London House, page 22
This house is what I deserve—and even it is a beautifully gilded cage. Father refuses to unboard the windows, but I don’t mind. My large, dark prison feels appropriate. Mr. and Mrs. Coffey moved out to Richmond to be with family, but one of them comes in most days on the train. I’m not sure exactly what they are protecting me from. Loneliness? Starvation from my own cooking? Germs from my poor cleaning? Or perhaps I have that wrong and they are protecting the London House from me.
I remember how you wrote about the children leaving. I didn’t understand how that would feel. My reply to you was so pragmatic and rational—patronizing really. You must have despised me.
It’s the quiet that gets to me. With little petrol, the streets are cleared of cars. With no children, the parks are emptied of laughter. They carried away all our hope with them, I think, and left behind the robbers. Crime is trebled in London at last week’s report. That makes me so sad. Shouldn’t we all be on the same side? War should rally us and draw us tight, not make us turn on each other and regard another’s loss as easy pickings.
Did you tell me Father has meetings at White Hall next week? If he does, please ask him to call on me. I would love to see him. I need to apologize for my last visit home. My behavior was inexcusable. It is past time for me to stop fighting. I need to forgive Mother and Father for not being who I needed them to be. That sounds self-absorbed and patronizing as well, but I don’t mean it that way. I simply mean they strive to be the best parents they can—I see that now—and simply because it’s not what I wanted does not mean their efforts aren’t right and true.
Does that make sense, dear Margo? I guess a more appropriate way to state it is that I need to forgive the gap between what is and what I want or need. It is wrong to believe my perception is the only reality, and a true one at that. There are absolute truths in this world, Margo, and I am slowly learning I do not determine them.
I’m sorry I sound blue. I don’t mean to burden you, and I’ll be better soon. You pick yourself up and you move on, right? You always did when we were kids. You always bounced up, brushed off your knees, and tried again. A tree. A river. A fish. A nest of squirrels. Nothing got you down. Nothing stopped you.
You still have that fight in you. You are the bravest person I know. Could you share a little with me?
I love you, Margo, with all my heart.
Caro
I turned the page. The next letter had a pink Post-it on it, marking it as one of Margaret’s “favorite four,” as I’d dubbed them.
I read her August 26, 1940, letter again, with new eyes and insights gleaned from the SOE files. It was so clear now that Martine, from the House of Schiaparelli, hadn’t written to Caro at all. Rather Caro had traveled to France to talk with her in person. Caro wrote to her twin of Schiaparelli’s political leanings, German movements in the streets, German “gluttony” alongside the “cold efficiency” of their troops—things hard to convey in a letter from France to England, as they would have been censored by those same cold and efficient soldiers—but easy to see in a visit. Caro wrote with too much texture for it not to be, as Mat called it, a “lived experience.”
She also wrote that “other work” was important and needed her now. This played in stark contrast to earlier letters in which she’d written of feeling weak, impotent, even cowardly, while at the same time yearning for action—needing to help more, do more, and be more.
As of August 26, her tone became calm, directed, and focused. She had found her place to stand and, perhaps, even that lever to wield. According to National Archive files, the August letter came right after Dalton had accepted her into the SOE.
I also noted that Caro’s closing lines to her twin signaled the beginnings of her double life, the rivalry in her heart between action, affection, and loyalty—the start of secrets.
Remember that. Remember that no matter what happens tomorrow, next week, or next year, you and I are one—and you, of course, are our better half.
Mat emerged from his bedroom as I laid the letter aside. “Finally,” I quipped, but it was only seven in the morning. His hair was tousled, his feet bare, but he was sporting a smile.
“I thought I heard you out here.” He gave a sleepy squint toward the window.
“I couldn’t leave them alone. I just revisited all the 1940 entries and letters and am moving on to ’41. You were right—they read very differently now.” I poured him a cup of coffee from the thermos I’d brought up. “If Margaret didn’t have access to the files like we did yesterday, I don’t see how she could guess beyond what she was told. To be fair, no one could read between these lines unaided.”
“I wondered about that.” Mat stepped up to the other side of the table. “But they were twins. There are nuances they’d understand that no one else ever could.”
“Maybe. But if Margaret didn’t glean them, it doesn’t leave any hope for us.”
“Wait—” He put his hand up as if tamping down my negativity. He then reached for his notebook, splayed upside down and open on the table. “I couldn’t help myself last night and worked a little . . . I made a note . . . Here, listen to this:
“‘I find solace tonight in remembering everything between us, every story we’ve shared and every tidbit of our letters. They tell our story and, feeling lost and alone, they lead me to you. Do the same when you need me. Please? Pull out our letters and find me in each shared story and in each detail. It’s all there.’”
Mat laid the notebook down, both palms pressing into its green cover. “That’s from Caro’s last letter and I believe her. It’s all here. We just need to stay the course.”
One sister’s last words led me to the other. Needing to read Margaret’s final, heartbreaking entry again, I pulled the last diary toward me . . .
20 October 1941
Caro is gone. She is gone and she’s taken a part of me with her, a part of all of us, and I don’t think we’ll survive.
An officer came tonight. I don’t remember his name, only his message. At first, Father was delighted to see him. The officer’s father was one of Father’s closest friends, forged in the Great War, and Father said there wasn’t a stronger bond than that. The young man’s face lost colour as Father walked down memory lane. That cued me that something wasn’t right. Father noticed and shifted into a discussion of the Army’s requisitioning of Parkley and our plans to move to the South Cottage next week.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be ready for you,” he boomed.
The officer cleared his throat twice before Father stopped talking. “Dr. Dalton asked me to come in person, sir. He didn’t feel a letter alone was appropriate.”
“Dalton? What letter?” Father stiffened. I could see the soldier in him.
With a grim expression, the young man handed the letter to Father.
He raised a brow as he grasped it, read it in silence, then handed it to Mother. I couldn’t help myself. I hovered over her shoulder, and for the first time ever, she didn’t stop me.
It was short—only a few lines—but certain words will remain seared within my mind. “Transport . . . identified . . . Gruppenführer . . . loss.”
“Thank you.” Father nodded to the officer, who glanced to me and left.
His face was so full of sympathy in that quick look, I wondered what he wasn’t telling us. The note didn’t say Caro is dead. It implied she has been having an affair. It implied she ran away with her German lover. It implied she is a Nazi now. But that she is alive—isn’t that good?
As soon as we heard Trent close the front door, Father walked to the sitting room door and shut it as well. We three stood alone.
Mother clutched the letter between us. “What do we do? What does this mean, John?” Her voice tipped up in a plea for reassurance.
Father had none to offer. He held out his hand for the letter and she passed it to him. He threw it into the fire.
“No!” I called out. It felt as if my last connection to Caro was burning.
“Never.” Father spoke over me while watching the letter blacken, twist, and disintegrate into ash. “We will never speak of this again. Nor of her. Do I make myself clear? She has betrayed us and . . . we should have known better.”
“What—” I balked.
Mother trembled but kept her lips pressed tight.
“Enough.” Father turned on me. “She worked for that woman and believed every lie fed to her. At first she was headstrong and got caught up with things she didn’t understand. But at some point, your sister made a choice, Margaret. Never forget that. She chose to run away with a Nazi and cast her future with that lot.”
“We don’t know it’s true.”
“Of course we know it’s true. She’s avoided commitment here—to the war, to Randolph. She has had one foot here, one foot there, and now . . . it’s over. She made her choice.”
Mother reached for my hand and squeezed. She was begging me to submit and be silent.
Everything cried out that he was wrong, but I’m weak. I couldn’t hurt him. I couldn’t fight. That’s what Caro never discerned—what a personal affront her words and actions were to him. She meant to spar and incite conflict to engage him and to make him notice her, but her statements were knives slicing at everything he held dear. I doubt she believed ninety percent of what she spouted. But he did. He believed that, with every declaration or insolent comment, she was choosing another way. This letter confirmed his every fear. In many ways, it felt as if he’d been expecting it all along.
I said none of that. I pressed my lips shut until I could command my voice. Then I simply said, “Yes, sir.”
Father’s gaze swept over me, not pausing, as if I was difficult to look at. And considering we are—were?—identical twins, I am sure I was. I expect I will be for a very long time.
Father disappeared into his study. Mother rang the bell and told Trent we would not dine tonight. She then left through another door. I suspect she went to Caro’s room before seeking sanctuary in her own.
I retreated here.
I passed Caro’s room on my way here. It looked the same. It felt the same. I expected somehow it would have changed, felt colder and reflected her loss. Yet, I felt her presence in all her warmth and could almost see her rounding the corner from her closet to laugh with me. I walked to her bookshelf. Her four journals from Father sat on the top shelf. If I wanted to know what happened, I thought to start there.
They were all empty.
I ran my finger across her other shelves. Her books from Mother filled two of them. The Wind in the Willows. Briar Rose. Hans Christian Andersen. The Complete Grimm’s Fairy Tales. All of Austen. Jane Eyre. Little Women . . .
Stories we have loved. Stories that created and defined us. Had she changed so much? Could I be wrong about my sister? Could our father be right?
Caro’s room is such a soft purple. It’s beautiful and sophisticated, just like my sister. I remember feeling jealous when she picked her colours first. My room is green. And while I’ve grown to love it more over the years, I have never felt more grateful for its bright tones of light and life as I do tonight. Caro’s purple feels like death, and I wonder if she actually is dead. Would I feel it? I think I would.
Closing my eyes, I trust she is still alive. But I sense nothing more than that. Even that might be wishful thinking.
Father came to my room moments ago with the announcement that he will report to the Navy tomorrow. He had planned to continue to work here and assist with Parkley’s transformation into an Army hospital. He’s past the age required to serve, though he does in every way possible.
“It’s not enough anymore. They need ship commanders.”
He will pay penance for Caro.
“You and your mother will leave for the London House tomorrow as well. You can be of more help in the city, and General Leighton has Parkley well in hand.”
“I thought you said we were needed here.”
“Things change. We can no longer let others sacrifice for our freedom.”
“I didn’t think we were,” I retorted.
I expected Father to snap at me. He only sighed.
We will all pay penance for Caro.
He looked around my room, his arms hanging limp at his sides. He looked so old and broken, I backed down. In my words and in my heart. I can’t protest. I can’t refuse. I can’t add anything to his pain.
“What will it be like?” I asked. I’m not sure what I was asking. What will London be like? What will life without Caro be like? What will this betrayal be like?
Father chose the one he could answer.
“You’ll be fine. The bombings have stopped. You’ll find good work with the ATS there. You’ll also find that it’s surprisingly easy for the mind to adapt to a new reality.” He offered a ghost of a smile. “I have faith in your resilience. I also know you will take care of your mother.”
He glanced to the connecting door to Caro’s room. I’d left it wide open, needing to feel her presence. He stepped toward it and pulled it closed so slowly and carefully, I didn’t hear it click shut.
“Pack what you need tonight. Tomorrow you both will take the afternoon train. I’ll have the staff dispose of Caro’s things while they’re storing ours for the transition.”
“Dispose of her things?” My voice cracked.
“She’s gone, Margaret. I hope you understand what happened tonight. Your sister, if she survives this war, will never be allowed back into this house nor into our lives.”
I remembered reading almost an identical line in literature, always finding the father’s stalwart declaration funny—especially as he failed to uphold it three chapters later and invited his wayward daughter home. But I didn’t say that—because it wasn’t funny and my father would never show such inconstancy. He will never back down.
I dread tomorrow, Beatrice.
I dread all the tomorrows yet to come.
What has she done? And how will we survive it?
Twenty-Nine
I was shredded. It was seven in the morning, and while Mat had been at this for twenty-four hours, I’d been immersed in these letters, and these sisters, for well over seventy. It was heartbreaking and I was losing hope, not to mention running out of time.
“Hey . . . Don’t look so gloomy.” Mat circled the table with a letter in hand. He lifted the diary from me and turned to its beginning. “Read this entry. Then this letter. They’ll cheer you up. The crumbs are there.”
2 January 1941
Dear Beatrice,
I’ve just come home. After Christmas, I got a few days leave and went back to the London House with Caro. She wasn’t going to stay at Parkley, and our time is so short. I feel it. It’s not just the war either. Something is off . . .
She is keeping something from me and it’s not good. She’s pale, withdrawn, fidgety, and skittish. She doesn’t light up when I mention Randolph. Yes, I’m that desperate to reach her—I mention Randolph frequently.
I thought that in coming to London we could break through whatever is wrong. We would have long evenings to talk and it would be like I’d imagined when we were young—the two of us striking out on life together.
What naïveté . . .
Just as Caro couldn’t understand England while in France, I failed to understand London from Derbyshire. I was fully aware of the facts—the bombs, the crime, the rations, and the quiet. I knew no children played there or lived there. I knew sandbags covered the entrances to buildings and Underground stations were converted to bomb shelters last year. Yet nothing prepared me for the reality of it. It has probably been three years since I visited London last. I didn’t recognize it or myself within it.
The London House looks sad and forlorn. It is no more so than any other house on the street, but that surprised me as well. All the windows are either blacked out or boarded shut. Only Caro’s bedroom has the thick blackout drapes that she can open and close.
But the house still stands and that’s something. A bomb hit one block over last month. Half of three homes slid like a rubble waterfall into the street. Caro said it quaked the neighborhood so badly her head hurt for a day after.
She led me down to the kitchen upon our arrival. We were both cold and wanted tea. The London House’s kitchen isn’t a single room. It’s a mass of tiny ones I recalled as being warm, lit, and full of life when we were young. They are grim, dark, and silent now.
“Since it’s just me”—Caro passed straight through the main kitchen to a smaller one at the back of the house—“I only use this servants’ kitchen and my bedroom. I haven’t opened any other room because I basically flop into bed as soon as I get home each night.”
She pulled a teakettle off the most massive table I’ve ever seen. It could seat at least sixteen people. She laughed as I marveled at it.
“Have you never seen this? It’s where the staff used to cook and eat. Mrs. Coffey thinks they built the house around it.”
“She still comes?” I questioned, remembering the kind woman who used to hide treats for us in the library.
“Once a week to clean and make sure I’m still alive. She always brings me a pie that lasts a few nights. Mostly vegetable with a potato crust, but a little meat now and then.”
“That’s hardly enough. You can’t live like this.” We’ve never fended for ourselves.
Caro gave me a small, almost mysterious smile. “You’d be shocked at how little you need to survive.”
I wanted to call her bluff. How could we know how little one truly needed? When have we ever been deprived? In our world, such talk is as tasteless as it is disingenuous. But I kept myself from commenting as I wasn’t talking about surviving. In that instant, I realized I was thinking about comfort. Comfort, Parkley still afforded.
I almost said as much, but something in Caro’s eyes stopped me—an awareness I had never seen before. I realized Caro knows of a world I do not. She actually may know something of deprivation and survival after all.
“What aren’t you tell—” I only got that far before she cut me off with a sharp slice of her hand. The discussion was over before it began as Caro busied herself making a weak tea and chatting nonsense.
