“That’s some tough stuff,” Gus said. “I don’t know what to say.”
“No one does. And don’t feel like you have to. It could be worse.”
She thought of the 9/11 families, the spaces now empty in thousands of lives.
“Engaged to a bloke going off to war,” he said with a cluck. “Not unlike our Pru.”
“God, I hope I’m nothing like Pru. Especially in the fiancé department.”
“Blimey, none of this is coming out like I’ve intended. I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Please.” Annie slapped at the air. “You haven’t said anything untrue. All I can do is assume I’ll see him again, that Eric’s safe return is the only possible outcome. Everything else is fiction, happening to a bunch of unlucky bastards without faces or names.”
“A bloody decent stance to have.”
“My mom accuses me of being too romantic, of living in literature and books. But I’m a-okay ignoring the bad stuff and only picturing the ship returning; the thousands of family members waiting near the harbor.
“In my little fantasy, when he returns, the government will give Eric a desk and a phone at the Pentagon. We’ll have a couple of kids and they’ll grow up knowing their father was a hero once, even though he’s transformed into an ordinary dad. Delusions. But they work for me.”
“Lovely delusions,” Gus said, eyes watering. “All of them.”
“Well, I’ve always favored fiction,” she said with a defeated sigh. “To quote Edith Wharton, ‘We can’t behave like people in novels, though, can we?’” Annie took another sip of his cider. “Though I’d like to wager that we can.”
Suddenly Mrs. Spencer’s words popped into Annie’s head. “ARE YOU QUOTING EDITH WHARTON AT ME?” For a moment she found a smile.
“That’s what I like to see,” Gus said. “A cheerful Annie.”
“And cheerful Annie is who I prefer to be.” She shook her head. “Time to change the subject before I turn into a puddled mess. Please, Gus, take me back to the Grange.” She pointed toward the book. “Help me forget, for a little while.”
“That’s a mighty tall order.”
“It worked for Pru,” Annie said, forcing a brightness she did not feel. “She got over her fiancé, eventually. Right? Otherwise this story is just too sad.”
Gus frowned. It was a long while before he spoke again.
“One could say it worked out,” he said at last. “I suppose. Depending on the one you asked.”
Seventeen
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
NOVEMBER 1972
After a week at the Grange, Pru’s activities fell into a steady rhythm.
Whatever apprehension she first felt about waking up with a ninety-year-old woman in her bed, to speak nothing of the accompanying milky old-lady smell, she soon got over. Or she ignored for the sake of her ongoing employment. Pru had nowhere else to go.
Though she grew accustomed to the pattern of her days, the nights were another matter. Unexpected bedmates notwithstanding, Pru struggled to sleep, mostly because of the voices. Real or imagined, in her head or in the home, muffled conversations disrupted any hope of peace.
The darkness brought with it the sound of a male, sometimes a woman, and it happened nearly every night. Pru mentioned it once, to Mrs. Spencer’s vast hilarity. Perhaps the bed reserved at the O’Connell Ward should go to Pru instead, she guffawed. Although, every once in a while, Mrs. Spencer would ascribe the voices to Tom.
Come dawn, Pru didn’t have time to ponder the disturbances on account of the fifty or so spaniels she tended to daily. She fed the dogs, tidied their messes, groomed them, and then mopped up ever more messes due to their very efficient digestive tracks. With no less than twelve bitches and an unending parade of newly born pups, there wasn’t a hairless speck of real estate in the whole bloody place.
“Miss Valentine!” Mrs. Spencer would call out. “Reina. Have you seen Reina? No one sets foot off this property until we find Reina.”
Better finding Reina than serving midwife to Princess. Pru had seen enough puppy births to know she didn’t want to see more of them. Not that she had a choice.
Alas, despite the amount of time she spent with them, Pru couldn’t distinguish Reina from Arthur from Bixby from fuck-all. The dogs all looked the same to her, male or female, from this litter or from that.
But Pru played the game. She’d roam the yard aimlessly looking for Reina, with a solemn face of purpose but accomplishing nothing. Mrs. Spencer always found the missing pooch, in the end.