‘One of the best things about the war being over is having the post running properly again,’ Ella remarked. She’d written a long letter to Caroline on VE Day, and it had felt such a luxury to be able to tell her friend all her news from the past years and to feel confident that, this time, it would reach her, eventually, on the Île de Ré. She hadn’t had a reply yet, but maybe there would be a letter waiting for her when they got back to Edinburgh, and she hoped it would bring the good news that Marianne had returned to them and that the three Martets were together on the island; the news that the family could, at last, travel together to visit Christophe’s grave, so far away from the island on the other side of France, to lay flowers on it and to grieve there. She tried to shut out the doubts – the memory of Marianne’s face appearing to her when she’d been lost in the woods that night in France; the horrendous stories of what the Allies had found when they entered Poland and liberated the so-called work camps there. Surely gentle, beautiful Marianne could never have ended up in one of those terrible places?
Continuing down to the beach, Ella was lost in thought as they wandered along the shore-line, stepping over gleaming ribbons of kelp that had washed up here and there on the high tide.
Angus paused, stooping to pick something up. ‘Here you go. A memento of two perfect weeks.’ He placed a double white clamshell, still hinged in the centre, into her open palm.
‘Ella? Are you alright?’
She shook her head, smiling through the sudden tears, which she blinked away, letting the westerly wind dry them. ‘Sorry. It reminded me of something.’ She stroked the shell, turning it over to admire the perfect smoothness held within its curves. ‘Someone I once knew told me that these are called Neptune’s lockets.’
He examined her face minutely, reading the faint contraction of pain in her green eyes and the sadness that lay just beneath the surface of her smile as she remembered.
After a long moment’s silence, he cleared his throat. ‘Do you want to talk about him?’
She hesitated, torn. Then took his hand in hers. She was still holding the shell he’d given her in the other hand as they began to walk again. And as they walked, she told him about her first love, awakened on an island moored in a sea of light, where she’d discovered freedom and beauty and a whole new sense of what really mattered in this world.
When she’d finished, he turned to face her, still holding her hand in his. With the other, he drew back a wind-blown strand of her hair and gently kissed her forehead.
‘I see. I’m sorry. And now I understand it all a little better.’ He touched the shell which she still held. ‘So . . . Neptune’s locket.’
He put a finger under her chin, raising her face to his, and looked deep into her eyes, as though searching for a truth there.
‘Do you think there could be a space for me in the other half of it? Because that is what I want, Ella, more than anything. I don’t want to try to replace him – how could I compete, in any case, with the man who gave you the Mona Lisa?’ His eyes creased in a smile, then grew serious again. ‘But do you think, perhaps, that there can be room for me too in your heart? Alongside your memories of him?’
She stood on tiptoes and kissed his lips. ‘Of course, Angus. You’re there already.’
And yet, as they turned and walked back towards the little white cottage, she realised that as she’d spoken those words her gaze had dropped and then she’d looked away, to the south, towards an island that lay a thousand miles distant.
House-proud and anxious at the same time, Ella ran her duster over the mantelshelf, giving one last glance around the room to make sure everything was neat and tidy for her parents’ first formal visit to the apartment that Angus and she had moved into on their return to Edinburgh. Her father had helped them to buy it, a flat in Marchmont looking over the Meadows, and they’d spent the summer evenings once Angus returned from work renovating it, removing faded and peeling wallpaper and replacing it with a more modern print, and painting the stained old woodwork a bright white gloss. After months of work, it was now ready for her parents’ inspection and Ella was a little nervous, not sure whether they’d approve of the modern look they’d chosen.
But she had no such fears where Angus was concerned. Both her parents adored him, the son they’d never had. ‘And that’s without knowing that you saved my life!’ Ella laughed. They never talked about the details of what had happened to anyone. Ella knew that there were other things that Angus couldn’t discuss, even with her, and she accepted that it went with the territory. If anyone asked how they’d met, they simply said, ‘We worked together during the war.’
Angus was peeling potatoes in the kitchen. She kissed him on the cheek and he reached out a dripping hand and pulled her to him, caressing the slight roundness of her belly through her apron. ‘Is the sproglet going to behave itself for its grandparents’ visit do you think?’
‘I sincerely hope so. The sickness has been much better for two whole days now and I’m looking forward to a big Sunday lunch for once!’
‘There you go, spuds duly peeled and ready for roasting, ma’am.’
‘Thank you. In that case you may stand down now. I think I’ve got the rest of the meal under control. I just need to get these in the oven once they’ve come to the boil . . . Oh! That’ll be them.’
‘I’ll get the door. You finish up here. Don’t worry, Mrs Dalrymple, they’re going to approve wholeheartedly of what you’ve done to your new home.’
Ella took off her apron and hung it on a hook behind the scullery door, smoothing her hair into place as she hurried through to the sitting-room. Her parents hugged her and then went back to admiring the way they’d arranged the room with the sleek new furniture they’d bought. Angus poured glasses of sherry for the Lennoxes and a lemonade for Ella and they raised them in a toast. ‘To your future in your new home, and to your growing family,’ said Mr Lennox.
‘Oh, here you go, Ella, I almost forgot in all this excitement,’ Mrs Lennox delved into her handbag. ‘There’s a letter for you from Caroline at long last. She can’t have received your new address when she sent it.’ She squinted at the smudged postmark. ‘It looks as though it was posted back in May. It’s taken months to get here! I suppose it’s taking France a while to get things back to normal . . .’
‘Finally!’ Ella’s eyes lit up. This was the first news she’d had from her old friend and she felt relief flood her veins. Having heard nothing for so many months, despite the war being over and the postal service slowly getting back to normal, she’d begun to fear the worst for the entire Martet family. She’d tried telephoning the house in Paris once, but the operator had said that the number was disconnected, so she’d just had to hope that the letters she’d sent to the house on the Île de Ré would eventually find their way to Caroline, wherever she might be now.
‘Go ahead and open it. I know you can’t wait to read it. I’ll show your parents the rest of the flat while we leave you to it.’ Ella shot Angus a grateful look, and he ruffled her hair as he led her parents out of the room.
They came back into the sitting-room a little while later to find Ella sitting bolt upright, gazing, unseeing, out of the bay window at the trees whose leaves were showing the first golden flecks here and there amongst the green, hinting that the end of the summer was near. The letter was folded on the table in front of her.
‘Ella? Are you alright?’ her mother asked, concerned.
She turned to face them, looking dazed, and Angus came over and knelt in front of her, taking her hands in his. ‘What is it?’
Her eyes focused on his face slowly, as if she was coming back to the Edinburgh sitting-room from a very long way away. She nodded numbly, her expression a strange, unreadable mixture of emotions. She took a deep breath.
‘Marianne is dead. She was sent to one of the camps. She never came back.’
‘Oh, Ella, I’m so sorry. That was the worst of our fears. My poor, dear Marianne. And poor Caroline, her poor father. To have lost so much . . .’