Sometimes she thought that he was her Jack. - Jack/Estelle
Sometimes she thought that he was her Jack.
The same Jack who posed for so many photos with her by the water, never mind how much he hated it. The same Jack who'd handed over a small photograph of him in uniform, the ones the boys normally sent to there families, when they'd said goodbye at Marylebone and she'd worried out loud she might forget his face. Maybe she should have guessed then, that last time, pressing the picture into her hand as he bent down to kiss her goodbye, looking so handsome. Maybe she should have guessed then that she'd never see him again. There was a look in his eyes as he turned away that she'd never quite forgotten.
The same Jack who'd wrote her letters even when they knew they'd see each other within the week. He'd post them through her letterbox during the night, and she'd read them over breakfast and then hide them in a music box that hadn't worked for years. The same Jack who'd sent her that note, that short letter to the one she'd sent him, where he'd explained that he couldn't tell her where he was, although she hadn't expected any different. She'd passed the letter around the other girls, brought out the picture from its hiding place and grinned because this was her Jack, and the others were so jealous it was unbelievable.
Of course, she knew he wasn't. He was her Jack's son, and she was nothing to him but a memory of his fathers, someone he'd talked about so many times that this Jack had had to find her for himself. Still, when he had his arm around her, and she was leaning into the soft blue of his shirt, she could pretend.