codenamecurtains

[codenamecurtains]

The Weight of Silence

It was late when Hester left the Admiralty to head home. The streets were dimly lit, shadows stretching long under the glow of the street lamps. As she made her way to the bus stop, she passed a young couple locked in an embrace, their whispered laughter mingling with the night air. Outside a pub, she was jostled by a group of young servicemen and their girlfriends, their laughter and chatter filling the street. “Sorry, ma’am,” one said, tipping his cap before rushing off to rejoin his friends.

She watched them disappear into the crowd, a knot tightening in her stomach. How many of them would make it back? 

Back in her small flat, Hester poured herself a gin. She rarely drank, but today she needed something to numb the ache in her chest. By her third glass, a blissful white noise filled her mind, dulling the edges of her pain. Unsteadily, she walked over to her desk and retrieved a small wooden box. She carried it back to the kitchen table, her hands trembling slightly as she opened it.

Inside was the only photograph she had of Tom, taken just before he left for the war, the first war. He was in his uniform, looking straight at the camera, his eyes bright with a confidence she envied now. She traced the outline of his face with her fingertips, her vision blurring. What would life have been like if he had come home?

She imagined them living in the countryside, surrounded by fields and a garden bursting with flowers. They would have had children, and a family to fill the silence. But then, a darker thought intruded—those children would be old enough for war now, sent off to fight just as their father had been. And Tom—Tom would be called back to serve, or maybe he’d be an air raid warden, patrolling the streets, facing danger every night. Her stomach twisted.

Or perhaps he would have come back different, like the boy next door who had returned from the front. His screams echoed through the night, a haunting reminder of what war did to men. Until one day, he took a shotgun, killed his mother, and then himself.

The bile rose in her throat, and she barely made it to the sink before she vomited. Gagging, she clutched the edges of the counter, trembling. When the nausea subsided, she shakily washed everything away, rinsing out the bitter taste in her mouth.

Sleep evaded her that night. She lay awake, thoughts circling like vultures, her body heavy with exhaustion but unable to rest. By the time her alarm finally went off, she’d barely managed an hour of sleep.

At work, her nerves were frayed, and she snapped at the girls in the typing pool. She felt their eyes on her, the whispers as she walked past. The final straw came when Ewen Montagu made one of his usual sarcastic remarks. Without thinking, she shouted at him, her voice echoing in the suddenly silent office. Realising what she had done, she fled, her cheeks burning, back to the safety of her own office.

Once inside, Hester paced like a caged animal, anger, sadness, and frustration boiling inside her. She wanted to scream, to break something, anything to release the pressure building in her chest. Her eyes fell on an abandoned cup of tea on her desk, and in a blind rage, she hurled it at the wall. It shattered, porcelain and cold tea splattering across the floor.

She sank to the ground, sobs wracking her body until she had no tears left. She sat with her back against the desk, staring blankly ahead, feeling hollow and drained.

A tapping at the door brought her back. “Hester. It's…it's me. Charles. Umm…is…is everything alright?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” There was a brief scuffle outside before Monty’s voice cut through. “Hester, it’s Monty. I’m coming in.”

She flinched as the door creaked open. Monty stepped inside, surveying the mess of broken porcelain and spilt tea. He closed the door behind him and sat down next to her on the floor.

“Bit of a mess, eh?” he said gently, his eyes softening.

They sat in silence, side by side, the quiet comforting in its way.

“I’m sorry,” Monty said finally. Hester didn’t respond, staring at the shards of the broken cup. “This bloody war,” he muttered, his voice heavy with weariness. 

Hester let out a small, broken sob and leaned against him.

“Is everyone talking…?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“No, they’re just worried.” He squeezed her hand. “Jean’s going to take you home. Bevan’s arranged a car.”

***

Back at her flat, Hester insisted she was fine. She thanked Jean and told her she just needed some rest. 

Once alone, she poured the remaining gin down the sink, the smell of it making her stomach churn.

She called in sick for the next two days. 

On the first day, she cleaned her flat, each swipe of the cloth against the surfaces a small act of control. The next day, she took the train to Kew Gardens, losing herself among the flowers. She let herself remember Tom—his laugh, his kindness, the way he had made her feel safe. She walked through the paths, letting the memories wash over her like a balm.

***

The morning of her return to work, Hester’s nerves were frayed. She hated being the centre of attention, hated the thought of everyone knowing her business. 

She made it to the typing pool before anyone acknowledged her.

“Glad you’re feeling better, Miss Leggatt,” Bella said softly as she entered. Hester managed a small smile.

“Girls, I want to apologise for my behaviour,” Hester began, her voice wavering. “I… I wasn’t feeling myself.”

Before she could say more, the girls surrounded her, pulling her into a warm, comforting group hug. The unexpected kindness undid her, and for the first time in days, she felt like she could breathe again

[codenamecurtains]

Tom

Hester first met Tom on a warm afternoon in the summer of 1916. She was on the number 27 omnibus, heading home from her morning job at the library. A book, recommended by a regular patron, sat in her lap. It was dull, and she struggled to keep her eyes from drifting away from the page.

“Any good?” A soft voice interrupted her thoughts.

“I'm sorry?” She looked up to see a young man seated opposite her.

“The book,” he repeated, a gentle smile on his face.

“No,” she admitted with a small sigh.

“Tom.” The stranger extended his hand, and after a moment's hesitation, Hester took it.

“Hester,” she replied.

And just like that, a conversation began. Hester typically avoided small talk—she was shy and awkward around strangers—but there was something about Tom that put her at ease. He spoke about his studies in Botany at UCL, his love for gardening, and his anticipation for spring, when the flowers would bloom again. In return, Hester shared snippets of her life: living with her father and younger brothers, and her hopes of attending secretarial college after finishing her leaving certificate.

When her stop approached, Hester found herself reluctant to leave. “This is my stop,” she said, gathering her things. 

The bus had only just pulled away when she heard a voice behind her.

“Wait!” Tom called out, holding up the book she had forgotten. He handed it to her with a grin.

“You’ve missed your stop,” she said, her cheeks warming.

“I can walk from here. May I call on you?”

Hester blushed and nodded. “I'd like that.”

***

By 1917, Hester had moved out of the house she shared with her brothers and father, settling in with Tom, his mother, and sister in Walthamstow. It was a bit scandalous at the time, but with the war on, people understood. Anyone who saw them together could tell how deeply they were in love.

Her father helped with the move, using every opportunity to question Tom. Tom seemed to enjoy the banter, even teasing her father gently, like the time he whispered to the roses what he wanted to say to Hester, making her father scowl while she laughed.

***

But their happiness was fleeting. Eventually, Tom was called up to serve. Hester begged him to stay—he still had his studies, and how could he leave her with his mother? Tom held her close, telling her it was his duty to King and country. Besides, he teased, his mother wasn’t that bad.

Before he left, he gave her detailed instructions for caring for the roses in the garden and a ring.

Hester decided not to wear the ring on her finger. She didn’t want to attract attention or gossip from her schoolmates. Instead, she threaded it onto a gold chain and wore it around her neck.

“We'll have roses at the wedding,” Tom promised during their last night together in the garden. “But they won't be as beautiful as you.”

“Oh, Tom,” she murmured, blushing. “I'll write to you.”

“I won’t be gone long, you'll see. It'll all be over by Christmas.”

***

But Instead of Tom, a telegram arrived one chilly November morning.

Hester stared at the words: “Missing in Action,” while Tom’s mother screamed in anguish.

Later, Hester retreated to the bedroom she would have shared with Tom and quietly removed the chain with his ring.

Diana, Tom’s sister, found her sitting outside, gazing at the withered roses. Despite Hester’s careful attention, they had never bloomed. Diana sat beside her on the bench, and Hester took her hand, the weight of her loss shared in silence.

Two weeks later, Hester lost the baby she hadn't even known she was carrying.