forget me, forget me not || ON HOLD

chapter three: 31.08.1914

Dear diary,

It is nearing toward the end of the week, wherein any normal circumstances I would be preparing to meet with Charles. I remember the first time we met two years ago.

My father had brought a few of his colleagues home, including the young boy who was going to help every weekend who was 15 at the time. I'd been having a less than average day, having being forced out of bed to cook and clean for father's potential new apprentice. 

'Mother!'

'Yes, Carolyn, dear?'

'Can we not ask the cook to make the food? Like every other time?'

Mother took my hand, 'This time is special. We want to put all our effort in; and hope it pays off.'

'I don't want to put all my effort in,'

Mother sighed, patting my hand and leaving.

I hated this apprentice already, after being reminded constantly of his tremendously rich family and how it was our duty to make ourselves and our home look 'fit for a king'; or how he could be a first-class asset if he decided to take on the internship and bring us much profit. We spent the entire day preparing fresh sustenance and making ourselves look hospitable.

Late in the evening, however, when Charles, my father and a few others arrived, I had honestly thought that Charles was the young servant my father kept with him. He donned an apron, and both the apron and any visible clothes were slathered in dust-his aura did not at all resemble a member of the richest family in the city. Mother was the one who informed me that that was indeed the one we had been prepping for all day.

His manners were on point and he spoke like the people I read about in my books, pronouncing every word flawlessly and deliberately, without stutter. He greeted my mother with just the same-if not with more-respect than when he greeted my brother, which was striking as most people ignored us.

He had respectfully declined all the fancy drinks and drank plain water, and after he had eaten he asked who had made the food, permission to enter the kitchen and talk to us and thanked my mother and I, complimenting how much he had enjoyed the food, earning both my mother's and my respect.

He had even impressed my father, who wouldn't stop going on about how he had done the hardest work available even though father had offered him the simple and straight-forward work-and how he had done it all perfectly. And my father was extremely hard to impress, trust me.

'He's a natural!' Father had praised, shaking his head in disbelief. 

After everything my father told us, we were all on edge to hear of Charles' decision-and he accepted the offer even going so far as to thanking us for offering it.  Our profits went up by miles, both from his expertise and intelligence and his various contacts all over the country.

Henceforth, every weekend father would ask him over to our house for dinner until he didn't even have to ask Charles, it became a normality. Robert and I quickly became thick as thieves with him, and they both would teach me everything they learnt at school, and suddenly it was Robert, Charles and I, and we were inseparable, joined at the hip. 

We all took great amusement from those weekends, we'd go exploring in the woods behind our house, or we'd sneak out of our windows to buy sweets and hide them in Robert's room and savour them slowly throughout the next weeks. Or we would go to the park which was a half-mile walk from our house and play on the swings like children, refusing to let anyone else have a go. We took immense pleasure in playing tricks on our parents and caused all sorts of mischief and mayhem, but the war brought a stop to all that.

Now both the weekdays and the weekends are bleak and boring, each day spent with just my mother, and we didn't really share a close bond at all. What with our conflicting views we couldn't really do anything without starting an argument. Therefore, instead of talking we spent all day in wait of letters that didn't arrive and newspapers whose news only grew to become worse every day.

These days, any communication with Robert, Charles or father was lucky. Everyday the moment the postman left I would rush over to the postbox and empty out the contents, always to be disheartened. All the letters were addressed to either mother or father, and the rare ones addressed to me would be sent from my relatives or my school, regarding the most useless information possible in these times.

Time, these days, has apparently decided to slow itself, and each day takes an eternity to pass. Yet each day, I wait patiently, reading the newspapers back to front in hope of news concerning the end of the war, despite knowing perfectly well I was being foolish. But the situation had left me desperate for my family to come back home.

At the same time, however, I was excited beyond words to be handed control of my father's business; now that all the men had gone to war, us women were the only ones left to keep the business going otherwise without jobs, half our small town of Luton would starve.

I couldn't wait to inform Charles! I knew he'd support me-or he would have, if he wasn't away. My excitement died down. I wished with all my heart I could've had this opportunity while the men were still here, without the war. Yet the one time I had mentioned this in our household, my father and even my brother had laughed me out of the room and made turned me into a laughing stock.

'Oh, and do you know my daughter?' father would say to his friends, 'Carolyn, yes, her- she actually asked if she could manage my business after me someday!'

This led to inevitable roars of laughter coursing all throughout the house, and each time any of those men saw me they would be visibly stifling their laughter.

I was never embarrassed, however. In fact, I held my head high and told them I meant it.

'Why, what's wrong with me managing the business, if I may ask?' I had questioned.

'Well,' said the man, looking at his friend in amusement and trying hard not to laugh, 'You're a girl!'

They then proceeded to explode in peals of laughter. I grit my teeth and left. But then I came to a sudden realisation and started to laugh at them. Alone, in my room, I had laughed at the world those men were missing out on.

I knew I could do it. And maybe, if they returned from the war they'd see all the profit I'd made and how the business was thriving and they'd never say a word against me or any female again- all I needed was to find women willing to work, and I was confident there would be a whole storm of women tired of housework who desired something new, a change.

And Charles would- oh wait, he wouldn't. He's at camp. And then he'll be at war. I kept forgetting, imagining Charles arriving and his reaction when I told him the sensational news.

My chest tightened as I imagined what'd happen if Charles or my family didn't return. No. No, they had to return. Or I would die right there. I had to believe whole-heartedly they would come home, especially as Charles and Robert were going to camp and they'd be experts at survival by the time they finished.

I always tried to stay away from the topic of the war, and my family in it. It snatched away my sleep at night, leaving me able only to curse the ones who had started this war. The ones who wrenched apart so many families.

Yet what could I do? I had wanted to fight, wanted so badly to help my country and make a difference. At least I would've been with my family, rather than helpless, hopeless, clueless as to where they were and what they were doing. But no. I was to stay at home and do what 'women do'. What was that supposed to mean? Cook? Clean? Sew? Take care of children? Is that all we were born to do? To be? 

It had been a clear, straight up 'no way' at even the slightest mention of my participation in the war, and oh, it irked me, so, so much. Ah well, regardless, I think I have ranted on for much too long today and my hand is beginning to cramp. My 'duty' calls, as does my mother. I wonder what tedious task she will need my assist in now.

Carolyn Ann x