It may be that, sometime in the future, Freddy is taken from Pentonville and laid to rest beside Edith. It may be that, as happened with Edith, one day in that London cemetery, people will gather to remember him and talk of him. They can’t forget what he did, but they can remember who he was in better times; think how fine a young man he was to be so brave in the face of execution and take heart from his love for Edith. He will be laid amongst those who cared for him, no longer condemned to history. Perhaps then, where all is forgiven among men, he and Edith will be together at last.

…

Now that Freddy is here with me, we can be together always just as I used to hope. I’ve introduced him to Marjorie. We’ve been to Ventnor and walked on the pier. We can’t eat fish and chips like we used to but we can stroll on the beach by our little house. Still, no one can see us, although I wonder if Freddy will be seen sooner or later, he is so full of vigour I can imagine him drawing attention. He has made me promise to go to London with him soon, he wants to go back to our old places together.

We spend our days in our old Shanklin places, Rylstone Gardens mostly because neither of the theatres we went to are still theatres. The town hall which we danced in is the theatre now and sometimes we go to see shows. This evening we were walking on Keats Green, we love the view.

“Freddy?”

“Edie?”

“When you said, ‘can we be pals only’, you don’t mean that about now do you? We are lovers again, aren’t we?”

“Of course, Peidi. Like I said, here all things are understood. You are still my magnet,” he smiled and embraced me. We are together again, two halves now whole. He kissed me.

He has been in London all this time, not trapped in Pentonville as I feared, he told me he hated it there, afterwards, so he went home to Westow Street at first, then took to roaming London. I told him about the book and how kind it was to him. It says there were daffodils on his grave at Pentonville, a marker of sorts. He said that however much he hated being there, they were good to him. I remembered reading about the governor and what he thought of Freddy. I decided to give him an account of this, it might comfort him as it did me.

Bywaters looked to me such a fine upstanding lad […] quiet, respectful, and thankful for any little kindness. He was not a murderer at heart […] I liked the boy.

After I told him, he said we should never speak of Pentonville and Holloway again, only remember our London as it was, our days here and happy times in Shakespeare Crescent when he visited. “Mother died at 231 Freddy. Do you think we will ever see our parents again, or Avis or Florrie?” He was surprised when I mentioned his sister, but he must have thought of her all these years? She helped us ‘talk’ to each other in prison.

“Maybe Peidi. I hope so. I hope Frankie did right by himself.” Frankie, Freddy’s brother, was only ten when we died. I remembered reading what Freddy had said to his mother about Tom Brown’s Schooldays and to make sure Frankie read it. He doesn’t mention Newenham or Billie or Harold, and I don’t mention Lily, his older sister.

He says he would like to find a copy of Tom Brown’s Schooldays so he can read it again. I tell him there is a big bookshop in Shanklin, they might have it. He takes my arm and we walk back to the house in the moonlight. “It’s like the end to The Business of Life” I tell him.

Freddy does not remember the ending, even though we did discuss Chambers’ books, so I quote it to him: “Then, in the moonlight […] her arms stole up around his neck and her lips whispered his name as though it were a holy name, loved, honoured, and adored.” Freddy smiles.

I ask him if he has heard of Al Bowlly? I have grown to like his music over the years, although no one really plays it anymore. I like “Blue Moon” but my favourite is “Love Is the Sweetest Thing”, it reminds me of us.

Love is the sweetest thing

What else on earth could ever bring

Such happiness to ev’rything

As Love’s old story.

Whatever hearts may desire

Whatever life may send

This is a tale that never will tire

This is the song without end …