Just a brief note, as the post is about to leave, and I feel like this morning you’re especially far away. I haven’t heard from you in weeks, and I think maybe you must be on a honeymoon. Could it be true that you are married by now, as you said you’d be? I’m happy for you, if so. It’s just that I woke with an emptiness in my chest, coming out of a dream of you, me, and Teddy. We were eleven and twelve—the age we were just before you left—and sitting on the lawn in front of the house, when a German zeppelin rose right behind us and over us and the house like the moon, flying over Forest Row. It was headed to London to drop bombs.
We couldn’t help thinking how beautiful it was, like it was sent from heaven. And then I realized that it wasn’t sent from heaven but from the war, and even though it was already past us I kept squeezing the grass underneath my legs, saying that I wouldn’t let the ground go. And then I woke up. I tried as hard as I could to fall back asleep and find you both again, but I couldn’t.
I’m a sleepwalker today. Do you think it was God talking to me? You’ve always been more of a believer than me, Beth! Maybe you can put in a good word for me.
In case you’re wondering, I’ve been back to the cottage many times but seen no sign of the giant (I never got his name) at all. He never even leaves his rucksack behind. I wonder if maybe he’s left altogether or if he’s just good at erasing himself.
I still imagine, whenever I’m there, that you are too. Talking to you in my head is like putting my brain through the laundry. You tell me I’ve impressed you with how strong I am to move on with life like I have. You point out what I could do better, like you used to.
Speaking of which, Douglas Fairbanks is my new soul mate. Do you think I have a chance? He’s so good looking I don’t think I’d mind what kind of personality he has.
APRIL 22, 1919
Dear Beth,
Over a month and no letter from you, and I’m wondering if something is wrong? We officially put away the mourning today—the black cloth around the bureau in the hall, the mourning brooch mounted in front of Teddy’s photo, and everyone’s gotten out of their black clothes. I’m relieved. And busy. The whole town is busy.
London is gearing up for the Fair of Lights, and Mother’s invited a lecturer to the town hall to speak to everyone about the innovations of industry and the productivity of mechanized labor. The lecturer is a friend of Father’s and has been advising him on reconfiguring the factory to run more efficiently. Some of the workers are upset about it; many of them will be working longer hours and some talk about the increased soot in the air. It’s all boring except to Father, whose eyes brighten with enthusiasm whenever the word efficiency comes into play.
I’m the organizer—getting the hall ready, getting the train schedules lined up for visitors. It’s draining at times. Someone rubbed Father’s shoes in manure last week when he’d taken them off outside the factory door to change into work boots. It’s related to either labor or contamination of the river or both. He just wiped them off with his handkerchief and went on as if nothing had happened. He’s an honest man, at the bottom of everything.
I hadn’t had a moment to get down to the cottage until yesterday, and I guess that, with so much time passing between my visits, the little improvements the giant has made have added up (he’s not gone after all). He’s continued rebuilding the roof, though it’s hard to imagine it ever being finished.
I made two trips to the house to bring some things back—a small Union Jack that I poached from Teddy’s grave (sacrilege!) and next to it, a small stack of magazines and pillows. This morning when I returned with candlesticks (Mother has six sets), he’d added some things too: a jar of wild roses, several small rocks, a snail shell, and another shell that I didn’t recognize.
Clearly the giant has no interest in being friends, and neither do I. But it’s nice to be alone and yet have this feeling of having company at the same time.
P.S. I was just writing that last part when I heard a noise and got up to see what it was. Forget what I just wrote. I think I was wrong.
APRIL 23, 1919
Dear Beth,
I’m lying in bed, propped on my pillows. Downstairs the house is coming alive—pots and pans being banged around in the kitchen. A crack of bright light is falling on me through the curtain.
Last night I was writing to you (letter enclosed with this one) after the rest of the family had gone to sleep. I could hear Ruth and Vera in their room talking and then settling down, and Gordon rattling around with some school project he’s building downstairs. I was sitting in the window writing the last words when an orange flicker caught the corner of my eye, and I looked out onto the lawn to see an invisible hand waving a cigarette. It was a cloudy, dark night, but as the cigarette moved the hand holding it and the rest of its owner came into view: the giant. I pulled on my robe and tiptoed downstairs and out onto the lawn. He was waiting by the bottom stair, his misshapen form looming at me from the shadows.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, alarmed. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” he said, wincing. “I was just wondering if you’d like to come over for dinner.”
I looked up at the moon. “It’s almost ten o’clock.”
“Yes.”
“I already ate.”
He just stood silently, waiting.
“I thought you wanted to get away from people.”
He shrugged. “I thought I didn’t smoke either.” He began to tremble, let out a hiss, and sank down onto the grass. “To be honest, I just need to take my mind off how much everything hurts.”
I let out a slow breath and looked at the overcast sky, wide awake now.
“All right. I just have to sign off on a letter. What’ll I bring?”
Down at the cottage, he had a bottle of wine waiting but no glasses. I’d raided the kitchen for rolls and cold chicken and half a wheel of cheese, but I hadn’t thought of that.
“We’ll have to drink from the bottle,” he said. And we did.
I was suddenly starving, and we talked between mouthfuls. He asked me about my parents, the factory, my job. He told me he grew up in Knightsbridge and—his eyes shifting away from mine—that his parents, famous naturalists who work at the British Museum, are out of the country on some kind of important expedition. I don’t mind that I don’t believe him. Mostly, the pain he was in was distracting to both of us. When he wasn’t eating, he kept his arms wrapped around his chest like he was trying to hold himself together.
“Where did you fight?” I asked.
“Sensitive subject,” he said, “don’t you think? Given that I left my ear there?”
“What’s your name?” I changed tack, embarrassed.
He smiled at that. “James.”
He stood to light the fire but couldn’t strike a match with his thick, scarred fingers. He made a fist and pounded it on the mantel in annoyance. I sat looking on uncertainly until he shot a glare at me. “Wouldn’t want to help a bloke?”
As I lit the kindling he stomped around the cottage whistling “God Save the King” impatiently while I got everything going. Even his whistling has sarcasm in it.
His lips are so damaged that he can’t drink anything without some of it dribbling out the side of his mouth. I think he was feeling self-conscious, because he kept letting out loud, angry sighs.
“Can I help?” I asked.
“Just pretend you don’t notice,” he retorted.