Hari drew up at the door of the farmhouse tired and blurry-eyed; she’d driven all the way from Buckinghamshire. Jessie was waiting at the door, wiping her hands in her apron. Her face was lined and anxious. Hari felt overwhelmed with hopelessness, it was obvious Jessie had heard nothing from Michael.
‘Jessie?’ Hari’s last shred of hope faded as Jessie shook her head.
‘No news. Come in, merchi, sit by the fire and talk to me before I go mad with loneliness.’
‘I’m no merchi,’ Hari said softly. ‘My girlhood is gone along with Michael and my sister. Where can they be, Jessie?’
Jessie ran her thick-veined hand through her grey hair. ‘The good Lord is the only one who knows that.’
She led the way into the warmth of the kitchen, which still bore signs of Meryl’s cleaning habits though it was gradually declining into the chaos that Jessie was accustomed to.
‘I have to stay in England for a while,’ Hari said. ‘I’ll leave you my address Jessie. If you hear anything, please, please write to me.’
Jessie nodded. ‘Same goes for you.’ She put her head in her hands. ‘They’re searching for him, the military, they think he’s a German spy and my boy loving Wales like he never lived anywhere else.’
‘Meryl is with him.’ Hari swallowed hard not wanting to admit to the jealousy that gnawed at her whenever she thought of them together. She should be glad that her quick-thinking, intelligent sister would use all her initiative to bring the pair of them home.
‘Please God they are not dead already.’ Jessie’s voice cracked.
A thrill of horror washed over Hari. ‘Try not to think of such things.’
‘I do try but at night I see them, bloody and dead in a ditch somewhere. Where can they hide?’
‘Trust Meryl, she’s good at inventing things,’ Hari said, ‘she’s clever, intuitive and a damn good liar.’ There was no malice in her tone. ‘They will survive this, you’ll see. Let’s pray the war will soon be over and then they will turn up like new pennies I’m sure of it.’ But she wasn’t sure, not at all.
‘How long will you be in England?’ It was as though Jessie had just digested Hari’s earlier words. Her face was lined and worried beneath her sun-dried, greying hair.
‘I have to be there at least a month,’ Hari said dully. ‘I’d much rather be home but, as everyone says, this is wartime and you can’t always do as you want.’
They were both startled as there was a sudden, loud rapping on the farmhouse door. Hari followed Jessie, ready to protect her against intruders.
‘You, Georgie Dixon, how dare you show your face around here after what your mother did?’
‘There’s a message.’ He thrust out a piece of crumpled paper.
‘From where?’ Jessie’s tone was still hostile. ‘If your mother is trying to apologize she can go to blazes.’
‘It’s not from my mother, it’s from some man. He was funny… foreign, didn’t understand why Mam wasn’t you.’
‘Oh, right then,’ Jessie said flatly.
Hari looked at George. He was taller now, a man, he should be serving in the forces by now. They returned to the kitchen and Jessie opened the paper. She sank into a chair, her face white.
‘It’s from Michael’s father.’ She handed it to Hari.
The words danced before Hari’s eyes. They were typed but smudged, and covered in stains. ‘Mrs Dixon’s had a good look at this.’ Hari’s voice was bleak. Jessie took the letter back and read it aloud.
‘Son and new bride doing well under my wing M.H.E.’ She looked up at Hari her face alight with joy. They’re alive, Michael and Meryl are with my husband in Germany, they’re safe!’
Hari sank into a chair. ‘And married!’
She stayed with Jessie until the daylight was almost fading; neither of them spoke much as there seemed nothing to say; their loved ones were alive but at what price?
Dawn was breaking as Hari took the long drive back through Pen Caws Road on the way through Swansea and back to England.
As she neared the town she heard the bombs crashing and whining as they hit the terraced houses on the slopes of Mount Pleasant. Fires burnt on Kilvey Hill as German bombers tried to beat the docks into oblivion, missing important targets but decimating the buildings and killing many of the inhabitants who scampered, too late, towards the comparative safety of the shelters.
She drove through it all and stopped outside her home. She would sleep at her home whatever happened and then, tomorrow, she would pack more of her things and shake the dust of Swansea from her feet and make for England and Bletchley Park. She might just as well stay there for good; Michael was now a married man, he had chosen her sister and her own hopes were in ruins.