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“Writing to you like this makes me feel that you are still alive. It’s an illusion I’ve noticed before—words on a page are like oxygen to a petrol engine, firing up ghosts. It lasts only while the words are in your head. After you put down the paper or the pen, the pistons fall lifeless again.” —Rose Under Fire, Elizabeth Wein.
8th May, 1945
Dear Julie,
It is all done. Those with relatives in Japan are saying differently, but right as they are, this is Victory Day.
It has been rumbling down by rumours since May 1st, but now it is real! It is done! The bells are tolling in the village, and the parish hall has already been let at no charge for a party tomorrow evening. Talk has already begun of when we girls will be allowed to go home, although I’m sure you know I don’t care to think about it—I have found my work here, and for all the joy of being victors, I don’t know what will become of us all as women in peacetime.
But I mustn’t dwell on that now! The war is done, done, done, and we’re all set to dance it away in the parish hall at five tomorrow. I’ve put my name down to bring all the flags I can muster, and plain cloth we can use to cover the tables (old curtains, most likely). The rest of the girls have all divvied up the rest of the requirements—milk, lemonade, bunting, and cakes. A lot of the older girls have had things stashed in the back of their cupboards, waiting hopefully for exactly this to happen. Catherine is bringing a real Christmas pudding! And several people have decorations left from the Coronation that can serve a second purpose.
…Oh, Julie. You are still dead.
I glanced up from this page, and was struck with the thought— ‘oh, I should make up a bed for Julie; she’ll be home soon now.’ I suppose a part of me has always believed you would be dead only for the duration of the war.
I’ll have to visit your mother now. I did promise her I would come as soon as peace let me, and I’ll keep my word now peace is here. Not that your mother is a trial, of course, or a thing to be avoided… but I sent her all your papers, and Craig Castle—I don’t think I can cope with the sensation of your absence threaded through the air in that place now. I will go, see your mother, Jamie, the little lads, see it all, for your sake. But Julie, I can’t be you. Surely your loved ones—those who know our truths—will always see me as a symbol of your absence. Your death. I know that’s what I see in mirrors, now. I can't be you for them, I can't fill that hole in their lives, and I have my own family who will be needing me home now. All the same, though, I know I won't want to part with your family either—Ithey are all that really remains of the living, breathing you. The rest is but ghosts, and I can't abide their haunting.
Shake it off, shake it off. Fly the plane, Maddie—I need to find those flags.
~
The party was lovely, Julie. There was so much food, a bounty the likes of which the children present had never seen before in their lifetimes, and one of the men gave them each a sixpence to commemorate the day. Nell's husband has already sent a telegram to say he is homeward bound, and we drank a toast to those who will be returning as soon as they can. There was no toast to the dead, although I am sure we all wanted to raise our glass—none of us could bear to be the one to make it. To speak on behalf of so many, on what has to be such a joyous day. I certainly couldn't bear to speak your name aloud, my girl, without losing what little composure I had managed to muster for the evening.
It felt disloyal to dance without you there to lead my steps, laughing and teasing me for bad footwork. But I danced, I promise. I knew you wouldn’t ever have wanted me to pass over an opportunity for gaiety. So from somewhere within me I conjured the victory spirit, and twirled with a few of the girls from Wireless Ops, and shimmied about the place with Mrs Thompson’s two little sons. Their father is part of the assault on Japan—perhaps we shall have a heartier party in a year or so, when that part of the fighting can be declared done as well. Once dance around the room was enough for me, though, and I minded babies after that, while their mothers danced. I made faces at children toddling about, and passed the evening away like that in contentment. It was calm, and good, and happy.
I stayed late, though, helping to clean up and wash the cups, and so on. That felt more appropriate for commemorating this war, for me, than any celebration. Just—slowly sorting things out, putting them away. My hands in the warm water, wiping down and rinsing and scrubbing away... the war sliding back from my mind as I sank into the work. I almost wish there'd been more to do, just to keep that feeling for a little longer.
~
20th May, 1945
I had tea at Laura’s house today, with all the best girls from base. From the depths of her dark pantry, Laura brought forth a tin of canned pineapple, that she had kept tucked away for all of the war. Kept back even from the party at the parish hall! Such a splendid feast. We split it between ourselves, and it was so astonishingly sweet; delicious. I licked up every drop of syrup I could, and we talked about what peacetime must have in store for us. It is hard to rejoice. The children do not understand, and we are tired. All waiting for our demob numbers to come up, now. But every time I pause in writing this letter, the recollection that the war is done fizzes through me again, like a flare shooting skywards and sparking out. The ashes and the casing fall to Earth, of course, just as my thoughts crash downward when they return to you. But still, it is a burst of jubilation every time. Peace, and soon! No more bombs, no more dying! Our daily discomforts are bound to drag on—you don’t just turn all your lights back on with one switch—but at least it is all within our sights now. Blackout is over, the all-clear has sounded for good, and we can expect to eat oranges again. Oranges, stockings, the weather forecasts… and god, all the missing men. It is a numbing, strained, muted relief. But it is relief.
I have some things of yours, Julie, other than that stack of notes on old prescription cards. Small things, that shouted out to me when I came home from Ormaie, knowing far too well that you were not on my tail. An earring butterfly, caught up in my carpet. The sweet card you sent on my last birthday, and the silk slip you lent to me for going under a new dress when it itched. I have all the books you suggested I read—there hasn’t been a moment to read them, of course, but I suppose now there will be. There is no more wartime flying, no more use for us. This job will end, no need for it even to be 'returned' to a man, and there will be nothing left for me but time… What will I do with so much time? I am not ready to take up a mundane life. No one will make me a housewife, even if I marry, but there is no sign of any work ahead for us women pilots. A lot of us have already been sent home, or assigned to new posts, and the rest of us are simply waiting for our turn. Everyone is talking merrily of 'going back', but to what? How can I go back to the shop, after all this? How can I settle down as a shorthand typist, or counter clerk? How can I make a life without flying, and without you? My joy at the end of the war is fading fast, now, in the face of these fresh realities I must face. This has become my home, these people my family, and I don’t understand how I can be expected to just go. We have all been holding on so tightly for the end that now it's here, we are worn out. But the world turns, and I must go with it. I don't know how I will carry on, but of course I must. So I will.
Oh Julie, what would we have done together?
With all my love,
Your Hardy.