Summer of '39
Chapter One
A Collection Of Photographs
Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, July 1949.
Softly turning the brass door knob, doing his very best not to make even the slightest of sounds, Danny Branson slipped furtively inside the bedroom. Given the comparative lateness of the hour, it was now well after eleven, he expected to find the room in complete darkness as, with the demands made upon her as a doctor in general practice over in Cork, and now with another young baby to care for, Claire often went to bed early and would have come upstairs by ten. Indeed, it had become something of a joke between the two of them, with Danny suggesting, tongue-in-cheek, and with a mischievous grin, only the night before last, that she was trying to avoid him. In fact, nothing could be further than the truth. Married nearly four years now, they had a deep and abiding love for each other and with what, years ago would have been called proofs of affection for each other in the form of two year old Thirza, along with young Patrick now aged all of six months.
Instead, and much to Danny's surprise, he found the bedroom beyond the door illuminated by the soft glow from one of the bedside lamps and Claire still very much awake, sitting with what appeared to be a large leather bound book resting on her knees. Some medical journal, he assumed. Looking up, and seeing Danny come into the bedroom, Claire smiled; glanced instinctively over at the cot in the corner where little Patrick stirred fitfully, snuffled, and then thankfully without further ado, settled once more to the sleep of innocence.
"Sorry!" whispered Danny, beginning to divest himself and hurriedly so of his outer clothes. "The blasted meeting down there in Kinsale went on much longer than I'd have expected ... or wanted".
"Don't be; he's a light sleeper!"
"Just like his mother, then, for sure!" Danny grinned, bent and kissed Claire gently on her forehead. "Darlin', don't wait up on me. I'll be back within a jiffy". So saying, he slipped into what in the old days would have been a dressing room and which, when the house had been restored had been reconstructed as a bathroom.
A short while later, having cleaned his teeth and turned out the light, now barefoot, wearing just his vest and a pair of blue and white striped pyjama bottoms, Danny re-emerged from the bathroom, and climbed into bed beside Claire who he found to be still engrossed in what Danny assumed to be a book. Slipping his arm around her, he peered over at what it was Claire was reading, and then saw that he had been mistaken. For what she was holding was not a book at all, but a large album of photographs.
"Where on earth did yous get that?"
"From your Da, earlier this afternoon. He thought I might like to have a look at it". Claire turned over the next of the thick, soft, black pages.
"And?" asked Danny softly, catching sight of the photograph which Claire was now studying intently and with obvious interest. "It doesn't ups ..." He caught her hand gently and brought it swiftly to his lips.
"Upset me? No, not at all".
"Really, for sure?"
"Yes, really, but all the same, it's very sweet of you to ask". Claire rested her head on Danny's shoulder.
"I don't suppose yous know this, but Max was a crack shot, for sure". Danny smiled; nodded towards the black and white photograph which had so piqued Claire's interest. It was of Rob, Max, and himself, all wearing white open necked shirts and dark trousers, the three of them seated on a stone wall, with Max in the middle, and with a rifle resting across his knees. "Aunt Edith took that. At their place over in France, just before the war. See ..." Danny pointed to the caption, neatly written with a dip pen, in capital letters, in Carter's white ink, directly underneath the photograph.
Now that he came to think of it, Danny remembered that last winter, while recovering from a heavy cold, Da had spent several lamp lit evenings, alone in his study, quietly pasting and labelling a whole series of black and white and sepia photographs into a large leather bound album which, Danny supposed, must be the very one that Claire was holding now. Indeed, so methodical and tireless had Da been over his endeavours with the photographs that, at the time, one evening, over supper, Ma had said laughingly in front of everyone that she was convinced that the photographs were not family snaps at all but a series of pornographic pictures. No doubt, continued Ma, of some scantily clad French demoiselle, acquired by Da surreptitiously from some back street book shop in Montmartre the last time they had all been in Paris, just before the war. For his part, Da had taken Ma's ribbing in good part, steadfastly refusing to rise to the bait of Sybil's teasing. Then said coolly, and with a merry twinkle in his blue eyes:
"Ah, me darlin', married to yous, now why should I be needin' to be lookin' at pictures of some scantily clad French tart?" The double entendre was not lost on Sybil.
"And am I supposed to take that as a compliment, Mr. Branson?" she had asked archly.
"Take it how yous want, for sure!" grinned Tom, provoking laughter all around, until that was young Daniel, now aged ten, asked politely to be enlightened as to the precise nature of a French tart.
"Well don't look at me, for sure," said Tom, as Danny now looked enquiringly at his father. "He's your son!"
"Summer of '39," read Claire.
"A lifetime ago ..." Danny sighed.
"You'd have been ..."
"Nearly twenty, Rob, eighteen, and dearest Max, sixteen. If he'd lived ..."
"He'd have been twenty six".
"Almost twenty six ..."
Claire smiled wanly.
"As you said, a lifetime ago!"
Understandably, now in something of a contemplative and reflective mood, Claire quietly closed the album, then placed it carefully on the bedside table next to her. A moment later, she switched out the light, and snuggled contentedly down within the comforting circle of Danny's strong arms, where they lay, a heartbeat apart and for the moment, each alone with their thoughts.
"Tell me .." Claire asked suddenly, softly insistent, from out of the darkness.
"Tell yous what, darlin'?" Danny whispered drowsily.
"About that summer ... what you remember".
"What I remember?"
"Hm".
"If you're quite sure". Danny yawned. Evidently tonight, at least for a while, sleep would be in very short supply and not because of what was the usual reason for that being so. For, while when they had married neither Danny nor Claire were inexperienced in matters sexual, the passionate intensity which, right from the very start of their life together as man and wife, played such an important part in their relationship, proved something of a revelation to the both of them; each learning, the one from the other, hitherto undreamed ways of giving physical pleasure.
"I am".
"Well, then ..."
Author's Note:
Carter's White Ink? No longer available! Originally based in Boston, and then in Cambridge, Massachusetts, Carter's Ink Company was once the largest ink manufacturer in the world.