Every day for the past eight months, he has sat in the same chair on their little back porch that overlooks the sea. He lines himself up with the mark he gouged in the wooden railing, sits down carefully as not to aggravate his old war wound, and looks out onto the breaking waves. He follows the mark and looks to the southeast, over the frigid waters of the North Sea, angry most days, and greyer than his mood. He sits, and he watches, and he listens for the hum of German airplane engines, though they haven't had to take to shelter in years now. They've been relatively safe here in the north country, but it's always at the back of everyone's minds, that today could be the day that the Luftwaffe comes again to Scarborough.
She gave up long ago trying to talk to him during his time overlooking the sea, his tongue bound by bitterness and grief. He never touches the tea she brings him. He barely acknowledges when she covers his old legs with a blanket to ward off the chill of early spring. He sits there, after the last of the guests have checked in or out of their little hotel, after he's seen to their comforts with a well practiced smile and courteous goodnight, and stares across the sea, as if his failing eyes could see all the way to France and beyond.
The letter came from the War Office on a cool September morning. He knew instantly that it was bad news, having not received a letter from John Robert for two months since. He didn't need to read any further than the first line before he dropped the typed form letter to the table and stumbled outside, his lungs suddenly gasping for air.
That was where she found him ten minutes or an hour or five hours later, sitting on the ground and staring at the sea, his eyes long having run out of tears. Her own hand held the crumpled letter, her expression absolutely devastated. Tears streaked down her face, her beautiful face, made only lovelier with each year together and child she bore him. Her blonde hair that he still loved to run his hands through, now white at the temples, fell around her face loosely. She hadn't taken the time to put it up that morning when they received a knock at the door. He was in the kitchen preparing breakfast in bed for his wife on that day, their twenty-sixth wedding anniversary.
Anna wrapped her arm around his shoulders and she clung to each him desperately, her body wracked with sobs, the letter fluttering in the sea breeze. She cried a litany of prayers for their boy, their precious baby boy, called by King and Country to serve at the young age of eighteen, who proudly sent them a photo of himself in his brand new Royal Air Force uniform after completing his basic training, who sent them letters and telegrams every chance he had, who had his mother's hair and his father's eyes, who they had given up hope of ever having when they were blessed with him after six years of marriage and six years of praying.
Dear Sir and Madam, the letter began as these letters always did, I regret to inform you that your son, no. 518479 Corporal John Robert Bates of Squadron no. 47, Royal Air Force, is missing in action. His flight on which he served as an air gunner did not return as scheduled after an operation on August 3, 1944. To say that he is missing is not to say that he is deceased, but efforts to locate him or his crewmates have been unsuccessful. I will communicate with you immediately if I have further news and would be obliged if you would impart any information you may receive as well. May I offer you my sympathy and the sympathy of the Royal Air Force in your time of need.
John knew what these letters meant, and that receiving one as the parents of a member of the Royal Air Force meant that their son was likely dead in a crash, shot down by German air defenses or another plane. He let Anna say her bit about the possibility of their plane making a safe landing, or the completely absurd notion that they could have parachuted from a falling plane, or any number of hopes she had to give her peace. He listened and nodded and let her believe, because that was what his Anna did. She was always the optimist, and he in turn, would always let her hold onto hope.
Weeks turned into months, and the winter season came to Yorkshire, when they had little to no guests at their hotel. John and Anna, along with their daughter Helen, two years John Robert's junior, went about preparing the hotel for the spring season, mindlessly cleaning and painting. John's leg had been acting up far more of late, his back more bowed and his body aching. He was far too old to have a son missing in action, he was far too weary to have a wife still vibrant and a daughter bubbly and bright despite it all. He was in his seventies now, far older than he ever thought he'd see, his brown hair shot with white and his eyes clouding with cataracts. He did what his body could manage and what his spirit would allow, but he would inevitably find himself sitting in the same chair on their little back porch that overlooked the sea. He would align himself up with the mark he gouged in the wooden railing, sitting down carefully as not to aggravate his old war wound, looking out onto the breaking waves. He always looked to the southeast, over the frigid waters of the North Sea, waiting for his boy to come home.
He never really allowed himself to hope, which led to many a tear-filled fight with his lovely Anna, where she screamed her grief in a way that haunts him still. She cursed him for giving up, for letting go of hope, until slowly, she began to accept the inevitable truth, that John Robert was dead, that a quarter of their little family that they'd fought and prayed for was gone forever. Her hope gave way to anger, which bred grief and finally acceptance. She began to go about her days in much the same way she had so long ago, in a time he'd thought had been long forgotten, when she'd had a piece of her soul broken and she turned away from him. It was only within the past month that they'd begun to mend their broken hearts, desperately coming together one night when by some miracle, he'd managed to be able to love her properly after years of bitter disappointment. It was after that joining, when his old heart still pounded in his chest, that he pulled the covers tighter about them and whispered in her ear, "Perhaps he's out there, in a camp of some sort, waiting for the end of the war." She only closed her eyes tighter, her fingers making a little fist on his chest, and wept, hope long having abandoned her heart.
He began to believe for the first time that their boy was out there somewhere, waiting, praying for the end and a way to come back home to them. His daily communion with the sea became a daily prayer to a god he'd long forgotten. He prayed for John Robert and everyone else's sons and brothers, no matter their uniform. He'd lived through three wars now, each one affecting him in a different way. This one had been the worst, hitting him harder than even the Boer War, where he had nearly lost his life in the gaining of a lifelong friend, his son's namesake, whose own grandson was also fighting for their country.
Today he sits, the air finally a bit warmer after a long winter, the wind stirring his hair as the gulls cry along the water. He says a prayer again and smooths his fingers over the crook of his old cane, as much a part of him as his wife and children are. He prays, and he hopes, and he knows that they will receive some news soon.
The screen door slams open and Helen runs out onto the thick wooden planking, a smile breaking her lovely young face in two. "Papa! They've just said on the radio that Germany has surrendered! The war is over!" She throws her arms around his neck and he hugs her back, allowing himself to smile for her. She ijumps up and down with excitement as she gives him a sloppy kiss on the cheek before running off to go tell her friends down the road.
Anna's appearance is far less exuberant, but happy nonetheless. She sits down in the chair next to his and looks out onto the breaking waves. He extends his hand and she takes it, lacing their fingers together. "He'll be home soon," John says confidently, his smile pulling at his cheeks.
She only squeezes his fingers and sighs. She's given up hope. He's picked it up from her and dusted it off, praying enough for the both of them.
It is three weeks later when he is in the back garden, picking herbs for dinner when he hears Anna screaming his name from inside the kitchen at the back of the hotel. He hurries inside as quick as his legs and cane can carry him, basil and thyme long forgotten, out of breath and fearing the worst, that a letter has come with their son's name on it.
Instead, he finds Anna crying and clinging to a spectre of a man, gaunt and baldheaded, his drab olive clothing hanging off of his frame, but in that instant, he knows, he knows that their boy has come home. John stands in the doorway, bracing himself against a chair, as his little Anna is practically holding John Robert up in the air in joyous celebration.
"Joh-John Robert?" he whispers, barely able to form the name they'd given him nineteen, almost twenty years ago.
And then John Robert turns to him, his face pale and marked with a few angry scars, but his eyes just as bright as the day he left for training. He mutters something about a POW camp in Bavaria, but John doesn't care. He lets out a guttural and animalistic wail and throws his arms around his beautiful baby boy and cries into his shoulder, pulling Anna in with them. Helen enters from the front of the kitchen and squeals in delight, and suddenly their hearts are whole again.