Violet - Book Two

one

The air is warm in the eve of September 5th. The year is 1945, and England and the allies are finally at piece. The town of Pembleton has been striped with street parties and celebratory parades to commemorate the victory, and the house on the cliff is no different. Shop-bought buntings of replica British flags adorn the bannister of the staircase and the face of the living room mantelpiece. When the news was broken over the wireless just three days ago, it seemed as if the whole country joined together into one enormous celebration. The population of Pembleton in its entirety gathered on the beach to watch some Spitfires come home on the fourth of the month, then the trains of men began to arrive.

I sit on my windowsill, staring out of the open window at the sea. The waves twinkle in the moonlight and I can hear the faint sound of them lapping up against the pebbles. I gently hold a necklace in my right palm: a delicate golden chain with a minuscule rose charm which is meant hang daintily between the collarbones. It was sent to me for my last birthday, the writer claimed he purchased it from a French jeweller in a slither of peacetime. Roughly two months later, at Christmas time, I received a matching bracelet, which has not left my wrist since.

On my nightstand are two thick stacks of bulging envelopes, tied together with twine. There are exactly ninety-seven letters - one for each week that he's been gone. Many of them arrived with tiny additions like lavender sprigs from the fields in Belgium, which may have gone dry now however they smell divine.

The clock on the wall reads 11:38pm - I best get to bed soon. I slide myself from my perch and skulk across the floor towards my dresser. Gently, I lay the necklace down on the right hand side, ready for me to wear it again tomorrow. I stop for a moment, looking at the framed monochrome photographs which are clustered together beside the mirror. One is of my sister Rosanna and I when we were young girls. Miss Peregrine gave me the original print to fill the frame. Another is of my dear aunt Aggie holding me as a babe. Just looking at her bright eyes and her fringe neatly arranged across her forehead brings back memories, and makes me miss her so. The final photograph is a relatively recent event, having been sent away for development two Novembers ago. It is also a rare photograph of Enoch O'Connor flashing a smile. Taken on the eve of his eighteenth birthday, him and I sit on the garden bench, staring into the camera. I wear a floral tea dress with a bow atop my crown, and he wears a dark jumper and corduroys. Miss Peregrine had ordered a photographer to take some more updated prints to put around the house - we all had individual portraits as well as in small groups.

Stretching my arms above my head, I stumble back across the floorboards and tumble into bed. I pull the sheets over me and settle onto my left side, watching the curtains billow in the breeze. I catch sight of the letters again, and cannot resist reaching over to grab them.

The most recent sits at the top of a stack in a periwinkle-coloured envelope. The face reads 'Miss Violet Louise le Doré' and the address of the house, written in black ink. With my forefingers, I untie the twine and slide the envelope out into my other palm. The seal has already been opened, and I pull out the paper inside, which has been scrawled all over on each side in larger-than-life writing which can only be the work of Mr O'Connor.

September 3rd, French-Belgian Border
Violet,
I'm assuming you've heard the news, but in case you hadn't, war is over! The entire battalion is ecstatic , I can't believe that I can finally come home to you. The officer told us all that we're due to be shipped home tonight (I may be almost back by the time you read this). Be sure to tell Miss Peregrine for me, wouldn't want to spring up on her.
I can't wait to spend more time with you, Vi. You must take me back to Oxford one day, and we'll go back to our beach. I'll save up some cash and I'll take you out to the pictures in the city, wouldn't that be nice?
Anyways, say Hello to everyone for me, and make sure there's some tea on the go when I get home.
Enoch.

I clasp the letter to my chest and allow myself to joyfully exhale. In all honesty, those two years have seemingly dragged on for far too long, and I'm longing for him to be home again.

Carefully, I fold his letter along the original creases and slip it back into the envelope, tucking in the flap so it stays shut. I balance it atop the tower of mail and tied down the twine tightly - for I know I will not be receiving anymore from him. I place it back besides it's partner on the nightstand and switch off the lamp, leaving me with only the moon as my light source. Tucking a hand beneath my pillow, I shut my eyes and try to imagine his arms around me again, like they were all that time ago