CHAPTER 27 #4
It turned out that Daisy had not received the letters I had sent her from the prisoner-of-war camp.
It was hardly surprising, given the conditions at the time, but it made things easier when it came to explaining my new family.
We were starting a new life and both Archie and I felt that, for the sake of the child, it would be easier to let people believe what they already assumed; that we had married after Douglas died and I’d given birth to Noel soon after.
Although it felt wrong to let my oldest friend believe a falsehood, we wanted to start afresh and I had Noel’s best interest in mind.
The afternoon wrapped up in its usual fashion, with a good old sing-song around the piano.
Daisy played as beautifully as ever and we worked our way through a medley of wartime songs and Vera Lynn classics, singing with gusto as we belted out that there would always be an England and we would meet again.
The lyrics were apt as we made promises to keep in touch and to visit the next time we were in London.
And Archie, who had got on like a house on fire with Bert, invited them to visit us in Cornwall.
When the time arrived to say farewell, there were tears in our eyes. Daisy pulled me close in a warm hug.
‘I can’t tell you how glad I am that you made it back here in one piece!
I was so dreadfully worried about you.’ Then she stepped back and looked me up and down, her forehead furrowing as she took in my thin frame.
‘Truth be told, I’m still worried about you – please promise me you’ll eat up and put some weight on!
I know that Archie will take care of you, he’s such a lovely man and you just seem so natural together, like you were made for each other. I’m so happy you met him!’
My heart was full as we left Queensmill Road and walked back along the night-time streets to the tube station. I felt safe with my hand tucked in my husband’s, while he carried the sleeping Noel in his other arm. I looked up at him and smiled; I, too, was so happy that I had met him.
The next morning, a damp and chilly Monday in late September, we caught the train from Paddington Station to Cornwall and arrived at Bodmin Parkway as the sun was setting.
Noel was fascinated by the changing scenery, leaving behind the suburban sprawl of London and passing through picturesque meadows, pretty villages, leafy green woods and finally the rugged beauty of Bodmin Moor.
We stayed a couple of nights in Bodmin to visit Archie’s father in his nursing home.
The poor man was in his early eighties and suffering from senile dementia.
After the death of his mother, a couple of years before he had left for Singapore, Archie had found a tenant to take over the running of the family farm and had arranged for his father to move to a nursing home in Bodmin.
It was a bittersweet reunion between father and son.
There was a flicker of recognition in Mr Penrose senior’s eyes, but he could not remember his son’s name, nor that he even was his son.
He was a pleasant, cheerful old man and very good with Noel, but his conversation was extremely limited.
He made repetitive comments about the weather and told us how busy he’d been on the farm during the recent harvest. We smiled and nodded along, but I could tell it pained Archie not to be known by his father.
It wasn’t until we were leaving that he addressed his son by name.
‘Goodbye, Arthur. Tell your mother that I’ll be home soon.’
Archie’s eyes misted over as we left and I squeezed his hand in mine. So often Archie had supported me and it pleased me to be able to offer him comfort when he needed it.
Mr Penrose’s parting message at the end of that visit was strangely foreboding, for he was soon home and reunited with Archie’s mother. The dear man died just six weeks after our return.
By that time, we had moved into the family home, Penrose Farm, and had been working all hours of the day and night to make it habitable before the winter set in.
It had been empty for nearly four years as the tenant farmer had been called up and his wife and children had moved in with her mother.
The place had fallen into such disrepair and there was even evidence of squatters at some point.
Windows and doors were broken, vines and plant roots had taken hold and animals had made their nests within the four walls.
It was a sorry sight. We had our work cut out for us, but every Saturday we made time to travel to Bodmin to visit Archie’s father.
Noel and I would stay to say hello and have a cup of tea, then we would leave Archie holding his father’s hand, listening to his wandering stories, while we went round the shops.
It is six months now since Mr Penrose’s funeral, how time has flown, and Penrose Farm has well and truly become our home.
Our plan had been to smarten it up ready for a new tenant, then move to one of the bigger towns, Bodmin or Truro, for Archie to join a medical practice.
But after all our hard work, we both felt such a strong connection to the place that neither of us could bear to leave.
Archie – or should I say Arthur, for that is the name he has chosen to use now – found that farming his family land gave him such a sense of satisfaction that, for the time being at least, he has decided not to return to his medical work.
Talking of names, it seems that Arthur’s pet name for me has stuck and I have become Dotty! It was a playful name that he first used on the ship returning to England and I rather like it. It seems fitting that we have fresh names for our fresh start.
There was some curiosity when we first arrived in Cornwall, but that was only to be expected.
We were so tanned and, despite our best efforts, still very thin, so naturally we stuck out.
Neighbours who remembered Archie were curious, especially as they knew that he had been abroad at some point.
We told everyone the same story and stuck to it, that we had met in London during the war, married and had our son.
Ah Ling, Penrose Farm really is the most perfect place that I have ever known and Noel is so happy here – we all are.
The gentle pace of life suits us well and the area is so picturesque and serene.
The balmy Cornish summer has arrived and it is wonderful to see our little boy thriving.
Noel spends his days running and playing with the dogs in the meadows, helping his father with the animals on the farm, or building sandcastles down on the beach.
Perhaps he was young enough that his mind has cast off the horrors of the prison camps. I sincerely hope he was.
My memories, however, have continued to haunt me for some time.
After Douglas’s death I suppose I felt guilty for feeling such happiness.
I felt that after what I’d done, I somehow owed him.
Should I have searched harder for his parents to hand over his child, or even returned Noel to his mother?
But the latter would have been impossible, as I discovered on a chance reading of a newspaper article in the new year.
It announced Bernard Pemberton’s inheritance of his family title and castle in Berkshire.
There was a photograph of him with his wife.
The caption read: ‘Sir Bernard Pemberton with his second wife, Lucille. Sir Bernard’s first wife, Maria, was killed in the bombing of Singapore in February 1942. ’
My guilt at keeping Noel eased after that, for he is now, technically, an orphan. But he is not parentless, for he has the two of us and we adore him.
Your friend, as always,
Dotty x