Chapter Twenty-Six
Claudia
A cottage of some sort, Oxfordshire
I’ve driven myself here today, for this last scene.
It’s a beautiful day, clear and bright, sweet with the scent of cut grass, wild meadow flowers, and the first whispering promise of summer to come.
I haven’t seen Nick yet.
He was already in his trailer when I arrived, and I headed straight to mine to get ready.
It’s all been a rush as I was late arriving.
I brought Lisa and Hannah with me from London – they’re on their Easter holidays – and Mum guilted us into letting Stewart tag along too.
(‘Oh, go on, girls, he’ll love a day in the countryside, and he’s so much better behaved these days.
’) He’s not better behaved at all, I had my concerns from the start, and sure enough we lost him to a rabbit, for a fraught half hour, when we stopped to walk him at Cherwell Services.
He looked pretty downcast when he finally reappeared, his tail literally between his legs, so my guess is the rabbit got the better of him.
Lisa and Hannah have taken him for another walk now to tire him out, and Ana’s here with me, running me through a briefing ahead of the shoot, which will be the very last for this movie.
She’s been working flat-out ever since we left Doverley, getting everything else finished: from the boys’ sea swim (‘How was it?’ I asked Nick.
‘Pretty cold,’ he said), to the bittersweet scenes showcasing Iris, Robbie and Tim’s childhood, to the entirely bitter sequences at Bomber Command HQ, re-enacting the death sentence decisions that were taken there.
Ana’s kept me updated, but I haven’t considered joining her to watch the filming myself.
I’ve remained in London, resting.
In December, Nick headed back to Montana to spend time with his own family, catch up with old friends, and rest too.
I haven’t seen him since then, but we’ve talked, lots, getting better at it the more we have, finally sharing everything it used to feel so impossible to put words to: no more secrets. The hole our son, Louis, has left in us is no less, but it is something we now carry together.
And I’ve told Nick about what I experienced at Doverley. At no point has he tried to dismiss it, or rationalise any of it away; he’s simply listened, heard, making me feel the very opposite of alone.
We’ve spoken about plenty of other, less weighty, things too.
Like, Felix and Emma on their shoot in New Zealand, and how often they’ve kept mentioning each other whenever we’ve caught up with them on the phone.
And the repairs Nick’s helped his parents with around the family’s farm; the horses he’s reacquainted himself with, and the long rides he’s taken at dawn.
I’ve filled him in on the variety of cooking courses I’ve been doing with Phil – the sourdough, gnocchi, gyoza and macaroons we now know how to make – and my long walks with Stewart, lunches with Imogen, then the trips I’ve made back to Yorkshire to visit Ellen and Tim (still with us; ‘I want to see this picture of yours,’ he keeps insisting), and Georgie as well: the woman who hugged me, and who Ellen gave my number to.
We’ve become close, actually.
Mum was right: it has done us good to talk about everything.
‘You’re looking well,’ says Ana to me now, as we head to my trailer door. ‘Sleep suits you.’
I don’t disagree.
It does suit me.
I’ve been enjoying getting more of it.
Each evening in Highgate, after dinner with my family, I’ve kissed them goodnight, gone up to my room, talked with Nick, and climbed into my old bed, where I’ve slept deeply.
Not dreamlessly.
But I’ve dreamt as me.
And a lot of him.
I’m pretty apprehensive about seeing him again, after all this time.
I follow Ana out of the trailer with my hand to my ribs, pressing against the bubbling there, and, in my pale-blue tea dress, feel a bit like I’m heading to a school dance.
But it’s one I’m excited to be at.
I’m ready for it.
I’m really, really ready for this.
I only briefly catch sight of him, before I get into position.
I don’t know if he sees me, but I see him, in uniform, heading around the back of the cottage, surrounded by crew.
Lisa and Hannah are sitting behind Ana.
‘Where’s Stewart?’ I call out to them, anxiously.
‘Sleeping,’ Lisa calls back. She’s been coming out of herself more lately. I’ve collected her from her school gate most days, done some work with her drama class too, and Mum reckons it’s been helping. I hope so. ‘Nick put him in his trailer.’
‘All right,’ I say, with a deep breath, and a smile.
I have a new co-star for this scene: a sweet little one-year-old called Bess, all dark curls, dimples and chubby creases, who I join in the garden, getting down beside her on the lawn.
Her mum remains with us until the last moment, entertaining Bess with a squeezy giraffe, then I take over, with a 1940s rattle, as we’re counted in.
She’s a total pro, and plays along beautifully: laughing, clapping, reaching for the rattle. I won’t pretend it doesn’t hurt, being with her like this, but the pain is bearable. What’s passed has passed; I’ve made my peace with that now, and feel full of what might yet be.
Nick’s getting close, walking around the garden’s fence, up to the gate.
I still don’t see him, my focus is all on Bess, but I know he’s there.
My heart knows it too, beating, beating.
Losing interest in the rattle, Bess totters to her feet, grabbing at my hair.
I laugh, taking her hand in mine, extracting it, and my stomach flips in anticipation.
The catch on the gate clicks.
Dipping my chin to my shoulder, I turn towards it.
I do that because I’m meant to, but also because I want to.
And because this scene – pure fiction for them, for now – is very real for us.
My eyes lock with his.
He stares at me.
He looks younger.
Rested.
Sleep suits him, too.
Heart bashing, I stand.
He takes a step towards me.
I remain rooted to the spot.
It’s our scene in the control tower breakroom, all over again, except now there are two of us who his attention moves between: from me, to Bess, back to me.
It’s only me he touches though, running his arm around my waist, turning my legs liquid.
Only me he holds as, slowly, he dips his head, lowering his mouth to my ear.
And I know the words that are meant to be coming, but also that it doesn’t matter what Nick says, because it’s been decided that this final, whispered line of Robbie’s should be left to the viewers’ imaginations.
For me, it will always be, Hello, Clarence.
That’s not what I hear now, though.
Not in this story.
Not in our story.
‘I think you’re the cat’s pyjamas,’ Nick says, in a voice that’s low, deep, pure Montana, and only his. ‘I always have. I always will.’
And I smile, looking into his eyes, that are the wrong colour, but which unequivocally make my heart sing, then I pull him towards me, kissing him.
‘Cut,’ calls Ana.
But we don’t listen.
We don’t cut.
Not yet.
Neither of us are ready to leave this scene.