Hindsight is such a
very
queer mistress. Of this I am reminded again and again in recounting the escapades of my youth and my dear friends in Westfordshire City. Time and again in those wonderful days, I feared a lovely era in my life was over, only to grow stronger and happier in the long term. Had I only known when the era truly was to come to a traumatic, irreversible end, I'd have spent far less of my precious time worrying about such things, and more of it enjoying the precious days we did have to share!
When I lost Edward to his realization that he preferred men to women, I feared I would never love again. Instead, I embarked upon a wonderful era of self-exploration and tasted the pleasures of men and women alike who appreciated my woman's breasts and thighs. When I stumbled into my affair with Irene, I feared it would put a fast end to our friendship. Instead, it only strengthened our bond (and also led directly to the most erotic afternoon of my life!). When Elizabeth and Jonathan were married, I feared it would change or even end the strong intimate bonds all our gang shared as friends. Instead, there continued to be countless evenings in the baths and the natural intimacy that setting always inspired, with the added spice of her many tales of married life. Even the birth of their first daughter, Catherine, did not dampen the fire of our friendship. It did mean Elizabeth had less time for the baths and other such fun; but that only made the times we did enjoy that much more intense.
No, as with many generations before ours and, regrettably, since ours, it was war that destroyed our innocence. Long rumoured in the newspapers, my generation's war was an unavoidable glint on the horizon when Elizabeth gave birth to her second daughter, Margaret, on a misty April afternoon. On that happy and hopeful note began what proved to be, ever and always, the last summer of its kind.
I have ever since been grateful for the memory of Margaret's coos and cries that rang out through the summer. If such an idyllic interlude as we had shared throughout our time in Westfordshire City had to come to an end, I am most thankful that its final days were marked by the hope and joy that only a baby can bring.
The cries of
three
babies were ringing out in Uncle and Aunt's sitting room on the afternoon that summer truly began. Little Joy - now fourteen years old and unusually mature for a youngest child of that age, but still very young at heart in her own way - had been all but begging me to have Elizabeth over for tea with Margaret in tow; and at last my work schedule and her domestic one offered a free Saturday afternoon in common. Irene, now happily married to Gregory for two years, brought her six month old son Frank along as well.
"I say, Auntie Agnes," Joy asked me while adoring all the little ones from a comfortable vantage point on the rug, "Why haven't you written about the babies in any of your columns? They'd make for so many adorable stories!"
"I've often been tempted," I confessed. "But I do my best to leave my friends out of my writing." I had, for nearly a year by then, been the proud author of a weekly column in the
Westfordshire City Herald
, entitled "Girl About Town" and focusing on the challenges and joys of being a young professional woman in the city. From the day I was first approached about writing, by an editor who was impressed with a legal brief I had written for the paper, I had promised all my friends that I would not air their personal business in my column. In the case of Elizabeth and Irene, of course, that was an easy promise to keep, for even a fairly average afternoon together was likely to inspire some racy conversation at the least.
"We appreciate that, Agnes," Elizabeth said. "But you know, I think a column about life as both a mother and a professional would be most timely. There are more of us all the time who can identify."
"Amen!" Irene added. "And Joy is right, a baby story now and then would be adorable. In fact, it would be perfect for lightening the mood when we could all use a bit of that."
"Whatever do you mean, Irene?" Elizabeth asked. "I've been sensing something in the air with you this afternoon, as a matter of fact. Is all well?"
It was then we learned Irene had some news that might have been welcome under other circumstances, but was most bittersweet on this occasion. "I received a letter from Benjamin yesterday," she confessed.
"Benjamin?" I asked a bit too cheerfully, never knowing just how to broach the subject of the love I had had a hand in destroying, despite Irene's frequent rejoinders that she did not blame me for anything. "How has he been?"
"Quite well, I gather," Irene said. "But I'm afraid he's coming back to Westfordshire."
"Oh, dear," Elizabeth said. "And now you and Gregory..."
"Oh, that is no concern!" Irene said, I thought a bit too shrilly. "He knows all about Gregory and I believe he's been settled with someone else over there as well. No, it's the reason why he's coming back here." She looked wistfully down at Frank, and back up at us. "To join up."
"Oh, no," Elizabeth said. "What is it about men, just having to be heroes!"
"Don't I know it!" Irene did her best not to look angry, but she did not quite succeed. "Gregory has been on a tear about how he'll have to do his part, and nothing I've been able to say has dissuaded him. And now this as well - worrying myself about two men I love!"
"Jonathan as well," Elizabeth said. "I'm absolutely terrified, to be frank."
"In any event, Benjamin wants to see us all while he's here - especially me, he said, and Frank, too. He only wrote 'the baby', of course, as I haven't had a chance to write to him since Frank arrived." Seeing Elizabeth's sceptical look, she continued, "The point is, he knows I have a family now! He only wants to see me!"
"Yes, but do you want that?" Elizabeth asked. "That is what I am wondering about."
I wanted to concur with Elizabeth, but as was usually the case when the topic of Benjamin came up, I thought it best to keep my mouth shut.
"I don't know what I want," Irene admitted. On that note, she squeezed Frank a bit too hard, and he let out a shriek on which Catherine and Margaret promptly joined in.
For all the competing cries and shrieks, Joy was in heaven. She was especially smitten with Frank, having lately grown out of her boys-are-icky stage at last; when Irene needed to change his diaper a few minutes later, Joy looked on in shameless fascination. "Do you think little Frankie minds being the only boy among us?" she asked.
"I rather doubt he has any idea of it all, dear," Irene said.
"Wait a few years and he will," Elizabeth predicted. "And a few years after that he'll love being the only boy in the room if he has anything to say about it. Isn't that right, Joy?"
