Warm water cascades down her back, drips from the auburn strands of her hair as soap bubbles pool at her feet. Steam rises around her as she bathes, allows the warmth and steam to soothe away the tension in her shoulders. The day has been long and Elsie has been hunched over files, newspaper clippings, scraps of paper scribbled with notes, and photographs in the attempt to weave together the stories of countless women and their lives in service during the war. Her mother's and Addie's stories intersecting with dozens of other young women who served on the homefront bring their sacrifices into agonizingly clear focus for her.
Elsie thinks of the Christmas season ahead, mentally ticking off the list of presents she needs to purchase, the task becoming more difficult with each passing year. She sighs, a little melancholy, because William is fifteen and taller than his father and no longer the little boy who ripped through presents happy to find toys under the tree. She wonders what on earth she will buy for him, thinks that she should perhaps ask Charles.
She considers the Crawley Christmas party that is coming in a few weeks and how it will be so different from the ones she enjoyed back home. How she will rub elbows with high society, with the peerage. How men dressed in white tie and tails will offer punch served from ornate silver punch bowls and how she will drink it from delicate crystal cups. How every room in Cora Crawley's home will be decorated with the most exquisitely expensive decorations that money can buy.
But, she thinks that none of that can compare with the Christmases spent in Argyll, when she was a girl and her father was alive. There was no high society, only family, her mother and her aunt leading the singing of carols around the tree, their rich harmonies filling the house with warmth. The Hughes and MacCrimmon cousins stringing together paper garland to hang from the tree alongside handmade ornaments passed down through the generations. Those simple times are the Christmases that Elsie fondly remembers, but this Christmas is her first with Charles and it is time for new traditions. She smiles at the thought of it and considers asking him if he would like to travel to Scotland for holiday instead of luncheon with Bill and Beryl.
She slides the soapy cloth along her body and then instantly the smile fades as her face twists into confusion. She sets the washcloth on the side of the tub and places her fingers along the side of her left breast. Elsie presses lightly and then more firmly feeling the edges of a mass that lies just beneath the skin. She's not felt it before and a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach replaces the happiness that she felt moments ago. Her hand drops away for an instant before she lifts it again, splays her fingers out, gauging the size and shape of the mass. She cannot deny what she feels protesting and pushing back against the pads of her fingers.
Not one to frighten easily, she is worried at the possibility of what she's discovered. Slicking a comb through her hair, she looks at herself in the mirror and the woman staring back at her looks the picture of health which is why this is all so confusing, so unreal. She can hear Dr. Clarkson's voice in her head; each year he lectures her on the importance of self-exam and the physical signs to look for. She sees none of those now, but she knows what she felt. She tries to calm herself, tries to remind herself that she's not had any symptoms, not felt ill, that perhaps she is imagining the worst when there is no reason. Yet.
Taking her dressing gown from the nearby hook, she slips into it and pads into her kitchen. Searching out a bottle of single malt and a glass, she settles on the sofa and pours herself a healthy measure. She sits alone, in the darkness, and thoughts flood back to her at a dizzying and painful pace. She thinks of her father who, at an age not much older than she is now, lay dying a slow and agonizing death in the back bedroom of their house. She imagines her mother and Becky and she wonders who will take care of them; who will take care of Becky when she is left all alone? She is all they have left; one day, all Becky may have. She then thinks of Charles and the happiness that they have found together, she tries not to imagine his face when he learns of this. If she tells him. She knows that he will fear the worst and right now she is worried enough for the both of them.
She is not sure how much time passes between the first drink, between the time she settled on the sofa, and when the telephone rings. She reaches over and picks up the receiver.
"Hello," she answers, her voice coarse, smoky around the edges.
"Hello, pet," Charles replies excitedly, words tumbling from his mouth. "I hope I haven't disturbed you but I wanted to let you know that I might not be able to see you tonight."
"No?" Elsie takes another sip from her glass. Part of her desperately wants to see him, but another part is glad that he's not dropping by.
"You see I've been called in to do the late news," he explains. "Malcolm Foster phoned in ill and I've been called in as relief." Charles sits at his desk, fingers a small blue box, turning it repeatedly. He flips the top open, examines the contents inside, and caresses a finger across it before snapping the top closed again. "I could come by, I suppose, but it would be late," he adds.
"No. I've had a long day myself and you'll be tired," she tries to console him, tries to mask the sinking feeling that she has had all evening.
"Well, if you're sure?" He is not sure. He wants to be with her all the time, wants to live all of his days and nights with her, all of his early mornings and late nights. He has known for some time now and he hopes that he's done the right thing by going ahead with his plan. He hopes that she is agreeable when he broaches the idea with her.
"I am," she assures him. She hates lying to him. She does not consider herself a liar, perhaps there are things that she does not say, but she isn't a liar. She has told the truth. The day has been long and the night longer but that is not why she's put him off. What she has not told him is that she needs some time alone, time to think, to process what she's discovered, and what the implications might be. "I'll be watching though," she adds.
"Elsie?"
"Hmmm…."
"Good night." He pauses a moment, the line goes silent between them before he quietly adds, "I love you."
She cradles the telephone to her chest as tears slip down her cheeks. A simple telephone call is how he tells her, how he finally says it after all these months. A simple declaration. No fireworks, no special occasion, not said in the heat of passion, but he says the words simply and plainly as if it is the most natural thing in the world.
"Elsie….I came as soon as you called." Beryl pulls Elsie into a hug just as Elsie dissolves into tears. "What on earth?" she exclaims.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called you out so late. I'll be fine," Elsie sniffs, dries her tears, and pulling away gently. Beryl knows that something is deeply wrong, that Elsie would never call asking her to come over, never ask her to leave work for no reason.
"I'm going to put the kettle on and you're going to tell me all about it," Beryl says as she pats her friend's hand.
"I've found a lump," Elsie tells her flatly. She takes a seat at the kitchen table and fidgets with the edge of the tablecloth, picks at the corner of it, smoothes wrinkles that aren't there.
"What?"
"I've found a lump in my breast, just tonight while I was in the bath," she explains. Beryl fills the kettle, puts turns the knob to put the heat to it. She sets out the tea things and then takes a seat across the table from Elsie.
"What are you going to do about it?" Beryl asks.
"Don't know," Elsie all but whispers, still looking down at the tablecloth, her hands fidgeting nervously.
"Well, I do know. Tomorrow you'll make an appointment with the doctor and we'll see what he's got to say." Beryl's tone indicates that there is no room for disagreement, no need to argue another point of view.
"But what if it's…." Elsie's mind flies back to the thoughts that have plagued her all night and she finally looks up, catches Beryl's gaze.
"If it is, and I'm not saying it is, it's best to know now." Beryl reaches across the table and takes Elsie's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"I suppose so," Elsie admits, her face crumbling as tears begin to flow once again. Elsie casts her gaze to the floor, upset with herself for jumping to conclusions. The kettle begins to whistle, its piercing cry unsettling. Beryl gives Elsie's hand another squeeze before releasing it as she makes her way to the screeching kettle.
"Now, look. You'll not be alone for a minute. But we have to get it seen to," Beryl reassures her matter-of-factly.
"And then there is Charles," Elsie sighs.
"Have you told him?"
"No. I don't want to worry him," Elsie answers quietly. Beryl shakes her head in disbelief. She knows that, unlike herself, an open book, her friend is a private person. Elsie Hughes is a woman who does not easily share her confidences, does not like to impose on others.
"Don't you think that he has a right to know?" Beryl pours two steaming cups of tea and pushes one toward Elsie, nods her head in suggestion for her to take it.
"Not until I know something for sure. There is no need to alarm him." There is a long pause before she adds, "Beryl, you mustn't tell him."
TBC…. Reviews are always appreciated.