Chapter Text
9th October 1937
This is the day; the day he’s been waiting forever since medicine got dull and boring and he longed to hear a song of his own crackling through the radio speakers. Missy was skeptical at first; she eventually came around when John had admitted that if he had to treat one more case of the common cold he’d go insane. Clara took a little more convincing; he assured her that he wouldn’t leave for good, and he would always write.
And with that, John Smith decided then and there that he would become a musician; he’d always been a bit of a vagabond anyway.
He booked himself a one-way ticket to Manhattan, hoping for a musical miracle. He carried nothing but a small suitcase and a guitar, meticulously packed in an ancient leather case, the handle cracking with years of harsh Scottish winters and decades of use. The sun had begun to peek over the horizon, illuminating the monster of a ship that would take him across the Atlantic. It was but the wee hours of the morning when he took a ride out to the docks: the stars shining over the façade of a sleeping Glasgow. He pulled his coat closer to shield himself from the brisk autumn wind as he weaved through the throngs of people standing on deck; he leaned against the railing, lit a cigarette, and watched the city go by. The smell of fresh-baked bread wafted across the city, the blaring ship horn melding with the chattering of hundreds of voices. A woman reached for the hand of her daughter while her son ran ahead, a man kissed his wife on the cheek before walking towards the end of the docks. The wide expanse of ocean lapped lazily at the docks and the ships tied to the harbor, the now-rising sun casing an orange hue across the water. The final blow of the ship horn reverberated across the docks, and many took to the railing to wave goodbye: He thought of Missy and Clara: still asleep, no doubt. Missy was a notoriously late sleeper, and Clara had inherited the trait from her mother. He watched the city get smaller as the boat moved out to sea.
These little town blues
Are melding away:
I’m gonna make a brand start of it, in old New York
And if I can make it there, I’m gonna make it anywhere
It’s up to you, New York
New York
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The early morning sun peeked through the curtains; the first thing Missy noticed was that John wasn’t beside her. She then remembered that John had left for New York this morning until God knows when. I’ll write, he’d said to Clara, who was wearing her favorite coat, bright red and snug around the shoulders; she’d gotten a bit too big for it as the years had passed, hugging her favorite book against her chest as John had stroked her cheek, wiping away a tear she’d shed upon hearing the news he’d be leaving, Who knows; I might even be home for Christmas, he’d said, smiling. Later that night they laid in bed together, listening to the radio, John’s arms curled around her middle, leaving kisses in the crook of her neck and telling her about all the wonderful things they had in New York; he’d get another ticket back to Scotland for Christmas and bring Clara more books than she could read in a year; he promised Missy a pair of earrings and necklaces made from immaculate freshwater pearls and glittering jewels in a rainbow of colors. He promised her a new dress from Fifth Avenue, custom made to fit her perfectly and a deep plum fit for royalty. She laughed, telling him that it was only in his dreams.
He did keep up his end; about a month in, she received a letter from him talking about all the great people he’d met and all the fun things he’d done. She wrote back immediately, telling him everything from how Clara was doing in school to the rumors the neighbors had been whispering over tea. He’d sent her another letter a week later, telling her how he was so, so sorry, but he didn’t have enough money to come home for Christmas. Next year, he’d said, I’ll come home next year. She sent him one back, telling him that it was all right, and that Clara promised to open a Christmas cracker for him.
They sent letters and telegraphs for the next year; photos tucked between crisp pieces of parchment and newspaper clippings from The Washington Post and The Times.
He said he couldn’t make it home this year, but he’d been saving; next year, he said, I’ve got enough for next year.
1st September 1939
Missy turned on the radio, sitting down at her desk to write another letter, her cameo sitting next to her fountain pen. John had sent it in the mail for her birthday, intricately carved by hand from coral and set in gold. Clara was curled up in an armchair, reading a novel she picked up the other day. It was a good day; it was a nice day that wasn’t too hot or too cold, and the sun was shining at just the right angle.
It was a good day.
The nightly news came on as they ate dinner, and the anchor announced that Germany had invaded Poland, and Britain was going to war.
Missy sat in bed that night, clutching the cameo close to her chest and sobbed.