The Girl from the Savoy by Hazel Gaynor Page B

of the clouds. But you told me to look beyond the surface and slowly my eyes would adjust and I’d see a fish. And like magic, an entire shoal would be there. They’d been there all along, but I couldn’t see them. I wasn’t looking properly. And then all sorts would appear from the murk: the glint of a coin, a child’s rattle, the flash of pink and gold as a trout flickered beneath the surface.
    I remember.
    It comforts me to know that we are looking at the same sky. If we look hard enough, what might we see, Teddy? I wonder if I might see your face among the clouds, because sometimes I forget you. I struggle to catch the image of you, like I struggled to see those fish. But I keep looking, keep searching, and suddenly there you are, as clear as if you were standing in front of me. As if you’d been there all the time.
    I just need to keep looking and there you’ll be.
    Don’t forget me, Teddy. Look for me.
    Your Little Thing,
    Dolly
    X
    P.S. I’ve been catching the leaves and making a wish like you showed me. I don’t need to tell you what I wished for.
    The words of the letters upset her. Sometimes she dabs a little cotton handkerchief to her cheek to wipe away the tears. Perhaps she wrote letters like this to someone too. Perhaps they stir memories of her own.
    â€œWould you like me to read another?” she asks. I look back to the window; stare at the trees with their buds promising new life. I shrug. “I know it’s difficult,” she says, “but it’s good for you to hear them.” She places a comforting hand on my shoulder. “They’ll help you remember. In time.”
    I turn my head slowly to look at her. My eyes feel dull and tired. She looks distant; far away. Picking up another envelope from her lap, she removes the pages and continues.
    November 12th, 1916
    My dearest Teddy,
    It is eight months since you left, and everything has changed so much. Conscription is so cruel. Everyone who is able to fight has gone now, even the married men. Those who are left—too young, or too old or infirm—drift around the village like dandelion seeds. They feel guilty and useless and wish they were out there fighting with you all. I tell them they should be grateful they’re not and that I’d give anything to make you a year or two younger so you’d still be here with me.
    We are all doing our bit. I seem to be knitting, mostly. Socks, gloves, and other comforts. It turns out I’m almost as bad at knitting as I am at sewing, but if I keep trying I might improve. Others are making Christmas puddings to send to you all and everyone’s helping out on the farms. The Land Army, it’s called.
    I finished up at the big house and work in the munitions factory since I turned eighteen. It’s hard work, but anything’s better than domestic work and it pays better. We wear trousers! We clock in and out and fill the shells with TNT powder. They call us “canary girls” because the powder stains our skin yellow. The work is dangerous—there was a big explosion at a factory in Faversham down south—but at least I feel like I’m doing something to help, and sometimes, when we sit out on the grass on tea break, we feel quite happy. I know we shouldn’t because there’s a war on, but Ivy Markham says you can’t be maudlin all the time. We all feel terrible when one of the girls gets the King’s Telegram. Oh, that’s so awful, Teddy. We don’t know what to say and I know everyone else feels the same as I do deep down—relieved that it wasn’t news about our own, and that’s an awful thing to think when someone’s just lost somebody dear to them.
    I’ll try to write with happier news next time. Mam says I shouldn’t be telling you sad things. She says the job of the women back home is to cheer you all up.
    Your Little Thing,
    Dolly
    X
    P.S. The camera arrived safely. I think