Last Twilight in Paris

3. Louise

3

Louise

Henley-on-Thames, 1953

I take the necklace back from Midge and hold it in my palm, hand trembling slightly. “Do you know where it came from?” I ask her.

“No idea, luv. I’m afraid I’ve never been much for jewelry.”

“Me neither. It looks exactly like one I saw during the war, though.” There is even a nick in the top arch of the heart, just as I remember it.

Midge runs her finger over the chain, still indifferent. “I suppose we could sell it for the metal.” I feel a tug of disappointment that Midge does not share my curiosity about the object. But how can she, really, when she had not been there?

“Do you mind if I keep it?” I ask, surprising myself. I haven’t wanted anything from the shop before. Though I enjoy sorting through the boxes, I’ve never really cared about belongings. “I can pay you for it if you want.”

Midge waves her hand. “No, go on and take it. It’s one less thing I’ve got to bin.”

“Thank you.” I slip the necklace into my purse. Then I re turn to work and resume sorting through the other items in the crate. But my mind keeps returning to the necklace. I pull it out again, wishing that I had seen the one from the war more closely and that I had a better image of it in my memory. As I study the gold, and the engraved letters on it, though, my certainty grows: this is not a necklace like the one I saw during the war. This is the same necklace. How has it come to be here, after disappearing from Germany more than eight years ago?

I want to bring it up to Midge again, but I know she won’t understand my curiosity any more the second time than she did the first. Instead, I look through the crate it came in to see if the other items are somehow related to it. There is a broken alarm clock and a pair of cracked leather gloves, but nothing that seems significant or related to the necklace.

I finish the first crate and start on another. The morning passes quickly, and when I look up, it is nearly noon. I stand and return the last crate I’d worked on, now empty, to the shelf, then prepare to leave. “I will see you tomorrow,” I say to Midge. Then I turn back. “The crate that necklace came in…do you have any idea where it came from?”

Midge seems to think for a second. “Probably the donations bin out back like most everything else.” Anyone could have left it there, I realize, discouraged. I turn to go. “You know, my sister, Millie, owns a jewelry shop in London,” Midge calls after me as I near the door of the shop. “She would probably know more about the style of the necklace or maybe where it was made.”

“You have a sister?” I realize how little Midge and I know about one another.

Midge nods. “She has a tiny little place off Portobello Road. Not more than a cart, really. But she knows jewelry and she might be able to help place the necklace, if you wanted to make a quick trip into the city to show it to her.”

As I contemplate an errand to London, all of the why-nots bubble up: my job at the shop, the things I need to do at home, not to mention being there for the children. “I’ll think about it, thanks,” I say. Then I walk through the doorway and start for home.

Later after I have washed up from dinner and played a game of snakes and ladders with the children, I begin to draw their weekly bath, my thoughts returning to the necklace. It might be one of many that were made at the same time, not particularly unique. But it is the words, watch and me , that stop me in my tracks. How many identical charms bearing this phrase can there possibly be?

As the children splash in the tub, I pull the necklace out to examine it once more. “Pretty!” Phed cries, reaching out with wet, soapy hands. I lower the necklace to show her and she runs her finger over the surface. “May I have it?”

I pull the necklace back and dry it with a flash of irritation. Can a single object not belong to just me now that I have children? It often seems that I am not allowed to have anything at all for myself. But Phed is just a child and her need to possess understandable. “No, darling,” I manage, tamping down my annoyance. “It doesn’t belong to Mummy.”

After the children have gone to bed, I carry the necklace downstairs, over to the chair where Joe sits reading the newspaper. “What do you think?” I hold out the necklace on my open palm for him to see. Joe looks up and blinks, as though not quite sure what it is. “I found it at the shop. Interesting, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Joe says with indifference. He does not know much about my experiences during the war years, or where I might have seen the necklace before, or why it matters so much to me, and I find myself wanting to share more with him, to let him in.

“I wonder where it came from,” I press. “Europe, before or during the war, most likely.”

I wait for him to ask why I suspect that, but he does not. “Then whoever owned it is probably dead.” His voice is flat. There is a silence between us. “I’m sorry,” he says stiffly. “It’s just that the last thing I want to talk about is the past.”

“The thing is, Joe.” I swallow, trying again, “I think I have seen this necklace before.”

He looks at me sideways. “You mean, like in a shop or something? Because I’m sure I can find you a new one for Christmas. You don’t need to wear someone else’s old junk.”

I smile fondly at his willingness to get me whatever I want. Despite his own struggles, Joe loves me and he is doing the very best he can. Then my amusement fades; what is broken between us cannot be fixed with jewelry. “That’s very kind, but that isn’t what I meant. You see, I think I saw this necklace during the war.”

“Oh.” There is a thud in his voice and I realize too late that bringing it up was a mistake. “That seems unlikely, doesn’t it?”

“I guess so.” I find myself, as I had so many times in my younger years, walking back my curiosity, not wanting to overstep.

No, Joe is not one to appreciate the significance of the necklace. He takes life day-to-day and at face value, and that is all that he can manage for now. I remember what Midge said about her sister, Millie, and her jewelry shop. Suddenly, a day in London feels like the most appealing thing in the world.

“I might pop into the city tomorrow and go to the shops,” I say casually to Joe. “It’s been ages.” I wonder if he might ask why, or perhaps even offer to join me for a day out.

But that was the old Joe. Now he simply nods. “That sounds nice. You’ll be home in time for the children?”

The next day, I drop the children off at school a few minutes early, then head straight for the shop. I find Midge in the back, making tea. “You’re early,” she remarks. “Fancy a cuppa?”

“No, thank you.” I pause. “I was thinking I might run down to London and show Millie the necklace. That is, if you can spare me for the day.”

“I can.” She sets down her teacup and scribbles an address on a notepad. Then she tears off the address and gives the sheet to me. “Give her my love, won’t you?”

I start for the station. As I board the train for Paddington along with a few suited men commuting into the city, I look over my shoulder guiltily. The trip seems frivolous. What do I hope to learn, really? But it has been so long since I’ve had a day to myself. I’ll be gone just a few hours and back in time to pick up the children. I only hope that the school nurse won’t try to ring and say that Ewen’s cold has turned into something worse and that I need to fetch him early.

The train pulls from the station and gradually gains speed, the town and Thames fading in the distance. Farther into the countryside, the fog lifts, revealing gently rolling meadows dotted with cows and sheep, broken only by the occasional farmhouse. A man pushing a sandwich trolley comes through, and my stomach rumbles. I’d fed the children breakfast but had not myself managed to eat this morning. I purchase a sausage roll and unwrap the paper to reveal an anemic-looking sandwich inside.

Forty minutes later, the countryside gives way to the outskirts of London, planned housing developments comprised of clusters of row homes, many still under construction. Then we reach the outer limits of the city proper, factories and closer streets and narrow brick town houses that seem to lean against one another. When the familiar skyline appears through a haze of coal soot, a mix of anxiety and anticipation rises in me. London was the city of my childhood and all of the painful memories come rushing back now. But I am not that girl anymore, I remind myself. I am a grown woman now, a wife, a mum. The old ghosts can’t hurt me anymore. And at the same time, London has always brought an air of possibility that I cannot quite bring myself to hate.

The train wheezes into Paddington, wheels screeching as it slows to a halt alongside the platform. I rise and shuffle off with the other passengers. Outside the station, I pause in front of a Barclays bank, trying to get my bearings. I have not been in London in a few years, and for a moment, I am overwhelmed. Portobello Road is in the Notting Hill neighborhood, west of London’s city center, too far for a walk. I consider going to the taxi stand; I have the coins in my purse. But the old, frugal Louise, who had never quite left me, rises stronger now that I am back in the city. I tuck my chin and set off down the escalator to the Tube. At the bottom, I shudder in the deep cavernous space, assaulted by memories of long nights spent here during the Blitz, sleeping upright on the hard ground and fearing that every explosion might be the last.

I emerge from Notting Hill station twenty minutes later and make my way toward Portobello Road. The familiar, sooty air fills my nose. As I set foot on the pavement, the bustle of the city wraps around me like a cloak, and my stride grows longer.

I make a turn at the corner, and then another, feeling my way. Portobello Road hosts an open-air market two mornings per week, but it isn’t a market day and the streets are quieter without the vendors and their makeshift stalls and wheeled carts.

I find the address Midge had given me, a tiny jewelry store sandwiched between a bookseller and an antiques shop. As I open the door, a bell tinkles above, announcing my arrival. I start toward the counter at the back of the narrow shop, then stop short. Millie is a carbon copy of her sister—it is as if Midge had been plucked out of the village and placed here smack in the middle of London.

“I’m Louise,” I begin, trying to figure out the right way to explain why I’ve come.

But Millie waves her hand. “Midgey rang me this morning that you were coming. I’m Millie.”

“Midge didn’t mention that you are twins.”

“We aren’t.” I’m surprised once more. Their resemblance is so close. “I’m eleven months older. The necklace,” she adds abruptly. “Let me see it.” Though the sisters look identical, Millie’s raspy voice is nothing like Midge’s bright chirp. I pass it to her, feeling an odd pang of remorse as it leaves my hand. Millie studies the necklace. “Ah, yes, this is a Mizpah charm.”

“Mizpah?” I repeat the unfamiliar word.

“Mizpah is Hebrew and it means ‘watchtower.’”

“Is that why it is engraved with the word watch ?”

Millie shakes her head. “Not exactly. The charm is inscribed with a biblical phrase from the book of Genesis. ‘The Lord watch between me and thee.’ It is part of a longer biblical prayer, ‘The Lord watch between me and thee when we are absent one from another.’ But usually just the first part is engraved because the rest is too long. The charm splits into two parts, so you are only seeing half of the inscription.” I nod, trying to take in all of the information.

“So, the necklace is Jewish?”

“No, Mizpah jewelry is actually English. The tradition dates back to Victorian times. People, couples or lovers mostly, would give the other a half when they were to be separated in hopes of reuniting the two halves. It became quite popular during the First World War between soldiers and the women they left behind.”

“English?” I repeat. “But I saw one of these in Germany that looked exactly the same.” That the necklace was in fact English made it even less likely that I had seen it during the war.

“There’s another half to this necklace—or was, at least, when it was made,” she points out.

“Yes, I know. But this is the half I saw during the war. It has the same half of the inscription. I think it’s the same one.”

“It’s possible. An English soldier might have been carrying it with him when he went over. But unlikely that it was this exact one. They are very common and there are plenty that look alike.”

“Oh,” I say, deflated. The necklace probably has nothing to do with the one I saw. If I saw one at all. Suddenly, everything I went through during the war seemed hazy, like something I imagined or dreamed.

Millie hands the necklace back to me. “I’m sorry not to be of more help.”

“Thank you.”

“Give Midgey a hug for me.”

“I shall,” I say, envying their sisterly bond, something I never had. I start from the shop and down Portobello Road, the promise of answers evaporating like a chalk drawing on damp pavement in one of the Mary Poppins stories I read to the children. The necklace had been a fun diversion, nothing more. What had I expected? It is time to go home. Regular life descends upon me, gray and suffocating, and as I walk back toward the station, the first drops of rain begin to fall.

London, 1944

I walked into the Red Cross volunteer center one evening, soaked from a heavy rain that had come on without warning during my commute. My wet clothes stuck to me, giving off that smoky smell that seemed to cling to everything after the nightly air raids. As I hung my coat on the rack by the door, a crisp new sheet of paper in the top right corner of the announcements board caught my eye.

Couriers wanted immediately.

I paused, interested. Then I read further. They were looking for people to go across to the Continent with a Red Cross delegation by ship and deliver the packages we made. I hadn’t considered until that moment how the boxes we packed, once they left the volunteer center, made their way into the hands of the prisoners of war who needed them. It made sense; someone had to deliver the packages. Still, it seemed there ought to be a better way to find people qualified for such a task than simply putting up a sign.

Was I qualified? I turned the question over in my mind as I walked across the room and sat to begin filling packages. I had stayed in school until I was sixteen. I might have gone longer now that public education was free, but I had to work to support my mum and me and feed us and keep her off the street. I had done well in school, though, preferring the real subjects like math and science and languages to the domestic arts, where they steered girls. I knew that I had skills and smarts, and in another life, I might have been someone. No, even before the war, something inside me sensed that there was more to be had, if only I could figure out what that was.

Later that evening, after I had finished working and went to get my coat, I found myself drawn back to the flyer seeking volunteers. I walked to the man who sat at the desk in the corner. “Can you tell me more about the courier position?”

He looked up from the papers he had been reading. “You interested?” His voice was skeptical. I had not formally met him or spoken with him before, but I had seen his tall, angular figure crossing the room in long-legged strides, helping to lift a stack of boxes or making sure the volunteers were doing the packing correctly so that nothing broke or spilled in transit. He had brown hair that curled at the collar and a lock in front that refused to be cowed, but instead fell into his eyes.

“I am. I’m called Louise and I’m one of the volunteers who has been packing.”

“Louise Emmons. I know who you are.” I was surprised. I’d never spoken to him before. “I know everyone who works here.” I considered whether I found him arrogant, but his voice was affable and his smile warm. “I’m Ian Shipley and I’m from the International Committee of the Red Cross. The position provides me with an exemption from military service because of its importance to the war effort,” he added quickly.

Up close, he was more attractive than I thought previously, with hazel eyes and a slight dimple in his chin. Handsome, but not in a conventional sort of way. He had craggy features and eyes set a bit too narrowly, long eyelashes and a smattering of freckles that showed exactly how he had looked as a boy. I stilled myself. I’d already had my heart broken once by Joe when he left for the war, and I didn’t intend to get anywhere near a man again.

But I was curious about the work. “The International Red Cross?”

“That’s separate from the British Red Cross,” he added. I had not until that moment realized there was a difference. “We’re charged with getting the packages delivered and we are looking for a few able-bodied people to help. Women, in this case, since most of the men who could do the job are already off fighting. And we’ve got more prisoners than ever to reach.” I nodded gravely. “Our men are suffering over there and it’s critical that we get aid to them as quickly as possible.” There was an intensity to his voice now. This was not just a job to Ian, but a mission.

“It’s terrible work,” he continued bluntly. “We’ll be going behind enemy lines without a weapon or other protection and the pay is awful.” I searched for some sign that he was joking but found none. He sounded as though he was trying to talk me out of going—which only made me more determined.

“If that sounds like too much, you can just stay here and pack boxes,” Ian added. There was an irksome dismissiveness to his voice. Suddenly, staying here and packing boxes was the very last thing I wanted to do. I was seized with the urge to get out of London, out of England, and contribute more.

“It’s not too much. How long would I be gone?”

“It’s a quick trip, a week at most. Do you think your husband would mind?”

I bristled at the question. I was quite certain that no one asked the wives if they minded when their husbands went off to war. “I’m not married,” I said, hating the way it came out like an admission. I wanted to add that it was really none of his affair, but I refrained.

Joe flashed before my eyes. What would he say about my going if he were here? I brushed aside the thought. He was gone and the decision was mine alone.

“Just as well,” Ian replied. “They probably wouldn’t let a married woman do this job.”

“That’s rubbish.” Married women were doing so many things during the war, manning antiaircraft guns and serving as nurses and who knew what else. Surely, they could do this as well. “I’d have to ask for leave from my day job at the glassworks.”

“This is for the war effort. I can make that happen for you. Do you speak any languages?” he asked.

“My French is self-taught, but quite good.” I was not bragging, just being honest. I had learned on my own from books I’d purchased from the secondhand shops or borrowed from the library, dreaming of someday seeing the world.

Ian smiled, revealing a lone dimple in his left cheek. “Excellent.” He clapped his hands, then rubbed them together. “So, what do you say?”

I considered the question. The idea of volunteering to go to war-torn Europe was audacious. I’d never left England before. I had no experience or training. I had taken the job at the Red Cross because I wanted to help. Yet volunteering to pack boxes for a few hours in the evenings had never seemed enough. Now here it was before me, a chance to go across and make a real difference. To do more. I had doubts, of course, about the danger of going over into occupied Europe and whether I could do the job. I pushed them down.

“I’m interested,” I replied. “Tell me more about the work.”

Ian gestured for me to sit down opposite him at the small desk in the corner from which he managed the volunteers. He pulled out a flask and poured some liquor into a small metal cup and offered it to me. I hesitated for a beat; I’ve never been a drinker, especially not after seeing what it had done to my mum. But I accepted the cup reluctantly and took a sip, feeling the strange way the liquid burned my throat as it went down. When he offered me a cigarette, though, I shook my head—one new vice was enough to try for now.

“We used to go across the Channel by boat, deliver packages to the various POW camps and come home. It was pretty straightforward. Only now the British have blockaded Europe.”

I nodded. I had read about it in The Times . Churchill was hoping to stop the flow of goods in an effort to bring the Germans to their knees. But the very same blockade that was intended to harm the Germans made it impossible for the Red Cross to get food and other supplies to the POWs in German camps. Ian continued, “Early in the war, Churchill had issued a strict edict that no relief shipments were to be sent over whatsoever. He thought the supplies would fall into the wrong hands and inadvertently help the enemy and lengthen the war. Then Dunkirk happened and the capture of thousands of British soldiers, including some from prominent families, forced him to rethink.” Ian’s voice crackled with intensity. “But we can’t go across the Channel, so we have to sail down to the south of France and bring the packages across by land.” My head swam at the magnitude of the journey he was describing. What had I gotten myself into? At the same time, I felt a twinge of excitement at being part of something so important.

“Will we be going to the front?”

“No, just to POW camps in occupied France.” Just. I could hardly imagine it. Ian refilled my cup with scotch, and I took another gulp, feeling my cheeks go warm. “But really, we need to go as far as we are able to get aid to those who need it.” I took in his words, captivated. It was more than just his appearance that made Ian attractive. He was driven by the work with a kind of passion and principle that was irresistible.

Across the room, I saw two of the older women who were leaving looking in our direction and whispering, heads tilted conspiratorially. “I think they’re talking about us,” I said.

He shrugged. “Let them talk. So are you in?”

Straightening my shoulders, I realized that I very much was. “Yes.”

He stood. “Get your belongings, no more than a satchel. Then come back here. We leave for Southampton at dawn.”