched finding out there was no railway station there. We tried Lechlade, and then Burford because it was nearby, even though it’s in Oxfordshire, not Gloucestershire. And then back in the car to Bourton-on-the-Water, a beautiful little place. I was so taken with it that Simon suggested we should ask about the sisters in the druggist’s and the beauty shop and at the park. I’d decided that when I asked about Charlotte, I would say only that I wished to find my foster mother and thank her for taking my sister and me in, all those many years ago. Don’t you think other evacuees have done this, Emmy? Gone back to the homes and mothers and fathers and siblings who sheltered them during the war years? I think they do. And this seemed to me a very polite and respectable reason for snooping about and asking strangers to tell me whether a Charlotte and a Rose live—or lived—nearby.
So that is what I did. I asked people, mostly older folks, if they knew of two sisters named Charlotte and Rose, because I had spent nearly three months with them at the start of the war, before my mother died.
There are a great many souls in Bourton-on-the-Water and the surrounding little towns that took in evacuees, Emmy. But no one remembers a pair of gray-haired sisters named Charlotte and Rose. We also tried at Upper and Little Rissington—tiny little villages brimming with houses made of Cotswold stone—because they are within a manageable walking distance of Bourton.
I remember that you and I walked from Charlotte’s house to a train station the morning we returned to London. It was a long walk and you carried me part of the way. It was dark. And I was tired. Simon thinks it can’t have been more than six or so miles that we walked because I was too young to walk farther than that in the middle of the night. And I was too heavy for you to carry the entire way.
But we found no one in these towns who knew the sisters.
Still, we drove down some of the lanes, looking at the houses, mostly all made of the same stone, and reminding me very much of Charlotte’s house.
We didn’t find it.
But I am strangely encouraged.
The sense of the familiar was too strong, Emmy.
Julia