Illicit.
Chapter Two: The Interval
Life continued on much as before for Edith after Andrew’s departure, she continued to teach piano lessons to the children within the village, helped her father repair his fishing nets for his next long haul trawler voyage and much to her shame and regret her husband barely entered her head. The marriage, as Edith wished, was kept extremely low key with only three people, excluding the bride and groom, knowing to its happening which was the way she wanted it to remain for the foreseeable future, if not forever.
Spring had soon turned into summer and as the deep green emerald leaves transformed to a burnished copper little was heard from her new husband if only reassurances that all was well and his regiment would soon be moving towards the enemy lines. It was all very vague to Edith’s annoyance considering that they used to tell each other every thought, wish and dream, not that Andrew could control what information was fed through the lines of communication back home to Astor Bay. Their lives all centred round matters of national security in which trust and faith never came into consideration.
Edith sat down at her dressed table wedged within the corner of her childhood bedroom and dipped her fountain pen within the ink ready to write her weekly correspondence to Andrew. Now her life had been void of him for a grand sum of four months, the new bride was slowly beginning to appreciate the impact her husband had created upon her life.
‘Dear Husband’ she wrote, as she began all of her letters to her significant other.
‘I write to tell you I love you and you are constantly within my thoughts. My life is a barren wasteland without you here although much remains unaltered, the sun has not shone within me since the day you kissed me farewell at the train station. I have scarcely spoken to a soul today, the topic of war grows tiresome and irritating when those who speak do not understand my turmoil with life without you.’
Edith wiped away a small tear that had began to form at the corner of her eye, surprising herself at the depth of emotion she felt for her ever constant friend, Andrew. Perhaps she could convince herself to love him the way he deserved.
‘I went for a walk yesterday down in the meadow we used to play as children. I looked down upon the wild flowers and the mini beasts that carried on as nature intended it felt as if nothing mattered to those creatures - not even the unnatural business of war that continues to rage across the narrow English Channel. I’ve grown to hate nature and the flamboyant beauty of it; in particular bees. Oh darling, if only you could return to such simple things if only for a little while. How lucky I am to be here to enjoy them for you.’
She dipped the pen in the ink again, causing a few splattered imperfections across the page as she did so. Cursing herself, Edith began writing the final passage of her letter – it was terribly difficult writing in blind faith to someone you doubted would even receive such heartfelt words.
‘Tomorrow I shall go to the other side of the valley and paint a little sketch of the bluebells if the weather remains nice as summer is slowly beginning to burn into autumn. I thought of enclosing some of your favourite heather to you – as a memento of home but I reasoned it would probably be intercepted or stain the pages. So I shall tell you merely this, I love you and cannot wait for your return.
Continue to be safe and good – as there is so much goodness in you.
I shall think about you tomorrow, and for all of eternity.
God bless, all of my love sweet one,
Your Edith’
Edith sealed it tightly within the envelope with a lick of the paper and a few generous drops of her musky perfume once again hoping that her words and her scent would carry love and morale to Andrew across the North Sea and into a muddied trench in some foreign land.
Spring had soon turned into summer and as the deep green emerald leaves transformed to a burnished copper little was heard from her new husband if only reassurances that all was well and his regiment would soon be moving towards the enemy lines. It was all very vague to Edith’s annoyance considering that they used to tell each other every thought, wish and dream, not that Andrew could control what information was fed through the lines of communication back home to Astor Bay. Their lives all centred round matters of national security in which trust and faith never came into consideration.
Edith sat down at her dressed table wedged within the corner of her childhood bedroom and dipped her fountain pen within the ink ready to write her weekly correspondence to Andrew. Now her life had been void of him for a grand sum of four months, the new bride was slowly beginning to appreciate the impact her husband had created upon her life.
‘Dear Husband’ she wrote, as she began all of her letters to her significant other.
‘I write to tell you I love you and you are constantly within my thoughts. My life is a barren wasteland without you here although much remains unaltered, the sun has not shone within me since the day you kissed me farewell at the train station. I have scarcely spoken to a soul today, the topic of war grows tiresome and irritating when those who speak do not understand my turmoil with life without you.’
Edith wiped away a small tear that had began to form at the corner of her eye, surprising herself at the depth of emotion she felt for her ever constant friend, Andrew. Perhaps she could convince herself to love him the way he deserved.
‘I went for a walk yesterday down in the meadow we used to play as children. I looked down upon the wild flowers and the mini beasts that carried on as nature intended it felt as if nothing mattered to those creatures - not even the unnatural business of war that continues to rage across the narrow English Channel. I’ve grown to hate nature and the flamboyant beauty of it; in particular bees. Oh darling, if only you could return to such simple things if only for a little while. How lucky I am to be here to enjoy them for you.’
She dipped the pen in the ink again, causing a few splattered imperfections across the page as she did so. Cursing herself, Edith began writing the final passage of her letter – it was terribly difficult writing in blind faith to someone you doubted would even receive such heartfelt words.
‘Tomorrow I shall go to the other side of the valley and paint a little sketch of the bluebells if the weather remains nice as summer is slowly beginning to burn into autumn. I thought of enclosing some of your favourite heather to you – as a memento of home but I reasoned it would probably be intercepted or stain the pages. So I shall tell you merely this, I love you and cannot wait for your return.
Continue to be safe and good – as there is so much goodness in you.
I shall think about you tomorrow, and for all of eternity.
God bless, all of my love sweet one,
Your Edith’
Edith sealed it tightly within the envelope with a lick of the paper and a few generous drops of her musky perfume once again hoping that her words and her scent would carry love and morale to Andrew across the North Sea and into a muddied trench in some foreign land.
♠ ♠ ♠
Installment 3, comments?