Page 37 of The Island Girls

POOLE – JULY 1998

Rebekah sheltered from the surprisingly hot sun, under a big shade umbrella. The outdoor table rested on the old cobblestones that created the apron in front of the Custom House Bistro on Poole Quay. A waitress had taken their order for lunch and Paul was at the bar, buying two glasses of wine. Rebekah held the letter in one hand and traced the feathery handwriting with her finger again. The script, as was often the case from this era, was not easy to read, and took some concentration, besides which the paper was yellowed with age.

My dearest Darrell,

If you are reading this letter, then I am so terribly sorry for your loss. But I promise you it is my loss too. As I write this, you might think nothing more of me than I’m just a girl you met in a pub; a girl you went out on a day trip with. But, for me, I want you to know that I want this to be more. I barely know you, Darrell, and so this is so strange to put into words, but at this moment, I hope to spend the rest of my life in your arms. I hope that this terrible time of war will end, and that Hitler can be stopped and driven back. I hope that peace, and sense, will prevail. I hope for a time of plenty: of food, andhomes, and work for all. For a time when we can sit in the sun and enjoy life together. But, if I have my way, you will only be given this letter to read if I have lost my life before you in these dark days.

I will not have told you why I am behaving so differently at this time; why I am spending less time with you and more time with others – with one other in particular. You may even believe that I don’t love you with the same passion you do me. I will not have told you, because I am not allowed to. I have signed the Official Secrets Act and have been engaged in an important espionage mission. Even now, in death, I am not allowed to share the details with you.

But I need you to know this, Darrell – I will love you, and only you, for all eternity, and I will see you when you get here. I will be waiting for you.

With all my love, forever,

Peggy

Rebekah looked again at the inscription on the front, and the intriguing message on the back.

Flight Lieutenant Darrell Taylor, care of RAAF 461 Squadron, RAF Hamworthy, Poole.

‘To be given to Flight Lieutenant Taylor in the event of the death of Peggy Symonds of 11 Ballard Road, Poole,’ she whispered to herself. And now the idea struck her that this letter was private, and only ever meant for the eyes of this Darrell Taylor. But Peggy was gone now, and couldn’t be hurt by this intrusion on her privacy.

Since they had first read the letter earlier that morning, Rebekah had been stunned by the idea that her dear old Aunty Pig could have been involved in some kind of espionage work during the war. The idea was so incredible, it seemed impossible,until she thought about how little she knew of Peggy’s life before Rebekah was born.

Peggy had shared lots of details about the harbour, about Brownsea Island, of Poole and its buildings, of birds, and of fishing and growing up as a fisherman’s daughter. Rebekah knew that Peggy had left England and arrived in Australia on a flying boat, but that was it, and she’d never thought to ask if there was more to the story. And now Peggy was gone.

But did this Darrell Taylor know about this? Peggy had survived the war, and so this letter had never needed to be delivered to him, whoever he had been. It must have just stayed here in this file and been forgotten. Did he ever find out what it was that Peggy had been doing, and what, exactly, was that? The letter gave no details, except of the undying love she had for Darrell, an idea that seemed so surprising when she thought of Peggy who had seemed to be so happy with her life as a spinster.

If Rebekah could find this Darrell now, would all this be a shock to him? Could she risk upsetting a man who might have left all this in the past as his history, just to satisfy her piqued curiosity?

‘You look like Atlas,’ said Paul as he sat down and placed two glasses of chilled rosé on the table. Rebekah noticed the condensation forming on the outside of the cold glass in the summer heat of the day. Then she registered what he’d said.

‘Atlas?’ she asked with her face screwed up in confusion.

‘With the weight of the world on your shoulders – like you have some very heavy thoughts to think about,’ he said, gently.

‘I don’t know about heavy – but they are certainly consuming. I’m trying to decide whether or not to pursue this Darrell and pass on the letter. I have no idea who he is, or if he is even still alive, and I wouldn’t want to upset him or his family,’ Rebekah said. ‘But what if it is a message he needs to receive?’

‘What about your mum? Might she know something about it? She knew Peggy for much longer than you, and adults often share things they don’t let the children know about,’ he offered.

‘True. I should ask her. I’ll call tonight when I get home,’ she said, glancing at her watch and working out how long she would have to wait before her mum would wake up on Monday morning in Australia.

The waitress delivered the large pizza they’d ordered to share with the insalata caprese that Rebekah had chosen from the menu. The mozzarella was deliciously soft and creamy, and the tomatoes so ripe that they made her taste buds sing.

‘Mmm, amazing food. This was a wonderful recommendation. Perfect for such a beautiful day,’ Paul said as he devoured his plateful.

‘It has been a beautiful day. And incredibly surprising.’ She referred in part of course to the discovery about Peggy but also to the lovely walk they’d taken and the history Paul had taught her. She had thought to show him the old buildings of Poole, and was amazed that he knew so much of the history already. He taught her about how important the Newfoundland cod trade had been to Poole’s wealth, and also the connection with the flying boats. Apparently, some of the first international flights from England to New York had started in Poole. The route took them through a stop in Foynes, Ireland, and then on to Botwood in Newfoundland, before stopping in Montreal, Canada, and from there to New York.

‘Those trips were taken in one of the Short Brothers C-class flying boats – a sister to the craft that were used by the RAF, and which, presumably, the RAAF – and this Darrell Taylor – flew from Hamworthy,’ he explained.

‘What a glamorous way to travel, stopping for overnight stays in hotels along the way and in a plane with plenty of room to walk about in-flight, or lie down to sleep if necessary,’ Rebekahsaid, remembering the cramped cattle-class economy flight she’d come to England on, though she had at least had a three-day stopover in Rome, which was a lovely distraction along the way.

‘Have you flown back to see your mum since you came here to work on the island?’ Paul asked.

‘No, not yet. I’ve been here for over two years and I’m probably due a trip soon. I have plenty saved up as I find I don’t have much to spend my wages on, especially as my accommodation is part of my salary deal.’ As Rebekah sipped her wine and watched Paul while he looked out across the quay and over the harbour to the island she now called home, she allowed herself to hope he might stay in her life long enough fly with her back to Brisbane one day.

When their meal was over, they said farewell, with a definite plan for the following weekend. Neither was prepared to part without knowing exactly when they would be seeing each other again. They shared phone numbers – including the number to Paul’s new Nokia mobile phone – and the next weekend was plotted out: Rebekah would travel up to London on an evening train on Friday, and stay with him for the weekend in London, going to watch his strings concert in Westminster on the Saturday night. Then she would catch the train back again on Sunday evening. Two whole nights and days together in London, with a classical concert thrown in. And they would talk on the phone each night.

That evening, Rebekah sat in her favourite window seat with the cottage’s portable phone by her side. She had a lot to tell her mum. She had heard nothing about Paul, and it was important to Rebekah that she let Mum know she had met someone who had fast become very special to her. And she wanted to ask about Peggy, and if Mum had ever heard about the existence of this Darrell. But she needed to go about it the right way. At teno’clock, she dialled the number. It would be seven o’clock the following morning for Mum and Rebekah knew she would be up and about, enjoying the cool winter morning in Brisbane.

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