04-Live to Seize the Day

by Fahiru

There was very little to be said about the life of Miss Guinevere Pettigrew, a woman who had lived very long yet no one seemed to know her name. She was tall and distinct, but slouched and let her face sag in a perpetual expression of timid disbelief. It seemed to the few that did examine her more closely- the women at the job office, the man at the corner stand- that her world had shattered long ago, and she only kept on living because it hurt so much more to just let yourself die. And yet, she seemed to have some sort of unexplained duty to survive, even if she felt it was not her place.

It hurt to live, but she had to because someone else never got the chance.

She would have never guessed, thirty years earlier, that she would become an old maid. She had loved so ardently then, had been lovely herself, and though her pockets weren't lined with silver there was still a bit that shone through the clouds and let her feel just a little rich every time she took a breath under the cool, grey sky. Never had she thought those days would come to an end.

He was a farmer that came to London and ended up with a variety of odd jobs scraped together to pay for his shabby apartment and half a loaf of bread a week. He saved the rest for a future that would never come.

She lived with her father and two sisters at the parish home for a church in the poor side of the city, working as a seamstress and cultivating hidden hopes to marry rich and have a loose budget.

She met him at a roasted chestnut stand outside the theater, bumped into him while scrambling in her pocket for a pence. She was kicked out of line and driven away for taking too long, but he took her aside and shared half of his own bag with her. She was frightened, of course, and soon left after she had finished her portion, but a few times after that they saw each other again and he once more shared his bag. she began to notice handsome, likable things about his personality that seemed to timidly show through all the dirt and grime and gruffness.

He wanted to be a painter. "Nothin' big," he used to say, "It would be enough if I could do advertisements and signs as long as they didn't mind the little bits of summer an' spring I would leave in the corners."

And he did paint as if there was sunshine in his brush, in his hands. As if he could touch a wilting flower and make it grow, or cup a weeping face and let it smile. There was nothing distinct in his face, his work, his everyday life; but in his manner, his character, his soul- the little bits he left for dogs and the the week's budget he would half for a sick child. The extra pence he was willing to spend just to share a bag of chestnuts with an overworked seamstress just to keep the stars in her eyes.

And the dreams he gave up to build new ones. In the park they buried their goals of fame and fortune, and began to grow small, snow-white hopes of a little farm in the countryside, an apple tree that bloomed in the spring and filled pies in the fall, a baby or six that clung to its mother's legs before growing to work by its father's side. And a beautiful, simple little piece of paper that declared before God and everyone that they would never be apart.

And then neutral Belgium was invaded, and their world fell to pieces.

She watched as London was emptied of all its young men, till it began to trickle dry to the bottom of the wine barrel, with only the bit that had soaked into the wood left. Yet even that the war demanded to drink up, wringing it out and leaving it to rot.

They didn't notice, at first, what was happening around them. For the first few months there was no other thought but to raise the Union Jack and sing Britannia! But when the last bag of chestnuts was shared, and the last kiss given, and the last good bye waved- when all was said and done there was a little piece of her that went missing, a piece that she would be searching for for many long years afterwards.

The first letter was hopeful. He hadn't seen battle yet, but there had been so much talk of improved technology, of proven might. He would be home by Christmas.

Then the bombs fell, and mustard gas filled the French border. Her family was killed within a week of the first bombings, and she received his second letter a month later.

Most of it got damaged and fell apart, but there were a few sentences she still had safe in her pockets.

"...But I've started to think more lately about the farm I left, and the one I hoped we would share. In that world a gun was meant for deer, geese, and rabbits- but now I know that my hands are stained with gun-smoke that has sought a human heart. Yet I can't think even that. Mostly I just remember that I'll need to wake up, wear a helmet, and bring my mask. I remember bits of the anthem and war songs, but mostly I think of Danny Boy and Loch Lomond, about the places I'll never see again but in my rare and fitful dreams, and even then I can't remember all the details that are obscured by fire and smoke. In my mind the whole world burns- so much so that I wish God would break his promise and bring another flood to wash it all away. Even then, there are most days when I forget God, or- or I don't believe in him because I'm so tired of lifting this gun; but when the night comes and the smoke thins a little, just enough to let the stars peak through, and I wish that morning would never come, I remember that beautiful little world that he let me keep with you, and I think he must have been there at some time for you to have ever smiled on me. Does he smile on me, now that I've killed his creation? Do you smile on me?..." a few broken bits, and then- "...Isn't it funny? They donated scarves and socks and fresh vegetables to us for Christmas, and yet all I can think of is chestnuts..."

The third letter was never finished, and had his identification tags in the envelope. It was rather short, but she treasured it too much to even keep it with her for fear it could be damaged.

"Dearest Gwen,

I woke up this morning to find that myself and half a dozen wounded men had been deserted by the rest of or unit. Our commander was killed last night, and the rest up and left. I was nearly as able-bodied as the rest of them, but they didn't take me with them. Yet, when my own bag was packed and I was about to leave as well, I turned to find one of the wounded men in the trench watching me. His legs were filled with shrapnel, they would have been amputated if we had a surgeon, and we hadn't the resources or energy to get him away from the front lines. A goner. The rest, they were goners too. And after looking at him, watching me but not trying to stop me, understanding that I had a chance and he didn't. And then- my darling, forgive me- I sat down and became a goner too. We sat and talked about our homes, about the summer, our families, and our plans for the future. We didn't talk about the war or the damage it had done to our bodies, our souls. And I knew I wouldn't be coming home. I can't, no matter how much I want to, because he was still alive. He was a goner, but he would have been alive when I was about to leave, and he would have died alone. He did die, a few hours ago, but I still can't go. A German spotted our trench a few hours ago, he probably doesn't know I'm the only one, but- Oh Gwen, I love you. I'm sorry I couldn't leave when i had the chance, but I am only sorry to you. There are things one must do to keep himself human, to keep himself sane. I felt if I had left then my soul would have slipped away- and Darling, oh darling I don't want it to. If I were ever to see you again, how could I face you again?

"But the air grows thick and I lose time. It must be gas- but no, I hear guns as well. You know, there are so many things I wanted to tell you, but there is no time I can waste. If they ever find my body, my letter- Gwen, sometimes I wonder why I ever left you, but those few hours I spent with this man before he died- I wonder if there is anything I can offer but human company, and yet that is all we need. Dear, do you ever think of why? I had a cousin in Belgium. They're wonderful amiable, those Belgians- and all I could think of was how unfair it was to be dragged into a fight you didn't want. I guess that happened to most of us, but we didn't know it at the time. But there are things I would have done again. Things I did to the last, and I think that maybe-"

And he was gone.

She lived without life through the twenties, she nearly starved through the Depression, but she lived. She lived because he didn't, because he wouldn't let someone die alone- because he did die alone. Part of her wanted to die alone too, and the other part knew he wouldn't have liked it. But for years, she lived without a face, a name, without an ounce of love to call her own.

And the, for one day, she was needed. In one day, she saved a young girl from suffering a similar fate of a long, loveless life. And the next day, she was saved too. She did marry rich, but she also loved him. He was quiet, without sunshine but not lacking in light altogether. He gave up a popular business and began to make socks. When the next war finally did begin, they were both too old to be drawn into it, though they worried from the sidelines.

But even much later when all was said and done and she could finally afford chestnuts again, she found that she could finish no more than half a bag by herself, and they lost the sweet crunch that used to come as she looked into his eyes and took the first bite.

(A/N: [Twelve Shots of Summer: Second Raid] week 4, Valiant. Valiant, of course, makes me think of Valiant Hearts, which makes me think of WWI, which makes me think of Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day. Does it fit? I don't know. Is it good? Probably not. Editing? Nope.)