The little black book

Standing outside the church, my black dress wafted in the biting breeze, ankles aching painfully from the size too small heels I was wearing. I was never a fashionista, but I had enough sense to know that in an event such as this, heels were the most appropriate footwear. After all, just because someone you loved dearly had died, it doesn't save you from the piercing judgment of those invited to pay their respects.

“Oh my darling,” I lift my head up as a warm, slightly clammy hand grabs mine, squeezing it with so much force I question whether the woman in front of me was made of stone, not flesh and blood. “Oh sweet Eloise, my most sincere condolences on the passing of your wonderful grandmother.” The lady exclaims, deafening me in the process. If her voice had been two octaves higher, even dolphins would be able to communicate with her.

I smile, though it was closer to a grimace than anything. Be polite El, I remind myself. These people were Nana’s friends.

“Thank you for coming.” I repeat, the words falling from my lips for the hundredth time in the last hour, like a broken record player.

“The service was wonderful and those kind words you said about your grandmother brought a tear to my eye.” The woman continues, whilst I zone out. Her loud yapping became a quiet yet exaggerated rumble in the back of my mind. All I could focus on was the beating of my own heart drumming out a rhythm in my ears.

My grandmother had passed away two days ago and her funeral had just taken place a mere half hour ago and despite this all, the true reality of this situation seems to have only sunk in now. As the woman continues to speak for England, I feel a cold shiver crawl down my spine.

Nana was gone.

Two weeks passed quickly and I found myself standing alone outside what used to be my happiest place in the world.

Once upon a time, the cottage in front of me seemed like something from a fairytale. It was a quaint little build with bright yellow walls, brown slated roofs and green ivy climbing wherever possible.

But now, the yellow walls paled and looked like mouldy cheese. The ivy on the walls dried up and instead of the homely welcoming scent similar to the local bakery, it just smelt like- death.

I took in a deep breath, closed my eyes and exhaled, counting to three just like what my £45 per hour grief counselor had advised I do when everything just feels like too much. These days I found myself counting more than I actually spoke.

No more stalling, I tell myself. I had already delayed this for two weeks and now the estate agents were getting desperate. I needed to clear out Nana’s belongings before someone hires a skip and chucks her entire life into a dump.

Hearing the ‘click’ as the door unlocks I prepare myself before taking a step into the gloomy darkness.

The room in which I had spent my whole childhood appeared unfamiliar. Grasping the wall, I forced myself around the room, needing the support to prevent a panic attack. But honestly, not all the support in the world would have helped me, because not a second later I felt my body tumble to ground, my face drowning in my tears, my mouth open in a silent scream. The pain was unbearable, but indescribable.

After all, what words could describe a breaking heart?

The sky had darkened by the time I eventually made it up to Nana’s bedroom.

A cream coloured carpet covered the floor and a double bed and pieces of oak furniture furnished the otherwise empty room. Framed photographs hung from the floral wallpapered wall and a small vanity table sat next to the window. I noted a half full bottle of Nana’s signature perfume on the table and had to look away when hot tears pricked my eyes once more.

Unfolding my cardboard box I began reaching for the closest items, packing them neatly. It pained me to think that this was the end. Her ninety three years of life, her dreams and passion. Everything that made her Betty Rose, was being packed into recyclable cardboard boxes.

Once I managed to get through her closet and somehow, god knows how, managed to pack away her vanity without another breakdown, I finally reached for the bedside table. The first two drawers were full of scraps of paper and bills and a couple of letters. None of which were of any relevance to me, but even those I was unable to throw away, simply because they were hers.

I then attempted to open the last drawer, failing when it wouldn’t budge. For the first time in my life, curiosity piqued my interest. Nothing in Nana’s house was locked. She was a very trusting woman and always stated that there was nothing worth stealing.

So what on earth could be so valuable that it was the only thing locked up in the entire house?

With new found energy, I searched the room, top to bottom, suprisinging myself when I found a small silver key amongst Nana’s jewelry. It can't be that easy, can it? I think to myself as I slide the key into the lock, eyes going wide when the drawer unlocks.

Of course it was.

I peered into the drawer, not quite sure what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t a little black book.

Leaning back on my knees I flick open the book, instantly recognising the cursive handwriting as Nana’s.

An invasion of Nana’s privacy- most definitely, but I can’t help myself and so I start reading.

12th November 1943

I met him for the first time today at church. He was wearing the most atrocious tie I had ever seen but despite this, he was the most handsome boy I had ever set my eyes on.

Entranced, I continue to read. It becomes obvious that this little black book was a diary and these entries were written by my teenage Nana. Written in 1943 I calculate my Nana must have been around 16 years old and the more I read the more I learned about a whole other side to my well put together grandmother.

6th January 1944

Danny tells me he loves me. Oh god, I feel like the luckiest girl in the whole entire world. Like all my dreams have come true in one single second. Danny my dearest, how I love you too…

I stop reading and close the book.

His name was Danny.

My gaze moves automatically to a framed picture of my Papa and Nana, hanging on the wall. It was a picture of them on their wedding day.

Underneath the black and white photograph was the inscription:

Patrick and Betty-Rose McGough.

My grandfather's name was Patrick.

Feeling conflicted I consider whether I should continue to read. I was already invading my Nana’s privacy, reading what were once her inner most thoughts. But now the realization that I was reading about Nana’s lover who was definitely not my grandfather made me wonder if I was betraying both my grandparents.

Despite my conscience, I couldn’t stop myself. The desire to know what happened between my Nana and her first love tempts me into opening the book again.

I read until my eyes blur and all the letters merge into one. At this point in the diary I find out that Danny and Nana are madly in love with each other.

Then when it seems destined for a happily ever after, tragedy strikes.

20th September 1944

Oh god, why do you punish me so? Danny has received a letter of mandatory enlistment in the Army. He must leave. Please God, don’t take my Danny away.

A sickening feeling begins in me. I already know how this story will end and now I’m not quite sure I want to finish reading it.

My fingers tremble slightly as I flick the pages over. I notice there are only a few more diary entries left and realise that each entry is spaced out over several months.

The next entry is not written by my Nana. In fact it's a letter. I gently open it up and begin to trace each letter with my eyes.

13th July 1945

My dearest Betty darling,

They say the war is ending. I can only hope they are telling the truth.

I long for you with my whole entire being. My heart burns at the thought of you. Each night I pray to be reunited with you as soon as possible. The only condolence for my aching heart is the knowledge that we will be together again one day. Please don’t fret my sweetheart, I will come back to you.

Yours forever,

Danny.

I turn to the next page.

27th August 1945

I think it will be impossible to shed a tear again for the rest of my life.

Today I have received news that my Danny is dead. He is gone and I no longer have any desire to carry on with my own life.

I don’t know what shocks me more. Danny's death or my precious grandmothers contemplation of suicide.

The next entry is six months later.

3rd February 1946

I am a disappointment to my parents.

They are sending me off to Aunt Belindas in the far and distant countryside. They hope some fresh air will cure my heart ache.

Little do they know.

Nana never once mentioned Danny. But it’s crystal clear how much she loved him. That's probably why I felt my heart drop when I read the words ‘Aunt Belinda.’ I didn’t need to read the rest of the diary to know what happened next.

I had heard it enough, many times when I was a child, of how my grandfather, Patrick, working as a stable hand on Aunt Belinda's farm, met my Nana and fell head over heels for her. Eventually they married and had a son, my father.

The rest of the diary entries, the remaining two, were dated September 1947 and December 1949. The first one, Nana wrote vaguely about their wedding and the final one about my fathers birth.

Believing that it was over, I got ready to close the book when I noticed something scribbled on the last page.

The writing was messy and almost incomprehensible. Written by someone who no longer had the strength to grip a pen tightly, but still desperately wanted to write a message.

Despite how unreadable it was, I knew it was Nana’s writing and after having read all her diary entries I could put together what she had written. Although, in some ways I wish I hadn’t. Nana and Papa had a brilliant relationship. They clearly loved each other very much and there was never a single time I could remember them fighting.

However, reading the final entry of Nana’s diary, I realised one thing.

The last entry goes:

Danny my love, wait for me. I am coming.

Dated, 12th December 2020.

The day before Nana died.

Two months went by and everyday I thought about Nana, her diary and Danny. Eventually in some spur of the moment madness, I found myself searching ‘Danny from Bournemouth, 1944’ into Google.

Ridiculous, I know. But after searching through 1,000,000 + results, I found him.

I found Danny. Nana’s first and arguably, god rest Papa’s soul, Nana’s only true love.

His name was Daniel Smith and no wonder Nana couldn’t get over the man. He was incredibly handsome, if the photo in the local newspaper from July 1944 was anything to go by. It was an old, grainy black and white photo of both my Nana and Danny, hand in hand with the caption.

Bournemouth lovebirds, engaged to be married.

Daniel Smith and Betty-Rose Thompson.

My searching didn’t stop there. Days later, I made the incredible discovery that whilst Danny had been enlisted in the Army, he had survived. Somehow he ended up in America and he married an American woman called Lisa and ended up having two children.

I found his daughter on Facebook and either I had gone completely mad or maybe it was the tall glass of wine I had inhaled but I ended up messaging her.

We spoke and I explained about Nana and her diary and she made the shocking revelation that Danny had actually returned to England to find Nana after the war but Nana had already married Papa and was pregnant with my father.

Between our messages, I learnt that just like Nana, Danny had never gotten over my grandmother and he carried around with him the ring he had made for my Nana.

One day his daughter Andria messaged me, asking if I would like the ring which was meant for Nana. She explained that she would never wear it and that it was wasting away in her jewelry box.

I hesitated but eventually agreed. A year later I went to visit Andria in America. Over the past year we had become good friends.

And it was only on my way back, at the airport, I stopped by a jewellery store, to get the ring resized that I discovered the value of the jewellery I had been wearing with no care in the world- $20,000!