"Will yer let me write to yer?"
He was 40 years, 11 months and 19 days when his call up papers had come through. They were at The Drovers, seeing him off with yet another group of young men taken from the community, when he'd told them, good naturedly, about how he had been 3 weeks early, and his mother had kept her tiny baby warm in a drawer full of handknits.
Mr Farnon had noted how being so early could have led to infant mortality at that time: told him he was lucky that his mother was so resourceful. He then spent some time extolling the virtues of resourceful women, and how particularly important they were in times of war. He asked her again about her own service history and when they raised the final toast that evening, he very pointedly reminded them to keep brave Service Women in their thoughts, too.
His letters had come regularly enough. In 1940 he'd been posted to Northolt, in West London, working in distribution, his technical knowledge standing him in good stead with the armourers of the RAF.
He was lucky to get such a good posting, Mr Farnon had said, peering at her over the top of his glasses, although he'd thought it was a shame for her that he was so far away. She'd shrugged. He poured her a glass of wine and sat with her, trying to reassure her that everything would be alright. They'd stayed there all evening, in the end, eventually moving on to play games, talk and laugh until she was yawning through her smiles. She'd gone to bed with a smile.
By the end of the year, he'd written that his operation had been moved out of London because of the Blitz. By that point, she'd had plenty to worry about. She had taken on three evacuees who were growing, as well as growing weary of the (unvarying!) charms of country life and the ravages of war. It was harder and harder to keep them clothed, fed, occupied and entertained, and of course they just wanted to go home.
She shouldn't have been as surprised as she was at how good Mr Farnon was with the children. Afterall, he had practically raised Tristan on his own after their father died, and before and after he was married. Taking the children with him on calls meant that they quickly got a feel for the community, saw other children their own age, and got stuck in with a variety of veterinary procedures and farming jobs. Siegfried had delighted in taking all of them, her included, across the Dales walking, picnicking, and antiquity hunting, and even out to Whitby or Staithes in the summer if he had petrol. Together they taught the dyed-in-the-wool Crystal Palace fans all about cricket and the importance of a good cricketers tea when rations or gifts from grateful clients would allow. She was always tired at the end of their days together, but a good tired – there were good moments to be had, despite the war. Mr Farnon reminded them all often that they were extremely lucky, and that there were much worse situations to be in at present.
His letters became a bit more sporadic after that, but she didn't really notice. Edward was with the Merchant Navy and she scoured the papers daily for news of the Atlantic Convoys. Despite their exemptions, dutiful James had signed up to the RAF, and then Tristan, her charming, happy-go-lucky rogue, wanted to do his bit as well, and joined the Royal Army Veterinary Corps in India. Her boys were scattered to the wind.
At Skeldale House they listed to the wireless every evening, tracking the front lines as they moved across Europe, then Asia and Africa until the whole world seemed to be engulfed from their living room. Mr Farnon found an old school map and together they taught the children as much geography as they knew while finding the names on the postmarks sent by their boys, the children's fathers and other assorted friends and relations that they heard from, from time to time. How lucky they were, Mr Farnon said, to have such a collection of stamps from all over the world. They all attended church together, and took up a whole pew with the children, huddling close together in the winter drafts and fidgeting restlessly through summer heat, but always holding hands, no matter how sticky, when the prayers for those doing their duty and the fallen were said.
He'd come home briefly on leave and asked her to join him at the pictures. She went most weeks anyway, and it was particularly convenient as there was no one else to take her just then. The end of the night was awkward, to say the least – he'd made a bit of a show of himself, and she'd hated to disappoint him, but though that perhaps she hadn't really. Afterall, they were chums who had only exchanged a few friendly letters. It was probably just the war getting to him.
James had come home to the Alderson's the week before, and was still uneasy on his mending leg. Richard was too old to help the younger man much with his mobility, so Mr Farnon and their eldest evacuee, Trevor, were going up to help out when they could. Trevor had taken to Siegfried's anatomy lessons like a duck to water, and at 17, he was contemplating whether he would go up for medicine or veterinary studies, like his mentor, after the war. For his part, Mr Farnon was sure James would be deemed unfit to fly, and therefore said how extremely lucky James was; he'd not be going back to war, but he'd also recover. James' plan was to stop with the Alderson's from now on, with Richard getting on. So if she wanted the dormer bedsit for any reason, it could be made ready. She didn't.
The last communication she received was the formal telegram. She hadn't really realised he didn't have anyone else for it to go to. His luck had run out.
THE AIR MINISTRY 77 OXFORD ST W1 PC 687 13.03.44 DEEPLY REGRET TO ADVISE YOU THAT ACCORDING TO INFORMATION RECIEVED THROUGH THE INTERNATIONAL RED CROSS COMMITTEE, SGT GERALD ARTHUR FRANK HAMMOND, IS BELIEVED TO HAVE LOST HIS LIFE AS A RESULT OF AIR OPERATIONS ON NIGHT OF 7/2. STOP. THE AIR COUNCIL EXPRESS THEIR PROFOUND SYMPATHY. STOP. LETTER FOLLOWS SHORTLY. STOP. UNDER SECRETARY OF STATE. STOP.
"My dear Mrs Hall. I am so very sorry. Here," he said, walking her to the sofa and sitting her down, "let me get you a drink."
He poured two glasses of brandy and brought one to her, pressing it into her hand. He sat beside her and took her other hand in his.
"Poor Gerald," she sighed. "Such a shame. He were a very nice man."
"Yes indeed. I really am very sorry. Mrs Hall, I just…I can't even imagine." They sat in silence for a moment, both contemplating the loss. "To Gerald," he toasted
"To Gerald," she agreed, holding her glass aloft momentarily. "So many lives wasted on this stupid war." She downed her brandy, and then got up and started towards the kitchen.
"Mrs Hall…?" He asked, baffled. "Where on earth are you going?"
"Well, to the kitchen, of course. I've got to start dinner."
"But… don't you need a minute?" He was baffled by her reaction to the news. "Is it me? Do you need me to leave so that you can…start to grieve?"
"Well I'm a bit shocked, and I'm certainly upset. Poor Gerald will be in my prayers, but I really do need to get on."
"But Mrs Hall…Audrey," he breathed, baffled. Was this some type of delayed reaction thing? "You've just lost your fiancé."
"My what!?"
"Your fiancé! Your intended! The man who would be your husband!" his voice rose with his frustrations. What on earth was going on here?
"I most certainly did not. He weren't…" she shook her head in abject confusion. "Whate'er gave you that idea?"
"But… the telegram has come to you."
"Yes, and I'm very sorry for him that there were none closer. We were friends, I'll not deny it, but I certainly didn't expect this." She paused, "then again, he never did have anyone to spend Christmas with, did he? Poor, poor man."
"But...but…," he stammered. "I saw him. I saw him go down on one knee. I saw him propose to you with my own eyes. That night last year when he took you to the pictures. I was coming out of The Drovers, and he was right there in the street," he pointed out of the front window for emphasis.
"Well," she started, flushing with embarrassment. She hadn't know anybody had seen that. "He asked, and I'm sorry to say I gave him short-shift. I probably could have been a bit kinder about it, but that's hindsight."
"You weren't engaged to him?" You could have knocked him down with a feather.
"No!" she was incredulous. "Don't you think I would have said something? Told you if I were engaged to someone?"
"Well…" he stuttered, stunned with this new knowledge. "I just thought you were being very private about it. Not wanting to make a fuss until the war was over."
She tutted. "We were friends, and I know other people had ideas about us, maybe he did too, I don't know, but I weren't going to marry him."
"Well, I'm…very sorry, Mrs Hall. I was under quite the wrong impression."
There was a beat of silence between them, and then:
"Is that why you offered me the dormer, after James and Helen stopped at the farm?" A smile started to pull at her lips.
"Well yes," he blushed, looking down.
"You would have had Gerald and I living here? Us all rubbing together under one roof?" She started to giggle at the thought of ever proper, meticulous Gerald Hammond and ever volatile, complacent Siegfried Farnon, with her in the middle trying to keep the peace.
"Well…" he smirked at that as well. They caught each other's eye and could no longer hold in the laughter. Before long Mrs Hall had to hold onto his arm for balance and so he moved them both back onto the sofa.
After a few false starts where they managed to set each other off again, they finally sobered. "Actually," Siegfried sighed, calming his breathing and wiping his eyes, "it would have been hell."
"What do you mean?" Audrey asked. She had leaned back, completely boneless, her head lolling over the top of the sofa. He shifted to lean sideways, studying her.
"It would have been intolerable to have you here… with him."
Her head rolled now to study him, too. Their eyes locked and all levity left the room. It felt like it had taken all of the oxygen with it.
"I wanted you close, couldn't bear to lose you from my life every day, but I would have hated that you were up there, with him every night." She gasped softly, her eyes filling with tears. "I was just being selfish, wanting to keep a piece of you, a place with you in my life, but I think it would have killed me in the end."
She blinked, and a tear rolled down her cheek. He reached out to wipe it away with his thumb, brushing her cheekbone as he cupped it. "I can't tell you how sorry I am about Gerald", he spoke earnestly. "But I can't tell you how relieved I am that you're not marrying him. Aren't I the lucky one?"
She didn't say anything, but her eyes drifted to his lips and back again. Taking that as the invitation it was, he leaned in and captured hers gently with his.
They waited until the war was over, and then they waited some more until Tristan was demobbed from the East Asian front. Battered and bruised, he swaggered a little less, but the twinkle in his eyes hadn't dimmed and was in full force when they welcomed him home by asking if he would stand up with his brother at his earliest convenience.
It was small and peaceful – an intimate 14 at the church with many more expected at The Drovers later. As they left the churchyard the wind picked up, rustling the edge of the heavy cream cardstock tucked behind the corner of one of the 37 shiny, new brass plaques:
Gerald Hammond,
You are cordially invited to witness the marriage of
Audrey Emily Hall
and
Siegfried Donald Farnon
10am, Saturday 7th October 1945
St Marys, Darrowby.
And then in beautiful calligraphy: thank you, you are missed.