The Dilemma

1

ESME

LONDON, JUNE 1958

The Chelsea flat hadn’t been disturbed at all. Why would it? No one had been here in weeks. Not since the charlady had raised the alarm and then all manner of people had turned up: neighbours, police, ambulance crew. That day, Esme had arrived to be greeted by unfamiliar faces and a babble of voices. When she’d walked into the sitting room everyone had gone silent, the sort of ghastly hush which means you’re the star of the moment, the one who’s going to set the scene for whatever comes next.

The charlady had bustled over, all important with a look of excited sympathy, and taken her elbow. It’s your mother, dear. Quite a shock it was. I found her, you see. Lying on the floor by her bed, clutching the blanket. Esme had looked around then to see several pairs of eyes fixed on her.

Before she could react, Dr Blair – stooped with scoliosis, and blessed with fascinating bushy white eyebrows – had ushered her through the nearest door into the kitchen. He’d flapped his hand at the waiting audience. There’s nothing to see here. Please leave.

Esme had leaned against the pale-blue cabinetry while he opened and closed his mouth, making incomprehensible words. Something about a weak heart and a massive stroke. She hadn’t really taken it in, too shocked at hearing her mother had died. Only the day before, she’d received a letter from her, asking to meet for afternoon tea at The Ritz. It’s been too long. I’ve something to tell you, darling, before it’s too late. Had her mother known? Or experienced a premonition?

Now, in the aftermath of her funeral, Esme paused in the hallway, taking in the stale odour of shut-up rooms and the dead silence of a lifeless home, feeling like an interloper. She’d never even had her own key, and yet she had the intimate task of going through her mother’s belongings. Irrational anger welled at the unfairness of this untimely burden. Arcadia had always seemed so invincible, one of those women who by raw power and force of personality would grip onto life with fierce intensity. People such as Arcadia didn’t die young. They outlived their contemporaries in grand, arrogant style until old age made its final demand.

A knot of panic twisted in Esme’s stomach at knowing any chance of mending their fractured mother-daughter relationship had now passed. With a sigh, she made her way to the kitchen and opened the cupboard over the sink. Four plates, four cups and four bowls were arranged side by side. In the next cupboard, a few tins: corned beef, baked beans, carrots, tomato soup, new potatoes. At least tidying up shouldn’t be too much of a drama. When Arcadia had moved here after the war, she’d made a point of ‘cleansing’ her life. Possessions are of little importance, she’d said, when what she really meant was the new flat was so small, she couldn’t fit much in.

Bracing herself, Esme ventured into her mother’s bedroom but the charlady had stripped the bed and tidied away any lingering signs of life: no bedside water glass, discarded clothes, or slippers waiting to warm up cold feet. Only a sad collection of worn clothes graced the drawers and small wardrobe. Arcadia’s once extensive collection of designer ball gowns and outfits for every occasion had been mothballed long ago, useless once the war was over and her social life had become moribund. Esme took just her mother’s jewellery case – everything else could be boxed by the removers – and firmly closed the door, glad to leave the room.

She strolled into the sitting room, noting that her mother’s life was a little less spartan here. Her collection of avant-garde paintings – vivid splashes of daring colour and movement – relieved the dull spread of off-white dust sheets. A bookcase adorned one wall, its shelves filled with Arcadia’s library of vanity-published books neatly stacked by publication date, with at least six copies of every title. She uncovered Arcadia’s prized chaise longue, the one on which her mother always claimed her best inspiration came. Perching on the end of it, she opened the jewellery case. Only costume pieces remained; imitation pearls, crystals and strings of coloured beads. Gone were the diamonds, rubies and sapphires, sold to pay the bills, no doubt. She lifted the tray of trinkets and underneath found two photographs, faded and crinkled; one of a baby, another of a young soldier. Neither carried a date or name on the back, but the baby must be her, or even Arcadia, she supposed. The soldier, however, bore no resemblance to her father. The pictures had probably been secreted there for years, forgotten. All the same, Esme’s curiosity was piqued.

She put the box aside to consider its contents later and crossed to the mahogany roll-top desk. The drawers were filled with old bills, bank statements, diaries detailing every dinner party Arcadia had held (the guests, the menu, the flowers, the seating plan), and piles of notebooks where Arcadia jotted ideas for her novels. On the desktop was more recent correspondence, writing paper, pens, stamps and a cheap exercise book, filled with her mother’s loopy scrawl, which appeared to be the draft of her current work in progress, The Art of Artifice. Esme’s heart sank. It felt like a clarion call, a final request from the grave. She sighed, irritated at being burdened with such a task. She’d read it when she had time, and if it had merit she’d get it published as homage to her mother. A clearing of the decks.

Time marched and the removers were due in an hour. Despite Arcadia’s minimal belongings, Esme still had to sort her possessions into piles for the auction house, various charities, and those to throw out. She’d keep a selection of her books, although as a shy teenager she’d dismissed Arcadia’s work as romantic rubbish after being made to read a passage from Sunrise Over Heartache at a private ‘at home’ event. Standing before the assembled throng, Esme had blushed scarlet and stumbled her way through several blue paragraphs about a schoolgirl frolicking in the woods looking for butterflies and grubs, but finding only the farmer’s son.

Perhaps her mother’s voracious output would stimulate Esme’s creative juices. An injection of her mother’s purple prose might be just what she needed to put the demons to rest. Although Esme’s first novel, The View From Here, had garnered positive reviews, she’d since suffered crippling self-doubt. Arcadia, who had a powerhouse of belief in her own dubious talents, had merely chivvied her along, saying, Harden up, Esme. You’ll never be a successful author if you buckle under criticism.

From the bookcase, she pulled a novel at random, Love on the Farm, and read the overblown notes on the flyleaf. Arcadia Fanstone, renowned for the passion and romance of her works, once again enthrals with this sweeping saga, the second in her Farm trilogy... Another caught her attention: We Will Overcome. She smiled. Really, her mother’s imaginative flair knew no boundaries. In war-torn England, amidst the bombs and the blackouts, love conquers all opposition to freedom.

She closed the cover. About to push the book back into its designated slot on the shelf, she noticed an envelope had fallen into the gap between its neighbours. Postmarked Guernsey, 6 October 1945, over red and green postage stamps, it was addressed in a barely legible script to A Fanstone, c/o Knightsbridge P.O. Esme pulled out the single sheet of flimsy, lined paper. There was no address at the top, just the same date: 6 October 1945. The handwriting was spindly, punctuated by ink blots.

Dearest–

It’s been the most terrible two days. I so hoped to sort everything quickly and not bother you but things go from bad to worse. C has got into the most awful trouble and landed in jail. Now there’s talk of an attempted murder charge. C’s gone all mute and sullen and won’t speak to any of us. You must get over here as soon as you can. The ferries are running again though Lord knows how reliable they are.

Love, in haste, M.

Esme stared at the sheet of cream airmail paper and frowned. Who was C? Or, come to that, M? Not relatives because her mother had been orphaned as a child and had no siblings. She knew Arcadia had been born in Guernsey, a little-known island until the Germans occupied the Channel Islands during World War II; Hitler’s prized possession, his one piece of Allied territory. But Arcadia had left decades earlier, before World War I broke out, sent away to a spinster aunt in the north of England after her mother contracted tuberculosis. As a young girl, Esme had been fascinated by this tale of childhood trauma, desperate for details, but her mother always sidestepped talk of Guernsey. As for the spinster aunt, Arcadia had shut down the conversation, saying, Oh her. She was a stick of a thing and not very kind to me.

She scratched her memory for anything Arcadia had said about her parents. When pressed, Arcadia had described her mother as beautiful but distant; a sickly woman who largely kept to her bed. As for her father, Arcadia claimed hardly any memory of him, except to say he was a strict man who stayed in his study poring over his stamp collection. He’d later served in the Great War and never returned. There was frustratingly little else, and Esme wished she hadn’t been so cavalier, sure in her belief that one day – when she felt less resentful of her mother – she’d find out more about Arcadia’s side of the family, her childhood spent growing up on Guernsey, and whether any distant relatives still lived there. Now there’d never be a chance to know how it was for a little girl to be ripped away from all she knew, sent to live with a fearsome aunt in a foreign land, and at some point to learn – presumably via telegram – of her parents’ deaths.

So this letter was extraordinary, popping up out of context, seeming to infer Arcadia had retained links to her birthplace. Or was Esme reading too much into it? Arcadia was forever going off on ‘reconnaissance trips’, as she called them, scouting for new locations or story ideas for her next book. Perhaps she’d had a yearning to revisit the place of her early years, and whilst there become involved in the lives of M and C. But why never mention it?

Esme slipped the letter back into its envelope. She’d tell Hugh about it later, over dinner, and ask him what he thought. He enjoyed the challenge of solving crossword puzzles and ciphers, so maybe he’d be able to unravel these scant clues and come up with a clever answer.

2

JANE

GUERNSEY, AUGUST 1914

On 5 August 1914, my childhood ended. Not just because we learned of the looming threat of invasion and feared losing our men in the mud-soaked trenches of France – us girls never thought of such things. No – something far more sinister occurred in our household that day. Looking back, I think being the youngest meant until then I’d been somehow sheltered from the ugliness. Or perhaps I didn’t notice until my nose was pressed firmly against the reality of what went on under our roof. Or maybe I blithely believed the people who said: How lucky you are to be the daughter of the headmaster! What a wonderful education you and your two sisters must have! How marvellous that the three of you are such good friends!

That particular Wednesday, my eyes were opened to injustice, jealousy and something darker that changed all of us, and which we refused to expose, preferring to bury our secrets under a veneer of family happiness. And I learned that love has the power to not just bring joy, but to destroy too.

Father had attended the announcement at Town Square that afternoon. The school bursar had urged him to go, telling him as headmaster he must be sure to have the facts so he could relay the news accurately to both the teachers and the boys. And now it was our turn. My sisters, Ginia and Mavis, my mother and I were seated around the dining table, gazing at the unusual sight of Father standing behind his chair, a grave look on his stern face, holding the Bible.

It is my solemn duty to advise you that yesterday the King declared Great Britain is now at war with Germany, after that country’s failure to withdraw its military might from Belgium. Praise God, he said, tapping the Bible, this madness will last only a few weeks. In the meantime, we must carry on as normal.

The rumours had been rife and the news not unexpected. Nevertheless, my heart thumped in anxious beats. Are we in danger? I asked.

Father opened his mouth, but Ginia interrupted. Of course we are. Guernsey is far closer to France than Britain and therefore we are at risk of German invasion.

Virginia, don’t presume to talk of things you know nothing about. He ladled soup from the large blue-and-white-striped-china tureen, lips drawn in a tight line.

Because I’m a woman?

Hardly a woman. A child. A tic flickered in his left temple. Mother passed the bowls around the table and nodded at Mavis to hand out the bread basket.

Ginia wouldn’t be silenced. I’m old enough to know this war was avoidable. If women had the vote, then the liberals would be in power and this would never have happened.

Father threw the silver ladle into the tureen. The sudden clatter made us all jump and spurts of oxtail soup landed on the white tablecloth. You– he pointed his finger at Ginia, "are an impudent, ignorant child. The mere notion of women having the vote is preposterous and let me tell you, my girl, were it to ever happen, God forbid– he looked skywards to his ever-present Lord, then your husbands would have to tell you which party to vote for."

"How dare you? How dare you?" Ginia’s eyes bulged in fury. Do you really set yourself so far above us, all of us, your daughters, your wife... She gestured at us sitting around the table, wide-eyed and fearful. Do you seriously believe you know what’s best for us? That politics are the domain of men? Those very men who have served this country so poorly whilst women have borne the brunt of their cruelty and dominance, without ever having a voice of their own?

She was truly admirable, facing down Father and letting fly without blinking or trembling.

Go to your room. Father’s voice was ominously low.

Ginia scraped back her chair, flung her serviette into her bowl and exited without a word.

Mother squeezed her hands together, and with frantic eye movements urged Mavis and me to remain silent, as she always did when Father’s black mood exploded. She’d retreat, not physically, but quietly into herself, as if she were trying to shrink into a shell and become invisible.

The only noise in the room was the clinking of spoons against china, and Father chomping on his bread. Mavis and I grinned at each other from under hooded eyes. Father’s moods never lasted; he’d eat his supper, tell us to go to our rooms, do our homework and not come down again, and then say he and Mother weren’t to be disturbed. I concentrated on not slurping my soup and mulled over Ginia’s outburst. At fifteen, I’d not considered what came next, after school, but she had a point. Did I want the rest of my life decided for me, at the whim of my father or a husband?

Father finished eating, wiped his mouth and with fists clenched, he leaned on the table and raised himself up. I’m going to deal with Virginia. She needs to be taught a lesson. In three large strides, he crossed the room.

A look of agony passed over Mother’s face and she flew after him. "Frank. No."

The dining-room door banged behind her. Mavis gasped in that easily shocked way she puts on. Goodness.

Shhh. I tiptoed to the door and pressed my ear to the woodwork. Raised voices hissed in a vain effort not to be overheard. I pictured Father halfway up the stairs and Mother clutching his sleeve.

Mind your own business, I heard Father say.

"It is my business. She’s our daughter. Don’t Frank, please, don’t, Mother pleaded, tears in her voice. Don’t touch her."

Let go of me. His voice was cold. Stay with the girls until I return.

If you lay a finger on her, I’ll... I’ll–

No, you won’t. Not if you know what’s good for you. His footsteps landed in heavy thuds on the stairs. A door opened and closed. My mind whirling, I sat back at the table. Mavis gave me a questioning look.

I think she’s in for the birch, I said. Father never beat us, saving that punishment for the boys in his care, but he seemed angry enough to break his own rule. Mother sounded– but I never got a chance to say, Mother sounded frightened, because just then she entered the room, wearing a distracted frown and wringing her hands, the way she did when wrestling over how to stop milk curdling, or how to stretch supper to feed extra guests.

Go into the garden, she said. I’ll clear the dishes.

Mavis started to object but I waved her outside. Clearly, Mother wanted to be alone.

We sat on the stone wall that ran alongside the front garden. Mavis twiddled with the head of a snapdragon, opening and closing its mouth in the way we’d done as children, playing with them like miniature puppets.

How was orchestra practice? she asked.

What she meant was, how was Charlie? He plays the cello while I sit at the back waiting to strike my triangle, covertly watching him. Mavis has a monumental crush on him, but it’s me he smiles at and tells his dreams to. He wants to be a professional cellist but his parents insist he goes into the family business when he leaves school. Charlie has no interest in growing tomatoes. Today, I told him about my dream of living in France one day. He didn’t laugh. He actually said he’d like that too.

Charlie walked me home. I knew that would annoy her and I was right. Her face darkened.

He’s a monitor, in sixth form, she said, as if this meant I had no right talking to him. You’re too young. He’s my friend.

I shrugged. Something miraculous occurred today when I was with Charlie, something I wasn’t about to give to Mavis.

I’ll tell Father, she said. And it will be worse than the birch, mark my words.

I ignored Mavis’s burning jealousy. Of course, a nice sister would drop all hopes of winning Charlie, and sacrifice him to Mavis, but I knew that I wouldn’t. And why should I, if Charlie preferred me?

Mother called to us from the front door. Homework time. In your own rooms.

Mavis lowered her head and pushed past me. I followed her in and saw Father, flushed and smiling, with a proprietorial hand on Mother’s shoulder. I ignored them and ran up the stairs in time to see Mavis disappear into the bathroom, her back rigid with disappointment. Ginia’s door was closed, so I knocked.

Are you all right? I asked.

Yes. She didn’t sound all right.

Can I come in?

Not now. I’m... I’m reading.

If she was reading, then everything must have calmed down with Father, and I could pretend to study whilst thinking about Charlie. Night night then.

She didn’t reply, and I ignored my tick-tock of concern for her. It’s all this news about war, I reassured myself, it’s got everyone in a state. As Father said, we must act as normal.

Guernsey, September 1914

Ginia and I were in the kitchen – me doing geography homework, Ginia peeling potatoes – when Father interrupted us. He filled the doorway, wearing his militia uniform, all stiff khaki and brass buttons, and waited until we gave him our full attention before he spoke.

Anyone else at home? he asked.

Mother and Susan are at a Red Cross meeting with Mavis, I offered. Susan was Mother’s best friend.

He circled the table, running his fingers along the edge. I forgot to pick up the evening paper. Off you go, Jane.

I sighed. Why can’t Gin–Virginia? Only I called her Ginia. Father abhorred short forms, said it was common.

You’re the youngest.

As I trudged to Carr’s Store, I couldn’t erase from my mind the look on Ginia’s face when I left: a funny mix of fear and determination. There had been no further sign of Father admonishing her for outspokenness, and yet her expression scared me, and I couldn’t work out why.

In the weeks since war was declared, there’s been this dark cloud over the house. Everyone’s jittery. Mavis is forever bursting into tears and does her darnedest to ignore me, still in a sulk about Charlie. Ginia is even more obsessed with the suffragette movement, if that’s possible. Mother spends more and more time whispering with Aunty Susan. Father lectures us about ‘being prepared’ and brooks no discussion. And Charlie, dear Charlie, says he’s going to sign up for the militia as soon as he’s old enough. Of course, the war will be over by then, but I’m sickened at the mere thought of us being apart. I think about him all the time. I can’t help it. There’s a constant picture of him in my mind. The way he plays his cello with furious intensity: brows knotted and long, bony fingers pressing the strings as he draws the bow back and forth. I love to watch him. Or listen to him talking. His voice has a melody to it, his sentences are always perfectly formed and he never speaks for the sake of it.

The tinkling of the bell as I entered the shop interrupted my musings. Waiting at the counter to be served, I replayed the note Charlie sent me today: Margaret Ann Neve was the oldest woman in the world until she died in 1903 aged 110. Imagine living across three centuries! Will we still be alive to find out? In 2001, you will be 102 and I’ll be 104.

Wake up, ducks. Mr Carr, rotund and bellicose, hooted with laughter. Here’s your dad’s paper. He handed me the The Guernsey Evening Press and I hurried out to avoid being pincered by his childish jokes and having to politely laugh at them for the umpteenth time.

I quickened my pace, still uneasy about Ginia. I had the feeling I should get back to check everything was all right – although I’d have to make some excuse, because Ginia, being the eldest, couldn’t suffer what she called ‘namby-pambying’.

I’m not sure why, but when I reached our back door, I made a big to-do about slamming it closed, and loudly kicked off my boots. I heard a scuffling noise overhead and walked to the bottom of the stairs. I’m back, I called out, then crossed the hallway and knocked on Father’s study door.

His voice made me jump. You can give that to me, Jane. I swung around and saw him coming downstairs, straightening his tie and smoothing back his hair. He held out his hand for the newspaper and beckoned me to follow him into his study. Oh blimey, what had I done now?

He shut the door and strode to the front of his desk. He didn’t ask me to sit down. What’s this I hear about some boy sniffing about?

How on earth had he found out about Charlie? Mavis, probably. She’d been in a huff ever since it became clear Charlie’s interest lay with me, not her. She doesn’t know the half of it. Imagine if I told her about our walks, how we hold hands and talk about the future, our dreams and ambitions. How Charlie wants to play in an orchestra and how I want to travel the world. How I tremble when he touches me and the yearning I feel when he kisses me.

I looked down at my feet and set my jaw. Nothing.

You’ve been seen together. I won’t have a daughter of mine disgracing our name. And look at me when I’m talking to you. He clenched and unclenched his fists, his face getting redder. Come here. He began to unbuckle the wide belt around his jacket.

My heart gathered speed, pumping hard in my chest.

Bend over, he said.

Terrified, I did as he commanded. His hand came up my skirt and grabbed the top of my knickers, his breathing heavy and laboured. Tears streamed down my face and I tensed for whatever came next. I heard the door fling open and Father