Pictures of You

London, 1944.

     London was a wreckage. Its walls had crumbled and its streets burnt, yet somehow it stood breathing. Benedicte Holmes had been described the damage left by The Blitz through letters, but words could not translate the full extent of such destruction. 

     When her heels first made contact with the concrete platform of Paddington station, she was taken by a fit of violent coughs. Her lungs, used to the blooming air of the english countryside, were screaming for mercy. The air here was thick with war and its scent brought an acidic taste to the back of her throat. 

     Never had she imagined London’s ruin would be so great. As a child, the city had seemed unbreakable. It stood tall and proud and nothing could’ve teared it down. It was her whole world, she had not a single care for anything outside of its walls. None of it had mattered until she had been exiled to the faraway moors, west of everything she had ever known. 

     Benedicte was not a country girl. She had grown up in the fast pace of the city, had not been born from the earth but from the concrete pavements of London. Her great-uncle’s country home had been like some big cage for the five years she had spent locked behind its great wooden doors. She missed the constant thrill she had once known— the countryside was simply too easy. The air there was pure, yet she preferred London’s smog covered skies. Benedicte had always been attracted to whatever would ruin her most. 

     She was a spitfire of self destruction, running on adrenaline and the light of her own convictions.  

     Suddenly, an arm reached around her shoulders and pulled her into a familiar chest. She recognized the rich fabric of his suit and the smell of the cigars he would smoke in his office until late at night. With a shriek, Benedicte carelessly dropped her luggage by her ankles to return her father’s warm embrace. 

     “Daddy it’s you! I can’t believe it’s you!” She giggled as if she were still the twelve year old schoolgirl that had stepped onto the train five years ago. His hair counted more grey streaks and the lines of his face had deepened, but he was still the same loving man she had always known. 

     When Benedicte had been sent away, two months before the invasion of Poland, her parents had decided to stay behind. Her father could not abandon the family name, and although her mother could’ve been sent away too, perhaps even should’ve been, she had insisted upon staying by his side. She had always been a proud wife. 

     Throughout neverending pages and long letters, Benedicte had expressed her heavy distaste for the cowardly solution her parents had employed for her safety. It wasn’t until the Allies broke through the german defences in Normandy that they finally gave in to her demands. The war was far from over, but victory was no longer a dream for the delusional. Hope had begun to crawl upon them like the first days of spring after a long winter. Besides, the Holmes couple had missed their daughter dearly.

     She was, after all, their only daughter. Although the Holmes prided themselves on being stoic and calculated, they had not been able to resist the love that had taken over their hearts when their daughter was born. Julienne Holmes’ pregnancy had not been an easy one. She had suffered miscarriage after miscarriage, had birthed death and been a coffin to her own children. She didn’t think she could bear the loss of another one. But Benedicte had been born healthy, or so they had thought. 

     Truthfully, Benedicte was no more less cursed than her predecessors. Her demise simply wouldn’t lie in her lungs or her heart— it would be caused by her damning sense of self-preservation. Her attraction to the cruel and the dangerous.

     As a child, Benedicte never looked both ways before crossing the road. She would play with spiders, climb crooked branches and pick fights with the bigger boys. Her parents didn’t know what was wrong with her. Perhaps her bones had been left unscathed by their rotting genes, but the same could not be said for her mind.

     Yet amidst all this chaos, Benedicte had never once thought to oppose the hierarchy she lived in. She may have walked up to danger more times than one could count, she was still her father’s daughter— prideful, proper and rule abiding.

     She listened when she was told to do something, had accepted her lot in life and moved on, and perhaps this was, after all, the greatest sign of her demise: Benedicte was a child without rebellion. 

     Though in her father’s eyes, she was no longer a child. He held her firmly, tighter than she had ever known him to do, but she could not blame him. She too gripped the fabric of his suit as if he were to disappear the moment she would let go. Five years was too long for a parent to go without seeing their child, without knowing if they would ever see them again. Five years often felt like much more, when your daughter left a twelve year old girl and returned a seventeen year old woman.

     Edmund Holmes did not speak as he embraced his daughter through flesh instead of paper. He did not need to. The warmth in his heart could be felt through his suit and tie, and it said more than any words ever would.

     “You know, I wish I could say I had so much to tell you, but I would be lying,” she spoke, a playful curl to her lips. She loosened her arms and, taking a small step back, gave the station a quick glance. It was practically empty, save for the couple of passengers that had been on the train with her. Their solitude was understandable, nobody in their right mind wanted to return to London whilst the war still raged above their heads.

     “Was it really so bad?” he laughed, the hearty and strong sort, like a father does. 

     She gave him a look, as if he hadn’t spent hours in the past, complaining about his summers spent in the same house with his own grandfather. 

     “Dreadful. Detestable, even,” she laughed, taking ahold of his hand and one of her bags, her father grabbing the other. 

     “Well, I suppose it can’t have been worse than here.”

     And he was right. Living in London had not been for the weak, these past few years. The Blitz had been the worst of it, but even now german planes could still be heard soaring above the clouds. People never knew which day would be their last— and yet they had no choice but to try and go on with their lives as normally as possible. They had to remind themselves constantly that it could be worse, that at least Britain was still theirs. 

     Edmund Holmes had found his only reassurance in the knowledge his daughter was far away and, most importantly, safe, though she could not say the same. Knowing you might receive news of your parents’ death  in your mailbox at any given time had been the cruelest form of torture Benedicte had ever fought through. At least, now she knew that if their home was to be taken by the flames, she would burn along with them.

     The silence had lasted longer than expected, Benedicte simply didn’t know what to say without sounding like some insolent child. Trying to ease the tension, her father cleared his throat. “Your mother will be glad to have you back, though she may not show it at first.” 

     Julienne Holmes had been, out of the couple, the one to insist their daughter stay in the countryside. Though they had only planned on sending her away for the summer, when the war broke out, things changed. The nazis had already taken her country and gutted her family, she wouldn’t let them take her only daughter too.  

     But for once in her life, Benedicte had spoken up. Had showed a desire for something and acted upon it. For the first time, she hadn’t stayed silent. And really, how could a mother be expected to refuse her begging daughter? So, she had said yes— reluctantly so, but she had accepted nonetheless. 

     Benedicte had many things to say about her mother, but none seemed fitting enough for the moment. “How’s her health?” she opted for instead. She knew her mother would scold her before she even said hello, but she didn’t mind. Soon enough, she would give up her strike to hold her in her arms. “The dust can’t be great for her lungs,” she added, as an afterthought.

     “No, it isn’t,” he sighed. “I’ve asked her to join you at Nelson’s time after time, but she always refuses.” Nelson Holmes was Benedicte’s uncle. He was kind, but a little peculiar. Living with him had been strange at first, but you got used to it after a while. 

     “Understandably so,” she found it in her heart to grin, ”if I had been given the choice, I would’ve stayed too.” 

     They had made it to the car, the chauffeur holding the trunk open for her luggage. She thanked him with an uplifting smile he had not seen the likes of since 1939. The smile of a girl who had not known rationing or the sound of bombs falling from the clouds at night. 

     “The worst of it is that I know you mean it,” her father shook his head, taking a seat beside her in the back. 

     “I’m not an idiot daddy. I see it, the war,” she waved her hand towards the window. “It’s everywhere. Simply, I’d rather be over here in hell with you than all alone in heaven.”  

     Once again, Edmund Holmes was reminded she no longer was the little girl he had always known. From one day to the next, she had grown into a splendid young woman. He was proud, but sorrow filled his heart as well. Cruel was the world to subject him to such emotions, though they were not new to him. He had, after all, been a soldier of the Great War. Yet never had he hoped the world would fall into these depths of hell again. Peace unfortunately, seemed too great a demand for mortal men.

♱

     Benedicte had been correct to believe her mother wouldn’t stay mad long. In fact, she had given in sooner than both had expected. 

     She was now the same height as her mother. It felt strange to hug her and feel her head on her shoulder, but she couldn’t do much about it. This was her reality— adapting to changes she may not have been ready for. Control didn’t go well with times of war.

     “I can’t— I can’t believe it. My little girl, you’re all grown up— you’re—“ 

     “Maman don’t be sad,” Benedicte hummed, appeased to smell her mother’s floral perfume again. Though Julienne seemed stuck in the dangerous game of ‘what-ifs’ and regret, Benedicte could only realize how happy she was to be home, how happy she was that it still stood.

     The Holmes’ house was a nice great building south of Hyde park. By some incredible stroke of luck, it had missed destruction by the hand of german bombs— though fate had not been so kind to their neighbours. A couple of streets down and the wasteland began. But for now, the Holmes were safe. 

     “Look at you!” her mother exclaimed, and Benedicte resisted the urge to say it back. For look at her! Julienne, too, had changed over the years. 

     Her hair counted many grey streaks and her green eyes were worn and tired. She hadn’t even turned fifty, and yet the shawl she held onto failed to hide her frail figure. Her hair was pinned up elegantly, her skin decorated with the finest jewels, but they could no longer hide the illness that ate away at her body. 

     “Yes, look at me!” she almost laughed, bittersweet, her mother’s hand on her cheek, her own covering it.

     “You’re so…” her lips smiled softly, “healthy, and young and beautiful and…” her face fell, “and you came back.” Julienne’s hand fell back to her side. 

     “Oh!” Benedicte exclaimed, frustrated by her mother’s sudden coldness, though not surprised. “Don’t be cruel, you’re no better than me!” 

     Guilty, she looked away. If it weren’t for Edmund’s timely reappearance, Benedicte feared the silence would’ve engulfed her whole. 

     Her mother had always been harsher than her father. Benedicte believed her french heritage to be the source of it all— but perhaps it was merely a difference in personalities. Though her father could be firm when he wanted too, he was generally more lenient, with a tendency to let himself spoil her rotten. Her mother was different. She was strict, keeping Benedicte in her grasp, always close at hand.

     She endured it all without any complaints, because she knew her mother only did it out of love, that it was simply an extension of the pressure she had always carried upon her shoulders. As much as Edmund had tried to shield her from it, the Holmes’ had not ceased to whisper about their son’s foreign wife, of her inability to produce children— about their lack of heir. Benedicte had been born, and Julienne had known none would follow suit. She was her only chance to prove herself a suitable wife and mother.

     Benedicte’s parents weren’t perfect, but they were her parents nonetheless. Not only that, but they truly loved her, and really that’s all that mattered. 

     “Eleanor’s carried your baggages upstairs, we’ve left your room as it was,” her father smiled, a hand resting between her shoulders, guiding her towards the stairs. He hadn’t heard most of the girls’ conversation, but could easily imagine what it had sounded like. 

     “Alright then, I’ll go get settled,” she smiled up at him warmly. 

     It felt nice to walk up stairs that didn’t whine and creak under your weight or to hold onto a rail that was polished and smooth. Indeed, she had missed the refinery of their Georgian style home. Not that her uncle’s house was decrepit and unfit to dwell in. In fact, it was quite well maintained, though slightly disorganized— only, it was old, and no amount of care could hide the traces of time.

     Besides, it was too big to be really taken care of properly. Five years, and she had yet to explore every inch. Perhaps because she would spend most of her time in the garden, but nonetheless the country house as they called it was honestly more of a mansion. There were so many empty rooms, Benedicte wondered if they had ever been useful once upon a time. She just couldn’t imagine who would need so many and why. It seemed quite excessive. Even she, pampered and privileged, thought it to be too much. 

     She was content as she now was, in her own room that had always been hers and would be forever until the bombs took it away. It was the same as she’d left it, though she realized Eleanor must’ve continued cleaning it as not a trace of dust could be found, neither on the bookshelves nor the vanity.

     Benedicte also noticed Eleanor must’ve taken the time to draw the curtains for her. The room was basking in the midday sun, as if frozen in time— or more so seemingly unaffected by it. Five years ago, the sun and the room had been the same. The war wasn’t raging outside and life had truly been simpler, easier. Now, everything was different, or, everything but this room, it seemed.

     She ran her finger along the window ledge, feeling the familiar sensation of the polished wood under her fingertips. 

     Fresh air burst into the room when Benedicte pulled the windows open. Outside, a few birds could be heard chirping. The summer breeze was warm, carrying with itself a stream of memories of a sweet time long gone. She had always adored the view from her window, giving out onto the street and the blooming branches of their front plane tree. Elbows resting on the windowsill, she gazed out upon the unnaturally still street. She assumed most of the neighbourhood's children had been sent off to the countryside— her parents hadn’t been the only ones to do so, after all. Even those without relations outside of the city had sent their children to host families in the hills and moors. The Evacuation had shaken all of England, the Blitz would spare no one.

     With a step back, Benedicte moved towards the bed. She smoothed out the covers, an unnecessary act for they were already perfect, before sitting down on the edge. She was tired from her train ride and yet, she felt completely at peace despite the never ending war she found herself in. Home was home no matter the circumstances. 

     Smiling, she laid herself down onto her bed, fully clothed with her shoes on, curls sprawled out like a crown around her head. She couldn’t help but feel infinitely happy. She knew she had no reason to smile, knew she was amidst an era of death and hunger— but in this moment, nothing could’ve ruined her serenity. 

     There was a knock on the door and her head turned to face it. “Come in,” she smiled and the door creaked open to reveal a shy woman, with honey brown hair and a kind smile. 

     “Eleanor!” she sat herself up straight, the older woman walking to her side. 

     “When Mr. Holmes announced you’d be returning, I couldn’t believe my ears,” she brushed her hand over Benedicte’s cheek, who was grinning up at her with a familiar glint in her eyes. 

     “I do hope you weren’t too lonely back here with those two old fossils,” she laughed, scooting over so Eleanor could sit down beside her. 

     Now in her late-thirties, Eleanor had been Benedicte’s housemaid and nanny since the dawn of her childhood, yet instead of turning into some sort of second mother like most nannies ended up as, Eleanor had been more of a friend to Benedicte. She had never had many of those in her life, and now that they’d all left for the countryside, she was left with none. 

     She may have grown up to be a charming and charismatic young woman, as a child, Benedicte had been anything but. A proper brat, she had been. Snobby and privileged, always too-good for the other kids. Besides, amongst the children of the upper class, you didn’t really make friends, or not real ones at least. They all seemed to have something to say behind your back, secrets they would never keep long, the need to be better than the others.

     Benedicte had been just like them until she’d begun spending more and more time at the orphanage. Her father had been and still was the greatest donator at Wool’s. If its doors were still open, it was because of him, and for a while, Benedicte had thought this reason enough to strut around the place as if she’d owned it. Then, she had met a young boy who had shown her where her place lay, beside theirs like everyone else. Or, she thought with a smile, the two of them had been just a notch above the rest. Truly, they had felt like the king and queen of the world in those fleeting moments where nothing else had mattered. He had been strange, that was for sure, cruel and mean, but he had been, if she dared say it, her friend. 

     She wondered, with a tug of her heart, what had happened to the orphanage. Was it still standing or instead reduced to a pile of rubble? She doubted the former, even when she had known it well, the orphanage had barely been able to survive the autumn  rains without rotting.

     “Benny! Don’t say that, your parents are very kind,” Eleanor waved her hand dismissively.

     She smiled at the nickname. Benny— no one outside of her home ever called her that. Once, it had fit a little girl with round cheeks and big eyes, now, it rendered a young woman nostalgic. She loved the nickname— Eleanor had come up with it. At first, her parents had thought it to be too blunt, vulgar even, a common and boyish name not fit for their daughter. But Eleanor had uttered it so softly, with so much love and care that they couldn’t help but begin to adopt the name too. 

     “I’m sure they are. And endlessly boring,” she grinned. “It’s time to bring a little life back to the place, no?” 

     “We have needed it.”

     For the bombs had taken so much of it, life, that London felt only a shadow of itself. Not only were there those who left by their own means, there were those taken by the bombs and crossfire. Those who had found their youth stolen away by such futile things as war. 

     “I’m sure you have,” Benedicte smiled, and it was bittersweet. 

     Yes, she was glad to be back, yet the sight of London’s ravage was still a cruel one, one she simply had not expected to be so great. Perhaps it had been wishful thinking, but she simply had not believed London would ever succumb to the enemy. It wouldn’t ever, but clearly it hadn’t gone far.

     “Oh but don’t you listen to me! I’m getting you down with all this talk. How was the countryside! Yes, I’ve always wondered!” Eleanor waved her hand again before grabbing Benedicte’s in her own. She had never known anything other than the busy streets of London, and would’ve done anything to distract Benedicte from the sad look in her eyes.

     The younger girl laughed. “Lots of wide, open spaces. The air is often as grey as London, but more so because of the rain rather than the smog. It’s quiet— you wake up and go to bed with the sun, when you can see it of course. But gosh, you know, sometimes it felt as if it were just too quiet. There’s something about the constant movement of the city… it’s lively! And, well, the country is too, alive, I mean, but it’s different. I don’t know how else to say it, just different.

     “Uncle Nelson’s home was huge! A real mansion. Yet he lives all alone with only a small staff as company. The gardener was my favourite. He never said much, but was funny to watch, and would show me the most peculiar things! Once, he showed me this butterfly metamorphosis. I got to see the caterpillar make its chrysalis! I never knew nature held so many secrets, they’re often hard to find in the city,” she chattered on, something that became easier to do in the presence of your loved ones.

     “The way you speak of it! It’s to wonder why you ever even bothered coming back!”

     “Why!” Benedicte murmured disbelievingly. “Because of you, of course! And mother, and father, and everyone else! You know, it was terribly lonely. Besides, I hated not knowing what was going on.”

     “Of course you would say that! Of all things,” Eleanor laughed. 

     “Well, is missing your family not reason enough?” she asked, crossing her arms loosely. 

     “It’s not important now. All that matters is that it was reason enough for you, I suppose. But you’ll see, London’s not the same anymore. I do hope you know the value of what you just left behind.”

     She had heard many words along those same lines over the past twenty four hours, yet she could not find it in herself to resent any of them. Though none had managed to tug regret into her heart, either. Instead, Benedicte remained indifferent. Conscious of her choices and their gravity, but also aware that she had chosen them; therefore, they were her responsibility. 

     After all, she was dying to prove her ability to make decisions and fend for herself. She felt the need to make sure her parents knew she hadn’t spent these last couple of years wandering aimlessly, that she had honed her talents and personality to their finest form. She needed them to know she wasn’t a child anymore.

     Besides, hope had lingered in the air of London ever since the Allies landed in Normandy. When they would win, she wanted to be there to see it— the city liberated from its veil of oppression. She wanted it, the drug that was her city’s freedom.

4114 w.