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Part Seven: Ice-cream and Bonfires

Andrew was quieter than usual at dinner that night. He saw Dad's knowing eyes flicker over his face once or twice, taking the measure of his mood, but he asked no questions. Instead, he addressed his wife. "Was that a letter from America that came this morning?"

"Yes, it was. From Eleanor. She says she's posted another parcel."

"Another one? Didn't you just get one from her last week?"

"No, that was from Marian. Nylons and perfume. Eleanor says she's sending clothes for Cecily, plus some linens. And soap and toothpaste."

"This really isn't necessary," Foyle said. His masculine pride was just a tiny bit stung by the largesse. Yes, things might be a bit short in Britain, but they were getting by well enough, all things considered.

"I've told them that, but it doesn't seem to make any difference." To Andrew she added, "Ever since America came into the war all my college friends have been sending me boxes of supplies. You'd think I was marooned on the frontier a hundred miles from the nearest trading post. It's very thoughtful of them, even though a few of their ideas about what constitutes necessities are fairly wide of the mark."

Her husband gave a grunt that was nearly a snort. "Like French perfume. What was it? Chanel No. 5?"

"Shalimar."

"Mmm. Doesn't suit you at all."

"I have to agree. Gives me a headache, unfortunately. Far too strong."

"Shalimar? I think I know that one," Andrew said, remembering a heady, alluring scent on a very posh girl he'd danced with at an end-of-term ball at Oxford. "What will you do with it? Be worth a fortune on the black market."

Dad gave him a withering look. "Really, Andrew, I hardly think my wife's going to engage in illegal activities, thank you."

"The WVS is holding a raffle next month to raise funds for a new ambulance. I'll donate it as a prize," Katherine said diplomatically. "But do be fair, Christopher. Not all my friends send fripperies. What about all those blankets Helen shipped over from the Boston Red Cross? St. Luke's was delighted to get them."

He conceded the point with good grace. "Raffle's a good idea. No doubt they'll sell a lot of tickets."

Cecily, who had been following this conversation, spoke for the first time. "I wish they'd send us some ice-cream instead of all those blankets and things."

All three adults smiled. "That would be nice," her mother said, "but there are more important things. The soldiers need blankets."

"But they have ice-cream everywhere in America," the little girl went on. "I remember. Chocolate ice-cream."

"Have you been to America?" Andrew asked, curious. Her accent was pure English, so he'd assumed she'd grown up in Britain.

She looked a little surprised to be addressed directly by him, but answered promptly. "Uh-huh. We used to live there."

"What's it like?"

She set down her fork and sat a little straighter in her chair, obviously pleased to be the focus of his attention. "Well, they have a holiday with fireworks. And parades. What's it called, Mummy?"

"The Fourth of July. Independence Day."

"And they don't have a blackout," the little girl went on. "They have streetlamps on all the roads that come on every night. And at Christmas they have coloured lights everywhere, and huge Christmas trees covered in fairy lights right outside where everyone can see them."

"But we have all those here," Andrew protested, a little indignant. "Streetlights. Christmas trees. And what about Guy Fawkes? We have jolly fireworks and parades, bonfires too. You must have seen - " He broke off at her baffled expression and turned accusing eyes to Katherine. She and Dad wore identical looks of chagrin.

"She doesn't remember, Andrew," Katherine said softly. "She was only four when the war started, and we spent the year before that in the States."

Andrew only half-listened as Katherine gently explained to her daughter how the war had changed life in England and that America, too, now had blackouts and rationing since they had joined the fight. Has it really been four years since the last proper Bonfire night? he thought. Or since we had Christmas lights? A chill went over him as he realised that if Cecily couldn't remember these things, then neither could any other child of her age. Or younger. A whole generation was growing up in this bleak world of blackouts and shortages and no celebrations, with no memory of anything different.


After dinner Andrew walked down to the Coach and Horses for a pint. His new realisation, coupled with the nostalgia stirred by his visit to his old school, had left him more disturbed than he cared to admit. He fell in with some aircrew chaps at the bar. An hour or two of flying talk, buying rounds in turn, distracted him from his melancholy, and he turned his steps for home in better spirits.

He hung up his cap and tunic and went into the sitting room, where he found Katherine alone on the settee, an open book on her lap. "Dad not here?"

"He's just tucking Cecily in." The chessboard, he saw, contained not the chess set, but the remains of game of draughts. Katherine followed his glance. "He's been teaching her. Working up to chess. I'm not sure how that's going to work, however, as he usually lets her win."

He was in the middle of replying when he heard his father's step descending the stairs. There was something odd about Dad's expression, Andrew thought as he came into the room. A muscle in the side of his face was working, as though he were suppressing some strong emotion. "What is it?" Katherine asked.

He looked at her. "She … asked if she can call me 'Dad'. Like - " his eyes flitted to his son " – like Andrew."

Katherine caught her breath. "Oh, Christopher. Finally."

Andrew looked from one to the other. "You mean she hadn't - " Thinking back, he realised he'd heard Cecily address Dad as 'Mr Foyle' several times, which seemed odd now he came to think of it.

"Well, no," Katherine said, her voice a little tremulous. "She got upset when someone suggested she call him 'Daddy', right after our wedding. Stephen – her father – he was always 'Daddy'. She didn't like 'Papa', and 'Father' seemed too formal. Nothing seemed quite right."

"Knew she'd work it out," Dad said. "Just needed a bit of time to get comfortable with it." He tried to sound matter-of-fact, but Andrew could tell that he was very moved.