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| 2008-07-07 10:28 |
| (no subject) |
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I need to get a hold of myself. I am not being a good reporter nor active in much anything else, for that matter.
After the telegram, I went out. I got incredibly sloshed. It could have been a lot worse than it was -- I could have been taken away or killed if I ran my mouth off to the wrong person. Sitting here now, reflecting on the incredible danger I put myself in, I feel my stomach squirm with What Ifs. But the fact is that I got drunk and nearly fell over in the street. I cut my trip home very close to curfew and apparently just missed one of the nightly patrols -- as soon as I closed the door to my flat I heard faint footsteps and, upon looking out the window, made out a German soldier moving slowly down the street.
Following that night, I stayed in bed for a few days. I didn't bathe or eat hardly anything. I didn't go out for my daily rations. I didn't do any work for the Times. I slept, mostly. For hours and hours at a time. I would wake up at six in the morning and fall back asleep. The next time I woke up it would be nearly dark.
I finally managed to get myself out of bed after a while and loafed around the flat in a dressing gown, still hardly eating but taking the drink now and again. I only went out for cigarettes, which I went through rather quickly. I whiled my hours sitting in front of my window watching the people on the street. The telegraph boy came several times. I answered the door the first few times, hoping that it was a message from Mum or James, but after that I stopped. Mostly they were from the paper, and they grew increasingly longer and panicky.
Last night I looked in the mirror in the bathroom. My hair was a tangled, poofy mess, matted down in the back from my pillow. I was terribly pale and the circles under my eyes gave me the appearance of the living dead. I had also lost quite a bit of weight; my once healthily full face was long and bony. James would not want me to be like this. He would want me to get out there, do my job, live my life, and expose the bloody Germans, the ones who are at fault for his disappearance.
So this morning I got up early, bathed, put on one of my nicest skirts and blouses along with my favorite shoes, grabbed my notepad, and went out. First I went straight to the post office where I sent a telegram to the paper (they had moved headquarters out of London and to a large building just outside the city during the evacuation) explaining that I was alright and working on something big. After that I went to the stores and waited in line for my daily rations, which looked so good even if they're meager. I came back to the flat, fixed up a lovely lunch (lovely for someone who hasn't eaten in days, anyway) and enjoyed it down to the last morsel. As soon as I finish this I'm going to take a walk and see if I can't pick up a decent story.
I'm continuously thinking of James though, and praying for his safety even though I'm a bit of an agnostic. Don't know who I'm praying to, exactly, but I hope that someone is watching over me and my brother.
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| 2008-05-10 16:21 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
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A note, addressed to Mr. Nicholas Deacon
Nicholas --
Have you heard? Do you want to meet for a drink or several?
-- Lucy
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| 2008-05-10 16:18 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
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The handwriting is very shaky and barely legible.
London. They don't know how many yet. I don't know what to do.
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| 2008-05-07 16:37 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
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The Luftwaffe has started night raids on Liverpool. They began a few days ago and have been continuing since.
I don't know what to do. I want to go home, but what will that do? Isn't that running away? Shouldn't I stay here and continue my job? Even if that's the right thing to do, my heart is still pulling me toward Oxford.
I wish that James was home. I wish my parents had left for America months ago like I asked them to. I don't know what to do.
I need a drink.
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| 2008-04-22 09:28 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
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I saw a man today. I thought it was James. He had the same light brown hair -- the colour of caramel -- and he was about the same height. I couldn't believe that James had gotten out of the Army, had come to Paris.
So I watched the man for a while. He was standing against the stone pillar of a building across the street, most of his face turned away from me. I watched the way he smoked his cigarette, bringing it to his lips before taking a long drag and slowly putting his arm back to his side, exhaling the smoke through the side of his mouth, just like James does.
I couldn't help the warm excitement that had been building inside of me since I saw the man. I warned myself not to get my hopes up, it certainly wasn't James, my darling brother. But the mannerisms were too similar... he ran his hand through his hair like James, he was leaning like James, he smoked like him. Could my brother have come to surprise me, or could he have been unable to find me yet and was taking a break to think where I could be?
Yes. That had to be it.
"James!" Suddenly running, nearly getting hit by a German Army car, nearly toppling over onto the side of the road...
Fingers touched rough fabric on a shoulder, gripped, certain they knew the shoulder, certain it was that of a brother. Man spun around, pulling my hand off of him --
An unfamiliar face. Not nearly as handsome as James', nothing like it now that I see it... how could I have been so stupid as to confuse this man with my best friend?
He saw the slender blonde woman, believed she couldn't harm him. His facial expression softened slightly, but his voice was hard.
"Que voulez-vous?"
Shook my head, couldn't speak. It wasn't embarrassment I was feeling, it was the deep sadness of terrible disappointment, the terrible emptiness of homesickness, and the crushing sickness of wondering if your brother could be dead or alive.
I think I may be going insane.
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| 2008-04-06 17:51 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
| flashback |
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A letter, several years old, written in a tidy but playful hand.
15 September 1939
Dearest Bee,
I'm afraid you're going to hate me very much after you receive this letter. I would have come to you myself, but I don't know if you've been evacuated or not and I know that this letter will reach you wherever you are. Knowing you, you're probably hanging on the door frame not wanting to leave your flat, refusing to be frightened out of your home by German planes and bombs. You've always been the most stubborn girl woman I've known and I doubt even the largest of wars will change that.
I'm really just delaying the inevitable: the reason why I'm writing you. Although you're quite intelligent and I'm sure you've figured it out by now. We're at war, as I'm sure you're aware -- as I'm sure the entire world's aware -- and you're doing your duty as one of the Times' top reporters. And so I asked myself, what is my duty? What is it that James is supposed to do in this mess? Well, Bumblebee, I enlisted in the British Army.
I can feel your scathing gaze, hear your shrill proclamations, feel you grabbing at my wrist, and see your half-frightened, half-angry face (after all, I have known you these 25 years and know your manners by heart). Don't hate me, my darling sister. Don't be angry. There's no use telling you this, because you will do what you please as you always have and that is one of the reasons I love you as much as I do. My only regret is that I can't see you before I leave. As I'm sure you expect, Mum is in a right state, and I'm sure Dad doesn't want me to go either but he would never say so, at least not to me. Write to them. If you can, go home for a few days.
I really do love you, Lucy. You're my baby sister and my closest friend. Don't you worry one bit about me, just take care of yourself and remain strong as you have always been. When this war is over, we'll go on a holiday round the world together.
All my love,
J
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| 2008-04-04 18:42 |
| Regret |
| Public |
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Maybe it's silly for me to dwell on things that happened almost a decade ago. They seem so insignificant when compared with my life today. But I also think that I'm lucky to be able to say one of my only regrets happened so long ago.
Jack didn't know I loved him, but I did. He was three years my senior (my 18 to his 21) and I'm quite certain that he didn't love me. After all, he was engaged during our several month long tryst. I regret giving him my body. I regret that he was my first. Sure, at the time, I thought that he was madly in love with me. He told me he thought I was a genius about Chekhov and Zhukovsky. We were intellectual equals, challenging each other late into the night until the wine was gone and the ashtray was full of cigarettes. He told me that I had the most beautiful neck, arms, breasts, feet. I now realize it was just flattery to keep me coming back. His fiance lived in Leeds and he was lonely, that's really what it came down to.
And I was an idiot young girl who had never been outside of Henley or lived on her own. I was relishing my new freedom at university and I felt it was natural that Jack should be so enamoured with me. I also thought all great writers needed to have a lover, and he was Dante Rossetti to my Fanny Cornforth.
His desertion was the most painful thing I had ever experienced and it made me realize my naivety. I became guarded with my body and my heart. I grew out of that quickly, giving over to anyone who looked at me the right way, but I never loved them. Like I said, it seems silly that I was so deeply affected by something that happened nearly ten years ago now, but I honestly have not loved anyone like I loved Jack. I am becoming fearful that I never will.
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| 2008-02-03 13:08 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
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My darling Lucy,
We've finally, finally received a letter from James. It was brief, but he's doing just fine. He wrote that he's sorry he doesn't write to you, that you're probably busy and he wouldn't even know how to find you in Paris, but he "loves and misses his little Bee, and I promise to bring you a present when I get home."
Christmas just won't be the same without the both of you here. I won't have to make nearly as much food! Mrs. Stewart next door is coming to Christmas Eve dinner; her son is in the Army as well. She just received word that he's missing-in-action, so you can imagine what a mess the poor woman is. I've been round nearly ever night since she received the telegram. I couldn't imagine being in her position, what with her husband been gone for three years now and now darling Kevin is away as well. She doesn't even have a tree up, but I don't blame her. I wouldn't be in much of the Christmas spirit either. God forbid if anything ever happened to you or James...
I hope that you've found a way to celebrate the holidays while you're away. It doesn't do to sit in your tiny room all day and night. Even though both of my darlings are far from home, we are all still alive and healthy, and that's something to be truly grateful for these days. When you and your brother come home, we'll do Christmas again, a real Christmas, even if it's summertime. You both have presents here under the tree, and we'll do a big dinner. Your father and I love you very very much, and we are so proud of you, even if we'd rather have you here. I hope you have some happiness for Christmastide, and we can't wait until you come home.
All of my love,
Mummy
Attached to the letter is a photograph of the Christmas tree, decorated perfectly as always.
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| 2008-01-18 21:18 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
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Well. I’ve been in Paris for almost two weeks now. Two weeks I’ve been trudging throughout the city, avoiding the ruins of bombed buildings and trying not to look at them. I think that if I do I’ll start to cry. I keep thinking that this is what London must be beginning to look like, this desolate crumbling landscape and the poor, homeless souls wandering about snowy streets trying to find money or food. The face of a French stranger transforms into the face of a friend from Oxford before my eyes, and I feel the cold in their bones and the hopelessness in their hearts. And then I have to look away. Bloody hell, I thought I could do this. I wasn’t prepared; I wasn’t expecting to see what I’m seeing. I knew there would be destruction. I knew there would be depression and I certainly knew there would be death. I just didn’t know it would look like this.
Despite the fact that the city is devastated, I am falling in love with Paris. Those same luckless souls that are wandering the streets are the people that I’m trying to represent in my writing. They are the bartenders who serve me alcohol, they are the baker that I saw give away a loaf of bread to a woman who could not afford it, they are the students, the mothers, the children, the wives and sisters of those who stood up and fought against the Germans, and now they are the oppressed and poor. They are my mother, my father, my brother, my friends, and they are me. Even though they’re going through Hell and back, these are some of the most kind-hearted people I have ever met. Most of them don’t want to talk to me about the Germans. Most of them are scared. I don’t think any less of them for this. I wouldn’t want to put my loved ones in danger either, especially after already having suffered so much loss.
The Germans, when they do decide they want to talk to me (which is not very often), they talk of rebuilding and change and a bright, new future. They compare this to a coming spring awakening. There’s hope in their voices, and they don’t acknowledge the depression of the city. It’s difficult for me to tell if the Germans are saying this to get rid of me and to cover up their atrocities of if they really believe the tripe they’re spouting. With the officers, I believe it’s the former. But the younger, more naïve soldiers are so disciplined and so fervent with their answers... it’s as if they’re brainwashed. I wouldn’t doubt that as a possibility. It would make sense, and most of the lowest ranking soldiers are young and moldable. I wish I could get something else from them besides this automatic false hope of an answer, but that’s where the French citizens come in. They’re giving me the truth.
I just wish there was something I could do. Some way I could help. I already pay extra for drinks and food just to help out the people, but if I keep that up I’ll soon be poor as well and times are tough here and at home. I’ve heard whispers of a resistance during my solitary times at Le Passant, but I shouldn’t get involved with that. On principle, I shouldn’t. But my conscience is telling me otherwise.
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