the letter off the mat. It was only a day
late.
Her heart came into her mouth when she saw that it was not Helene’s rounded, backhand writing after all. It was a much older hand, an angular hand, and the envelope was addressed to her,
not Queenie. She was shaking all over as she took it into the kitchen, unwilling to open it. Telling herself not to be silly, she ran her thumb along the flap, but her worst fears were to be
realised. Thankfully, the letter was direct and not over-sympathetic.
Dear Mrs Ferris,
I am afraid I have very bad news to give you, and I think I had better not beat about the bush. Your brother and his wife were both killed last night when their house
got a direct hit. Sadly, George Lowell (Helene’s father) died two nights before as a result of the bombing, and Ivy is still on the danger list. She has been a good friend of mine for
many years, and she asked me to let you know about Helene and Donnie. I cannot begin to tell you how sorry we all are, they were a very nice couple. My husband has arranged for the
funerals, George Lowell’s too, and nothing is left of the house and shop, so there is no need for you to come. You will have enough to do looking after Queenie as well as your own
family. Ivy says she is glad that Helene got the poor girl away, and asks that you break it to her gently.
I know you will be upset, too, but take comfort from the fact that they could not have felt anything and try not to show your sorrow in front of young Queenie. It will
be difficult for you, but, remember, God will be with you. That will make it easier to bear.
Yours truly, Dorothy Bertram
PS I have just come back from the hospital, and they told me Ivy passed away early this afternoon. Perhaps it is for the best. She would never have got over this.
The letter fluttered from Gracie’s nerveless fingers down to the table. Her heart felt frozen, her whole body felt frozen and she couldn’t even weep. If this was
what it did to her, what would it do to poor Queenie? She had no one to go home to when the war ended, no parents, no grandparents. If only Helene hadn’t been so determined to go back to
Donnie . . .
After several minutes, Gracie dragged herself to her feet. She couldn’t sit there all day, but how was she going to tell Queenie? While she carried on mechanically with her housework, she
toyed with a few simple sentences, words which would take the sting out of what she had to say, words to help the girl to understand how quickly it had happened. As she prepared vegetables, set
pans on the cooker, laid the table – tasks needing no conscious thought – phrases whirled round in her brain, but how could anybody break such bad news gently?
Joe was first to appear at lunchtime and had just read the letter when Queenie came running in, followed immediately by Patsy, who had recently been promoted to typist. ‘Miss Watt said
this morning that my typing had improved,’ she said, a little boastfully. ‘I know I wasn’t very good at first. She used to hold up whatever I’d typed to the light, to see if
I’d scraped out any mistypes and I usually had but I can rattle things out now without any mistakes . . . hardly any.’
Queenie smiled at this, then turned hopefully to her aunt. ‘Did Mum’s letter come today?’
Joe’s hand shot out to cover Gracie’s as she leaned weakly on the table. ‘Queenie,’ he murmured, ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to be very brave. Your mum
and dad . . .’
Before he could go any further, she whispered, ‘You don’t have to tell me, Uncle Joe. They’ve been . . . killed, haven’t they? I . . . knew it would happen. I just knew
it.’ She turned blindly towards the door, her hands up to her mouth.
‘Oh, God!’ Gracie followed the girl, and Joe stretched out a restraining arm to his daughter who had made to go after them. ‘No, Patsy, leave it to your mum.’
Gracie sat down on the edge of the bed to take Queenie in her arms.
late.
Her heart came into her mouth when she saw that it was not Helene’s rounded, backhand writing after all. It was a much older hand, an angular hand, and the envelope was addressed to her,
not Queenie. She was shaking all over as she took it into the kitchen, unwilling to open it. Telling herself not to be silly, she ran her thumb along the flap, but her worst fears were to be
realised. Thankfully, the letter was direct and not over-sympathetic.
Dear Mrs Ferris,
I am afraid I have very bad news to give you, and I think I had better not beat about the bush. Your brother and his wife were both killed last night when their house
got a direct hit. Sadly, George Lowell (Helene’s father) died two nights before as a result of the bombing, and Ivy is still on the danger list. She has been a good friend of mine for
many years, and she asked me to let you know about Helene and Donnie. I cannot begin to tell you how sorry we all are, they were a very nice couple. My husband has arranged for the
funerals, George Lowell’s too, and nothing is left of the house and shop, so there is no need for you to come. You will have enough to do looking after Queenie as well as your own
family. Ivy says she is glad that Helene got the poor girl away, and asks that you break it to her gently.
I know you will be upset, too, but take comfort from the fact that they could not have felt anything and try not to show your sorrow in front of young Queenie. It will
be difficult for you, but, remember, God will be with you. That will make it easier to bear.
Yours truly, Dorothy Bertram
PS I have just come back from the hospital, and they told me Ivy passed away early this afternoon. Perhaps it is for the best. She would never have got over this.
The letter fluttered from Gracie’s nerveless fingers down to the table. Her heart felt frozen, her whole body felt frozen and she couldn’t even weep. If this was
what it did to her, what would it do to poor Queenie? She had no one to go home to when the war ended, no parents, no grandparents. If only Helene hadn’t been so determined to go back to
Donnie . . .
After several minutes, Gracie dragged herself to her feet. She couldn’t sit there all day, but how was she going to tell Queenie? While she carried on mechanically with her housework, she
toyed with a few simple sentences, words which would take the sting out of what she had to say, words to help the girl to understand how quickly it had happened. As she prepared vegetables, set
pans on the cooker, laid the table – tasks needing no conscious thought – phrases whirled round in her brain, but how could anybody break such bad news gently?
Joe was first to appear at lunchtime and had just read the letter when Queenie came running in, followed immediately by Patsy, who had recently been promoted to typist. ‘Miss Watt said
this morning that my typing had improved,’ she said, a little boastfully. ‘I know I wasn’t very good at first. She used to hold up whatever I’d typed to the light, to see if
I’d scraped out any mistypes and I usually had but I can rattle things out now without any mistakes . . . hardly any.’
Queenie smiled at this, then turned hopefully to her aunt. ‘Did Mum’s letter come today?’
Joe’s hand shot out to cover Gracie’s as she leaned weakly on the table. ‘Queenie,’ he murmured, ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to be very brave. Your mum
and dad . . .’
Before he could go any further, she whispered, ‘You don’t have to tell me, Uncle Joe. They’ve been . . . killed, haven’t they? I . . . knew it would happen. I just knew
it.’ She turned blindly towards the door, her hands up to her mouth.
‘Oh, God!’ Gracie followed the girl, and Joe stretched out a restraining arm to his daughter who had made to go after them. ‘No, Patsy, leave it to your mum.’
Gracie sat down on the edge of the bed to take Queenie in her arms.
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