‘I wasn’t going to get married until this war was over,’ he told her. ‘But to hell with that. Plans are made to be changed, right, Princess?’
She nodded, filled with a happiness that threatened to burst inside her.
‘Let’s get married by some maire in the country,’ Larry said. ‘Unless you want a big wedding?’
Noelle shook her head. ‘The country sounds wonderful.’
He nodded. ‘Deal. I have to report back to my Squadron tonight. I’ll meet you here next Friday. How does that sound?’
‘I – I don’t know if I can stand being away from you that long.’ Noelle’s voice was shaky.
Larry took her in his arms and held her. ‘Love me?’ he asked.
‘More than my life,’ Noelle replied simply.
Two hours later Larry was on his way back to England. He did not let her drive to the airport with him. ‘I don’t like good-byes,’ he said. He gave her a large fistful of franc notes. ‘Buy yourself a wedding gown, Princess. I’ll see you in it next week.’ And he was gone.
Noelle spent the next week in a state of euphoria, going back to the places she and Larry had been, spending hours dreaming about their life together. The days seemed to drag by, the minutes stubbornly refusing to move, until Noelle thought she would go out of her mind.
She went to a dozen shops looking for her wedding dress, and finally she found exactly what she wanted, at Madeleine Vionett. It was a beautiful white organza with a high-necked bodice, long sleeves with a row of six pearl buttons, and three crinoline petticoats. It cost much more than Noelle had anticipated, but she did not hesitate. She used all the money that Larry had given her and nearly all her own savings. Her whole being was centred on Larry. She thought about ways to please him, she searched through her mind for memories that might amuse him, anecdotes that would entertain him. She felt like a schoolgirl.
And so it was that Noelle waited for Friday to come, in an agony of impatience, and when it finally arrived she was up at dawn and spent two hours bathing and dressing, changing clothes and changing again, trying to guess which dress would please Larry most. She put on her wedding gown, but quickly took it off again, afraid that it might bring bad luck. She was in a frenzy of excitement.
At ten o’clock Noelle stood in front of the pier glass in the bedroom, and she knew that she had never looked as beautiful. There was no ego in her appraisal; she was simply pleased for Larry, glad that she could bring him this gift. By noon he had not appeared, and Noelle wished that he had told her what time he expected to arrive. She kept phoning the desk for messages every ten minutes and kept picking up the phone to make sure it was working. By six o’clock that evening, there was still no word from him. By midnight he had not called, and Noelle sat huddled in a chair, staring at the phone, willing it to ring. She fell asleep, and when she woke, it was dawn, Saturday. She was still in the chair, stiff and cold. The dress she had so carefully chosen was wrinkled, and there was a run in her stocking.
Noelle changed clothes and stayed in the room all that day, stationing herself in front of the open window, telling herself that if she stayed there, Larry would appear; if she left, something terrible would happen to him. As Saturday morning lengthened into afternoon, she began to be filled with the conviction that there had been an accident. Larry’s plane had crashed, and he was lying in a field or in a hospital, wounded or dead. Noelle’s mind was filled with ghastly visions. She sat up all night Saturday, sick with worry, afraid to leave the room and not knowing how to reach Larry.
When Noelle had not heard from him by Sunday noon, she could stand it no longer. She had to telephone him. But how? With a war on it was difficult to place an overseas call and she was not even certain where Larry was. She knew only that he flew with the RAF in some American squadron. She picked up the telephone and spoke to the switchboard operator.
‘It is impossible,’ the operator said flatly.
Noelle explained the situation, and whether it was her words or the frantic despair in her voice she never knew, but two hours later she was talking to the War Ministry in London. They could not help her, but they transferred her to the Air Ministry at Whitehall who put her through to Combat Operations, where she was disconnected before she could get any information. It was four more hours before Noelle was reconnected, and by then she was on the verge of hysteria. Air Operations could give her no information and suggested she try the War Ministry.
‘I’ve talked to them!’ Noelle screamed into the phone. She began to sob, and the male English voice at the other end of the phone said in embarrassment, ‘Please, miss, it can’t be that bad. Hold on a moment.’
Noelle held the receiver in her hand, knowing that it was hopeless, certain that Larry was dead and that she would never know how or where he died. And she was about to replace the receiver when the voice spoke in her ear again and said cheerfully, ‘What you want, miss, is the Eagle Squadron. They’re the Yanks, based in Yorkshire. It’s a bit irregular, but I’m going to put you through to Church Fenton, their airfield. Their chaps will be able to help you.’ And the line went dead.
It was eleven o’clock that night before Noelle could get the call through again. A disembodied voice said, ‘Church Fenton Air Base,’ and the connection was so bad that Noelle could barely hear him. It was as though he were speaking from the bottom of the sea. He was obviously having difficulty hearing her. ‘Speak up, please,’ he said. By now, Noelle’s nerves were so frayed that she could hardly control her voice.
‘I’m calling’ – she did not even know his rank. Lieutenant? Captain? Major? ‘I’m calling Larry Douglas. This is his fiancée.’
‘I can’t hear you, miss. Can you speak louder, please?’
On the edge of panic Noelle screamed out the words again, sure that the man at the other end of the phone was trying to conceal from her that Larry was dead. For a miraculous instant the line cleared, and she heard the voice saying as though he were in the next room, ‘Lieutenant Larry Douglas?’
‘Yes,’ she said, holding on tightly to her emotions.
‘Just a moment, please.’
Noelle waited for what seemed an eternity and then the voice came back on the line and said, ‘Lieutenant Douglas is on weekend leave. If it’s urgent, he can be reached at the Hotel Savoy ballroom in London, General Davis’ party.’ And the line went dead.
When the maid came in to clean the room the next morning, she found Noelle on the floor, semiconscious. The maid stared at her a moment, tempted to mind her own business and leave. Why did these things always have to happen in her rooms? She went over and touched Noelle’s forehead. It was burning hot. Grumbling, the maid waddled down the hall and asked the porter to send up the manager. One hour later an ambulance pulled up outside the hotel and two young interns carrying a stretcher were directed to Noelle’s room. Noelle was unconscious. The young intern in charge raised her eyelid, put a stethoscope to her chest and listened to the rales as she breathed. ‘Pneumonia,’ he said to his companion. ‘Let’s get her out of here.’
They lifted Noelle onto the stretcher and five minutes later the ambulance was racing towards the hospital. She was rushed into an oxygen tent, and it was four days before she was fully conscious. She dragged herself reluctantly up from the murky green depths of oblivion, subconsciously knowing something terrible had happened and fighting not to remember what it was. As the awful thing floated closer and closer to the surface of her mind, and she struggled to keep it from herself, it suddenly came to her clear and whole. Larry Douglas. Noelle began